In, oh, what was it, 1996? My friend Ed introduced me to Ben. It was a magical moment. And when I say introduced I don’t mean he said, hey listen to this CD. Oh NO. He gestured to the diminutive fellow to his right and said, “MJ,” (’cause we’re friends like that), “I’d like you to meet Ben,” and we shook hands and chatted awkwardly and I realized how freaking tall I am and then said, “Well, hey, you’ve got a show to do.” This was back in the Ben Folds Five days. I had been slavishly devoted to the band since I saw them the first time in 1995 and since then have seen Ben live oh, seven, eight times.

TONIGHT, yes, oh, yes, tonight, he’s here in Charlottesville for a FREE show at UVA. Angela will be seethingly jealous.

The girl and I are going to do our best imitation of UVA students and go. BECAUSE WE CAN. It’ll be good to see Ben again.

What’s  this? A new Bond.
Darker, smarter, more complex than old
A buff Bond! He’ll keep.

Editor’s note: I’ve never been a big Bond fan. Not like my Granny, anyway. But this one, I liked.  

Classic tale, style, look
Love a superhero flick
Reeve would have approved

We took the medical tour; eyes, ears, nose and throat. Today was Ear Day. The girl had a Volkswagon VW, a 1950s metallic Christmas tree and a reupholstered floral love seat removed from her ears. Oh, and an aging tube that didn’t come out on its own. I got to look through the giant lighted magnifying device and you know those caves with the giant stalactites and stalagmites, common in southern Missouri? Yeah, it looked like that. I loved the pediatric ENT so much I could have smooched him right then and there, even though we had to wait 45 minutes to see him. Wait, make that NINE YEARS and 45 minutes as it’s been that long since the girl has had ear woes and TODAY someone fixed them. Just. Like. That.

Anyway, in the waiting room between the audiologists’ and the ENT’s offices, the girl, peering over my shoulder, saw a photo of some dead star in the obit section.

“I’m donating to the buy her braces fund,” she said.

“Petunia!” (not her real name, but a name my mother used to call me and people’s fake names for their kids always crack me up. Once, a guy at Sears in the paint department created the color Petunia just for me.) I said, “that’s not very nice.”

“Hey, you said it first,” she said.

“I did?”

“Yeah, you said, ‘I’m donating to the Hannah Montana orthodontia fund,’” she said.

And she’s right. I did. Somebody get Billy Ray Cyrus’s kid some braces.

The Prestige 

Distraction was good.
Illusionist was better.
Ick factor was high.
Greg rating of low on the chick flick scale. Chicks will not dig this movie. Oh! But Scarlett Johannsson’s in it. I almost forgot that.

The only real reason to watch this film is Michael Caine, who I love. He was never better than in The Cider House Rules: “Good night you princes of Maine, you kings of New England.”

I contributed this post to Work It: A Blog for Working Moms. Published today, it’s about my conflicted desire to have someone clean up after me. Check out the comments where someone claims to have someone come to her home, do the laundry, fold it and put. it. away. I’m floored.

First Superman dies.
Spoiler: no resolution!
Moved rather slowly.
Fifties wardrobes rocked.
Hey! Affleck looks like Waldo!
Diane Lane is hot.

On the Greg rating scale it’s not a chick flick, but it’s just not a person flick; skip it.

A dad and his daughter faced one another over coffee and chocolate milk. The father wore the hunched shouldered mantle of the frustrated. The daughter swung her feet in sparkly-shoed glee. The girl, about three years old, was clearly in the hot seat. Dad, apparently fresh from a corporate retreat, was plying micromanager tactics to the young girl. He was also referring to himself in the third person, a parental oddity I abhor.

“Madeline. It is very difficult for Mommy and Daddy to enjoy a dinner out when you and Evan are along.”

The girl gave him a saucer-eyed stare.

“We expect the two of you to behave a certain way, and you’re simply not meeting our expectations.”

Whew, boy did I feel for Miss Madeline. I’ve been in that hot seat before and it’s not fun. She didn’t just have a raise on the line, either; she had her father’s love.

“Daddy, Evan’s just a baby. He doesn’t know and we were just fighting and I didn’t want to go anyway.”

“You’re going to have to come up with better reasons than that to explain your behavior.”

Whoa. Yo, Dad, ever hear of babysitters? I’m very supportive of parents not speaking to children as children, but I can’t understand this approach of speaking to a young child as a subordinate, failing employee. Does this WORK? I wanted to plant myself at their table and say, “Hey, I couldn’t help but overhear your micromanaging Dilbert parental tactics. How’s that working for you? Do you and Mommy enjoy much quiet time at home because of the purpose driven goals you’ve outlined for your offspring?”

I may have to rethink my whole approach to parenting after this. Hey kids — who’s up for sushi?

‘Twas six years ago today when Clover the Irish Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier joined our clan.

He’s a good pup. I think we’ll keep him.