Spinstering at Graduation

I have suffered through my fourth Commencement and I feel the need to vent a few incredibly biased and perhaps narrow-minded opinions. This is mostly because my colleagues have started a rash of e-mails concerning the main speaker at Graduation because certain people found the speaker's content offensive. This speaker is one of the writers of The Simpson's. The reason he came to our humble neck of the woods is because his daughter was in the graduating class.

It isn't really the man's speech I have issues with. Being a writer for The Simpsons, his humor is clearly the same as that seen on the show. I've always interpreted that show's humor as ridiculing the narrow minded "ists" of the world, a television program that has the ability to bring to light through satire the harsh, destructive attitudes that pervade our society. So, the content of his speech really didn't bother me, at least not in that way.

As a Stand-Up routine, I think the speaker was pretty good. I've seen better. As a Commencement Speaker, I think he was so wide of the mark he hit something in the next state over.

Truth is, I hate graduation. I understand the need for a ritual to end out the year, to acknowledge the significance of achieving a college degree. What I hate about graduation is that I don't believe the ceremony adequately satisfies that need. The fact that the graduating class selected this speaker for their Commencement speaks volumes to the present attitude toward higher education, at least the attitude I've encountered in the classroom, the attitude of apathy and the belief that things like grades and degrees should be given not earned.

What has prompted this venting is the fact that the Commencement speaker does not have a degree. He never attended college or community college. He never pursued a higher education. It irks me that this man was not only invited to speak at Commencement, but he was also awarded an honorary degree by the administration and the board of trustees. I realize that one's education cannot possibly be completed in the classroom. But at a time when the worth of higher education is being questioned by not only the state but also the nation, I can't help but get a little disappointed that the administration deems it worthy to acknowledge and honor a man who has no degree and brags about that fact in his speech.

Perhaps I am being overly sensitive. I work in the arts, which means I constantly have to explain and defend what I do as worthwhile and significant. That's just how it is in our society. The arts are seen as expendable, "cheesecake for the brain" according to scientist Stephen Pinker.

I guess what I'm getting at here is that when our administration, who in theory represents our academic institution and therefore in some sense us, decides to honor an individual with no degree from any higher education institution, an individual who brags about that fact like its a badge of honor in itself, it makes it that much harder for us to argue the worth of a degree in higher education. And if there is little worth in that degree, then what worth is there in one that focuses in the arts?

Anyway, I just needed to vent my frustration into the cosmos of the "intarwebz", especially since my colleagues seem to be only interested in arguing whether the speaker's content was sexist or racist or not. (sigh)

The Melodrama of Spinstering

So, according to my little studentkas . . .

"Most of the time, the ending to melodrama productions are happy . . . Edmond Dantes, the protagonist in The Count of Monte Cristo plays the typical good guy in most melodramas."

"Melodrama is a dramatic form that does not have cause and effect. It has exaggerated emotions and emphasizes plots. Some of the characteristics of Melodrama are protagonists, hounded by villains, concealed of mistaken identities, strange coincidences, comic relief, and good always winning over evil."

"This film 'The Count of Monte Cristo' is a good example of melodrama because of how the main character Dante's later known as Monte Cristo has his life taken away by imprisonment but escapes to seek revenge on his enemies. There is also melodrama with how the men who are jealous of him show the evil in them by setting him up to commit a crime which he did not have any knowledge of his wrong doing then taking him away on his wedding day for the case to be investigated. . . I believe that this film best represents mellow drama by how the main characters have good and evil and also how the hero in the movie ends up escaping to lead to a happy ending."

Yes, that cleared that right up. No question that most of the time, mellow dramas are happy, even with their exaggerated emotions and emphasized plotting, concealed of mistaken identities that strangely and coincidentally show how the main characters have good and evil, leading to a happy ending. And remember, Edmond Dantes plays the protagonist in most melodramas, but not necessarily in all mellow dramas.

Mary Louise "Billie" Noble

Check out this video: Slide show For Mom



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How do you sum up a life as rich as this one? You don't. Mom was a remarkable woman, an extraordinary mother, and an amazing grandma. She enriched my life in so many ways. She drove me crazy. She made me laugh. And as sad as I am that she's died, I am so very, very happy she lived.

Mary Louise "Billie" Noble, aka Mom
November 29th, 1919 - November 29th, 2007

Just in case any spinster was worried . . .

The Super Ted!

The Ted and I in Metropolis, IL (Home of Superman!) Who needs Underdog when you've got The Super Ted!?

Spinstering On The Move

Useful things we've found while packing . . .


Notice the Vick's VapoRub! And, evidently Anacin is really good for neuralgia!



Check out the expiration date on that Aspirin



What every kitchen needs!

Spinstering With Universal Balance

The Yin and Yang of The Computer World

The Melodrama of Spinstering

In my Intro to Theatre class, we watched the movie "The Count of Monte Cristo" and they were asked to write a paper explaining why this movie is a good example of melodrama.

