*UPDATED I’m Thinking!

There are thoughts being thunk. I promise! But I’m in a funk. Not to mention the fact there are, unfortunately, not enough hours in my day to plunk out said thoughts being thunk…

Aaaaaand now I’ve gone all Theodor Seuss Geisel on your ass– er, bootays. How incredibly lame.

I need a vacation.

That being said, I have a story. It’s a good one. It involves six impatiently eager children, six gaily wrapped presents, one tinsel-covered Christmas tree, and a dream. Oh, and Uncle Ron. We can’t forget him. This story spans years and years and has recently come to a rather interesting conclusion. Or beginning. I don’t know…

When I gather the thoughts I’ve thunk, the keys I will plunk.

Oh, dear lord. I’m LAAAAAAAAAME.

Until I get my blog on, feel free to click over to TechnoGeekery for my latest shows:

TechnoGeekery Show #29: What the Widget?!

*TechnoGeekery Show #30: Send Videos…One Click!

Seriously. What the widget?! Did anyone ELSE know a person with Safari and Leopard could DO this?! SWEET.

* Plus, to prove people watch, I need your videos now! Send whatever you want, except porn ain’t allowed! (Hey, that sounds like a song…)

Leap of Faith… Redux

I recently stumbled across the following post, which I wrote way, waaaay back in May of ‘05. In all honesty, it made my heart hurt a little to re-read it. Who knew I could be introspective and poignant? Sometimes? Okay, I may have even teared up a bit. Just a little! I know, right? Me? BIG BABY. Deal with it. Re-reading the post also inspired in me a wicked craving for a donut. Go figure.

In any event, I thought I would share. Or, rather, re-share. Share again? Whatev. You know what I’m saying.

_______________________________

I have no desire to be enigmatic.

But it is a scary place, my mind. Crowded with jumbled imagery and intricate stories and trivial pop culture references, with nowhere to go. All of the craziness shuffles and scuffles to be forefront in my mind, to be most important. To be first. “Let me out!” it all screams, because it has to go somewhere, right?

Sometimes, when I read a book or I see a movie, I catch the mood of the piece, and I cannot shake it. I am there, and woe unto any who try to break in, to find me. I am in it, and only I can find my way back out. I am not even sure if that makes sense, but it is most definitely the case.

I mean, I know other people can read a book and put it down. Me? I read the fifth Harry Potter book in one night. ONE NIGHT! That freaking book is over 800 pages long! Honestly. It can take me literally hours to stop worrying about the characters in which I have invested my time. I feel their pain, their joy, their despair, their triumphs. If the book is particularly well-done, if the characters are alive, if the mood is fully realized, then it can take me hours to stop feeling the book. To let go of it.

Other people can watch a particularly riveting television show or movie and walk away thinking, “Huh. Good show! What’s for dinner?” Me? I become emotionally invested in the characters. I will obsess about their lives and the “what if’s” for days on end. Weeks, even. Now do not misunderstand. This is not to say I cannot separate the fictional characters from reality. No worries. I absolutely can. What I cannot do, not right away, anyway, is to stop thinking about their stories. Taking them in new directions. I will spend hours weaving new stories for them. Sometimes I even dream new stories. But Leonardo da Vinci said, The eye sees a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination awake. Dude was a wise Renaissance man, yo?

Which leads me to this: when I write stories? Oh BOY. I am SO living them. And it is so exciting! I get to be someone else! Well, for a little while, anyway. I become Goddess of the Story Universe! Bow to me! Then, inevitably, my characters begin growing and acting out in ways I had not intended, and I just get to go with it, and it is GOOD. Of course, I think this is why I enjoy happy ending so much, formulaic cliche be damned. I need them, or I am lost. Then again, my endings are not always happy. And I absolutely hate that, because I ache for my characters. But I love it, too.

For a long time I thought this craziness had a name. I HAD to give it a name. I was surely bipolar. Manically depressed. Obviously. It was the only explanation for the mood swings, the black days, the deep-rooted dark despair that settled into my mind and would not let go. Right? And what sane, happy person loses herself in television and books? Huh? Normal people with three beautiful kids and TGIM don’t act this way, right? Am I RIGHT?! I hated my career choice, my living situation, my life, and I could not shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly WRONG with me, because everyone I knew insisted I should be happy, that I should be thankful, that I should just STOP wallowing and get on with living. And I wanted to. I WANTED TO. But I was stuck. So I turned to the happy pills. But the drugs? They did not help. Dispassionateness, for me, was not a cure. It was a bandage.

“You are just like my ex-husband,” my sister said to me. “You can be anything you want to be. Anything but happy.”

Oh, no she DIDN’T.

So I ripped it off that bandage. And I made CHANGES.

I found a job writing and quit my teaching job. I packed up and moved all the way across the United States, not sure when and if TGIM would follow, but sure it was the right thing to do. I began expressing the jumbled imagery, intricate ideas, and trivial pop culture references swirling about in my mind through the magical world of blogging. I made new friends. I discovered the words “job satisfaction” were not mutually exclusive. I pulled myself out of the rut of complacency and fear in which I was trapped and made some personally earth-shattering decisions regarding what I wanted out of life. And, yes, I hurt TGIM and others close to me in the process and, yes, almost lost everything. I know that. I OWN that. But these days? I’m starting to feel as if despite the excruciating pain I caused myself and others, I have gained everything.

TGIM thinks this is The Crazy in me. Sometimes he loves me for it, sometimes… not so much. Me? I am starting to believe The Crazy is simply the artistic temperament in me. And, slowly, oh so slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it, to hone it, to bend it to my infinite megalomaniacal will, mwah ha ha ha!…

Sorry.

The other day I stumbled across a quote by Edvard Munch, the artist formerly known as the man who painted The Scream. Okay, he is still known as that, I just like the allusion to Prince. Because Prince ROCKS. Anywhos, Munch wrote of the experience he had which triggered the creation of this masterpiece:

I was out walking with two friends - the sun began to set - suddenly the sky turned blood red - I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence - there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city - my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety - and I sensed an endless scream passing through nature.

As I read this I realized, hey, sometimes I sense that Endless Scream, too. I hear it! I KNOW it. And, slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it. I know, I know. Inscrutable, much? Talk to my family. But, then again, if I did not see the world this way, if I did not feel the world this way, how could I write? And writing? Makes me feel complete. Utterly, dizzyingly complete.

Well, writing, and a big ol’ cinnamon cake donut. Yummmmmm.

