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.

Daytime TV

If there's one thing about unemployment that I simply cannot get used to, it's daytime television.  I've learned to make a habit of not turning on the tv before 5 pm, lest I sorely regret it. (Unless I'm catching a 3 pm viewing of Anderson. My one exception!)

The last time I enjoyed daytime tv, my age had a one in the tens column.  I'm convinced anything airing before the primetime news is solely directed to either the preschool or retiree set.  Somewhere along the line daytime talk shows have switched their theming from "talk" to "accuse". ("You are NOT the father!")  The allure of a full hour of paternity tests times five days a week is beyond me.  Soap operas don't catch my attention and watching court room shows is out of the question because televising petty claims always was and remains to be, well... petty.

These are the last shows I remember enjoying pre-suppertime:

Mr. Dress Up: Much superior in my mind to Mr. Rogers or any mister residing on Sesame Street.  There was something about Mr. Dress Up that made me unable to miss an airing (even reruns!) How he got his name, I don't know.  I can't even recall him dressing up that much!  Sometimes, yeah.  But, not enough to warrant a moniker.  I do remember alot of craft times, singing, stories and most importantly puppet shows with my favorites: Casey and Finnegan!  I had convinced myself the first two children I bore would be named Casey and Finnegan.  Seeing that I'm pushing forty and still childless, I have now convinced myself that Casey and Finnegan would also make excellent cat names.

Mister Rogers Neighborhood: Oh yes, Mr. Dress Up was superior, but that doesn't mean I didn't stay tuned for a trip to the Land of Make-Believe afterward.  Mr. Rogers was kind and gentle enough.  His voice was very soothing and there was an odd comfort in watching him change from his blazer to his cardigan (Not to mention the suspense of waiting to see if today would be the day that he finally drops his shoe during the theme song's toss!)  But, each day I was basically tolerating the science talks, factory tours, story times and postal visits; all in anticipation for that model train to come whistling through the hole in his living room wall. Yes!  It's Land of Make-Believe time!  The Land of Make-Believe was basically just a bunch of cardboard sets where the neighborhood puppets resided.  Again with the puppets!  I must have had a thing for paper mache' as kid!  If they ever revived any of these shows today, they'd have to add a heck of alot of felt to the characters as not to scare off the children.  The Land of Make-Believe puppets were pretty creepy-looking in retrospect. Especially that crabby lady who wore way too much blush.

Today's Special: Mannequin that comes to life after store hours.  No, not starring Andrew McCarthy... just some goofy Canadians whose names are long forgotten.  I don't remember much.  Just that they'd always get some visitors busting in on their skits (who must have been real slick to get into the mall that late at night and manage to give the security guard the slip.) And, there were probably some creepy puppets too, seeing that the show managed to capture my interest for very long. "Hocus pocus alimagocus!"

Polka Dot Door: "♫The Polka Dot Door. The Polka Dot Door.  Let's peek through the Polka Dot Door, for songs and stories and so much more. [ding dah-ding dah ding ding] The Polka Dot Door.  This is the time we always say, get ready, get set for [fill in the blank] Day.  We'll sing some songs, we'll pretend and play... so come in! The polka dot way.♫"  That's all I remember of the show, but it sounds like a bit of singing, pretending and playing was involved.  (Sidenote: I'm thoroughly convinced I could write a children's theme song after reliving that masterpiece.)

Now, onto the game shows.  Game shows aren't a hot commodity these days, but in the 70's and 80's boy did people get excited for the chance to win a couple hundred bucks.  Remember the days when you didn't get to carry your cash home from a Wheel of Fortune taping?  No!  They forced you to spend those winnings in their own revolving housing goods store where, anyone stuck with a remaining $100 and no furniture left to buy, would be forced to waste that last C-note buying an unwanted ceramic dog (who's value I'm sure was much less than its price.)