According to my Intro kiddies:

"The film, 'The Count of Monte Cristo,' would be considered a good example of melodrama. Melodrama can be best defined as a popular culture manifestation that emphasizes different plots and focuses on the protagonist who seeks revenge from evil at the end."

"Another few characteristics [of melodrama] are exotic locations increased realism, which is when they are on real horses, and recent historical events or people, and that is Napoleon."

"Another trait of melodrama, which was found in this movie, is the actual historical figure of France, Napoleon Bonaparte. Not only is he a character in this film, but there is references throughout the entire plot to his infamous historical blunder: his quality as a traitor to his country."

It's good to realize that the movie would be considered an example of melodrama, or at least a manifestation of popular culture that emphasizes different plots and a protagonist bent on revenge. I'm also glad to know that exotic locations can increase realism, but only when they are on real horses and not fake ones. That clears things right up for me. Although, I'd like to know how the horses feel about being ridden by exotic locations. That sounds uncomfortable and awkward, but I could be wrong. I was also surprised to learn that France is a historical figure. Certainly, I never realized that Napoleon encompasses historical events or people. I thought he was a crazy French guy who tried to take over the world after the French Revolution, but clearly he was just guilty of making an infamous historical blunder, not conquering half of Europe.

Grading is making my eye twitch.

Spinstering By The Skin Of My Teeth

So, my horoscope for today is as follows:

Leo
July 22 - August 22
You really need some rest, dear Leo. Even though you have a list of tasks and errands a mile long, see if you can leave some of them for later. All signs indicate that you should not stray too far from home today, if you can possibly help it. You are easily distracted, making you prone to accidents. Behind the wheel of a car is not the place for you to be right now. Stay home and tackle all those little chores you've been meaning to get to.

What am I doing at work? Oh, yes . . . we have a show going on. And I have classes to teach. And there's a Gala to plan. And my car needs to get inspected. Oh, and it's in desperate need of an oil change. And there is that problem with the car's AC that needs to get fixed. And my apartment is a dark, unholy pit of dispair with barely a path leading from the bedroom to the door. And my dog is out of bones. And I'm running out of clean clothes. And I have a stack of grading that's as tall as I am.

So, what am I doing wasting my time blogging?

Aaaaargh.

Spinstering Incognito

OK, so I've been told that I'm being lax in reporting my various adventures in spinstering. Well, the truth is, there haven't been much in the way of adventures, spinstering or otherwise. But here goes nothing . . .

Next week I travel to the far off land of ACTF to present a workshop on drawing the figure. I'm very excited. To be honest, I've always wanted to teach a basic drawing class. So, this will be a treat for me, though I'm very nervous about it all.

The Spinstermobile, which I fondly refer to as my Love Machine, is up and running again. The saga of the neverending car trouble (ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahh) began the morning after I got back to MA from my winter sojourn west. After putting 3000 miles on the Love Machine in less than three weeks, I got up that morning to find my tire was going flat. Really, I was just overjoyed it didn't happen somewhere in the boonies of I-90 with the little black dog in the front seat. That would have sucked. So, the tire being not completely flat, I crossed my fingers and drove it very slowly to a discount tire place in town, where I was promptly told (and shown) that my tires were all crap and needed desperately to be replaced.

Of course.

So, after negotiating over new tires, I sit myself down in the waiting area, thinking all the while about a meeting I had that afternoon and having no idea if I'll be able to make it now (not to mention how I was also lamenting the fact that I couldn't even get back into the state without voicemail from work on my damn cell phone).

I was lost in this quandry when the tire guy came back to the waiting area and said these ill-fated words; "We have a problem." He's holding my rim in his hands and he takes a seat next to me, explaining how the rim is cracked and that's why my tire originally went flat. Well, they're just a tire place, and they can't fix cracked rims, but he knows of a guy who can weld it (which will cost about 1/4 the amount it would if I were to get a new rim). So, he puts the spare on my car and I take the cracked rim and new tire to this place out of town to get welded.

Three days later, I pick up the now fixed rim, with the tire on it, they put the whole shebang on my car and I drive directly to the discount tire place to get the wheels aligned. I'm waiting in their tire rubber-smelling waiting area and the tire guy (a different one) comes back, with those same ill-fated words on his lips. "We have a problem."

Yes, of course we do. My life wouldn't be complete if we didn't.

It turns out there's some play in my right inner tie rod. I know nothing of cars. I don't speak his crazy moon language. But I know enough to be afraid of the phrase "throw a rod" and to know that this mysterious new ailment needs to be fixed. What's more, at this point the discount tire place is not making any more money off me coming in to get the wheels aligned, so it's not like they're trying to pull one over on me. So, I have to get the car checked out again, this time by a mechanic in town. I do. I needed a new right inner tie rod. Wow! does the Love Machine handle better now with new tires and a new right inner tie rod. Go figure.