Take that, big sister. I CAN be happy.

Washington Improv Theater, Free To Me, and Other Confessions

I remember the moment– the exact moment– I realized what it was I wanted to do with my life.

Ah, yes… how could I forget? It was summer and I was at recess with my friend Natalie. We were on the monkey bars… but, wait… it must have been spring, rather than summer, if we were at recess, right? But whatever! The moment is tattooed on my brain! Natalie and I were on the slide… except it must have been Dominique because Natalie didn’t like the slide… and… oh, hell, I may as well burst into a soulful rendition of “I Remember It Well” from Gigi, the 1958 Academy Award winning musical film starring Leslie Caron, Louis Jourdan, and Maurice Chevalier, and be done with it! GOSH. I didn’t say I could focus clearly on the minutiae of the moment! I just said I remember the moment! The having of it! So step OFF me.

*ahem*

So, Dominique asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up.

Well, this was a deep question in the sixth grade, I tell you what. We’d gone way beyond, “Do you like me? Check yes, no, or maybe.” And as an aside, why “maybe”? Had no one taught us that “maybe” was the new “no, but I don’t want you to cry or hit me at recess”? Honestly.

I remember thinking very seriously about Dominique’s question. Probably for more than a minute, even. No one had ever asked me that question before, you see. And then, I just knew.

“I want to make people laugh,” I said with conviction. “You know, like Erma Bombeck!” (Shut up. I was eleven.)

Oh, the folly of youth! There I was, thinking there was a career to be had in making people laugh! Ha! There Dominique was, asking “Who the heck is Erma Bombeck?” Double ha!

Dominique and I drifted apart in junior high.

So, there it is. I’ve always wanted to be a comedian. Or a lawyer. And for a short while, there was that dream of becoming a professional Orca trainer at Sea World. (Hey! They get to swim with Shamu. And ride the dolphins!) Sadly, not one of these careers has ever panned out.

That being said, guess what?! Give up? Okay! I have been invited to attend some (free!) improv classes at Washington Improv Theater, that’s what! But, hello? Scary. I mean, I’m not sure what to expect. For instance, will I be required to take part in any type of miming activities? Because I don’t mind saying that mimes? Give me the wiggins. With their imaginary glass boxes and drinking from cups that aren’t there and whatnot! Good LORD! It’s just not RIGHT!

On the other hand, I’m pretty sure I already mentioned the free-to-me part. No cost whatsoever. Totally free.

I’m torn. Should I set aside my Metamfiezomaiophobia and sign up? Well? Should I?!

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going in, y’all, the possibility of being trapped in a glass box be damned! I’ll see you on the other side.

(Any one in the DC Metro area who has a wild a hair and wants to join me, give me a holler! Or an email! Whichever!)

For William

Aaaw, man, William. I am so sorry for your loss. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family, big guy. I know it’s not the same thing, not really, but I wanted to share some thoughts I had when my grandfather passed on. I posted this back in 2005, but I still look back at it sometimes… just to remember, I guess.

I hope no one minds the repeat.

To Shuffle Off This Mortal Coil

My life is a tapestry characterized by elaborate pictorial designs. My childhood, though only comprising a small portion of my life so far, makes up a large, colorful corner section. Occasionally, I have been known to bask in the memories of a few of its more colorful parts. Lately, I find myself more and more often taking the tapestry out of its storage place in the attic of my mind, and airing it out.

The images are all there. I grew up in Phoenix, Arizona, where the sweltering summer sun baked the days so fiery hot that the tarry goo in the asphalt literally bubbled in the streets; where sunburned, barefooted children in tank tops and Dove short-shorts rode their banana-seat bikes to the crispy, brownish-green lawn at the Digital; where hot air balloons occasionally and thrillingly made emergency landings on sprawling industrial park lawns; where dirty, stinky, disheveled kids played Keep Away or a loose game of kickball until dusk when Dad pulled the old aqua-blue Chevy into the cul-de-sac, threw one of them on his lap, and let the chosen one drive the car all the way into the driveway; and where Grandma and Grandpa Heedum’s backyard swimming pool, complete with diving board, water filter “snakes,” and pool sprinklers, was the oasis playground for me, my five siblings, and all the Heedum cousins.

You know, a large portion of the tapestry of my childhood revolves around that pool scene.

Childhood Scene 1:
I see Grandma and Grandpa Heedum’s house, air-popped buttery popcorn in enormous Tupperware bowls; the boisterous laughter of women playing cards; a crowded pool complete with inflatable rafts, orange floaties, and rousing games of Shark and Marco Polo; water filter snakes slithering and snaking across the bottom of the pool, stirring up the settled desert dust instead of cleaning it; peeling, sun-burned noses and green-tinted chlorine-hair; and too many wet kids in bathing suits slipping and sliding through Grandma’s kitchen.

I see my 7-year-old, wet, bathing suited self dancing around at the arcadia door, pounding on the glass, leaving behind oozing wet scrinchy marks as I cupped my hands to look in at the ladies sitting at the dining room table playing cards, trying to get my mommy’s attention. Shoot. Anyone’s attention, really.

“Mommy! Lookit! Mommy! Grandma! LOOKIT! Lookit me!”

When I could finally get someone to watch I would race to the diving board and execute some elaborate cherry bomb, or back flip, or twisty dive through an inner tube. When I would emerge from the depths of the pool, proud and spluttering, I would race back to the arcadia door and smash my face up against it, water dripping in my eyes, until I could see my mommy turn away from her cards for a moment to shout from inside, “Uh-huh! Good one, Cathy!” Then she would turn back to her game, laughing and joking, and I would return to the pool, satisfied.

I remember the feeling of walking into the cool, air-conditioned house from the sweltering Arizona desert heat outside, and how it would immediately chill the pool water in my hair and the damp swimsuit against my skin. I would literally freeze in the doorway before the grown-up chorus of “SHUT THE DOOR!” would spur me into action.

Honestly. I still love swimming, but somehow, the Olympic-sized indoor pool at our Rec Center doesn’t bring me the sublime satisfaction of hot-footing it across the foot-searing cooldecking surrounding Grandma and Grandpa’s pool and jumping into the cool, sun-heated water.

Childhood Scene 2:
Another large chunk of the childhood tapestry is in the section devoted to the awe the Heedum grandkids felt toward Grandpa Heedum. Seriously. He scared the bejeebies out of us.