The Price is Right: I was hardly in charge of the household grocery shopping when elementary school aged, but that didn't stop me from trying to price household items along with the televised contestants.  Plinko and the big wheel spins were the best parts of the show.  (Maybe because I sucked at pricing household objects, considering the dollar/week allowance I was hardly budgeting well at that age, and these two games were strictly games of chance.)  I never understood how people could accurately price the huge prize packages at the end of the show without going over and be correct within $1,000.  Prices of cars, vacations, appliances and campers were totally beyond my scope of knowledge.  But, it was exciting to watch and made me think becoming a spokesmodel (minus the speaking) was a totally plausible career goal.  Why, I could shift my weight to the right leg while sticking out my left knee and simultaneously wave a hand up and down the contours of a Fridgidare.  Easy peasy!  How much do these girls make? (Bob Barker would have also been happy know that all of our family pets had been spade or neutered.)

Card Sharks: This was my absolute favorite of the game shows, which is hilarious because I can't even remember how it was played. I just knew that jokers were wild (no matter how creepy I thought they looked, you actually did want a joker card!) and that shouting out "No whammies!  No whammies!" was the Card Sharks equivalent to Wheel of Fortune's "C'mon big money!" chant.

Which leads us to the world of talk.  I watched Rolanda, I watched Sally Jessy and, yes, I even watched Jenny Jones.  But, in the mid-eighties a new host came onto the horizon and quickly climbed the ranks of talk royalty. 

Yes, and then there was Oprah! (Did you think I was going to say Montel?!) 

I don't know what it was about The Oprah Winfrey Show that superseded all other talk shows of the day.  Before she was a household name, men usually mispronounced her name as "Ofrah".  And, before all of the celebrity connections and favorite things, she started out just interviewing regular folk like you and me.  Maybe it was that she could calmly mediate between the most controversial of enemies or that she had the stones to let the KKK on her show and patiently let them speak their ignorance.  Maybe it's because she was unashamed to cry for her guests and unafraid to speak the horrors of her own past, if she thought it would touch one soul.  Maybe it was her humor, her spunky pal Gail or that she was somehow able to grab that coveted interview that no other host or reporter had a chance at.  Whatever it was, she set a new standard.  Yeah, she got a little high on her horse and big for her head for awhile there.  I hated when her audience decided she'd reached guru status and began treating her like a deity.  But, she was the best and I even enjoy catching her Next Chapter interviews every now and then.  There is only one Oprah and there will never another one like her. (Although, that Ellen is pretty good.)

Well, I've pretty much convinced myself that anything worth watching during daylight has either been canceled or become no longer suitable for my age range. Which is just as well, because I have enough distractions from productivity from blogging and Facebook alone! 

Besides, who can sit inside watching the tube when it's 2:15 in the afternoon, eighty degrees out and there's birdies chirping?  Thank God there's nothing good on tv!

When Movies Ruin My Inner Playlist

I have a pet peeve.  Just an irk.  I'd like to blame it on Hollywood.  I'd like to blame it, like everyone else, on the music industry.  But, it's probably my own sense of recall that's at fault.  My dumb, stupid, insidious habit of letting every piece of irrelevant information take root in my memory, but letting the reminder that there's clothes in dryer somehow get filtered out.

I'm the type of person that, when I hear a song, I see an image.  I'm sure this is true with most of you.  Classic songs should conjure classic images.  But, that's where my irk comes in.  Newer movies and tv shows, heck, even laundry detergent commercials, hijack my classic playlist and ransack the place with new unwelcome visions.

This was fully realized by myself last night when I heard "Everybody's Working for the Weekend" on the car radio and an uninvited image of Chris Farley, Chippendale dancing in ill-fitting pants, magically appeared.

This isn't the first time this has happened.  My eighties flashbacks have been disrupted by new images created by Generation Y and whatever generation these new Disney kids belong to.  When I hear the chant, "Hey Mickey! You're so fine! You're so fine you blow my mind!" I wish to see Toni Basil with her pigtails bopping around as my mental music video.  But, no!  The Bring it On! girls have now crashed the party!

