The Grinch Lives

They stole Christmas.

I've been having more than a few bummer bouts lately, and it had really been bugging me, especially since I'm only a few weeks away from a holiday vacation at home on the farm. I mean, it wasn't that long ago when I wasn't able to go home for Christmas at all, either because of work schedules or financial limitations. But this year, I get to spend 10 whole days soaking up the solitude of a rural Nebraska winter. I get to bask in the fun of my nearly 18-month-old nephew frolicking in the snow (please, Bing, let it be a white Christmas...).

If I can just get there.

Yeah, that must be it — all the trials of moving: the packing, the cleaning, the glass-wrapping, the phone calls, the address changing. And all of it on top of the seemingly daily struggles at the office, trying to figure out how to keep existing despite the desperate turns the newspaper industry seems to be boxing itself into.

It must all be getting to me. This must be taxing my soul.

Hmm... On second thought, maybe not. Because — seriously — what do I have to complain about? Not a lot. My loved ones aren't fighting enemies abroad or diseases within, or vice versa. We have jobs and shelter, food aplenty. My rent is cheapening and my car nearly paid off. (Don't ask about the credit card — but at least there's only one!)

What's my deal?! What's with all the weeping and whining?

On the way home it hit me: The Grinch stole Christmas, and he had accomplices.

With all the turmoil at the apartment and all the moving as a direct result, I'm really not able to enjoy the season. For starters, I wasn't able to spend much time with my relatives on Thanksgiving break because I had get home and start packing up everything I own. Despite the fact that I'll have two living rooms in my possession by the end the week, I won't be getting a Christmas tree this season, and I really really wanted one this year.

Well, OK, so they didn't steal Christmas, exactly. But they did force me to keep it in a box.

Instead of unpacking my accumulated holiday treasures, I'm getting them ready to be U-hauled to another county. Instead of spending my time looking for a great gift for my niece, I'm scanning movers' quotes and trying to get the cable hooked up. Instead of working on a present for my sister, I'm cramming newspaper-wrapped valuables into "small" boxes.

It sucks — a lot — because this year... this year, I really need Christmas. (Don't we all?) And I'll find it. I haven't packed the Christmas DVDs up yet (or the liquor — shhh!). I bought a big bottle of gingerbread flavoring for the lattes. I'm also going to try to cut myself as much slack as possible the next few weeks because Lord knows I deserve it. I've been very good this year. (Mental note: Without newspapers, what will you pack with? You'll have to buy bubble wrap, and that can get pricey... is all I'm sayin'.)

The Grinches can do their best to try to usurp the holiday cheer right out of me. But in a few weeks, it will all come flooding back. Trekking out in the countryside with my brother, trying to find the perfect ginormous Christmas tree for the Shoppe party. Piling up the presents under the living room tree until my nephew can tear into them. Sitting in the darkened room mesmerized by the twinkling tree while watching "The Muppet Christmas Carol" with the folks for the seventh (Dad's 12th) time this year.

I can't wait.

Thanks for allowing me the Hallmark moment.
Merry Christmas.

The Christmas Letter

I used to be good at this. Award-winning, even. At least, that's what they tell me. Granted, "they" are biased, of course, being mostly relatives and a few good friends. And OK, it was one of my uncles who gave me the "Best Christmas Letter" award that one year, paying my way into Universal Studios on one of our family's last summer vacations.

So I haven't sent Christmas cards out for some time. I thought of just sending cards — no letter — but it felt like cheating. Consequently, it's been several years since I've actually chosen a quality greeting card (I have standards, you know), written and edited down a witty letter that fits on one page — BTW... why is that hard for me to do? I'm not married, have no kids or even a pet, for crying out loud! — physically written the greetings and addressed those envelopes, slapped on those stamps (sometimes the holiday sort), and dumped them in a nearby blue monster.

All bias aside, I think my Christmas letters are at least a good read. I think the last letter I actually did write and send out — with a card and everything — contained the tale of how I got a six-foot-plus Christmas tree into my car then into my less-than-six-foot-plus, second-floor apartment almost entirely all by myself. (See what you've been deprived of?)

What I have done almost every year is compose the Christmas letter. How could I not? Between my many address shifts, my ever-changing job duties, my series of somewhat unfortunate events, and ever-frequent clumsy adventures, I can't NOT write one. In my head, at least. Except I rarely have shared it with others — actually written it down and disseminated it. Weird, since that sort of thing is really my bread and butter.