When I think of my grandparents’ house I always see a stifling tobacco-smoke haze hanging in the air, as Grandpa, apart from his card-playing wife and daughters, would sit guarding the back door to the pool, watching television and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Now, in my mind I know that Grandpa quit smoking years ago, when I was in my late teens, but I still see him like that, smoking a cigarette, watching television, snacking on and presiding over the elaborate spread my food-loving mom, aunts, and grandmother laid out for their weekly card-playing get-togethers. To our dismay, his probing eyes, although seemingly riveted to Hee Haw or Lawrence Welk, never missed small hands trying to sneak more popcorn or another powdered-sugary lemon square or a Cuckoo Cookie, maybe even some M & M’s if we were… just… super-duper… sneaky…

He observed everything, Grandpa: the card game, the food-sneaking, the swimming, the joking, but he rarely joined in. He listened to his family’s laughter, his daughters’ silly stories, and their hilariously obvious cheating tactics. Occasionally he barked out a comment (often sarcastic), or laughed at a joke, or told us “Go ask your mother!” when we tried to grab food, but he sat apart, and that is just the way it was. We didn’t question it. Still don’t. He loved us, and we loved him. But he was apart.

I remember once when I was very young, on a Memorial Day, Grandpa went out and fired up the BBQ grill. He joked around with my Uncle Lyle while they drank beer and he cooked the hot dogs and hamburgers, and we were all so surprised because it seemed like Mommy and Grandma and the Aunts always cooked. But Grandpa apparently felt that grilling was a man’s job, so there you go. Then, after dinner, he got in a bathing suit, pulled the special, extra-large, Do Not Touch inner tube out of the heretofore unplumbed depths of the hall swimming closet, and HE GOT IN THE POOL. He floated around, a wet, floating Jonathan Winters (he is the spitting image, I kid you not), beer in hand, cigarette held carefully aloft, and you can bet none of us dared to splash or yell or pick up the water snakes or make waves of any kind. Because, dear lord, the world had gone insane and Grandpa was IN THE POOL.

Sometimes, when the tapestry gets cloudy, I think maybe it’s just the cigarette smoke.

Childhood Scene 3:
The last picture that captures my attention is the pinochle game. My mom and her sisters and her mother love to play cards. As far back as I can remember, when the Heedum women got together, they gathered around the dining room table, where cards were played and food was eaten. And, it goes without saying, there was the laughter. The Heedum women? Are Laughers. Loud Laughers. And Loud Talkers, as a matter of fact. Oh, ho, ho, yes they are. You know the type. So if you know me personally, you must understand: it is genetic! I had absolutely no say in the matter! Because, yes, you see, I have inherited the Loud Laugher/Loud Talker gene, which makes for good times in cubicle-land, let me tell you. Especially when I get phone calls. Or an especially funny email. I get shushed, y’all!

But the pinochle game and the laughter of the women in my family- the Aunts, Grandma, Mom- it is IN me, and a part of me, woven into my tapestry like black thread, bringing it all together. And though it can (and has) cause people to misunderstand what I am feeling, to doubt my sincerity, to think I am stronger or more resilient than I really am, I am thankful it is in me.

Because when I break my stupid ankle doing a simple cartwheel, I laugh. When I get viral gastroenteritis and hurl so hard I get blood-red bruising around my eyes, I laugh. When my husband hits me in the head with a racquetball going mach 7, after I cry like a baby and cuss him to bits, I laugh. When we get a lousy louse in the house, after I clean and clean and nitpick and scratch and clean and clean and CLEAN, I laugh. When I joke about someone hurting my feelings or breaking my heart, I laugh. When somebody close to me dies, I dig desperately into my mind and dredge up the funny memories about that person, and I laugh. I do. I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s a part of my tapestry.

Newest Scene:
Now, as a grown woman, I have yet another scene to add to my tapestry. Amongst the wedding day, and the births of my children, and the deaths of loved ones, there is this:

It is the image of the Heedum sisters and their mother sitting in a hospital room in the ICU of a Phoenix hospital, waiting for Grandpa to return from dialysis. Exhausted from the worry of feeding tubes and ventilators and Do Not Resuscitate orders and Medical Power of Attorney decisions to be made, yet there they sit, the Heedum women, crossword puzzles, novels, and TV remote thrown aside, brand-new gift shop cards dealt across an unused bed-table, and a high-spirited game of pinochle in progress.

Loud laughter. Silly stories. Blatant cheating. More than once a curious face peeks into the room, the face of another person sitting vigil in the ICU, fearing the worst and hoping for the best.

“Hey! You ladies are having way too much fun in here!… Can I play?”

They smile and scratch their heads at the women who can laugh when there are hard times ahead. Because Grandpa will not be doing dialysis anymore. And Mom and Grandma and my aunts? They know it. And they are dealing with it the only way they know how.

My life. This tapestry. As new sections of pictorial designs are created, I am thankful for the scenes that have come before, adding to the whole, bringing it all into perspective. Because even when someone leaves me behind, maybe shuffling off this mortal coil (if you will allow me to wax Shakespearean for a moment), they are always there, woven into my tapestry. In my mind and heart.

Forever.

God Bless Us, Every One

We hope your day was merry and bright, as well.

TechnoGeekery Quickie #4: iTunes… an Analogy

Hey! Hey! Head on over to TechnoGeekery! Hey! There’s a new Quickie! Hey! And there is singing! And ANALOGIES! Good ones!

And, hey… did I mention the singing? Yep. I composed some original tunes and debuted them on my vidcast. I know, right? Sweet.

What can I say? I am ALL about the giving this holiday season. And my analogizin’ skillz coupled with the guitarin’ and singin’ and whatnot? Well, that’s just my little gift to you.

TechnoGeekery Quickie #4: iTunes… an Analogy

Oh. No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.

The Blue Sparkly Dress and TechnoGeekery

And I mean this… CUTE. Aaaaaw. The infamous Blue Sparkly Dress. Sewed by Grandma Sue and the cause of much joy and contention amongst my kiddos. Oh, the good times Tanner had in that dress…! But that is a story for another time.Regardless, I repeat… so, SO cute. I’ve been on a digi-scrapping spree for the past week or so, frantically scrambling to get some super-duper top-secret Christmas presents taken care of, and this is the result of my practice removing picture backgrounds using the”Instant Alpha” feature in iWork Pages. I tell you what, y’all… digi-scrapping? Totally addictive! NOT. KIDDING. Nope. Not even one little bit of kid. Er, -ding. Kidding.Also, a new TechnoGeekery Quickie is up:TechnoGeekery Quickie #3: Reach Out and iPod Touch SomeoneThere is good music! By Waltham! The band! For real! Check it OUT!Phew. I’m exhausted from all that exclaiming.

