Monthly Archives: February 2018

X-Files: The Bad Boyfriend I Can’t Leave

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Dear Chris Carter:

When we last met I had grounded you for essentially using us fans to make 6 useless episodes in 2016 that were billed as a standalone special event, but were really just a cheap ploy to make Fox TV give you another season of X-Files. It was not a standalone event; it mocked us and took to us to the brink with Mulder, minutes from sure death by the alien plague. Then a spaceship hovered over Scully and Mulder, and boom, that was the end. With no contract in place to guarantee the story would continue. Even as badly written as that story turned out to be, that ending was unforgivable.

Now you’ve turned the tables on me. You did score the additional season, and despite my serious misgivings, I once again find myself watching Scully and Mulder race through dark parking garages and driving rental cars on empty country roads. And, after all you put me through, I still foolishly expect closure, which makes me feel not like your pissed off mother, but like you’re the bad boyfriend I just can’t quit. You used me, you told me pretty lies, you dumped me, and then went off for 2 years with no contact. After the last time, I swore I was done with you. I didn’t care if I never saw you, Scully, or Mulder ever again.

But then I started watching the old X-Files again and remembered all of the good times we had — like the time I was too afraid to put my feet down after a particularly scary episode. It made me hunger for more Scully and Mulder, so I suffered nobly through the actors’ other mediocre shows just for a glimpse of them.

So, when you showed up at my door in January, I hadn’t changed that stupid lock, and I hadn’t made you leave your key. The charm of seeing Scully and Mulder again, a few sweet promises of closure, the passage of time dulling my memory, and I welcomed you right back in. I even offered you a seat and a beverage.

And like great make-up sex, the first episode — a flashback to the time just before the brutal cliffhanger — felt amazing; I was all in. There’s Cigarette Smoking Man, Scully, and Mulder doing their immortal conspiracy dance. I was drunk with it and gulped down a few more episodes. But then I got confused. The episodes were about other things. The monster-of-the-week things, as we call it in the X-Files world. Where’s Scully’s and Mulder’s son? Are we still in a flashback? Where the hell are we in the timeline?

Then I read that there are just 10 episodes, and only 2 are mythology episodes. Damn you Chris Carter! I fell for you…again! I was ready to break up, for real this time. But then you came around with episode 5, with its theme of Scully’s unbreakable bond with her son William and the fallout from her decision to give him up for adoption to protect him from Cigarette Smoking Man. The episode captures perfectly the parental torment resulting from doing the right thing at the time, and how hard and awful that is, and then much later you find out maybe it wasn’t the right thing. The regret is unbearable, but there was no other way to know then or now.

You followed that episode up with one focused on the long-suffering, FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner. You gave us his difficult back story, brought it into a perfect X-File themed present, and delivered an ending was so poignant, I had tears in my eyes.

Damn you Chris Carter!

There are now 4 episodes left, and I can only hope Jillian Anderson has the strength that I lack. She says this is the last season she will play Scully. She will break up with you for good. And then, maybe, I can too.

 

 

In Your 20s and Confused? Get Over It

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I try to stay out of the internet fray. In my 20s I remember getting steamed over all the articles about about the baby boomers. You couldn’t pass a newspaper or magazine without seeing a headline about how many of them there are, their spending habits, who they were marrying, where they were choosing to live. And the TV shows! I let “Thirtysomething” piss me off every single week. (Apologies to my beloved sis who loved that show — love you!) There were way more of them than my Gen X, and it seemed to me they were just this giant vacuum cleaner of materialism sucking up all the resources in their path. The media coverage of it led them to think they were entitled to it. Meanwhile Gen Xers were left with their crumbs and dust and a string of Republican presidents to try to patch together a life. So, yeah, that’s why they call us cynical.

Did me getting pissy about it change anything? No. Did I manage to patch together a life? Yes. And maybe I could have done it faster if I hadn’t wasted so much energy getting my panties in a twist about them. Or maybe that’s just the nature of being a 20-year-old. Your fairly new life panties get twisted about stuff. You are at the start, and while you know the most you’ve known in your whole life, it’s still not actually that much. You have to figure it out as you go. One thing I learned from those years is that I am happier if I don’t get caught up in the media stories about stuff that is only a thing because they are writing about it. Sometimes it’s insightful or entertaining, but mostly it just makes you feel bad.

