Les Miserables

I had the pleasure of enjoying the new film version of Les Miserables this evening.  I first fell in love with its music during preparations for a high school Broadway-themed choir concert.  After years of dormancy, that stirring of amore visited my heart this evening, once more, and continued to stir... up through the chest, squeezing the larynx, all the way into my skull.  With nowhere left to journey, all of that deep affection proceeded to pour out of my eyeballs.  For hours.  In public!  

I'm not sure how I maintained hydration during this multiple-hour sobbing jag.  Maybe the extra salty popcorn played its part somehow.  Other characters in my lovefest were my fellow theater patrons, sobbing and nose-honking right along side of me.  In front and behind.  (This excludes the man in the Adidas track pants sitting closest to my left; apparently dragged there by his wife and whom disturbingly escaped to the bathroom multiple times. I won't judge though.  Maybe he just needed to cry in private?)

If the audience were my fellow characters, this leaves the stars of my lovefest to be the stars of the amazing film.  Hugh Jackman (Talent and voice beyond unreal!)  Anne Hathaway (Broke my heart!)  Russell Crowe (Hate that character, so you're doing your job!)  Samantha Barks (Every girl's been an Eponine at least once in her life. Thanks for the memories!)  Eddie Redmayne as Marius (So noble and sweet.)  Amanda Seyfried (Who knew Karen from Mean Girls was a flawless soprano?)  Sasha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter as the nasty Master and Madame of the House (Mary and Joseph won't be staying at your inn!)  And, Daniel Huttlestone as Gavroche (Breaking whatever puny parts of my heart were left after Annie Hathaway got through with it!)

All my praise and all of the film and its makers' Oscar-worthiness aside, this would not be a proper blog post if I didn't mention of few slight observations.

• The French, in musical form, sound a heck of alot like Cockney Brits.
• Love-at-first-sight seems somehow believable when pronounced in song.  (Silly, but more believable in Les Mis, than in, say... West Side Story. Gag, Maria.  You hussy!)
• After witnessing Sasha Baron Cohen's brilliant performance as Thenardiers, I will be deeply disappointed if he ever goes back to playing any of his guerrilla comedy characters.  I don't care if you're offered one billion dollars for a Borat sequel, Mr. Cohen!  We've now seen what you can do.  Take that offer and squash it in your meat grinder!  If not, I vow a plague on both you houses.  (Yes, both.  Helena, that means you, too.  I now appoint you Sasha's keeper!)
• Speaking of Helena... I applaud her subtle staccato pronouncing of the lyric, "sh*t."  In every other performance I'd ever heard of "Master of the House", the Madame Thenardiers always over-emphasises the "sh*t".  As if to say, "SH*T!  Do you hear me in the back row?  I said sh*t and I said it loud.  I sang it even!  How often do you get to sing 'sh*t' on stage? ♫SH*T♫!!!"  Thanks for your restraint Ms. Carter.
• Speaking once again of Helena Bonham Carter... talk about perfect casting!  If anyone else had been chosen for the role, I would have thrown pie at the screen.
• Hugh Jackman's tongue looks to be especially slippery.  Seriously!  With all of those tight shots and wide-mouthed singing I observed not one taste bud.  I knew he couldn't possibly be human!
• SPOILER ALERT: Was that sound effect really necessary in Russell Crowe's final scene?  Those who've already seen it... you know what I'm talking about.
• Dear Fantine, who knew a bad last haircut in life would be deemed permanent for all of eternity.  Here's to hoping hair grows much faster in the afterlife!
• My next charitable donation will be floss and Whitestrips to the nation of France.
• I feel I've learned more about French history in this three-hour period of fiction than in years of schooling.  Boy, I hope this knowledge is historically accurate or I'm gonna look like an absolute dummy next round of Trivial Pursuit.
• I've never in my life used more restraint to not burst out singing in song.  Maybe in twenty years there will be "bouncing ball" sing-along midnight showings of the flick.  Then again, these brilliant performances do not need an untrained audience drowning them out. 

On this page I will now write my last confession:  My tear ducts are officially in working order.  But, I guess you've probably gathered that by now. 

(P.S. If you're looking for me this Oscar night, I'll be in front of the tube---extra-salty popcorn in bowl---cheering on the stars of my lovefest.)

Lincoln

I just returned from seeing the critically lauded new biopic about our sweet sixteenth (president, that is) and am riding the goose-pimply emotional swell of seeing and hearing a good story told well.

This is not a movie review, however... although the pic is sure to see Academy nominations for Best Picture, Director, Screenplay, Actor (Daniel Day-Lewis), Actress (Sally Field), Supporting Actor (Tommy Lee Jones) and maybe even a long shot Supporting Actor nom for the very entertaining James Spader.  Not to mention, Best Costuming and a slew of technical nods, as well.  But, this is not a review!  (Although, I must also note: At 180 minutes, empty your bladders before or during the previews, because there are no boring lulls in the film to designate as a potty break.)

No, this blog entry is designated to that 10-15 minute adjustment it took for me to adapt to the fact that Abraham Lincoln was appearing before me in motion and speaking.

You'll hear Daniel Day-Lewis's voice speaking as Lincoln moments before the camera pans to his wonderful and accurately made-up face.  And, it's quite the unexpected jolt!  I don't know how the actor chose the voice he decided to use to represent our 16th president, but it's definitely not as booming and authoritative as I obviously must have expected.

Then he moved.  Which is also quite a startle.  For all of our lives, we've seen Abraham Lincoln as still life.  Faded and photographed, sketched, oil-painted, crumpled up on our five dollar bills and frozen in marble for all of eternity at the foot of our capital's reflecting pool.

But, for the first time in our lifetime, he moves.  He ambles rigidly, clumsily, oddly moose-like.  He folds his stature practically in half and creakily crawls across the floor.

I watched, amazed.  I'm not sure what I had expected to see.  I'm not sure if Day-Lewis's choices in tone and cadence were artistic choices or historical fact.

Then it dawned on me!  My generation's ideals of this president's motion, voice and natural demeanor weren't based on film or recordings... the technology didn't exist in his time.  We're familiar with his face and stature from the aforementioned photographs and artwork we've familiarized ourselves with over time.  We're comfortable and confident in the depiction of his looks.