Uncool

I can’t ever do anything the cool way.

Honestly. I couldn’t smash my hand while doing something cool or heroic, like–in a superhuman, adrenaline-fueled burst of strength–lifting a car off the bodies of a trapped mother and her three children. Oh, no. I slam my hand in my car door. Like an IDIOT. Oooh! Look at me! Miss Coordination! I can’t remember to pull my hand out of the way of a car door in time to prevent damage to my limbs! Wooooo!

It reminds me of when I was a competitive gymnast. My worst injury? Did I get it while performing a double-twisting layout during my floor exercise? No. Did I get it when my fingers slipped from the uneven bars during my giant swing? Uh-uh. Did I get it while showing a class of six-year-olds how to do a proper cartwheel? DING DING DING! We have a winner!

Or… not. Which was my point, actually.

*sigh*

Life is so unfair.

Next time I hurt myself, I darn well better be saving the life of an endangered mammal of some sort. That’s all I’m saying. You hear me, Oh Whimsical and Ironical Fate? Well?! DO YOU?!

In other news, Technogeekery Show #6: Trump Teens at Technology is up at Technogeekery.com. A big thanks to Paige from Mommycast.com for appearing as my special guest star slash expert person. You rock!

Happy Birthday, My Drama Queen

We love you, baby girl.

Girly-isms

Alli: (from backseat, reaching for a cookie) Hey, Momma, will you hook your sister up?

Hannah: (kicking off flip-flops while swinging) Momma! Swinging with the wind rushing over my toes is my favorite way to swing! (flinging hair as if she were the Breck Girl) With the wind in my hair!… While wearing a skort!

Alli: (clapping her hands) Okay, people, let’s go to Dairy Queen for goodness Pete’s sake!

Hannah: Hey, Momma, listen! Cheese, cheese, I love cheese! Too bad I have allergies, and yummy cheese makes me sneeze! Geez!

Mini-Me Strikes Again

Statement: “Well, she’s got a lot of… energy.”

Translation: “Allison is the talkingest damn child I’ve ever met and did we really voluntarily invite her– without any kind of coercion whatsoever– to spend the night with us? Because, if so… INSANE?”

 

Statement: “She likes to talk, doesn’t she? No, I mean, it was nice. Really!”

Translation: “Good LORD. Allison did not stop chattering from the minute she walked through our door until the moment two seconds before her head hit the pillow when she announced, “I probably won’t be able to fall asleep. No, really! I am actually not tired at ALL.’”

 

Statement: “Aw, she reminds me so much of you at that age.”

Translation: “You were the talkingest damn child I ever knew and now you’ve got one that rivals you for the sheer volume of words that pour out of her mouth in a steady stream of inane questions and “conversation,” and isn’t it true that Mom always told you she hoped you’d have a child just like you someday, so help her God, mwah ha ha? In which case, boy howdy! I think we’ve seen the culmination of THAT curse!”

 

Statement: “Yep. Allison IS just like me at that age. JUST like me, poor thing.”

Translation: “Thanks for the ‘curse,’ Mom. Because truth is, I love that girl more than life itself. Here’s to hoping she never loses her spunky energy and zest for life, or her firm belief that everyone around her absolutely loves her to death… just the way she is.”

Maaaah-wage. A dweam wiffin a dweam…

(WARNING: As will be further explained below, I am running on very little sleep and too much soda pop. The probability of random, rambling prose is much higher than usual. For real. I shouldn’t be allowed near the keyboard. You have been warned. I wash my hands of you.)

Wedding registries have ruined everything.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Seriously, hello? What do we all gleefully anticipate on our wedding night? Tackling and unwrapping that mound of presents, of course! Oh, yes. All. Night. Long.

But there’s no excitement in the whole gifting process anymore. No mystery. No drama. Instead, there’s a whole lot of brides and grooms glued to the computer, with visions of place settings dancing in their heads. “Hey, honey! Take a look! Someone just bought the silver-plated candle snuffer! One more candlestick and that insta-romance mood lighting set is OURS, baby! High five.” What happened to the days of oohing over homemade gift baskets and aahing over lovingly-stitched quilts? Or giggling at the gift from Aunt Gert that you think could be a ginormous checkered trivet but might also be a homemade chess board, minus the chess pieces? Or threatening to commit hara-kiri if you unwrap one more George Foreman grill, so help you God Almighty? Man. Those were the days, I tell you what. The laughing. The crying. The re-gifting.

Oh, whither hast thou gone days of yore? Whither?

A person like me needs options. A person like me needs her freedom to choose, are you feeling me? So I would think that when a person– in this case, me– decides to gift my much loved sister-in-law on her wedding day with a super secret, super special Cat-crafted wedding video– complete with myriad and sundry pictorial and videographical evidence of the fourteen years of our relationship– then, pursuant to Giftmeister’s Rules of Gift-Giving Etiquette*, said sister-in-law and assorted relatives forfeit any and all rights and privileges to choose the music and content contained thereinabouts. Because its MY GIFT! To HER! But still MINE! All MINE!

Ahem.

I mean, because it is my gift to give, and should be created autonomously. Which is why it is super secret in the first place. That’s all I’m saying.

So when– through no fault of my own, I assure you– the bride-to-be finds out about said super now-not-so-secret, super special Cat-crafted wedding video o’ goodness, and subsequently offers several detailed suggestions as to how I should craft said video, and her parents call at regular intervals with gentle, friendly reminders that they haven’t received their copy of the wedding video in the mail… well, quite frankly, it stresses me the freak out, okay?

Not that there’s anything wrong with either the suggestions OR the gentle, friendly reminders. No, sir! Nothing whatsoever! Totally understandable! I’d likely do the same thing myself, if the tables were turned! Except I’d probably supplement my efforts with a full frontal email assault, and request a private screening before the video’s wedding party and general public premiere, but that’s just me and is totally beside the point. I’m just saying I have IDEAS. I have VISION. I have an entire sequence of pictures set to Lee Coulter’s Booty Voodoo!

Okay, I’ll admit that a song with the lyrics,”I’ve got a wife with a sexy butt that wiggles… (shake it! shake it!),” and “Girl you know my weakness is the uniqueness of your cheeks, yeeeeeaaaeah!” may not– perhaps!– be the most appropriate song choice for a video celebrating the sacred and eternal union of two souls, forever shackled together by the matrimonial bonds of holy love. According to TGIM, anyway, but whatever. I think it’s sassy. But I’m not married to the idea or anything. Oh, goodness! See what I did there? That’s what you call a pun!