"Cruel Summer" is supposed to evoke a playback of the Karate Kid kicking a soccer ball around on the beach, not Blue Crush!  I'd like to hear "Rock the Casbah" without suddenly wondering if Claire Dane's character really did it in Brokedown Palace. And, I can no longer hear the song "Footloose" without hearing Lisa Kudrow's voice in Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion mis-singing, "I'm going to tell you... you've got one hell of an eye ♫" 

These are all good movies! That's not the part that I mind.  I just never asked to have my nostalgia replaced.  I miss the dancing feet in  polka dots socks, Peter Pan boots and legwarmers!  This is a part of my subconscious that didn't need a reboot.

I'm pretty sure the entire playlist of the 60's was not intended to conjure visual images of Forrest Gump, the music videos of the 80's did not star The Wedding Singer and, as funny as Jack Black is, I much prefer the soundtrack of School of Rock in its original format.

Oh well, I guess I should just submit and realize that the movie industry marches forward, while the soundtrack remains the same.  Besides, I'm sure this is the same way Wayne Newton fans feel when I choose to associate "Danke Schoen" with Ferris Bueller and how Queen's original audience feels hearing me admit that I'd first heard "Bohemian Rhapsody" while watching Wayne's World. 

Que sera sera. ~Heathers

All Hail the TV Mom!

In honor of Mother's Day, I decided to pay tribute to some of my favorite tv moms.  Being a lifelong tv addict and seeing that I spend about as much time with my television families as I do with my biological one... it only seems fair. 

 

Carol Brady (The Brady Bunch)

The world seems to epitomize every 1960's era tv mom as being the ideal mother.  To be quite honest, though, I can't really name any particularly outstanding achievements of Lassie's mom, Ricky's mom or even the adorably perfect June Cleaver.  They all blend together in a colorless mix of aprons, ironing boards, rolling pins and cast iron pots.  They all speak softly except when exhaustedly exhaling their husbands' names when said mates are being especially sarcastic or stubborn.

But, then came technicolor and with it came Carol Brady.  Mrs. Brady had style and false eyelashes.  She was sensual but matronly.  She was elegant, but could don a flannel shirt with ease for the occasional backyard leaf-raking or camping trip.  And, she broke the cardinal rule of 60's tv motherhood by (gasp!) employing a maid!  A sixties tv mom who admittedly needed assistance with the household duties??? (faint!)  But, at least Mrs. Brady could always be found stirring a pot or assembling school lunches right next to good ol' Alice.  Not too proud to pull at least 30% of the weight.

And, Mrs. Brady was cool!  She'd always be shopping to keep the kids' wardrobes properly groovy.  She would bring such finds home from the kinds of stores that would wrap each shirt in its own little gift box, with its own fold of tissue paper tied together with its own little brown string.  She'd let her girls grow their hair to inappropriate lengths if they wanted to, with no concern for tangles or knots.  She'd let her kids take chances, but make sure they learned from their mistakes. She'd nurse you well when you were sick.  Take on your tiny problems as if they were her own.  Help you with your homework.  Let everyone have their say in family matters.  And, all with liquid eyeliner perfectly in place and while blissfully unaware of her husband's homosexuality.

Wilma Flintstone (The Flintstones)

The only cartoon mom that comes to mind, so she must have been the best!  She had the patience of a saint dealing with that hot-headed caveman of hers.  And, she could stand her ground next to him!  If she wants to sleep in her own twin bed, she'll sleep in her own twin bed.  If she wants to swoonily wait for the neighborhood Kissing Bandit to accost her, she's going to openly wait for that Kissing Bandit.  If she wants to hang out with Betty Rubble all evening, she's going to hang out with Betty, dang it!  I also always admired her red hair and giant rock pearls.  And, she did bear the cutest little cave baby known to man.

 

Carol Ingalls (Little House on the Prairie)

Oh Mrs. Ingalls.  So gentle, so wise, so good-hearted and even tough when necessary.  With all of these wonderful traits, all true, my biggest childhood impression of Carol Ingalls remains to be how she could take her hair down at night, brush all four feet of it with a boar bristle brush and look every inch a runway model.  On the prairie.  What a waste.