But, the only reference we've had to his speech and his movement, up until the release of this marvelous film came in the form of a Disney animatronic.

Ha, yes!  Mystery solved!  Hopefully, you may now spare yourselves the jolt at the theater.  Besides, it only took about 15 minutes for the unfamiliarity to pass.  Go see Lincoln, cheer on the 13th Amendment and enjoy!

Shopping While Hungry

If there's one thing I'll never learn my lesson about, it's going grocery shopping while hungry. 

I usually stick to the micro "grocery store" located in my local Target for weekly trips.  Once a month I'll drag my feet to an actual grocery chain to stock up on the remainders on my list that Target doesn't carry (Whole Grain Pringles, meat... fresh fruit if I'm feeling health-conscious.)  Every now and again I'll stumble into the super-mega-gigantico store located seconds from my office and get lost for days among the abundant selection of pasta, Pop-Tarts and frozen meals.  And, I usually tend to do this around dinner time when everything looks especially delicious and as absolute necessities to be added to my fridge.

I actually landed home in my kitchen with three different varieties of granola bars last night!  Sorry, make that six varieties, three different brands.  I don't even think Target carries six different granola types, so I have no choice but to experiment when given the fleeting chance.  Right?

Well, when finding yourself not quite lost but wandering though the fluorescent lit aisles of a super-mega-gigantico chain, you're all but forced to people-watch as well as make obscene purchases.  Like it or not, in order to get to the granola aisle you must first wade through a sea of super-mega-gigantico shoppers.

My first memorable encounter cut me off in the dishware aisle.  (Hey, I needed a cup!)  It was a teenage daughter whining at breakneck speeds to her mother about her best goodest friend that had the nerve to not confide in her about some issue I couldn't catch before they rounded the next corner.  My wish was not granted as I crossed them again, "She couldn't tell me this, but she could tell the lunch lady?!?"  And, again, "The lunch lady is more important confidante than ME?!?"  And, again, "THE LUNCHLADY, Mom???!!!" for the next four aisles.

I began to share the same forward-glazed stare of her poor mother, quietly tolerate, but offering no insight to her daughter's woes as she pushed her cart solemnly up and down each aisle at a robotic death march pace.  The only difference was that, on my end, I could escape to the dairy aisle and poor mother could not.  In her shoes I might have piped in with the suggestion that maybe Best Goodest Friend was simply defining her right not to have her business broadcast across the local super-mega-gigantico store.  But, I think poor mother's only take on this was a deep-seated yen to trade places with the lunchlady, if only for the moment.

The dairy aisle alerted me to an egg thief on premises.  I had to open three cartons to find one with all egg slots full!  I only can hope the burgled eggs found their way to a hungry child's stomach and not to the windshield of my SUV parked out front.

It was around the breakfast aisle I came across the annoying sound of human whistling.  Bird whistling is fine in my book.  Even children's whistling I can live with.  But, the sound of a grown man forcing spittle through his lips and out into the inhaled oxygen of the general public is just a pet peeve I rank right up there with nails on a chalkboard.  Don't argue with me that it's a sound of jolliness.  Any jolly spirit-choosing-to-whistle's jolliness is negated by the robbery of the audience's jolly.  (Got that?!)

Even more annoying than the general whistling, was the chosen tune!  It was a repetitive loop of what started out to be the Jeopardy theme song and ended up segueing into the first two lines of "Deck the Halls."  He'd seemingly forget the next lines, pause for twenty seconds and then launch back into The Jeopardy theme... wait for it, wait for it... oops it's Deck the Halls again!

This went on through my insane granola purchase and then four subsequent aisles of frozen food.  By aisle three, the peeve-ranking got raised a notch when the small child in the seat of Whistler's cart started chanting "Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi!" into his face.  Whistler just kept on whistling as if he was oblivious to the fact that he had, at some point in his life, procreated.  'Tis the season to be jolly... "Hi. Hi. Hi! Hi!"  This may have been the only word the young one had learned so far in his short life. But, I'm pretty sure it could be interpreted as, "Hi Dad!  Remember me?  I'm that kid that loves you and I'm twenty-four inches from your face.  Do you see me down here?  Hi!  I think I've inhaled just about the right amount of your spittle for now.  Thanks for the jolly tune!  Hi."

By the time I exited the frozen section, I was pretty much done.  I had just the bread aisle to go as I gazed into the trappings of my cart.  Holy smokes!  This is just food for one?!  I had visions of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman taunting, "Big mistake!  HUGE!"  But, instead of holding Gucci bags up in the air, I had processed cheese, real cheese and cheese by-products (...if those exist.  Do they?  If they do, they were in my cart.  "HUGE!")  I even ended up with a frozen ham and cheese sandwich that comes with it own small vat of cheese dipping sauce.  Yes, I'd even selected cheese that you heat up and dip into more cheese!

This is the point where you're supposed to come to your senses and start dropping things in the candy and magazine racks that are conveniently located near the checkout for the purpose of discarding unnecessary items.  But, nope, I was still hungry, it all still looked delicious and every thing ended up on the conveyor belt.  Three brands of granola bars in six varieties, cheese sandwiches you dip in cheese and all!

I didn't let the cashier boy (who made very clear in body language and facial expression that I had ruined his day by choosing his register) ruin my food booty high.  I even helped him bag my purchase.  Then I drove right home, nuked a frozen mushroom burger (with Swiss!) and proceeded to have a slightly severe bout of indigestion for the next 24 hours.  That's where a trip to the super-mega-gigantico store will get you!

You'll find me at Target next week.

Thanksgiving Traditions

Here in Detroit, we are not watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade this morning.  No, no.  Currently my television channel is set to the local NBC affiliate that is airing Detroit's own America's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Yes, as humble and decrepit as our city may seem to the rest of the country... back off!  Today is Thanksgiving and we have our own parade and our very own football game too.

Living in the metropolis surrounding a core city that's experienced such loss (money, leadership, neighborhoods, Boblo Island!) there's alot that economics can't take away from metro-Detroiters; our spirit, hometown loyalty and traditions.

The parade lives on and is my background commotion this morning as it has been every Thanksgiving in the past thirty-eight years.