But I digress.

My point? I’m, like, an artist. That’s right. A cinematographical ARTIST. Or something. Like Steven freaking Spielberg! But not really. Or like Michelangelo! But not with the painting, so much. And did the Pope stand around all day while Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, offering suggestions and asking him to please hurry because we have a DEADLINE here? Huh? I think not! Because Michelangelo was a freaking ar– what? Really? The Pope did?

Oh.

Whatever. You totally know what I mean. All I’m saying is that due to stress and copious Diet Dr. Pepper consumption (imbibition?), I’ve averaged about four hours of sleep per night this past week. I know, right? No messy my resty, the Momma need sleep! Honestly. The bags under my eyes have packed up their own bags and are all “Cmon! Get some sleep already! We gots to GO!” I’m not even joking.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that you can throw “suggestions” and “reminders” at me ’till the cows come home, but ultimately I’m going to do what I’m going to do, suggestions and reminders be damned. Ask anyone. It’s an immutable flaw in my character. So the sad truth here is that the main source of my current stress appears to be the unreasonably high expectations I have placed upon myself to create the BEST. VIDEO. EVER.

Thankfully, the super not-so-secret, super special Cat-crafted wedding video is in the can. That’s fancy movie-talk for “I finished it last night and burned the DVDs and e’rything.” And while I may have bitterly berated myself over the past few weeks for not just choosing something off the damn wedding registry like a normal person, for hell’s sake, I can honestly say the time I spent splicing video footage and photographs was totally worth it. Because the videos and photographs reminded me of why I couldn’t bring myself to pick something off a list and have it shipped to her with a “personalized gift tag” in the first place.

Spending hours sifting through images of her from the time she was six until now was an achingly beautiful pictorial reminder of our past together. Images of her growing from the scruffy little tomboy with pigtails and no front teeth. Images of the adorable preteen with budding fashion sense and a willingness to play with and babysit my kiddos. Images of the teenage fashionista with plenty of sass and even more heart. And images of the beautiful young woman she is today, with wavy blonde hair and a smile that lights up any room. And those memories are worth missing a few night of sleep.

So wedding registry or not, those images, and the loving memories behind them, those are my gift to her. I can only hope she sees what I saw, and feels my love for her (our love for her), even though we can’t be there on her wedding day.

Of course, she’d probably rather have the toaster oven.

*Used for illustrative purposes only. I don’t know anybody by the name of Giftmeister. Frankly, I wish I did, because AWESOME?

“And all should cry, Beware! Beware!”

You know that moment in between asleep and awake, when everything seems to make the most perfect sense and no sense at the same time? When everything is familiar, yet… different? When personal truths are discovered, only to slip away with the morning light? Do you? Sometimes I try to hold on to it, keep it close, shut my eyes against the sunlight streaming through my bedroom curtains, but I fail. Every time. The moment flees, quick as a flash, but stays burned in my mind for a few wistful, lingering seconds before fading from my memory, replaced by longing and the knowledge that the memory of the dream, of the story, is just… right… there… Right at the edge of my mind. Flitting here and there, taunting me with moments of déjà vu, but never materializing completely, never giving over wholly to me, only freeing occasional fragments, stirring me in remembrance of what it could have been, but never what it was. A savage place! My own Kubla Khan. Lost with the morning.

That’s the moment where my imagination lives. Lately, oh how I wish I could capture it.

Missing Pieces

Last evening as I sat at my computer scanning the words of the email my sister had forwarded to me (subject: *sigh*), trying to make sense of it all, I was suddenly struck with a familiar, faraway sensation. One minute Alli and I were singing along to Steady Fools by Korben– “We’re always foooo-oooo-ooooools, yeeeeeeeeaaaaah!!”– the next moment the noise around me was abruptly cut, sucked from the room. It seemed to blare for one split-second before pulling back into itself, somewhat inanely reminding me of the sound a television makes at the exact moment the power is cut. I was breathless.

“I’d rather have told you in person, but take a breath…” it read. Thankful for the reminder, I breathed… in… out… in… out… But the words said the same thing no matter how may times I read them: “Warren has died.”

Warren. My sister’s ex-husband. A man I had known for seventeen years, and who had been a part of our family for eleven of those. Faint voices echoed from far away, children fighting, yelling, laughing, but nothing penetrated the numbness that had suddenly taken up residence in my chest, in my heart. In the stillness, a blanket of quiet sadness pressed down around me.

Memories began to flash in my mind’s eye: College and that guy who sat by me in Honors English constantly badgering me about how many pages I wrote for my literary critique–”My paper is ten pages long, and that’s not including works cited!”– what grade I got on my essay– “Hey, Cat, what did you get? I got a ninety-six!”– or whether or not I would go out with him on Friday night– “C’mon. Why not? It’s that Dason guy, isn’t it?” That guy pulling out his hair when I got a ninety-eight percent on a paper on which he scored a mere ninety-six, because he knew for a fact that I had only just finished my essay fifteen minutes before class while he had slaved for an entire week “crafting” and “honing” his.

The memories kept coming… The guy who threw around fancy-sounding word, like fortuitous and existentialism, then sulked when I called him on wielding said words incorrectly. The guy who made friends easily… with the professors. The guy with a true gift for photography and an all-abiding love of astronomy. The guy who drove me crazy yet I couldn’t help but find his competitive streak and utter geekiness endearing in some small way.

They were coming faster. San Diego and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Tijuna. Running up and down the strip of beach outside our hotel in San Diego, well after midnight, exuberantly singing Jesus Christ Superstar with accompanying hand gestures and dance moves. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats and T.S. Elliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. Cycling together. Concussed and flashing his road-rashed buttocks at a horrified TGIM. Beautiful, deep blue eyes and a permanent five-o’clock shadow. A performance of Men At Work’s classic Who Can It Be Now in the most non-intentionally hilarious operatic voice ever heard at the country-western karaoke bar in Prescott, Arizona. Family picnics, children’s births, and hours spent developing pictures and hanging out at the photo shop he and my sister owned. Uncle Warren showing my children the world from a different perspective, taking them up in his Cessna for their first airplane ride.

Then divorce. My sister broken into pieces. Pain. Tears and Anger. Regret.

My eyes pulled back into focus and I saw Alli, far away (or was she?), like a pretty dream or a pleasant movie, still dancing around the room, singing and shaking her groove thing, her golden brown curls flying as she twirled and laughed. Only seconds had passed? It felt like years.