So, with trepidation, I go back to the discount tire place to get the wheels aligned and wait for those ill-fated words. And wait. And wait. And . . . the guy comes back, happy as a lark (well, not really, but who cares), and says they're all done, hands me my keys and sends me on my merry way. Thank you Jeebus!

This would just about cover the latest in spinstering adventures, the trials and tribulations of a spinster navigating the pitfalls of day-to-day existence--usually rather poorly, regardless of new tires and new right inner tie rods--and trying to maintain some sense of balance. Stay tuned and maybe I'll post something again in the next decade . . .

Spinster Wisdom for the Holidays

I can't claim these words of wisdom as my own, but I felt the need to share them regardless. The radio DJ just described Christmas as four weeks of shopping hell that culminates with you and your family sitting around a dead tree eating candy out of a sock. In some cases, an old sock.


Just don't take Teddy's sock.

Spinsters Gone WILD!

OK, so there's nothing really WILD to report these days, but there could be . . .

Anyway,the semester production of The Wacky Crucible (OK, so it was just The Crucible) is over. We have photo call today where we take lots and lots of pictures, eat pizza, and thank our lucky stars we survived.

This semester has been a difficult one, and I can't say the whole production process was something I enjoyed. Why do I do this again? Oh yea, I supposedly like this kind of abuse. You know, the late nights, the frustration, the rampant stupidity, the working blind, the justifying every tiny thing I do to the Muggles . . .

Actually, I finally saw the show last night, and more or less enjoyed it. I'm so happy with the set design that it almost makes up for the costume design. Our student lighting designer did a rockin' job, and the sound as always is amazing. What was even more shocking about last night's performance was the presence of some Very Important Muggles in the audience. Very intereseting . . .

And for those of you who missed The Wacky Crucible, let me give you a quick synopsis in ten quotes off the top of my Crucible-soaked brain:

"There's a prodigious fear in the country"
"Salem witches?"
"There's a party and a faction."
"Adultery, John."
"What signifies a poppet?"
"It were pretense."
"I'm not Satan and there's no Devil here."
"Hang them high over the town."
"More weight."
"God in Heaven, what is John Proctor? What is John Proctor?"

Gee, that's just like being there!


As for life outside of work . . . are those crickets chirping? Life outside of work? Is there such a thing? Well, there will be more of one now, since I can't live like this anymore without running a high risk of going postal. I got up the nerve to rejoin Curves last weekend, and I went for my first workout today. I actually had fun. The local Curves is run by this pudgy, middle-aged redhead who shares in my aversion to Nazi Barbies and dieting. And what's really cool is this Saturday, she's celebrating her first year anniversary being the place's owner, and so she's having belly dancers come between 10 and 12noon! Evidently they're a local group, and one of the members works out at Curves. So, guess where I'll be Saturday? It won't be at work.

Spinstering with Wicker

OK, so I know it's been ages since we've last had a spinstering update. Truth be told, I haven't got too much to report in terms of spinstering adventures of late.

I've moved. THANK YOU JEEBUS. Enough said on that issue.

Classes have started. CURSES. Enough said on that issue.

I have turned in all my reappointment materials, and I am almost done with all my classroom observations. THANK YOU JEEBUS and CURSES!

And, according to one of my colleague's Intro students people who practice the pagan religion Wicker like to use weegie boards.

THANK YOU WICKER JEEBUS riding on the WEEGIE BOARD!

Enough said.

Spinstering Across State Lines

In the past two months, I have either driven through and/or spent time in the following states (sometimes twice): Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey, New York, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Missouri, Wisconsin, and Kansas. I'm sure I'm forgetting some place, but does it really matter?

My summer travels now ended, I've landed safely back in Massachusetts, and I've finally left the level in Hell known as Tekoa Mt Apartments. I've had my new apartment for almost three weeks now, and everyday I wake up with a sense of disbelief that I live in such a nice place. It's clean. It's safe. I haven't been accosted by deranged old people. I have nice neighbors. The laundry room is in my building. It's clean. There's an on-site office that's actually staffed by competent people six days a week. They even answer the phone. The property is actually maintained and cared for. It's clean. My place is air-conditioned. There hasn't been any middle-of-the-night drug busts on the property. Did I mention it's clean? And there are lots of places to walk the little brat with pointy feet and happy tail disease.

Anyway, I'm currently procrastinating working on my lesson plan for tomorrow evening's Intro to Theatre class. I'm enjoying teaching the summer course, but at the same time I have a strong desire to stay in my new apartment, unpack, sleep, snuggle with the brat, and decorate, maybe make curtains. Alas . . .