In my defense, weak as it may be, I have written many witty Christmas letter sentences in my head. I've even designed my own card. Had that puppy ready to go last Christmas... or was it the Christmas before? Same difference.

It's a good card, I think, and I'd like to promise that this year, I'll deliver it. But circumstances will conspire against me yet again, I'm almost positive of it: Moving into a new apartment in the middle of December — a mere two weeks from now and just a week before I head to Nebraska to spend Christmas week with my family — seems likely to seal the fate of this year's Christmas letter.

Maybe I should blog my Christmas letter this year. Facebook it. Keep with times, and all that. I considered just sending it out over e-mail last year. Almost had myself talked into it: "It's 2007! Why aren't more Christmas letters sent electronically?! Besides, it's the thought that counts, right?"

Yeah, whatever. Nothing substitutes the hand-signed, hand-addressed or even hand-delivered Christmas card. In truth, I hope — and am pretty certain — nothing ever will.

In case you don't hear from me: Have a Merry Christmas and very happy 2009.

The Angry Voter

Working for a newspaper, I'm usually pretty jazzed about Election Day, especially when the presidency is in play. The day seems so full of promise, not just from an ideological standpoint, but in how we, as journalists, get to figure out how best to tell the day's story and stand as a record of that moment — especially when that moment becomes historical.

Today, days later, I can reflect on the awe of witnessing and recording history. But that morning, before and after putting my ballot in the box, I didn't feel like much of a patriot or purveyor of the ideals of democracy. I was just angry.

I didn't like my options, and I felt like my vote didn't really matter in California anyway; our state so decidedly leftist that John McCain's camp tactically blew it off.

And I was angry.

I felt like the nation as a whole didn't really have a real choice, and that states like California had even less options. I felt like no matter what mark I made on my ballot, my state had turned blue well before I got there to have my say.

And I was angry.

At some point during the campaign, a friend of mine suggested the only vote a Californian can truly make for change is to pick Bob Barr — that whether you liked him or not, a Barr vote would help non-mainstream candidates gain legitimacy in the next round, maybe even get a seat at the debate table.

Take a second and imagine that kind of change...

So... but... these were my options? Making an unlikely run at shaking up the two-party system? Casting another Kool-Aid ballot for all-talk Barack? Signing up for McCain 2.0, a much less independent version of the "maverick" he used to be?

I was angry.

And it didn't stop with the presidential race. It trickled down into the local contests, and even the propositions festered frustration. Like Prop. 2: You mean I actually have to decide whether a chicken gets to see grass or whether I want to run a greater risk of salmonella on a dozen eggs I would pay upwards of $4 for?

Seriously? These are my options?

Normally, I would dress up a little on Election Day, not knowing who might be making appearances in the newsroom. But this time around, I didn't care. I opted for comfort expecting the work day would drag on well into the night.

So I put on my angry jeans, thinking: "F**K IT!" And I laced up my Keens in a rage, thinking: "My finances suck. Gas prices will soar again any day now, and we'll see more layoffs before the holidays arrive. Congress bailed out the banks with a big side of pork, all on the backs of taxpayers. ... I'M NOT VOTING FOR A SINGLE INCUMBENT TODAY. NOT ONE. I DON'T EVEN CARE."

And I meant it. At the time...

Down to the wire, though, I didn't exactly follow through on that threat. I couldn't stomach the alternative in a couple of those contests, and in others, I did think there was something to be said for experience.

So much for change, huh?

Whether Barack's been your guy all along, he's all of ours now. And I really want to be wrong about him, but we've been in this space before... all fired up, demanding action, healing and the affirmation that thousands have not died in vain. Look how that played out.

I'm a cautious optimist at heart, and there's no denying Obama has uplifted many corners of the nation. But right now, I can't see how we're banking on anything more than catch phrases and charismatic speeches — very well-funded ones.

Here's hoping his actions speak louder... and cost less.

—

Just so you all don't think I'm a total cynic, I wanted to post a link to this music video, which I'm sure is well on its way to becoming very overplayed. But, crap, that man can really rally the masses. And if nothing else, after years of Bush's bumbling sound bytes immediately on the heels of Bill's "Southern charm," it will be nice to get some real sophistication back in the Oval Office.

And just for fun, there's this and this, too.

Cheers.

Happy October!

Geez. I guess I took September off — from this blog, anyway. What a slacker I am.

OK, not really.