So I set up a bubble against what I think of as pseudo news stories (as opposed to fake news — that’s a different post). Pseudo news is: yes, it’s true that the boomers are a very large and influential generation; however, that fact alone does not make them news. Of course staying in the bubble was much easier when it was just print and TV. The internet pummels the bubble much more, and it’s inevitable that things slip through. Just retrieving my email on Comcast, I get pelted with clickbait headlines and pictures of people I don’t recognize, “ripping” other people I don’t recognize. But no matter, I’m older and crabbier now, so even when the bubble is breached, my alter ego Blanche takes a drag on her ciggie, downs a shot, and says we don’t give a flip. I get my real news elsewhere.

Except on rare occasions when my pissy 20-year-old is poked.

I read a story about how all the #metoo and attention on sexual abuse has got men in their 20s questioning their own behavior. That’s a good thing. The situation also seems to have men and women in their 20s allegedly confused about the rules of dating. The article earnestly quotes men and women who say they don’t know how to act, and interviews with concerned therapists who say their male clients are so befuddled they are afraid to even go on dates. Wah, wah, wah.

Cue eye roll. This, my friends, is pseudo news.

Just because you have more information about something, especially about sexuality and dating, don’t expect it to make things easier. In fact certain information will make it a lot harder. But that’s what is called “growth,” which often hurts like hell when you are going through it, but can make you a better person.

Twitter alert: Life is just awkward and uncomfortable, if you’re lucky. It can also be much, much worse. If it’s just awkward, count your blessing and move on. And if you happen to be a confident, focused 20-something, you will hit a confused patch at some point. There’s no skipping stages.

So forgive me if I’m rolling my eyes at the 20-somethings who are confused about dating. Since the cavemen were trying to hit cave women over the head as a way of asking them out, or hoping her brother was home instead, or she was more interested in gathering nuts and berries with the hot cave ladies, dating has always been confusing. More so when you’re 25, but it’s no picnic for anyone. If you work at it, you just get better at knowing your worth and what you want. And even when you do, you still sit across from your date and think, does he like me? Should I go home with him? Is spinach in his teeth and his collection of antique dentist equipment a deal breaker?

Wah, wah, you’re confused about dating. Welcome to Human 101. Now you’ve forced my hand, and I have to tell you a Story. One of those Older People Stories you hate, because who gives a flip about older people? Well, you brought it on yourself, so listen up.

When I was in college, my friends and I went to a frat party, and did all of the usual things one does at frat parties — drink, dance, and then sneak past the “Private Do Not Enter” sign in the stairway to raid the refrigerator on the 3rd floor when our drunken snackies set in. What? Like anything in a frat house is private, and BTW we were the ones in danger — it was food that 20-year old boys were pretending was edible. It was slim pickins, believe me, but we represented ourselves well.

Anywho, a very large, drunken frat brother named Quentin started dancing with me. As a nerdy, introverted woman, I had ZERO experience with boys. In high school I had an unrequited crush on a friend, and as a junior I went to the senior prom with THE king nerd of the class, pocket protector and all. He was a nice enough, but two shy nerds do not a make out session produce. Freshman year in college was no better. Another unrequited crush on a friend, and I had been hit on by a super awkward guy in a chem lab class (it mostly involved staring, so I have to take my friends’ word that he was hitting on me). Another friend had professed his like for me while he was drunk and I was trying to get him home safely. Not a super turn on. Oh, also, I had been told plenty of “scared straight to virginity” stories. And I was brought up Catholic. See? You think you have dating problems? Puh-leaze.

So there I am dancing to Micheal Jackson with Quentin; then a slow song came on, and I was enveloped by his gentle, yet giant bear-like arms, and suddenly there was a tongue in my mouth. A sloppy, drunk tongue, if I’m going to critique it 30 years later. Okaaaay. I was not really enjoying it, but here’s the thing. He was black, and I thought if I pulled away, he would think I was a racist. See? This is what I’m saying about awkward, stupid shit in your 20s. So I let it go on for a while, plotting my escape. I think he may have asked me if I wanted to go back to his room. So I took the opportunity to say, “Wait here, I just have to tell my friends.” I know, I know! Why not just say “No, thank you,” and move on? Because you’re 20, and you don’t know what the hell to do because Catechism never covered this, except to tell you never have sex. So all you are left with is to do dumb stuff like try to prove you are not a racist and running away.