In our childhood home the parade would be viewed in the living room.  A quartet of kids, cozy in pajamas, crunching on Cocoa Puffs and hearing the clank of preparations in the next room.  Mom would be rifling through pots and pans and going through her methodical preparations:  Crisco-ing the turkey, lining up the boxes and cans of sides, ironing the good tablecloth and waiting on the electric double oven to heat.  Meanwhile, we kids remained nearby but out of the way.  The Detroit parade, its marching bands and mega balloons being the perfect distraction.

One year, I distinctly recall a local reporter dropping an expletive during the live broadcast.  A giant balloon of an adorable puppy was being commandeered down the street by its bundled-up handlers.  The female reporter, who either was imbibing in holiday spirits a little too early in the day or simply didn't realize that her mic was still live, remarked to her co-host, "Could you imagine if that thing took a *bleep* on your carpet?!"  (only without the censoring bleep!) My eyes went large and my stomach went sour.  That was a word I knew we weren't allowed to use and I wasn't sure I was even supposed to know of its existence!  I peripherally checked my siblings and not a flicker, not a comment.  I don't know if the slip had missed them or if they too were sitting wide-eyed in disbelief.  The purity of my holiday was soured for a moment.  This was not a holiday memory I ever wanted to cherish... but, here I sit with that annual remembering creeping up as tradition.

Eventually Santa would end the local parade and we'd take turns cranking through the six local channels to find more Thanksgiving fun.  Usually another of the major networks would be airing a medley of parades from across the country. They would swap coverage from New York to Hawaii to L.A. to even brief footage from our own humble parade.  It was always odd to see sun and palm trees mixed with turkey celebrations.  We locals associate the November holiday with cold, sometimes wet, sometimes crisp and sometimes snow!  Coconut-shelled hula dancers were always an odd mix in the variety of footage seen that day, but it became tradition too.

At some point we'd be urged out of our flannels and into our clothing.  And, about the time the scent of turkey would start to waft it would be time for the kids in the living room to turn the channel to Charlie Brown. 

Now, for some reason in the mid-eighties, they didn't air the Peanuts Thanksgiving special on Thanksgiving Day.  In the era before 24-hour holiday viewing on cable networks, you could only catch these specials once a year.  Charlie's holiday of popcorn, lawn chairs and toast would be aired an evening or two before the holiday itself.  On Thanksgiving Day, for some reason, the chosen mid-afternoon programming became Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown!  Yep, the special where Charlie, Linus, Peppermint Patty and crew somehow got involved in a water rapids race while away at summer camp.  The Peanuts had to battle the typical camp trials including the navigation of confusing military time, missed buses, nature's elements, Charlie Brown's ineptness and a gaggle of bullies which, of course, included an evil brown cat.  It was never my favorite Peanuts special, but with only six channels to contend with and most other p.m. coverage designated to the NFL, Race for Your Life became a part of our tradition as well.

Around the time the scent of turkey was joined by the additional aromas of rolls and pie, was the time we started crayoning out place settings and watching out the family room picture window for the arrival of grandparents and cousins.  Most major holidays were celebrated with my mom's side of the family.  Thanksgiving would include Lion's football on the tube for the men, a (weather-permitting) half-hazard round of touch football in the yard for the kids and who-knows-what for the ladies because we ran off and left them trickling back and forth between the kitchen and dining room.

Dinner always (and pretty much still) consisted of turkey (which my older cousin would always try to convince me was chicken, so I'd stop making gag-faces and try it), gravy, Stove Top stuffing, Hungry Jack's mashed potatoes, corn, canned cranberry sauce ("the red stuff"), some kind of pistachio dish my grandma would always make ("the green stuff"), sweet potatoes ("the stuff with the marshmallows in it") and heaping piles of split-top rolls.  Dessert was always an assortment of pies, pumpkin always present, and us kids trying to swipe mouthfuls of whipped cream, sans pie.  There is also a birthday cake for my grandmother who's birthday falls on the 25th.

After the carb-load someone would always fall asleep (one or two of the men), the women would sit chattering at the table and us kids would run off and play and/or try to spy on what the women were talking about (and maybe still be trying to swipe the whipped cream.)

Thanksgiving now rotates between venues with basically the same crowd; only now with the addition of spouses and new cousins/great-grandchildren/nieces and nephews (titles dependant on which branch of the family tree you reside.)  We thankfully still celebrate Grandma's special day along with the holiday (Her 93rd, this year!)  The company of my last-living grandparent I still cherish along with the fact that the rest of the family still shares love and company with one another after all these years.  God and is as good to us and he was decades ago, despite lifes ups and downs.  And, the comfort of the parade currently broadcasting in the background is one more way that I'm assured that home is home.

Election 2012

Only eighty hours until "No More Political Ads" Day!  For this, I am grateful.

 

The last presidential election nearly gave me a stroke.  They say there is no physical indicator of an increase in blood pressure, but I'm sure the months-long burning in my ears could refute that claim soundly.  This combined with the emitted steam and their blinking red hue, well... let's just say I spent the Fall of 2008 resembling a Donald Duck cartoon from the neck up.  The tips of my ears managed to develop a pulse of their own separate from the rest of my body and I could evaporate falling snow just by walking through it.

 

Thankfully, I've either matured or gotten lazy in the following years and the only body part that's developed its own pulse this election season is the pimple that claimed squatter's rights on my right temple a week ago and refuses to evict.  Even this, due more to dairy than political furor.

 

I'm the kind of voter every election campaign loathes.  I'm a devoted American, but mistrustful of government.  I'm an active citizen who hates politics.  I'm a moral person who realizes that I can still be the same, no matter who is in office and what becomes law.  The reason campaigners hesitate at my kinds' doors is because people like me don't see the world in black or white (or red and blue, I should say.)

 

My kind isn't swayed by attack ads.  We don't stress over which hospital on which continent people were born.  We're not impressed that we've received robo-calls from both Bill Clinton and Clint Eastwood (though, we might be mildly amused.) We don't think either candidate is pure good or full-on evil.  We won't hand someone a career of national control because we happen to agree upon one social issue.  We don't judge a whole being based on one thing that fell through the cracks during their career, the joint they smoked in high school, the domestic skills of their spouses or who their daughters might be sleeping with.  And, we certainly don't want to be constantly told why we shouldn't be voting for the other guy.  Why should we vote for you?