Warren has died.

“Momma! Look! I’m lip-synching! LOOKIT, MOMMA!”

Woosh! With Alli’s voice, the clamor of family blared out, recalling me from my stupor. Tanner absolutely positively needed to get on the computer but just for a second, please, please, please?, and Hannah was off somewhere making that dying cat noise that drives us all insane.

“Mom-MA!”

I smiled at Allison, a watery smile (were those tears?). “You rock, babycakes,” I said as I carefully closed my laptop and set it aside. I closed my eyes for a second, just one second, overcome with seemingly inexplicable sadness and loss. He hurt my sister. He hurt me.

Then the memory of Warren and I dancing and singing on the beach overwhelmed me and a short, bubbly laugh burst out. My throat burned with it, but I knew I was going to remember him like that. Just like that.

And I realized at that moment how thankful I was for the scenes that came before the pain, adding to the whole, bringing it all into perspective, and I held on to the picture of Warren as he once was– antagonist, friend, brother, uncle– because even though he left us behind, killed in a plane crash at the age of thirty-eight, I knew he would always be there, woven into the tapestry of my life. In my mind and heart.

Forever.

Traumatized

Things will never be the same again.

So there I was at CVS, just waiting in line to buy some of those pre-shaped foam ear plugs (those bad boys can save your marriage) and a bottle of midnight black fingernail polish (I have no excuse for this). The guy in front of me (buying condoms! hee hee! condoms!) was taking forever with his purchase (”Price check on Living Large brand prophylactics… price check, please…”– okay, not really, but I imagined it played out that way), so in order to stop myself from the inevitable impulse candy bar buy, I turned away from the cash register, you know, to kind of look around, not think about candy bars, see the pla– Good LORD! As I turned, I caught sight of an entire WALL of candy situated directly behind me. A wall! Of candy! Directly behind me! And it was all “Mwah ha ha! You WILL buy candy on impulse! It is futile to resist! We are yummy candy! Mwah ha ha!” Stupid CVS. This is what is called “playing dirty.”

Is this what traumatized me? No. It gets worse.

The guy in front of me finally finished his transaction and hurried off to Live Large somewhere. I stepped up and threw my newly acquired bag of York Peppermint Patties (stupid CVS) and the box of ear plugs onto the counter, and reached into my purse to grab my wallet. I was clutching my keys in one hand (if they go in the purse, they will not come back out without a fight, I’m just saying) so I did the one-handed credit card swipe, then stood waiting, faux pen at the ready. I admit I was not really paying too much attention to what was going on around me as I was still cracking prophylactic jokes in my head– No glove, no love!… Don’t be silly, protect your wi– “Wait, what?”

“Here’s your receipt,” the cashier repeated, shoving my receipt in my face. “Thankyouhaveaniceday… next!”

Is this a new thing? I thought to myself as I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. Why did I not have to sign? What if I were not really me, huh?! What if I were someone named Ted! What then?!

Is this what traumatized me? No. I’m almost there.

I pushed open the glass door with my free hand, the one clutching my keys, and walked out. I could totally be someone named Ted, and they wouldn’t even care. This is completely unaccept– OH SWEET MOTHER OF HEAVEN! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

In my hand, nestled comfortably in my palm with my keys, was a small bottle of midnight black fingernail polish. And I had just exited the building, which meant…

We interrupt this story to take a walk down memory lane, to sneak a peek at Cat’s past, if you will. You see, in high school– this may come as a shock to you, so be warned– Cat was on the cheerleading squad. I know, right? Unbefreakinglievable. Regardless, she was, so deal. Anyway, during the summer between her junior and senior year, the cheerleading squad went out to California for cheer camp, and you know what that means. Disneyland, that’s what! Wait. What did you think I was going to say? Anyway, about an hour after we entered The Happiest Place On Earth, the Varsity cheerleaders split up for fifteen minutes– Cat, finished with her shopping, went with the JV squad to score some churros while the older girls went into yet another gift shop for “one last souvenir”– with the promise to meet Cat at Cinderella’s Castle. Sadly, the girls never showed, and Cat had to spend the day with a group of giddy, hyper, boy-crazy JV cheerleaders. But this story has a silver lining. You see, all the Varsity girls knew that Cat was what they affectionately called ” a goody-goody,” so they purposefully left her out of the loop when they decided that “one last souvenir” actually meant “a shoplifted piece of merchandise,” knowing full well her response would be, “Oh, hell to the NO!” As it turns out, they were not even half as good at shoplifting as they were at cheerleading, because they were stone-cold busted and hauled off to Mickey Jail. And that is the story of how Cat was selected as head cheerleader her senior year.

So… where was I? Ah, yes.

In my hand, nestled comfortably in my palm with my keys, was a small bottle of midnight black fingernail polish. And I had just exited the building, which meant…

Oh dear LORD! I’m a thief! A shoplifter! Did they see? Do they know? Did they push the silent alarm? OMG, I bet they pushed a silent alarm! Like Wallace did in that episode of Veronica Mars! Man, I loved that episode. It was awesome, right? Hey! Focus, stickyfingers! Are the police on their way? Do I hear sirens? There is nothing else for it, I’ll have to take it on the lam.

Of course, all these thoughts swirled through my head in the minute it took for me to push open the door, step outside, and stand frozen in place for several heart-pounding seconds before I turned around and headed right back into the store, where I confessed and threw myself at the mercy of the CVS manager.

They were very kind about it, but I was horrified. Traumatized! And the truth is, I was not so much upset that I had accidentally walked out of the store without paying for a three-dollar bottle of nail polish. Oh, no. What horrified me was that for one brief second– so brief! a blip! a nano second!– I remember experiencing the most exhilarating rush of adrenaline and thinking, I TOTALLY snaked that bottle of polish and freaking got AWAY with it! Woo! I’m BAD!

I know, right? I’m shocked at myself. Shocked! Because for one second… just one teensy second… it felt good to be bad.

I’m so ashamed.

But a little proud.

But mostly ashamed.

Things will never, ever be the same again.

It’s time to question not who we love, but whom.

(Disclaimer: Hey, blame Paige. This is all her fault.)