Check out my other blogs — here, here and here — and other various postings — mainly here and here — if you don't believe me. Also, I've been throwing myself into a family project that's been needing a little more attention than I've been able to give it in recent months. The example below, in case you couldn't tell, is my family tree. Just a first draft. I just have to bust out the crayons, and that baby will polish up real nice.

Yeeeah. OK. Maybe it'll take a little more work than that.

Anyway, I need to get back to the writing as well, so hopefully there will be a post or two in the near future. But not tonight. This has been merely a fly-by smattering of notes, topped off with a barely legible ... sketch? Hmmm... probably more of a wandering outline. And it's not even the whole enchilada — you didn't see MY name in there, did you? Don't look. You'll just get a headache.

Instead, lose yourself in the meandering jungle of names in forest green ink... like one of those 3-D pictures that looked like nothing unless you had about a half hour to kill. Or maybe just move on to the next post.

Thanks for playing.

Fandango this: "Tropic Thunder" review ... and more

Below is a review I posted for Fandango.com. (Fun site, btw. You can make your very own bag puppets, as you can see from the image above. Who wouldn't love that? ... You could tell that's me, right?)

Enjoy.

—

Ben Stiller directs himself playing an actor thrust into the role of a director, Robert Downey Jr. playing a guy playing a black guy, Steve Coogan playing the director who needs a little direction, and for good measure, a little Jack Black on the side, which turns out to be the least impressive performance in this movie.

Stiller does his thing — funny, but no surprises. And even RDJr., who delivers a fair share of the film's comedy, doesn't get the biggest laughs here. Tom Cruise's cameo as the fat, bald, hairy, short-tempered behind-the-scenes billionaire fronting the money for the movie-in-a-movie steals the whole show. Every time that guy appeared on screen, he couldn't stop yelling, and I couldn't stop laughing.

With some solid performances from the rest of the supporting cast, including SNL's Bill Hader as Tom Cruise's ultimately spineless No. 2, this movie is a solid hit and totally worth seeing. Just keep in mind the movie-in-a-movie is a war movie. Oh yeah. It's bloody.

Respect the rings

The L.A. Times just had to go and mess with the Olympics logo, didn't they? And not just once — twice mutilated.

Yes, some designer somewhere in the organization came up with their own way of branding this world-wide event steeped in tradition. And it's all just design for the sake of design.

WHY?!

No reason I can think of. I can't see a need for the Olympic rings in the familiar arrangement need to become a stack of colored discs, lined up like a tiny pile of pennies that was pushed to one side. Soooo lame.

But the Times didn't stop there. The LAT Web site's Olympic rings aren't rings at all — the colors appear in thin stripes. Again, I say....
WHY?!

I'm sure others besides LAT have taken it upon themselves to rearrange the rings. But last I heard, logos were supposed to brand stories and packages in an effort to connect elements for the reader, not leave them asking, "What's with the poker chips? Is that an Olympic event now, too?" Not that I've heard...

Part of the reason this really irks me is because this is exactly the sort of thing that gives designers get a bad wrap. There's a reason the Bauhaus school of thought ("Form follows function") is Lesson No. 1. So stuff like this makes it seem like the designer is:

1) An egomaniac.
2) Reaching to fill his/her clip file.
3) Is attempting to justify their own employment, not that I truly blame them in the current economic climate, but...
4) On crack.

Design for design's sake gives the impression that designers don't actually care about content. That all they are concerned with is design, appearances, aesthetics, etc. For some, sadly, this is the case, and usually for Reason No. 1.

I, however, am not a slave to design. I prefer it to enhance the good content, not mask the bad. And when the content doesn't live up to the design, well, I fight for improvements to the content.

Call me crazy... but you'll never call me an egomaniac.

If Google and ESRI ever fell in love and got married...

...it would be scary awesome.

—

Dear Google:

You had me at G-mail.

From the moment you unchained me from the shackles of my workplace's inferior web-based e-mail program, I was smitten. But once I unlocked the mysteries of the Google Group, I knew I was in love, and I've been telling the world — well, OK... only the select few deserving of you.

Only the best for my Google.

I know you must love me, too: You give and you give, like a benevolent crack dealer handing out the first few hits for free.

Blogger. Picasa. Google Reader.

You love me. I know you love me. ... Don't you love me?

My friend says she wouldn't be surprised if you were seeing ESRI on the side, working to provide us all with a traffic-free commute into work. That would be just like you, delivering the impossible labeled with simple multi-colored typography.