 

There's a certain type of person that chooses politics as their career and those are the people we must elect from.  Mother Theresa never ran for government.  We won't see "Jesus Christ" printed on the ballot.  So there you go.  Deal.  Perfection is not an option, so quit expecting people to vote based of that specification or implying that it's even a possibility.

That said, it's time to get a few things straight:

Contrary to your Facebook posts; I am not an idiot, racist, war-monger, disillusioned pacifist, moron or R-word-that-we-don't-use-in-our-house if I don't punch the same chad as you on Tuesday.  You calling me those names will not shame me into changing my vote. (Because, that's your intention, right?)

I am not prejudice if I choose red and I am not sinful if I choose blue.  My vote does not count any less because there are no signs in my front yard.  (Lawn signs don't sway voters, by the way... they're just calling cards so teenagers know which houses to egg and neighbors know who they might want at their next barbecue.)  I'm not uninvolved because I'm not shouting my vote from rooftops and I'm not staying quiet out of shame either.  I have my convictions, you have yours.  My opinion shouldn't be regarded any higher or lower than yours; or yours than mine.

Contrary to the television and radio ads, when I vote on the local proposals I'm not choosing between children and bureaucrats (as one ad suggests.)  I'm not voting for things in opposition to particular vocations or lifestyles.  I'm not voting against ideas that  can't be further tweaked, improved upon and voted on again.  The people making these ads are doing so because they're paid to.  Not, because they understand the issues inside and out from both sides.

Contrary to the weight we like to put on the position of the presidency, I'm responsible for researching my local congress and senate candidates as well. When people get mad at the president, it's usually over something that's being bickered about in one of those other large white buildings in Washington.

Most importantly, this is not the Super Bowl.  No matter what the outcome on Tuesday, promise me this: Don't cry.  Don't brag.  Don't taunt.  Don't loot.  Don't crumble into a heaping mess.  Don't move to Canada (because that's just the dumbest threat ever... unless you actually have family there.  Then you can go.)  Don't kick your neighbor's dog.  Don't relieve yourself on passing cars.  Don't call people names.  Don't type your Facebook posts in all caps.  And, please, no fanny-wagging!

Believe it or not, whatever happens on Tuesday is not the end or salvation of the world.  Move yourself forward.  Propel and be the president of your own life.  No one in Washington is in charge of who you can be.  Continue to be a good citizen, neighbor, family member and friend.  We're just hiring someone for a temp job, for goodness sakes.  Get a grip!  Slap on that blood pressure cuff, vote and then breeaaaattthhe...  We'll have to do it all again in four more years.

Silence Isn't Golden

 

The rear speakers in my car blew out a few weeks ago. I came to this conclusion when instead of hearing the classic rock stylings of Detroit's WCSX on my ride home from work, "psst-psst-psst- SQQQQQQQUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEE-ooooooooohhh-sssQQQQQQQUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-oooooohh-SQQQQQQUUUEEEEEE...ffffft-ffffft-fffffft... POP!" was heard in its place.

You know? That high-pitched bad frequency feedback you hear at every amateur rock show each time the novice guitar player wanders out in front of his amp, "SSQQQQQUUUEEE-OOOHH!", then looks around confusedly like, "Dude, what was that noise? Where is it coming from?"

Well, that was my ride home the other week. For twenty minutes straight. With the radio turned OFF. My ears rang for days. DAYS, I tell you!

I had to beg my father to drop his fork full of dinner, calling from my cell phone in the driveway, "Please come out and disconnect this thing! I can't take it! The noise!" He came outside and we went through the same, "What noise?" conversation that takes place every time he's called out to my car. (Too many amateur rock shows in his day?)

There were some perks to losing the rear speakers though. When toting a carload of kids around town the following weekend and having a song arise that's totally their jam; their "Turn it up! Turn it up!" pleas were easily squashed by my, "Oh, so sorry, Karlie Rae Jepsen. The rear speakers are blown. This is as loud as it goes." (Volume turned down to three.)

But, then madness happened on today's morning drive. I usually have the Christian radio station on in the mornings, setting my mind and spirit in place for the coming day. When I started off my drive they were taking calls from listeners, "My life... ppppfffftttt...that bridge...p-ppt-pfftt-ppt...my family is in... Ptt-[silence]-pttp...sooo low...ptt..." "Wow! What a sto...ptt-[silence] Let's lift up... pfftt... in prayer.. Ptt-[silence]-[silence]-[silence]..."   Augh!

Now the front speakers! In my mind there was some depressed soul out there dangling from the side of the Ambassador Bridge and my curiosity couldn't be any further fed. I convinced myself the word "bridge" I'd heard was just part of some analogy I'd missed in between the sputters and silence, but said a "Please help whoever that was with whatever that was all about..." prayer (almost verbatim) just in case.

By lunch, the front speakers were useless and the radio could only be heard from the radio itself. This reminded me of the transistor hand radio I had in the early eighties.  A vintage sound.  Better than nothing!

By the five o'clock rush hour commute, even that had evolved into "Here I am... [silence]... again. ♫ Here I... [silence]... the stage. ♫ [silence]" That's it! I threw in the towel and the radio went off. Twenty minutes of silence can't be that bad. Stereos aren't a necessity. It could have been the engine to die. It could have been the transmission.

Silence isn't so quiet though. The first thing I noticed, without having music to distract me, was the squeaking of my seat every time stopping and going caused the slightest shift in my body. Red light. Squeak. Green light. Squeak. Right turn. Squeak squeak. I spent the next quarter-hour wondering if I had recently gained weight.

I briefly tried to make my own music. For some reason a medley from Les Miserables was all that came to mind and mouth. It took very few stanzas to realize that my own voice wasn't something worth listening without a full set of speakers and a pro on the cd player to drown me out.

The squeaking of the driver's seat then met the harmony of the pinging of invisible debris being flung at my windshield. I didn't see a thing, but every few feet was met with, ping! Ping. Ping! Ping. Dust particles? Microscopic insects? Gravel shavings? Is it possible to hear glass settle?