So, the other night when I was trying to explain to a friend when to use “who” and when to use “whom” (shut up), we descended into the somewhat foreign world of subject and object pronouns– nominative and objective pronouns, respectively, if you want to get all technical and whatnot. Oh yes I did just go there. Do I woo you with my pretty, pretty words? Yes? Cool. Grammar rocks! [insert “rock on!’ gesture and accompanying scrunchy face here]

Anyhoos, I was trying to explain that she would use “who” when the answer to the question she was asking could be answered with a subject pronoun, and she would use “whom” when the answer to the question could be answered with– you guessed it– an object pronoun. Which naturally begged the question, “The HELL you say?! Subject and object pronouns?! Good lord, woman! Speak English!” To which I answered, “Excuse me, but at whom are you shouting?” I mean, rude?

Suddenly, a memory stirred. Mrs. Patterman. Sixth grade. The Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off! Ah, yes! I remember it well! See, if you simply tell me that the subject pronouns are I, you, he, she, it, we, they, and the object pronouns are me, you, him, her, it, us, them, I will totally forget it the moment your mouth stops moving. It’s a gift. But if you SING it… well, that’s an entirely different story, now isn’t it?

I may not be able to tell you what we discussed in our staff meeting yesterday (without consulting the exhaustive notes I typed into my Treo between games of Sudoko), but I can unpack my adjectives like the DICKENS! And interjections? Which show excitement? Or emotion? And are generally set apart from a sentence by an exclamation point, or by a comma when the feeling’s not as strong? No problem! And I know that instead of saying Rufus Xavier Sarsaparilla I can simply say HE (Phew! Thank you pronoun!). And don’t even get me started on conjunctions and their functions. Seriously. I can’t tell you how many extra credit points I earned during my elementary school years because I could recite the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution at the drop of a hat. Of course, it would be more accurate to say that I sang rather than recited it, but honestly, why quibble?

(And my grandparents said I was rotting my brain away watching Saturday morning cartoons. HA! Schoolhouse Rock, baby. Face!)

But I digress.

So, sixth grade. Mrs. Patterman. Woman was psycho, I tell you what. She’d make us stand in a line and march in place while we performed the Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off. I am not even kidding. There was marching, people! And cadence! The horrors of public schooling in America never cease to amaze me.

“I-you-he-she-it-we-they!” she’d belt out, marching vigorously in place, her arms swinging like nobody’s business.

“I-you-he-she-it-we-they!” we’d sound off, rolling our eyes heavenward.

“Me-you-him-her-it-us-them!” she’d respond, giving The Eye to any sixth grader not toeing the line.

“Me-you-him-her-it-us-them!” we’d sing out, thankful it was over.

UNTIL… we noticed something. Something cool. Something naughty. We noticed that if you blended the subject pronouns together really fast, something wonderful happened. Seriously. Something magical. Try it. Sing it with a solid sing-song cadence five times fast, then you’ll see: Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey. Do you hear it? Do you? Eh? Eh?! No? Well, if you have a sixth grader at home, just give him or her a go at it. They will hear it. I’ll bet you a dollar.

After that, we would BEG for the Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off, and Mrs. Patterman, gratified by our obvious desire to pursue better grammar, would always oblige.

“I-you-he-she-it-we-they!” she’d belt out, marching vigorously in place, her arms swinging like nobody’s business.

“I-you-he-sheeit-we-they!” we’d sound off, marching jauntily and giggling amongst ourselves…

Ah, good times.

But to get back to my original story (friend, who/whom debate, all that jazz, shut up), to make a short story super-duper long, and if you are inexplicably uninterested in learning the Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off (what’s up with that?), the simple answer to the “who” vs. “whom” question is this little trick: if you can answer the question you are asking with HE, use “who.” If the answer is HIM (remember the M), use “whoM.”

So, who or whom do you love? Well, you love him, naturally, so “Whom do you love?” is correct.

I know, right? Damn those Rolling Stones and their grammatically incorrect lyrics! Who Do You Love? Really, Mick? WHO?! Way to mislead the masses, Mr. Jagger, GOSH! Next thing you know we’ll have musicians throwing around double negatives and spelling words all crazy and shizz– like substituting numbers for letters, or contracting words all willy-nilly-like, or randomly adding one too many consonants into words for literary effect, or… oh… um, never mind.

Now go out there and use who and whom with confidence! Impress your boss! Wow your neighbors! Confound your friends! Knowledge is power!

No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.

Cat’s Skydiving Voodoo

It’s like Christmas! In July!

You know how sometimes you come across something from your past that you had ALMOST forgotten about? And you look at it and memories come flooding back, pounding over you like waves, and you are almost completely overwhelmed, simply drowning in nostalgia? And you maybe even tear up a bit? From the memories? And the sweetness? And because you’re a big baby? Do you?! Huh?!

Well, it was one of those days. TGIM realized that we have the ability to transfer all of our old video tapes to DVD’s via our new video camera and my handy little Mac, so out came the old tapes and damned if there wasn’t some footage of my kiddos that I don’t think I have ever seen before! See, there were tapes and tapes of mini video tapes that we never transfered to VHS… due to laziness? And now? BOOM! Videos of my kids when they were wee babes and I’m suddenly all weepy and Fat Bastardy with my “I want my baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back…”

*sigh*

Anyhoos, nestled amongst the vids of my cute little spawn, I found a video that I thought was long gone, as the VHS tape broke years ago. Unbeknownst to me, however, TGIM had wanted to see what would happen if he played a movie on the TV and videotaped the screen. Because he is a big geek? And I love him for it? The result is not pretty, y’all, but the footage! It’s alive! Mwah ha ha!

Shut up. I’ve been drinking a lot of Dr. Pepper.

So anyhoos, this is the copy of a copy of a copy of my skydiving video from 2000. I’ve updated the music, but the picture quality? It’s a bust. I’m just not that tech savvy, you know what I’m sayin’?

I would just like to note that I can’t help it if eyeglasses in the late 90’s were fugly. It was the times, people! It’s not my fault! And I had JUST had a baby, so shut up about the chubby cheeks, ai’ight?! GOSH!

Okay. Now that all that is out of the way… things to look for and to mock:

*Two words: flappy cheeks. Good lord.
*Interesting case of Thumbs Up rigor mortis.
*Frickin’ comedian on my back. (Honestly. Good thing he was way cute. And had a cool accent. That’s all I’m saying.)

P.S. I’m still frantically working on the B-day Trapeze Extravaganza video(s). Good times. Patience, Grasshopper(s)…

Little Things I Love About You: Birthday Edition

That you blushed like a girlie-girl today when our waitress and the entire staff of T.G.I. Fridays commanded the attention of all the diners in the restaurant and proceeded to sing in clapping cadence, “I don’t know what you’ve been told!… But someone here is getting old!” And I also love that you totally shared the free yummy birthday sundae they brought you which was absolutely free and for which we did not pay one red cent because they didn’t charge us and it was totally free. Because it’s your birthday, yo.