Claire Huxtable (The Cosby Show)

Look at that face Mrs. Huxtable is making at you. You're not even going to think of sassing Mrs. Huxtable when she's giving you that look! Now, you take your books, you march upstairs and you do every speck of homework in sight until you make something out of your life! She didn't work this hard for this long raising this many babies to sit around and watch you throw it all back in her face.   Are we clear???

"Picture it, Sicily, 1923..."

 Sophia Petrillo (Golden Girls) 

Oh Sophia!  You give your daughter and her roommates such a headache!  But, one day Dorothy will realize you've given her the greatest gift.  The gift that all daughters wish they had once their mothers are gone.  An exhaustively detailed ancestral history.  There will be no question, filling out that family tree, where Mama Petrillo came from!

 

Roseanne Connor (Roseanne)

The real mom.  She made mistakes.  She'd eventually admit to them.  She'd let you roam, knowing when not to sweat the small stuff and when to reel you back in.  She made the recipes off the backs of the boxes.  She'd put ketchup in the spaghetti if it saved a few pennies.  Yeah, her house may smell like mildew (I'm assuming) but you were always welcome back into it.  With your husband.  And, you're husband's brother. (Hey, maybe you could get one of those guys to look into that mildew problem...)

 

Cindy Walsh (Beverly Hills 90210)

The other nineties mom.  Practically perfect in every way.  Who else could handle Brenda's reign of terror without breaking a sweat?  Not, Kelly Taylor's mom.  That's for sure!

 

Caroline Manzo (The Real Housewives of New Jersey)

In a reality franchise meant to be utterly satirical; where viewers point and gawk at over-privileged undeserving housewives as they raise their families in the most stomach-churning and spirit-wrenching of ways... Out of the moral rubble, emerges a real life supermom!  Mama Manzo not only successfully parents her own brood of three, but dozens of middle-aged Joisy women as well.  I'll put myself up for adoption any day, if you're looking to replenish that empty nest of yours.

 

Claire Littleton (Lost)

I can't do a "tv favorites" post without mentioning my absolutely favorite television show of all time!  Claire was the only mom of the original cast, so it is what it is.  Yeah, there was Danielle.  And, eventually Sun.  And, Kate stepped in for a little bit there.  But, Claire was the only mother we got to spend an adequate amount of time watching her parent.  During which, she lost her baby to a kidnapper, almost let Charlie run off to psychotically baptize/drown him, left him to fend for himself in a pile of twigs with a sleeping Sawyer, a forest full of ghost whispers and legions of Others, Whatevers and Freighter Folk running amok nearby.  She eventually goes feral and forgets every important and sane detail of her and her child's life together, not to mention, how they parted.  Well, okay... so maybe I should rethink this nomination.

So what have we learned today?  Most good tv moms first names start with the letter C.  An even better ones, use some derivative of the name Carol. 

As much as we love and admire our tv moms, let's not forget the real ones this weekend.  No matter what your experiences with your real life mom, she's the one God appointed to you.  The least you can do is pick up a phone or a greeting card this Sunday and let her know she's the only mom for you! (Love you, Real Mom!)

Songs of my Youth: Borderline

"Borderline" is my first Madonna memory.  And, boy, did being introduced to Madonna open up the floodgates.  Mind you, this was before I got to know Madonna with an intelligent adult mindset.  As a kid, she just rocked.  (Or, popped, I guess...)

She was from Michigan (hadn't realized that she's not so fond of Michigan yet), she was the epitome of diva glam (didn't realize this was personality flaw yet) and I suddenly realized how I wanted to dress for the rest of my life (and that I would definitely need to up my stock of rubber bracelets. Five per arm would no longer cut it.)

Madonna made me, secretly, want to be worshipped.  I remember having a pad of purple paper that was shaped like a heart.  I used up the whole darned thing practicing my autograph.  After I'd sign a dozen or so, I'd toss them around the room.  No, I wasn't an intentional mess-maker.  In my imagination, I was on a marble hotel balcony in Paris, throwing this small token to my adoring fans below.  It was the least I could do.  They had spent the entire previous night outside in the rain, chanting my name.