The "quiet" of the red light of my final left turn caused me to notice dozens of birds up on a wire.  I'd never noticed them up there before, but they are likely to be sitting there every evening like thirty little dots all in a row. I'd never noticed them chirping before. I'd never noticed them actually interacting either. One bird kicking the other to his left like a bratty little brother. This made me laugh and almost hear the next sound of my drive. I preempted the honk that was sure to be coming my way as the light turned green and I was still gazing skyward.

The last sound of my evening was the pop of my speakers' last dying gasps. "Remember us! *pop* Make sure our story lives on... *pfft!*" And so, it has.

I may never adjust to the sound of silence before my budget affords a new sound system for the car. But, at least I managed to honor a deathbed promise. *pop!* [silence]

Search Me

 

Visiting my blog stats page can be amusing from time to time.  Especially when perusing the search key words people have used to find (unwittingly or not) An Aunt's Life.

Here's some very true examples:

• "coldplay glow in the dark"
• "coldplay glowing in the dark"
• "cartoon candy shop"
• "the glee project down syndrome boy"
• "melchior de hondecoeter"
• "la zoo carousel figure chart" (huh?)
• "mob wife aunt"
• "jack the pumpkin king standing in front..."
• "casey mr dressup"
• "gabby douglas's hair"
• "is santa bad?"
• "hilary duff horse teeth"

and my personal favorite

• "peeing underwater"

However, you found me---accidentally or on purpose---you've helped An Aunt's Life reach over three thousand hits this past month.

Thanks for coming!  (Psst... And, next time auntslife.blogspot.com will get you here just as efficiently.)

Book Review: Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

I've never felt more like an over-privileged-unappreciative American than when reading Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight. Hearing of Alexandra Fuller's upbringing in war-torn Rhodesia, violent Zimbabwe and the dictatorship of Malawi will have that effect on you. 

But, only the power of good story-telling can make you feel somehow jealous at the same time.  I didn't have baboons, leopards, impala and kudus running around my back yard growing up!  I wasn't free to ride a motorcycle around town, under aged!  I didn't get to keep every dog that followed me home and go horse-back riding every single day!  I didn't get to be poor, yet have servants anyhow!

Then again, I didn't have to fear cobras in the cellar, scorpions under the bed, droughts that impede even toilet use, oppressive heat (worse than a Michigan summer!), malaria replacing my winter's flu and your every day terrorists beating down the front door.

No, a drive through my home town didn't require the flaunting of an Uzi as a preventative to being tagged "fair game".  Bribes didn't have to be exchanged at the border, simply to get to school.  Pedophilic neighbors weren't an oversight.  I couldn't be poor, but with servants, simply because of the color of my skin.  And, I never knew of so much death.

Her story opens like this:

Mum says, "Don't come creeping into our room at night."

They sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs.  She says, "Don't startle us when we're sleeping."

"Why not?"

"We might shoot you."

"Oh."

"By mistake."

"Okay."  As it is, there seems a good enough chance of getting shot on purpose.  "Okay.  I won't."

Alexandra (or, Bobo, as you'll come to know her) wasn't raised by banshees.  She was raised by white Africans.  Blatant in their racism.  Undying in their "cause".  Stubborn of their rights.  Regardless of the civil war they were entrenched in and the every day dangers that surrounded them and their children.  Because this is where they stubbornly chose to live.  Even though they were born elsewhere, they weren't leaving!  Until they had to.  They'd then just head to another ranch or farm...  on to the next (what we Americans would call, "sharecropping") opportunity.  Sometimes crossing into other war-torn African nations, but never really owning much more than their pots, pans and dogs; and never really free.

Telling one's story isn't always subject to "nice and neat".  Someone's story is only real if it's drenched in truth... and, truth she does not squander.  Excuses are never made for ignorance.  But, apologies aren't either.  Her childhood may not sound idyllic, but this is the story of her childhood and she tells it well.

Colorful, descriptive, educational, humorous and painful all at once.  It's a story of adventure, drama, comedy, heartbreak and breakdowns.  Not a tidy life, but a life worth hearing about, a history worth learning and a continent worth catching a deep wide-eyed glimpse of. 

Even though I may have never stepped foot off of my own continent, I now somehow feel I know the taste and smell of Africa.

That's not just story-telling... but, the testament of brilliant story-telling!

Spider Soldier

I have strict rules when it comes to killing creepy crawling things.  If you're outside, you're in their home and you leave them be unless they're biting you.  Once they creep inside, however, it's your turf and you can swat at will without guilt.  (These rules are especially verbal and repeated any time I have charge of little boys with squishing curiosities.)

 

There is one place, though, also considered my turf that the arachnid kind have not learned to keep clear of.  My car! 

 

There's nothing creepier than driving along at peace when suddenly eight squirmy legs start wiggling their way down the inside of the windshield, unannounced and quite repulsively!  I've been in situations of this happening where I'm literally amazed I didn't take my own life (not to mention, the life of those in oncoming traffic) with my panicked fear-veering!

 

It's just plain dangerous.  If you come in my car and compromise my safety with your grotesqueness, prepare to be squashed.

 

That is, until this past Friday.

 

I was eating in my car on my lunch break while quietly reading.  It was a pleasantly mild day with a fair breeze and I was happy to be escaping my cubicle for an hour.  Then it happened.  On the driver's side of my dash, eight black and white striped legs crept out of the defrosting vents near the windshield totally harshing my mellow.

 

I hesitantly grabbed a tissue out of the box in the passenger seat and mentally prepared for the squishing sensation would come next.  (I don't enjoy any squish. It's just one of those necessities that would ensure my safety four hours later when I'd be pulling into rush hour traffic and when my nemesis would be sure to reemerge.)

 

I reached with my tissue and he backed back down into the vent.  Moments later he reappeared and I lunged even quicker but to no avail.  We played this little song and dance a few more times and he started hiding out a little longer each time between rounds.

 

I really didn't want to kill him; to feel that smush, to have a nasty tissue with no place nearby to discard.  I didn't want to half-squish him, leave that tissue in the car out of fear of littering, come back four hours later and find an empty tissue with only two legs left behind and live in fear of that mystery.  And, quite frankly, I was beginning to admire his moxie.