My other vice these past couple of weeks has been a series of books by Elizabeth Peters. NOT trashy romance novels this time, though there is a bit of romance in these books. Instead, I've found myself engrossed in a mystery series set in the 1880s (and actually going up through the early 1900s as the series progresses). The books are about this woman, my new hero, named Amelia Peabody. She's a budding archeologist with an interest in Egypt, she wears pants, she has a sturdy parasol, and she knows how to use it. In the first book, Crocodile on the Sandbank, she meets her soon-to-be husband, Radcliffe Emerson. As a point of contention and insult toward one another, they call each other by their surnames (Emerson and Peabody--and, for Amelia, this is an amusing insult: by calling her Peabody, Emerson is addressing her like he'd address one of his *male* colleagues, and in essence is mocking her interest in archeology while also saying she is no lady). Of course, they argue and sling insults at each other for the entire book. Of course they end up happily married. Of course, they solve a mystery involving the sudden appearance of a centuries old mummy coming back to life while excavating at the ruins of Amarna, capitol city of the heretic pharaoh, Ahnkenaten. It doesn't get better than this for a geek like me who's rabid over Egyptian art history, turn-of-the-century historical fiction, and self-sufficient women who know how to bash an attacker over the head.

I think I'd like to be Amelia Peabody when I grow up: parasol-wielding, crime-solving adventuress! But first, to my Intro lesson plan . . .

This week we are covering Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House. For those of you not up on the Father of Realism (and with a moniker like that, who would want to be up on the man's work, really?), this particular play (written around the turn-of-the-century) is about a woman who leaves her husband and children by the end of the play (unheard of and absolutely scandalous at this point in history). She discovers that she's been basically living with a stranger--her husband--and "playing house" for the past eight years. She has no identity outside of her husband (and before that outside of her father), and so she decides she has to leave to find herself. One of the more interesting side notes on this play is that feminists over the past century have latched onto it with a fervor Ibsen could never quite grasp. It's not a feminist play. It's, in his opinion, a realistic look at the society that produces a marriage like that of Nora's, as well as a woman like Nora, and a husband like Torvald. Indeed, Ibsen is very careful not to judge Nora or Torvald, but to simply present us with the facts. In my opinion, I can never quite decide if Nora is a feminist hero or a simpering heroine. I don't think I'll be coming to a decision before my class tomorrow night. Oh well.

Spinstering in Hell

I live in hell.

Sure, they’ve finally moved the dumpster onto pavement. And, for some reason, they’ve posted this sign saying that the dumpster is for tenant use only—since there seems to be an abnormally high amount of garbage in the dumpster every week (perhaps because one dumpster isn’t enough for twenty-seven apartments . . . hmmmm).

And, they’ve instated this Gestapo rule about fining people $100 if they don’t clean up after their pets (though, how they’re going to enforce that one is beyond me—they’re either going to have to have security policing the grounds 24 hours a day, or they’re going to have to DNA test the dog poop).

But let’s face it. Tekoa Mt. Apartments is still a level in hell. You can polish a turd all you want. It’s still a turd.

The virulent mold on my bathroom ceiling continues to thrive. And, though I haven’t caught any more tiny livestock, Teddy continues to sniff around the spare room as if hunting something. Occasionally, I catch him barking at the corner. Usually, I just keep the door closed and ignore that there’s another room in my apartment.

Friday, I awoke bright and early. I got my car inspected and my oil changed. I went to the library and picked up some trashy books to read. I ran by the college to play mother hen and cluck about for a bit, happy to find that in the midst of a run, they DON’T need me. Which is as it should be. Then, I went to the grocery store, something I haven’t done in over two weeks. I gleefully restocked my kitchen. I walked the brat. And then I decided to do some laundry.

The laundry room here at the glorious Tekoa Mt. Apartments is in the basement of the main building, in what used to be a dirt cellar. To get to the laundry room, you have to first maneuver your way through a tightly sprung wooden door that opens immediately onto three very steep, very uneven steps. There is no landing at the top of these steps. Nor is there a landing at the bottom. Instead, there is another door, equally as tightly sprung. It is a hollow, metal door that you have to turn the doorknob and then shove open with your shoulder—all while balancing a basket of laundry, money for the machines, and a large bottle of detergent. Extra fun. Once inside, you have to turn on the lights. I usually brace myself in case there’s a serial killer waiting for me, since it’s a dark cellar with absolutely no security. I have yet to be raped and murdered, so I consider myself lucky so far. The light isn’t a conventional switch. That would be too easy to manipulate with your hands full as you deal with the door. Instead, it is a dial, and the light is set on a timer (probably because too many disgruntled tenants left the light on all the time out of spite for the management company).