I have no choice but to assume you're cheating on me. Your blog says "Hello new delectable Google enhancements," but your refusal to be exclusive says "Good-bye whacko."

But I don't care. I love you anyway.

I love your willingness to let me carry around the baggage of 1,000+ unarchived e-mails without judging me. I love the way you keep track of all my favorite blogs so I don't miss anything, and the way you save my own blog writings on an invisible layer until I'm ready to let them stand on their own.

But your love is not for me alone. I know that now. You must fulfill your destiny. ESRI is your true love, and together you will obliterate the human race. I love you too much to stand in your way. How can I stay mad at you?

I love you.

-designerGina
<3


P.S. - Do you still want me to test out that Google Terminator BETA program I downloaded from you all those months ago? I can. I will. I want to.




(I still love you.)

Pilates for DUMMIES.

... Well, ONE dummy, anyway.

—

How I medaled in fitness-ball vaulting

So I started doing Pilates. Yoga. Whatever. Anyway, I have a giant inflatable reddish ball — faded maroon? — as big as the sun in my living room. I'm told by those nice people on the included DVDs this immense crimson-esque orb will help flex my body in completely unnatural but healthy ways, if I but only trust my own stability to a dense foam brick. Rapture!

I really suck at it.

I'm not naturally coordinated, and, well... I fell on my head. Seriously. I got on that giant fuchsia-ish ball thingy, and I fell on my head.

In my defense, I really thought the big red ball was closer to the big leather couch, which I was hoping to use as a balance support to sort of ease my way into a backwards stretch. I was leaning back, arms outstretched to grab hold of the couch... Alas. I misjudged the space. Ouch.

Granted, it wasn't my very first time on the big red ball, but it was the first time I attempted to do anything other than SIT on the big red ball.

But I digress.

As I sat reflecting on what had just happened to me, possibly in shock, a wave of regret passed over me. Regret that no one else was in the apartment when it happened, because the whole scene just HAD to have been freakin' HILARIOUS to witness. Most of my more major vertical challenges have been.

After I had replayed the whole thing in my head a half dozen times, the laughter subsided, and I began to realize that I actually was pretty lucky. Such a bounce off a immense bouncy rosy orb thingy could have resulted in me breaking my neck, and there I would have been: sprawled out there in my living room, inches away from a giant red ball.

The whole experience seems, on its circumference, a definite argument FOR the gym membership, and, perhaps, an equally strong argument AGAINST it. Wouldn't you hate it if your limp mishapen body were discovered sprawled next to a giant red inflatable ball?

"Miss Scarlet did it in the gym with one bounce." Doesn't have a good ring to it, you know?

Although, I'm guessing that at gym, they would at least have the decency to move the ball aside whilst attempting to revive you.

Anyway, the big red ball is currently in time out, as you can see above. I'll stick to the floor exercises until I can achieve a higher level of Zen, or at least a better sense of balance. ... USA!!!

Lost in translation

I know my writing skills often trump my skills as a verbal communicator, but this little scenario takes the cake:

So I go to get my haircut at this salon I kinda like. I haven't really found one particular person there I like, but I've found a couple I don't. And today I found one more.

The instructions I gave were:
1. I want it to be quite a bit shorter; just above the shoulders would be great.
2. I want it thinned out/layered in the back.
3. I don't want to have to spend any time fixing it.

Fortunately for me, #3 has always pretty much been a given mostly because the natural curl in my hair is best left to its own devices. So my first clue should have been that my typically 30-min haircut was taking about three times that long. Granted, I did admit at one point that I don't really get freaked out about my hair, but I didn't expect she would call me on it.

And by the way, no, I'm not keeping it like this.
Enjoy.

P.S. — FEMALE PIRATE COWBOYS RULE! YAR!!!

—

You might recognize this entry from my original blog, where it originally appeared in a May 20, 2008, entry. But it never really fit there. So... now it has a home here. Thanks for reading.

Well, looky what we have here... (An introduction)

Yes, I do get out once in awhile. I try stuff. Do things.

Like writing.

I have a few venues at my disposal for writing, but this is the first and only one thus far that I feel I can REALLY be myself. So, even though I hope others will enjoy this blog, it's really only intended for an audience of one.

So as I get out and try stuff and do things, I'll be writing a bit about them here, when I'm so inclined. You're welcome to tag along.

Check, please.

-G