That you say things like “Woo! Hot mama!” and “HEY! You’re plumb naked!” when I step out of the shower and then proceed to do your Happy, Happy, Hurray For Yay! dance.

That even though you pretend to be humoring me, all “Okay, okay, whatever, I’ll watch Buffy with you tonight,” or “Fine, we can watch the season finale of Veronica Mars again, but just one episode and then it’s all about Sports Center…” I know you will end up spending hours watching all four episodes on the disk or flipping through the special features with me because you totally love Buffy and Veronica almost as much as I do. Which is a whole lot… you know, because Girl Power?

That even though you claim to hate cats (because you’re a Dog Man, dammit! Cats are for sissies!), when there are kittens around and I suddenly realize I haven’t seen you in a while, and everyone is all, “What happened to TGYM?”, I have often found you hiding in a corner somewhere cuddling with the kittens, stroking their fur, and cooing softly at them. Which is the sexiest thing EVER. And also… aaaw! Cute.

That you get really, really excited when you talk on your cell phone and forget that this is the 21st century and you don’t actually have to “speak up,” so you talk really super loud and the person on the other end (usually one of your brothers) ends up modulating his voice proportionally to yours, thus spurring you to speak even louder, so eventually anyone within a hundred square yards could conceivably pass a pop quiz covering how much money you dropped on the the new pair of northern Virginia square-toed oxfords you bought totally on sale ($59 marked down from $175! SCORE!) or how often your wife has taken a turn doing the laundry in the past month (once!… what?!), which is more endearing than annoying, most of the time, because how cute is that? But still? Kind of annoying. But mostly endearing!

That due to my complete inability to take a joke, you have directed all your prankish ways toward our children who seem able to take it much better than I, but hey, that could simply be wishful thinking. They will in fact most likely need buttloads of therapy when they grow up in order to work through their Daddy Issues and their complete inability to take a joke. GOSH.

That when a HUGE glass of Dr. Pepper was knocked over during your birthday lunch at T.G.I. Fridays and the mess was so devastating that we had to switch tables, when the waitress came bustling out apologizing for the tall glasses of soda the new hostess had mistakenly brought for the children and handed my youngest a fresh Dr. Pepper in a child’s cup complete with lid and bendy straw, you actually restrained yourself from gleefully informing the waitress and all others in the vicinity that it was in fact your clutzy wife who caused the whole commotion, which took enormous force of will, I am sure. It’s quite possible you pulled something from the strain of holding it all in. Hey, in my defense, there were too many damn things in the middle of that table. It was like a freaking obstacle course to get to the chips and salsa, okay?! Not to mention that those glasses are super tall and have a way smaller circumference at the bottom in relation to the top, clealy a design flaw defying several laws of physics. Totally an accident waiting to happen, that’s all I’m saying. Honestly. What’s that about? Good lord.

That you are an extraordinarily loving and involved father to three of the most precious people in my life. They (and I) are lucky to have you.

I love you, gorgeous. Happy birthday.

That Summer Feeling

You know that feeling you get? You know, the one when you just KNOW that summer has finally arrived and then there’s that happy, jittery feeling in your tummy and you know if you take a deep enough breath you could actually smell the tropical, coconutty tang of Coppertone sunscreen mixed with the heady, suffocating yet oddly enticing smell of chlorine? Do you know it?

Hallelujah. Summer’s here.

Tell me about it… stud.

On a whim I bought a DVD copy of the musical Grease (only five dollars! bargain!) and brought it home to watch. With my kids. Because Grease is the Word, y’all! And the music it brings forth is its raison d’etre! I mean, be serious. How can anyone resist thirty-year-old high school seniors singing the oldies, which were– let’s face it– essentially 70’s disco-inspired, tecnho-ized songs masquerading as 50’s rock? Not me, that’s who!

I know, right? What was I thinking?

In my defense, as a child I was so enthralled with the singing and dancing that the sexual innuendo went right over my head. Who can blame me for assuming my kids would have the same experience? Which by and large they did, naturally.

I, however, had to leave the room because I kept giggling during especially sordid scenes (not so much at the tawdry, puerile humor, but at the thought of my parents allowing me to watch this movie as a child, which… ironic?) and I thought it best to skedaddle so I wouldn’t have to keep choking out “Nothing!” every time my kids asked, “What’s so funny, Momma?”

After the movie my six-year-old burst into my room, out of breath, excited, her mouth running away with her in her haste to express her personal assessment and insightful review of Grease.

“And then… at the end… he fell in love with her… because she got all skinny and cool, and she came up to him and was, like, you know… smokin’ and stuff… and she was all shaking her booty and singing with him…”

“Whoa…”

“… and then this car came flying…”

“… no, seriously, back up…”

“…and they drove, I mean flew, away, into the clouds, and–”

“ALLI!”

“What?”

“So… you liked the movie?”

She nodded vigorously.

“And you think smoking made Sandy…” I paused and employed air-quotes for emphasis, “… cool?”

“Well, um… she was in those real tight black clothes and she put on lots of makeup and stuff and was pretty so she was, you know… cool!” On my look, she hastily added, “But not the smoking part! That was NOT cool! No way!” She looked at my face and added, with accompanying facial gestures, “Smoking? Ew! Yuck!”

As she bounded away I realized that my youngest daughter, while as predicted oblivious to the sexual innuendo, had successfully deciphered an underlying message I completely missed as a child. She realized that even though Danny was willing to step up and make positive changes to his hoodlum ways– even lettering in varsity track & field and e’rything!– it was ultimately Sandy’s transformation from sweet, innocent teen to tawdry, leather-clad S&M goddess– complete with dangling cigarette and skanky ‘do– that won her the guy.

And Alli, my baby, thought that was “cool.”

Oh, good lord. You see? DO you? Honestly. What are they teaching kids in school these days? Huh? How do my young, sheltered children grasp these things? Hello? My kids should be able to watch sexually suggestive musicals like Grease and Moulin Rouge– hell, even classics like GiGi and My Fair Lady!– innocently oblivious to the sordid, tawdry nature of the storylines, right? Right?! What is up with that?! It’s un-American, that’s what it is! GOSH.

Seriously. I’ve got chills. They’re multiplying.

Dizam!

It’s electrifying.

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