Anyway, I get my laundry started, and I start to head back to my apartment, and guess who’s outside today, enjoying the weather? Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He’s bought a motorcycle. And he calls out to me, “You’re not doing anything—come help me with this thing.” I see in his hands, he’s got this fancy new motorcycle cover. Now, why, you ask, would I help Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants with his new motorcycle cover? Well, the little old man with the pot belly looked rather pathetic standing in the parking lot battling it out with this silver vinyl cover three times his size. And I’m a glutton for punishment. And, I’m too polite to tell him to shove off. So, I set down my stuff and proceed to “help” him. Really, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants just wants to show off his motorcycle—which I have yet to see him ride, much less start up. It’s been sitting in the parking lot for three weeks. I’m sure when that glorious time comes for him to ride off into the sunset, it will consist of blog worthy hilarity. I can just imagine this leather skinned old man, who smells like a pukish mixture of stale beer and an ash tray, astride this motorcycle, squinting into the sun, his potbelly hanging over his belt, his straggly and greasy grey hair sticking out from underneath a beat up helmet, his yappy little dog precariously strapped to the back of the bike. Oh yea, it’ll be rockin’ for sure.

Anyway, I stood watching him preen over his motorcycle, and helped him get the cover into place. I even politely listened to how he got such a great deal on the cover, and how he’s going to save all this money on gas with the bike. Uh huh. He rambled incoherently about getting everything he needed to change the oil on the motorcycle, and how he had to drive down to Hartford, and then up to Lenox (which is north and west of Westfield). Uh huh. He evidently forgot to buy a fuel filter along his many travels today. However, he did remember to stop in Russell at the Russell Inn for a couple of beers. This perhaps helps to explain the smell.

Uh huh.

I smile and nod, and then tell him I’ve got to go. Now, one would think that I’ve fulfilled my quota of being nice to a crazy old people Friday. However, fate it seems had different ideas.

There’s this crazy woman who lives across the street. She’s got the skin and voice of a veteran smoker, thin bleached blonde hair styled in a shapeless cut and pinned back with bobby pins (though why, I can’t fathom). She’s always wearing baggy sweatshirts that sort of give her the shape of a beach ball. She likes to walk through the Tekoa Mt. Apartments parking lot at night. Rain, wind, sleet, snow—it doesn’t matter. She trots back and forth in our horse shoe shaped parking lot, night after night. Indeed, I usually do my best to avoid her. She likes to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk—usually about how rude people are and how I’m the only person who’s nice to her (probably because I’m too polite to tell her to shove off). And she likes to talk about how she hates her apartment. So, we’ve commiserated on our similar plights at various times when I’ve been unfortunate enough to be out walking the brat at the same time.

Anyway, tonight, there’s a knock on my door at about 9:30pm. Now, I’m not a social butterfly. I don’t have scads of suitors lining up at my door. Indeed, I was pretty embarrassed to have family staying in this disgusting pit of despair this past March—so why would I invite anyone else here? Obviously, I'm not expecting anyone. I open my door, fully expecting it to be the police coming to cart off Mr. Weed next door, or a drunk Mitsy and Ditsy here to celebrate the coming of the weekend. But no, it’s the Crazy Lady.

Teddy’s barking his head off, so I step out onto the porch and let him out to sniff around. He circles the Crazy Lady a few times and decides she’s not a real threat and goes back in. Meanwhile, she starts chatting about how she’s been looking for an apartment, and how she found this ad for a house in Southwick where some woman is looking for a roommate. Uh huh. She hands me the paper, and I politely thank her. I also tell her in no uncertain terms that it will be a cold day in hell when I get a roommate. I have a roommate—he’s got pointy feet and happy tail disease, and together we don’t play well with others. So, no roommate. Anyway, that’s the gist of our conversation, but I swear I stood out on my porch for twenty minutes before I could get rid of this woman. Evidently she’s looking for a place down in Florida. She hates how damp it is in New England. All I can do is smile and quietly think about how much less damp it will be living in a swamp down south. Uh huh. And then, as I’m holding onto the newspaper she’s given me, we finally start to exchange goodbyes, and she informs me that she’s sorry the newspaper is a little messed up. I look at it and shrug. It is a little funky, like it’s been shoved back together in the wrong order, and it’s crumpled. Then, she says, “Yea, I wasn’t thinking about it, and I threw it away. And then I thought maybe you’d be interested in that place in Southwick, so I fished it out of the trash for you.” Uh huh. THANKS. Good bye Crazy Lady. Have you met Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? You two would be perfect for each other. Maybe you could get a matching motorcycle, and the two of you could ride off into the sunset together, fishing greasy newspapers out of the trash and foisting them on unsuspecting young spinsters who are too polite to tell you both to shove off.

Yes. Tekoa Mt. Apartments is definitely a level in hell.

Spinstering with Bathos

OK, so it's been forever and a day since I've posted yet another spinstering adventure. The truth is, my life has settled down into a monotonous routine these past several weeks, punctuated by events involving one hundred and fifty yards of silk, 2000-seat auditoriums, interminable meetings, and the ever elusive definition of continuing scholarship.