So I ran off and found my friend Rosemary, who I unceremoniously grabbed and marched her home with me. And during the 20-minute walk home I was on a drunken, sobbing loop to her: Dance, tongue, big arms, he’s black, I’m not a racist, I just don’t like tongue in the first 5 minutes of a non-date; Dance, tongue…and on and on until we got home.

The next day found me immobilized with the double-whammy of physical and emotional hangovers. I sought out Rosemary to apologize and studiously avoided Quentin (who of course lived in my dorm). But here’s the thing:

Neither of them remembered anything about that night. Rosemary stared at me blankly during my apology and then laughed at me. At one point Quentin saw me, and I saw the same blank face. Had I gone to his dorm room, he would have surely had that face in the morning. Awkward.

The racism guilt lingered until finally my friend Sonia, who is black, told me to knock it off. So I did.

As the Who sings in “Another Tricky Day,” “You irritate me my friend, this is no social crisis … just another tricky day for you.”

I get it, it is confusing. We’ve all been there, and there is no magic way around life’s obstacles. Keep your good friends close, have an escape route, do your best to learn what you can from each awkward encounter. Oh, and stay off the internet. That thing will make you crazy.

Photo credit: Flashbak 

You, Sir, Are a Failover

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Remember when corporate gobbletygook was just about “creating synergy,” “shifting a paradigm,” and “leveraging a best practice”? I miss those days now like I pine for the good ole days of a Bush senior presidency.  I’m in communications, so for the most part I get sales emails about making better videos, increasing my company’s social media presence, or how to organize company photos.  I use an iPhone, I primarily do internal, non-social media communications, and I work with doctors, so charts and graphs, yes! Photos of people, no. But at least these sales emails are in the ball park. I recently got this email from Jeff — never heard of the company and have no idea what it or he does:

“I just wanted to check in to make sure you received my previous emails.

I am hoping we can connect this week to discuss your infrastructure and ways our managed DNS can provide you a great web-based UI for record management, quick propagation time (think seconds not hours or days) and of course advanced features like active failover to keep your sites up and running without you having to even think about them.

Are you available Wednesday at 1pm? If so, I can send along a calendar invite this afternoon.

Best, Jeff”

Ooooooh, Jeffy, Jeffy, Jeffy. Where does one begin?

I just wanted to make sure you have enough blood flow going to your brain. I have no idea what DNS is, and if I have to look it up, your email is already taking up too much of my time. Perhaps it’s related to DNR — do not resuscitate? Maybe DNS means “do not suscitate,” which sounds more efficient. After all “re-suscitate” indicates you’re doing it again. So suscitate must mean don’t even bother. Let the poor bastard go. Jeffy, just let it go.

“A great web-based UI.” OK, I’m familiar with UX, user experience, so I’m not a complete luddite. However, I have no idea what UI is, unless you mean “urinary incontinence,” which seems a little personal, even for someone who works in a hospital. Also, my understanding of the condition is that it’s not really that great, either in person or web-based.

“Quick propagation time (think seconds not hours or days).” Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Oh, those crazy young ones, who can keep up? I mean, sure, sometimes I like it quick, but hours can also be kind of fun on a lazy, rainy Sunday afternoon. Seconds just seems wrong, and frankly physically difficult, if not impossible. Days feels a tad too long, unless maybe it’s a group kind of situation at a resort with a nice pool and a hot tub. Oh, and a pool bar and good snacks. Are the Chippendales invited? Not that I’ve actually thought about it. Wait, what are we talking about again?

“Active failover.” Oh my. First of all, Mr. Failover, if that is your real name, you have not spent the requisite time in the slow march of English language users to move from two words, to hyphenation, to one word. Sorry slick, thems the rules. I’m sure your cousin “crossover” took years to go from cross over, to cross-over, to crossover. Word people don’t like step-skipping show-offs. Of course people would actually have to use you in real sentences and conversation outside of annoying business emails in order for you to evolve; frankly, you seem doomed to be forever trapped in email. Crossover is laughing at you from the dictionary.