 

This was a jumping spider, a breed common to our area.  No bigger than a dime, but with thick strong bendy legs that are perfectly engineered for, yes, jumping!  I started paying less attention to the article I'd been reading and more attention to the daymare fantasies of where and when he'd be springing to and from next, inducing the heart attack I was sure to have at some point that day.

 

But, he never did jump.  He just patiently kept marching in and out of that air vent.  Sometimes I'd just wave the tissue in a silly "hello" and that would be enough to send him back into retreat.  It was a Vanity Fair article I'd been reading.  An Obama profile with a side-by-side depiction of a U.S. Air Force navigator whose plane had been downed, leaving him stranded in the Libyan desert during Gaddafi's last days of terror.  I began to see this spider in a less-creepy light.  More like a soldier.

 

Sometimes when he'd emerge from the vent, I could see him spin like the turret of a tank.  Looking east and west for any signs of escape but then spying me, still there, waving my tissue of death and he'd retreat once again. 

 

I didn't want to be the enemy.  Yes, he'd invaded my territory.  But, I suddenly found myself wanting to be the innocent citizen who helped him find his escape out of the war zone. 

 

So, I spent the rest of the hour patiently waiting on him to reappear and then guiding him little by little with an orange bookmark I had found (the sight of anything white or tissue-y at this point had him crying "uncle")  I opened the two front windows, despite the chill of the strengthening winds outside.  These were the goal lines.  (I did not, however, open the sunroof, still scared of any eight-legged jumping near my face or hair.) 

 

I was eventually able to guide him to the driver's side door.  He missed the window completely, but I was able to swing the door open quickly enough for him to fall down out of the inside of the car and somewhere into the door joints.  This would have to do for now.  The hour was over and I was due back inside.  Hopefully he had more options for escape in his current foxhole than he had in that vent-to-nowhere.

 

Sure enough, as five o'clock rolled around, I opened up the car to find him still clinging to the armpit of door.  I brush him softly with my umbrella and saw him safely fall to the blacktop below. 

 

Finally! The captive soldier has found freedom! 

 

I backed out of my parking space, placing my sunglasses on quite smugly, when I was overwhelmed by the realization that there was an 85% chance our brave soldier was just squashed beneath my tire.

 

At least he went quickly!  With no dirty tissue to leave any further dilemma. 

 

Another mile down the road I squealed as a brown spider now scrambled across the top of my sunroof at a stop light.  This one still outside for now.  Still on his turf.  Whether he blew off a mile further down the road or if he found his way quickly inside at my next stop remains unknown.  He could have gotten where he was going or be seeking revenge for a fallen brother.

 

As of today, the spider treaty remains unsigned.

Comfort Viewing

After a stressful day, my favorite way to unwind is in a pair of flannel jammies, cocooned by a favorite blankie and lying in front of some comfort tv.

 

Yes, any other day I might enjoy the drama of Mad Men, the shenanigans of the Real Housewives of anywhere or the suspense of whichever portion of the Bourne trilogy is playing on an endless movie channel loop at the moment.

 

But, certain days don't call for any more drama, shenanigans or suspense.  Here is some of my  favorite foolproof decompression viewing:

 

The Cosby Show:  Reruns are on TVland almost every night!  Choose episodes where Denise is still in high school and Rudy still in braids for maximum decompression.

 

The Brady Bunch:  Nobody but the Brady's could make parenting look easier, teen woes look a cinch and the workplace seem so rewarding.

 

19 Kids and Counting:  There's something incredibly calming about Michelle Duggar's voice that sooths away even the most persistent tension headache.  I don't think she's raised her decibel level above a bird's peep since her high school cheerleading days.  And, what cooperative and obedient children she's raised!

 

United Bates of America: That's right!  The Duggars have best friends in Tennessee who now have their own show.  The Bates have proven to be even more upbeat, cheerful, silly and twangy!  Bring on the home schoolin'!

 

This is Spinal Tap:  Tap is probably my favorite movie comedy of all time.  It is such good comfort viewing that I've deemed it my official "flu movie".  Every time I'm sick in bed with the flu, I pop it in the DVD player to cheer me up.  Nothing cures like a good laugh.  (And, nothing distracts from your own vomit than hearing of someone choking on another's.)

 

Bewitched (the movie): I don't care if nobody else has seen it or that it was deemed one of the biggest missteps in Hollywood remake history... I LOVE THE BEWITCHED MOVIE!  Nicole Kidman is adorable in it, Will Ferrell is silly as can be, Michael Caine is dapper, Shirley Maclaine is perfectly cast and Kristin Chenoweth is on-point quirky.  It's colorful, it's fun and it's stress-free viewing!

 

Classic Disney cartoons:  If a giggle cures a headache, Chip and Dale will give you a double dose of healing.

A Hard Day's Night:  If you're so stressed out you can't even make a selection, The Beatles have made it easy for you by planting a "hard day" right into its title.  I'm relaxing by the time they board the opening scene's train and any knots in my tummy are untied by the time Ringo barely recites the line, "Well, if he's your grandfather, who knows!  Hahahaha...."

Let me know your favorite comfort viewing by leaving a comment below.  Stressed out right now?  Here's a freebie:

 

Pacifically Speaking

 

Axe me where "ask" has gone

  for it's been harder and harder to find

 

Why come "how" has died away

  when it was still very young

 

Supposebly they were killed away

   by the one who coined "pacific"

 

He should have left that ocean out of it

  when getting down to specifics

 

He then voted for his favorite team

   instead of rooting like the others

 

Then claimed, aloud, "we're winning you!"

now "beating" is killed, another

 

[explanation point]

 

X Factor Premiere

So, I've never watched the X-Factor before, but caught the new season's premiere last night when nothing else worth watching was on. 