Exciting, huh?

This semester, in my Intro to Theatre class, I showed my students the recent film version of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO as a good example of modern melodrama. This film makes me laugh every time I see it. Here we have our virtuous protagonist, the young, naive Edmund Dantes, brought down in the prime of his life. The man has everything: he was just made captain of a ship, his sweetheart, the lovely Mercedes, has accepted his marriage proposal, they just got busy with it down on the beach--all is right with the world. And then, Dantes is sent to the prison Chateau D'If, to rot for crimes he didn't commit.

Bummer, dude.

But like in all good melodrama, the virtuous protagonist prevails in the end. In prison, Edmund hooks up with this mentor, Faria, who teaches Edmund to read and write, and also gives him a map to a vast buried treasure. Of course, Edmund escapes the Chateau D'If, finds the treasure, plots his revenge, and then carries out that plot. And, in the big finale, he kills his one-time-best-friend-but-now-arch nemesis Fernand; he reclaims his sweetheart, Mercedes; finds out she only married Fernand because she was preggers (by Edmund, the rascal), and Fernand's son Albert is really his.

Way to go, Edmund.

The end of the movie is my favorite part. The film shows Edmund, Mercedes, their son Albert, and Edmund's wacky pirate sidekick Jacapo on the cliff of the Chateau D'If. Edmund has bought the island prison, thinking he would destroy it. But he has realized, now that he's exacted his revenge and killed Fernand (and gotten away with murder), that he has everything he ever wanted. So, Edmund walks off into the sunset with his happy little family. The final shot of the film is Edmund's prison cell, where over thirteen years of tortured imprisonment, he has carved into the wall (with who knows what implement, but just smile and nod) the phrase: God Will Grant Me Justice.

Hmmm. The moral of the story: Go ahead and take revenge on your enemies, its biblical justice for sure . . . ?

Anyway, I ask my students to write a short, one-page paper on why this film is a good example of melodrama, and I'm glad I did it. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have learned the following (and I'm quoting directly, verbatim):

All these elements make "The Count of Monte Cristo" a story with distinct traits of melodrama. This film is a great example of melodrama because it uses these examples without making the story overdramatic and without creating bathos.

Hmmm.

It's good to know that the movie has distinct traits of melodrama and not any of those lesser, wishy-washy traits.

I'm also glad to know that overdramatic is one word and not two. Imagine my surprise.

It's also good to know that a great example can use examples. Yeah.

But I must say the observation made about bathos is most astute.

Bathos.

Yes, now that someone's mentioned it, I noted the distinct lack of bathos is this movie. Indeed, that is certainly a characteristic missing in most melodrama. Perhaps I should consult the pond of the gods on this matter. Or would that be overdramatic?

Festive Spinstering

So, I'm at the American College Theatre Festival (ACTF) with my colleagues and nearly twenty of our students. Our production of FRANKENSTEIN was selected to compete in the festival. Very cool. We loaded everything in tonight. And, we peform tomorrow afternoon.

It's midnight. I've just got back from loading in costumes, lights, scenery, and sound equipment into the performance space. Now is the time for my minor panic attack.

Actually, things are doing really well. All is calm on the spinster front. We have a lot to do tomorrow, but it will get done and done beautifully. I have absolute faith.

In the meantime, I've been enjoying a few quiet moments here and there, reading Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum books. If you haven't heard of these books, you need to crawl out from under the rock you've been living under and go find a copy. They're hilarious. Stephanie is a bounty hunter. This would be like me becoming a bounty hunter. In the latest book, she starts out by apprehending an FTA (that's fancy bounty hunter talk for someone who's failed to appear in court) named Punky who, completely plastered, has stripped off all of his clothes and has greased himself all over with Vaseline in an attempt to avoid apprehension.

I'm keeping in mind this weekend that things could be worse. I could be wrestling cuffs onto a large, buck nacked, hairy butted man who's snockered and covered in Vaseline. Compared to this, teching FRANKENSTEIN in less than six hours will be a piece of Tastycake.

Spinstering With The Grandma III

Sweet Jeebus, she's driving me crazy. How is it possible for a sweet, little old lady to be so . . . so . . . aaaaaargh!

Today, she needs to go to the post office.

Fine.

She needs to get dog food.

Fine.

And it HAS to be from PetCo (which happens to be at the center of a small nexus of evil along State Street in a crowded strip mall).

Fine.

Oh, and she needs bird seed too. (This involves wandering aimlessly around the giant PetCo while she mutters about not remembering what kind of birdseed it is she usually gets to feed the eight million obivously starving little birds outside--do you think they all sit outside her bedroom window at night sending her telepathic messages: Feed us, or we'll kill the little brown dog?)

Fine. We'll go to PetCo; we'll go to the post office.