Second, this reminds me of a phrase my ex used. He’s a hospice nurse, and when a patient is in the final stages of being on this earth, they call it “actively dying.” As a word person, I always found this phrasing odd, especially because the person at that point is in a coma. My response was, “does that mean the rest of us are passively living?” That’s perhaps a topic for another blog or a philosophers convention. So, Jeffy, I say unto you, what about the advanced feature “passive fail under”? Since I have no idea what failover is, I can’t begin to guess at passive fail under, but in these socially turbulent times, it seems like it’s our duty to be more inclusive and open. We should try to examine all versions of a thing, for example, don’t stop at white experience, but also look at black, brown, blue, yellow, and red to get the full picture. Your language implies active failovers are better, but I can’t really know that until I know what a passive fail under is, can I, Jeffy? Or a passive failover or an active success over. See where I’m going with this, Jeffy? Like the lady in “Stairway to Heaven,” there’s a sign on the wall, but I want to be sure, ’cause you know sometimes words have 2 meanings. Or in your case, no meanings.

So, to answer your question, Jeffy, I am not available at 1 pm on Wednesday, or ever, really. But thank you so much for giving me some blog material. I do think you have brightfuture in some other business, unless of course you’ve got a passive failover. Those are the worst.

Best, Sandy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s in the Dance

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Dancers of the waltz, foxtrot, tango, cha-cha, salsa, and others will laugh at me for this, but after dancing to primarily disco music for the several years, I just realized that dancing to music of different eras requires different moves. The dance goes with the music, Astaire. Because I don’t dance formally and instead let the music move me, I think of my dance moves as just that — moves in sequences that match the music.

But the place where we dance on Sundays has changed, and where it was 95% disco and 5% other, it’s now about 50/50 disco/80s music. A recent night was more like 30/70, disco to 80s. Don’t get me wrong, I love the 80s and danced away my 20s worshiping at its music altar. I don’t think I’ve ever danced side-by-side with both kinds of music, though.

It took me a while to notice this, because I was still getting over the change of the music and the addition of 3 big screens and videos in a fairly small venue. Why do club owners think videos are a good idea? If I wanted to watch videos, I’d stay home and drink for a lot less. Not to mention, the total hacked transition between songs that videos necessitate. I will admit that the subtleties of a really good DJ are lost on me, but I sure know when a song is ripped from me mid-beat and mid-move, and the next thumper is shoved down my pelvis. Plus, isn’t there enough change in the world right now? Do you really need to mess with my Sunday night dance traditions?

But I digress.

The day after the 50/50 night we commented on how hard we had danced. I didn’t think much about why until the next week when it was almost all 80s music. My friend and I talked about how disco is a happy kind of music that encourages free-flowing movement. It lends itself to a prop, say like a scarf that one might twirl around and let float to the beat. On the other hand, a lot of 80s music has a harder sound. I realized that I haven’t been using my scarf as much lately. 80s music doesn’t seem to have the same kind of call for it. Or its uses are less floaty and more, say, tie my hands up or slap my butt. That’s Ms. Jackson if you’re nasty.

My friend and I were still on the dance floor, trying to sort out the more nuanced differences between the 2 types of music, when Ms. Jackson came on. As we watched her on the damned big screen whip her arms, legs, and body around in unison with her dancers, my friend said triumphantly, “80s music is more choreographed!” And suddenly all the other 80s videos and songs flashed through my mind: hard beats and tight arm and leg moves. No free-flowing motion or twirling partners. Just an organized group of people doing identical rocket shots that burn calories and leave different muscles sore the next day.

A light dawns ovah Mahblehead, as they like to say around these parts. It’s a nod to the actual seacoast town of Marblehead and also a word for a person who has mahbles for brains. For the record, I don’t live in Marblehead. But now that I have been enlightened, watch out, all you formal dancers. I got the waltz, foxtrot, and tango on my mind, and I’m coming for you — me and my scarf.