Here are my first impressions:

• The backstage drama is filmed as if they are snippets from old Laguna Beach or The Hills reruns.  Seemingly staged set ups catching convenient moments of catty remarks, hot people checking out other hot people and lovey dovey family encounters, so perfectly lit from every angle that I keep expecting a Pratt to burst through a stage door and threaten to release a sex tape on somebody.
• The judges like to swoon over good-looking people whose voices almost always crack instead of reaching the good notes.
• Britney Spears doesn't seem cuckoo at all.
• Demi Lovato seems a little cuckoo.
• Demi Lovato has had a major nose job.
• Demi Lovato has her head so far up Britney rectum that she's re-eating her lunch.  Did she really try to make plans with her to go get matching triangle tattoos?  Did I dream that?  I believe Britney's response was, "Ummmm... Ye-ahhh. We. should. do... that..."
• The auditions take place in front of a studio audience, so when someone gives a bad performance they not only have to hear snide comments from Cowell, but they also get to be booed by a live cast of thousands and then hear those same thousands laugh in their face over Cowell's insults. (Ironic sidenote: Lovato is an anti-bullying activist.)
• L.A. Reid seems to be there only to say, "Yes", "No" and basically sit there being black.  At least Randy Jackson gets a lame catchphrase.
• Britney had to turn down an auditioner who once recorded a duet with her back in the early days of her career, but whose voice hasn't stood the test of time. And, she felt horrible about it.  He in turn went backstage and broke down feeling horrible over the fact that he made Britney Spears feel horrible.  I, of course, feel horrible about the entire thing.
• Demi looks at every male contestant under the age of 25 with a primal look of hunger that could only be interpreted as, "I am SO going to stalk to like a Jonas after this!"
• Britney often wears an uncomfortable look of pain on her face, induced by having to withstand all the nonsense going on around her.
• Britney has just inherited a whole new plethora of stalkers.
• I don't think Demi will need to up any security measures.
• Simon wear white tshirts now. And, that's what makes this show different than American Idol.

P. S.  Despite all the above observations, I'm totally watching tonight's episode.

Things the World Can Shut Up About Any Time Now

Here is a list of things I'm officially tired of hearing about at the moment:

Gabby Douglas's hair:  Gabby Douglas is a beautiful, extraordinarily talented girl.  So why the fuss over her hair?  I'm tired of hearing mothers, who pay exorbitant amounts of moolah to have chemicals drenched and a weave sewn into their  own young daughters' hair, criticizing the care and keeping given by our national hero's mama.  Her hair is, yes, relaxed and then pulled into a bun when working... like every other gymnasts' on earth.  Then, off duty, she wears the exact same hairstyle as my own teen-aged niece.  So the real question is, You got a problem with my niece's hair?   

 

Miley's hair: I absolutely love Miley Cyrus's new hairdo!  It suits her face, it suits her personality and it definitely suits her age.  So why do I keep reading headlines of shock and awe about whether there are deeper issues involved in this celebrity's haircut?  The world has no control over any one person's personal style choices and the sooner the world realizes this, the happier I'll be.  She is not really Hannah Montana!  And, besides, *secret to be spilt* Hannah Montana wore a wig.  I tried a very short hair cut myself in my twenties, the best time to experiment with extreme fashion.  I even tried to frost it to this shade of platinum, but mine turned out yellow instead.  Shocked?  Nope.  Jealous?  Absolutely.

Lindsay Lohan. Period.: Once upon a time, I watched Freaky Friday, Confessions of Teenage Drama Queen and Mean Girls so many times with my niece that I couldn't even venture a guess at the tally.  She was such a promising young actress at the time and then something went slightly off kilter.  The world took notice, then something went drastically wrong.  The world, then, never stopped paying attention, perpetuating a spiral that apparently was never to be recovered from.  World: Please, stop looking at her.  It's the only cure.  (Remember Speidi?  No?  Good.  See, my theory is now proven.)

Passive/aggressive Facebook posts featuring unsolicited parental advice: We get it, we get it... you're a good mom or dad.  No one doubted you. No one needed proof.  And, certainly no one wanted advice that didn't ask for it.  You see, being a good parent isn't a rarity.  Most parents I know are pretty great at it.  So, quit assuming you're way is best when most other parenting styles are working just as effectively.  Don't expect the world to praise you for refusing to vaccinate.  Don't expect a trophy for forcing your child to go vegan.  And, the world will absolutely not be throwing a banquet in your honor because you chose to breastfeed until the age of five.  The sooner you realize this, the sooner friends will start "liking" your statuses again. 

 

The chemicals I may be ingesting, at my own will, as a grown human being: Going along with the previous category; I myself don't need advice about my own diet either.  I have been eating meat, dairy, processed foods, carbs, preservatives and additives my entire life.  And, guess what?  I have my doctor's seal of approval!  If a number skews ever-so-slightly in a worrisome direction upon any visit, we make the appropriate dietary adjustments to correct and move on.  So, while I salute your self-control and your acquired taste for foods that taste like yard grass, while I tolerate your tolerance to ingest a product with the word "germ" in its title... I am uninterested in participating.  I eat, not for political or social agenda, but to stay fueled and living.  Seeing that I'm upright at the moment, breathing and typing... it appears that my way works too.  (Remember: It's your b.m.'s that are unusual in color and texture, not mine.)

Your political convictions: Newsflash! Your offensive critiques, exhausting Facebook rants and "clever" memes have yet to sway a single soul.  Yes, you're passionate.  You have your convictions.  But, guess what? We all do!  And, they're rarely identical.  That's why we show up at those polling stations with the little walled off booths that make one's vote private and sacred.  The way they were meant to be.

The designer names of your attire: When you're talking about your shoes, they're not your "Jimmy Choos", they're your shoes.  When your putting on your jacket, your not putting on your "Burberry", it's simply your jacket to rest of the world.  When you're digging through your purse, you're not digging through your "Louis Vuitton", it's just a bag, for the love of Pete!  If you feel the need to turn every label into a noun, think long and hard about why you feel the need to do that and then be very sad with yourself.  If you, then, still feel the need to pronounce your "Gucci"s, I'll give you a head start while zip up my Gaps and lace up my Targets.

More "Normal" Talk: Who Needs Lasers Edition

It's Sunday so, of course, I found myself in the company of my brother's kids again which, of course, found us in the car at some point which, of course, once again led to silly little boy talk.  (It's better than the radio on a good day.  On a bad day, not so much.)

We were driving down a country road as Fourteen-year-old Sister blissfully watched the scenery of pretty houses go by and began to describe her own dream home.  This led Ten-year-old (previously referred to as "9YO" but, he just had a birthday, so you'll have to adapt) to ramble on about his own dream residence. (Funnily enough, each of their dream homes have only one bedroom.)  Which left the coda to this fantasy-spilling session to the six-year-old (yes, previously "5YO" and also with a recent birthday.)