In the meantime, she's asks me what do I want for breakfast/lunch (I slept late--which she has pointed out to me, as if I've somehow disrupted her plans for the day; but it's not like she couldn't have gotten me up earlier).

Hmmmmm. I look inside the fridge.

Turkey leftovers.

Hmmmm, I've been eating those at least twice a day for two days now. And let's face it, I'm not crazy about turkey. It's really the crap you get along with the turkey that I get excited about: the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and gravy, the sweet potatoes--all the stuff that you slather the turkey in to give it taste. But those things are long gone. Besides, it's all the stuff you can make with the turkey later, like turkey tetrazzini, turkey chili, turkey enchiladas that I like about turkey leftovers. Notice how none of these things involve slathering two slices of dry bread with mayonaise, throwing a chunk of cold turkey on it, and then for some reason calling it a sandwich.

And, as full as the fridge appears, we really only have a strange assortment of cheese products (not like real cheese, but Kraft cheese in various sizes, shapes, and colors), precooked microwaveable bacon, two cartons of eggs, some rotting vegetables, some stale restaurant leftovers from some time last week, and some low carb bread in there. Out of sheer self-preservation, I scrambled two eggs for lunch.

And now, I'm sure she's wondering why I'm sitting typing at the computer and not toting her off to the post office--mind you she'll wait in the car at the post office (so why is she coming along at all?).

I love her. I do. She just drives me bonkers.

And she's just brought me a Russian teacake cookie. Sure, it's been in a tin in the garage for a month, but she found them at last. And she made them especially for me. A month ago.

You want another sordid truth . . .? I like the Russian teacake cookies, but they're not my favorite. I really, really like the little pudding cookies she makes for Erik. But if I eat them, she scolds me and tells me those are Erik's cookies.

Yes, of course they are. That's why I wait for her to retire to her room for the night and then I raid the forbidden cookies. Don't worry, Erik, I'll save some for you! But only if you get back here soon and keep me from throttling a cute little old grandma.

Spinstering With The Grandma II

OK, so I know I said there would be more on my adventures with The Grandma in the wilds of New England over Turkey Day, but this entry isn't one of them. This entry's sole purpose is to ponder the motivations of The Grandma at Christmas time.

Every year The Grandma gets some weird notion in her head that she must get the three grandchildren (and now this includes the fabulous fiance as well)some sort of themed gift. One year it was harmonicas. For several years in a row she got us all flashlights. This year, I'm not sure if there is one single themed gift she is bestowing on the grandchildren. Truth is, she hasn't had much of an opportunity to shop. My mother has been insanely busy popping out babies left and right. She saw 31 patients the other day while her co-worker, the other midwife in the practice, delivered THREE babies. (Question to the people of Rockford, have you ever heard of birth control, or maybe reading a book?)

Anyway, this has left me as the official driver, errand-runner, and Toter of The Grandma To All Various and Sundry Places All Over the City Regardless of How Insane the Traffic Is. I don't mind. Mostly. It seems this year, however, she has gotten it into her head that she MUST find and purchase a wall clock for a certain couple's new(ish) apartment. Oh, Sweet Jeebus help me. We looked at Target. We looked at Gordmans. I questioned the sanity of this expedition. And then, we looked at Kohl's. They had all of six wall clocks to choose from, but The Grandma was insistent on selecting one. For a moment, she had her eye on a wooden one with a brassy metal pendulum. It'd be perfect . . . for The Grandma's bathroom. And then, she had her eye on a simple silver one that reminded me of a hubcap with a clock face in it. It'd be perfect . . . for Monster Garage.

In the meantime, I'm making noncommittal noises as she asks me "What about this one?" Hmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock. And, I'm entertaining myself looking at the kitchen clocks all shaped like kitchen appliances and gadgets--a coffee pot, for example. I picked up the one that looks like a toaster with a little piece of toast popping out the top and laugh.

"You like that one?"

Oh great, now I've made it look like I think this is the clock to buy. Hmmmmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock.

"You think they'll like that one?"

Hmmmm . . . . I think it's cute and kinda funny. And a tiny bit tacky. And kitsch. I shrug and don't make eye contact. Not that tacky kitsch isn't OK, but I'm not sure it's at all what the couple would want. Besides, I don't think they have any wall space in their tiny one-booty kitchen.

Oh, well.

Twenty minutes later (because it took that long to make our way to the registers and check out), we're picking our way out of the parking lot, the new toaster-themed clock in the back of my car. Great, and on Christmas morning, I get to say I helped pick it out. Joy. The news will be made that much more teeth grindingly fun when they all realize I got to pick out my own present from The Grandma, since I took her shopping. I wrapped it myself and put it under the tree. I got to wrap the clock too. Wrapping is part of the Driving Miss Grandma job.

Never fear. The Grandma's kept all her receipts. Now if she can only find them. She's put them in a "safe" place.

A Spinster Winter's Tale

My apartment complex is comprised of several odd little buildings on a plot of land half surrounded by a wooded "mountain" (hence the clever name, Tekoa Mountain Apartments). There are about 27 units in this complex, mine being in the back of the property, hedged in by several other units, all with their own, private outdoor entrances and backdoors leading out onto a green expanse of lawn, and of course, Tekoa "mountain" (I say "mountain" because it's more like an over-glorified hillside with lots and lots of trees). The wooded "mountainside" is home to all sorts of little and not-so-little woodland creatures. Some, I've seen with my own eyes--a fisher cat, for example, which is evidently some strange creature from the weasel family that likes to eat squirrels, and not an animal I'd like to have any sort of personal encounter with. There have been bear sightings in the woods out back. And, of course, there is an abundance of fuzzy little woodland creatures like raccoons, bunnies, chipmunks, squirrels.

Now, here in the frigid northeast, it gets dark by 4:30. The Ted, however, doesn't really care and still insists that I walk him after dark. No problem. I walk him in the lighted areas in front of my apartment and around the small property (and I use "lighted" in the loosest sense of the word--there are lights, and they emit a sort of luminescent glow, but it's more decorative than functional, but it's better than nothing which is what is out back).

So, I'm out walking the Ted--he has a routine when we walk, a list of specific points where he feels the need to leave his liquid calling card, places where he needs to snort around to see what's up with the other dogs in the apartment complex. So, we sort of follow a route around the property. And, on this particular occassion, the Ted has decided to poop in one of his usual spots. It's dark. It's about 7:30 at night. I've had a long, long, long day at work, involving adventures with irate strange students and endless department meetings. And, to top it off, I had no heat or hot water the day/evening before, nor that morning. So, I've been heating the apartment with my oven, and I havnen't been able to shower in over 24 hours. I'm tired. I smell. I haven't eaten since that morning. I'm standing, in the cold, in the dark, waiting for the Ted to finish his business, fumbling with the little baggy dispenser on his leash so I can clean up after he's finished with his business, and I suddenly hear this old, cranky, disembodied voice.

"Why are you letting your dog poop in my yard?"

I'm tired, and my brain's cogs are cranking at an unusally slow pace. My first reaction is, where is that voice coming from? I look around to see a floating head backlit in a small window of the nearest apartment. It's the kind of window they stick in a bathroom, it's small, and relatively useless--kind of like the outdoor lighting. And then, my next reaction is, YOUR YARD?? Where in your lease does it say this patch of grass belongs to you? I, of course, have yet to respond to Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants' floating head, so it speaks again.

"What do you let your dog poop in my yard for?"

By now, my brain has defrosted a bit, The Ted is finished with his business, and I'm scooping it up in a baggy. I respond, trying not to be rude, "Don't worry, I'm cleaning it up."

Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't hear me, or he doesn't care--I don't know, he's busy doing something in his bathroom while screaming at me. "Why don't you walk your dog out in your own backyard? You've got all that space back there."

Hmmmm, you mean the pitch black field adjacent to the wooded "mountain", Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? Where there have been bear sightings? "There's no light back there. The areas out front here are lighted at night." And I'm a total clutz and have a strange need to see where I'm going without getting mauled by happy little woodland creatures or falling flat on my face because the ground is uneven.

Again, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't seem to understand my crazy moon language. "How would you like it if I walked my dog in front of your apartment, and just let me him poop wherever?"

I'm tying closed the baggy I've scooped Teddy's poop up with--and let it be known, I'm one of the only tenants that cleans up after their pet, and Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants is NOT one of those chosen few who follow my example. I stared back at the floating head of Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants and replied as sweetly as possible, "I don't care where you walk your dog, as long as you clean up after it." And, at that I left Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants to grumble incoherently as I walked over to the dumster and chucked in my little blue plastic baggy of Teddy poo.

What makes this even crazier is that I've had polite conversation with Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants, on multiple occassions, one just recently. So where is this sudden animosity coming from? And where does it say on his lease that this corner of grass belongs to him? Bite me, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He, I'm sure, HAD heat and hot water for the last 24 hours. He's probably had a hot shower today. He's probably eaten dinner by now. I didn't see him at my interminable meeting. And whatever he's doing in his bathroom, screaming out the window at me, I don't know. But he and his poopy little dog can take long, midnight strolls in the field out back of my apartment any night they want. And get mauled by a bear. Or fall in a dark sink hole where no one will find them until morning because there's absolutely NO LIGHT back there.

What's that I hear--it's that fabulous Christmas tune: "It's the most wonderful time of the year . . ." Hmmm, yes. The Holiday season where everyone's full of happy holiday cheer. Happy Holidays, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. Teddy has a present for you. I wrapped it myself in this cheerful little blue plastic bag. Enjoy.