"I just want a normal house.  Normal normal normal.  One bedroom, one bathroom, one kitchen and one laser to keep the bad guys out."

You could almost audibly hear him ponder whether or not a house with the security of a sizzling laser-zapping system was allowed under his definition of "normal", so he quickly corrected himself:

"No, wait.  No laser.  Just a normal house with one bedroom, one bathroom and one cat.  If a bad guy comes in I'll just ask him, 'Will you please leave now and stop terrorizing my cat?' If he doesn't listen I'll give him one knuckle.  If he still doesn't listen I'll give him another knuckle.  If he still doesn't listen it's a knuckle to the balls and then I beat him up." (five second pause) "Oh.  And, I'll have one dog too."

The price of admission to my Trailblazer has just gone up.

Olympics Wrap-Up

The summer Olympics left quite an impression on me this time around.  From the opening ceremony (that apparently someone had awaken the Queen from a much-needed nap for) to the medal after medal after medal for the red, white and blue.

Here were some of the standout moments (good and bad) in my opinion:

Teletubby Hill: Yes, for some reason or another, they decided to use the mound in which the Teletubbies reside as a backdrop for the opening of the games.  All that build-up, but nary a Teletubby appearance to be had.  Not even for a little song or dance.  Not even to light the giant cauldron.  Not even Po.

Olympic Fashion: Jocks have never had a reputation for being the most fashion-forward of cliques.  But, some of the wardrobe choices at this summer's events left me particularly befuddled.  From the french-cut U.S. ladies gymnast uniforms (coming in a variety of hues, including particular shades of pink and purple that I don't recall ever seeing on our nation's flag), to the sports bra-over-tshirt look that many of the foreign beach volleyball teams adopted, to the men's synchronized diving speedos that managed to cover not even one buttcrack, to the fluttery shorts worn in the male gymnasts' floor routines, giving a whole new meaning to the sports term "ball out".

The obvious DWTS Predictions: Once they return home after the games, you just know that at least one lady from the glamorous U.S. women's track team and one beach volleyball gal with a lusciously thick ponytail will be receiving calls from the Dancing With the Stars casting team.

The Most Obvious Wheaties Box Cover Girl: Miss Gabby!  I just adore her.  Yes, I've called her She-ra... but, I meant it in the nicest way!

D-bag; Is he or isn't he? Ryan Lochte was the front runner to replace Michael Phelps as America's golden boy.  Then his mom innocently blabbed that, yes, he is single because he doesn't have the time for a serious commitment right now, just lots and lots of one night stands.  D-bag!   Well, then Ryan quickly went to the press to apologize for his mother's grasp on American slang. She thought one night stands were when you just go on a date with a girl once and it doesn't turn into a relationship. Awww... just misunderstood.  Then the paparazzi posts pictures of a blurry-eyed Lochte in the back of a cab with a blonde chick climbing all over him.  D-bag!  Well, the next day it comes out that Ryan was simply out celebrating with his family that night and it was just his sister climbing into the cab with him and the rest of the fam.  Awww... misunderstood.  Well, I'm sure the "is he or isn't he" debate is just warming up for now.  Until the world comes to a final consensus, Ryan, you might want to distance yourself from that family of yours!

Other Moments in "What Were Their Parents Thinking?":  Whoever decided to name their daughter Destinee Hooker should thank their lucky stars that she developed Olympic-worthy volleyball skills and thus could avoid the only two other sensible career options available to the moniker.  (Then again, while Googling the above pic, I came across some racy other shots of Miss Destinee and volleyball, sans uniform. Just stay on the court, girl.  Prove your mama wrong and stay on that court!)

Thankfulness: I personally like it when people of other nations also point to Heaven in praise when they win the gold, silver or bronze. It just goes to show, once and for all, that God doesn't favor particular sports teams.

Moments in Poor Sportsmanship:

Sore Losers:  For how many seconds did you feel sorry for McKayla Maroney when she botched up her vault routine, before you suddenly turned on her for pouting over winning the silver?  It's a silver medal in the Olympics!  You were second best in that event out of every gymnast in the entire universe!  (How much you want to bet she melts down Gabby's golds on the flight home in a jealous rage?)

Or, how about Morgan Uceny who, after falling down in the women's 1500 meter, decided the most sportsmanly thing to do was to beat her fists on the ground in disappointment rather than bite her lip, shed a tear and hobble her way to the finish line. 

Note to fallen heroes: Yes, you've trained and practiced for the past four years like you've never trained or practiced in your entire life. Yes, the last 1,460 days have all been leading up to this one singular moment.  Yes, you've let yourself down in your few seconds to shine, with the entire world's eyes on you. But, you have to remember, you're not just representing yourself out there.  It's your team, your fans and your country that you're letting down.  Not by tripping or falling, but by being a pouty second-placer or an angry non-finisher.  Bite your lip, shed your tear... but manage to cross that finish line and you'll still hear the roar of applause.

Haven't these people ever seen Cool Runnings?

Poor Winners: Usain Bolt.  Need I say more?  I also nominate Mr. Bolt for Most Likely to Bring Home a V.D.  Don't tell me this boy has never uttered the phrase, "Hey ladieees, who wonts to sleep witha win-na???" (Double or nothing, he'll also wear his medals to bed with you.) *cringe*

Which leaves us with my gold-winner (no pun intended) of the entire 2012 Summer Olympic Games:

Pee Water:  Once Ryan Lochte finished explaining away his family's errs, he casually revealed that all Olympic swimmers pee in the pool.  Which left the viewing audience forever distracted during all further water-related events.  They're peeing in the pool.  They're peeing in the hot tubs.  They're peeing while the water runs down them from the wall showers.  Synchonized swimmers are dancing in it.  Michael Phelps is gulping up pee water by the gallon.  Divers are splashing head-first into it.  Synchonized divers merit twice the amount of urine in their eyes. And, is that a bubbly current we see on the underwater cam?
 

Yes, the games that started out as a confusing episode of Teletubbies with a cranky royal as its host, went on to be forever summed up by the phrase "pee water."  Thank you, Olympians, for the memories... and whole new meanings to the phrases "Go for the gold" and "Number one!"