Yes, thank you Madonna.  This was the influence you had on the 1980's tween set.

I remember watching the "Borderline" video and listening to the cassette that we recorded off the radio (via black tape recorder, held up right next to the speaker) over and over again with my older sister.  She had created a "Borderline" dance, you see, and I was desperate to learn it.

The dance basically consisted of drawing a sweeping invisible line (a "borderline", if you will) on the floor with your index finger every time Madge sang the lyric "borderline".  As you may recall, "borderline" gets repeated several times in row toward the end of the song, in keeping with the classic fade-out that earmarks all 70's and 80's music.  You couldn't miss one dance move!  If she chants "borderline" five times, one after another, you bend over and you draw that line five times... and just as quickly.  Left index finger sweeping right, right index finger sweeping left, throw in a twirl if you can squeeze one in between beats.  Yes, it may not have been the most attractive dance, but it was ours (and, not to mention, a great aerobic workout too!)

I perfected the dance with such precision that I thought I was transforming into Madonna.  I decided to test the theory on a washing machine repairman that came to the house one day.  I was terribly shy, so I stayed two rooms away.  But, I popped that cassette in and went to town drawing lines in the carpet with my index fingers.  He was there for quite awhile, so I had to rewind the tape quite a few times, but it didn't stop the dance in me.  I was dancing, I was sweating, I was Madonna.  (It was probably also the best cardiovascular workout of my entire lifetime.  Past or future.)  When he finally packed up his toolbox and walked past the living room to leave, I was convinced he couldn't wait to go home and tell his daughter, "You'll never guess whose washer I fixed today!!!"  When, in reality, he probably just went back to the shop and complained, "That job seemed like took forever.  The lady's kid was blasting some crap music across the house.  It's bad enough I have to hear that garbage at home!"

It took until an early-90's viewing of Truth or Dare to realize, "Oh.  Madonna's not that nice, is she?  Who wants to be like that?!"  Then I proceeded to watch the flick over and over again.  And, then Evita.

Oh well.  At least Madonna had finally been shelved to being strictly entertainment and not a way of life.

Parents, don't let your children grow up to be fame whores.

Book Review: Stories I Only Tell My Friends, by Rob Lowe

I was never really a much of a Rob Lowe fan during the Brat Pack days.  When I watched The Outsiders I crushed on Matt Dillon and Pony Boy instead.  When I, later on, watched Wayne's World [insert deep confession here] I crushed on Mike Meyers.  I didn't even see most of Rob's big hits because the pretty blue-eyed playboy thing just wasn't the right box office draw for me.

So, when I saw Rob had written a memoir and saw it had even earned rave reviews, I "ehh"ed and kept it on the back burner.  Then I read A Prairie Tale, Melissa Gilbert's life account, including saucy details of their torrid love affair, and I suddenly became curious of the "He Said".

Well turns out he didn't say much... about the couple's romance at least.  In fact, her name is only mentioned twice and only as a timeline device, as in "I was dating Melissa Gilbert at this time."  If you've picked up this book looking for sexual scandal, you've picked up the wrong book.  Some people are into graphic tell-alls, but I actually respected the author for not kissing and telling.  He definitely alludes to his "a different girl, a different night" habits, but is careful not to name names or be seedy or descriptive about it in any way.  Because that's not what the stories he only tells his friends are all about.

The stories he tells his friends, and has now included his reading audience in on, are epic.  In fact, I can see a biopic coming out sometime in his later years.  He has the classic nutty family that's practically a requirement for the best of autobiographical accounts.  A cowboy-seeming dad.  An over-the-cuckoo's-nest mom.  A quack of a doctor stepdad, who brings him and his family from the Midwest out to Malibu.  And, then things are just getting started.

Back home, Rob had already developed a love for community theater.  Being hit over the head, at a young age, with that cosmic hammer---that all thespians seem encounter at some point in life---gave him a drive I wish I had for anything at that age (or any age, for that matter.)  He had already had some insanely coincidental celebrity encounters back in Ohio, while on his quest for learning everything he could about the biz.  So, when lurking around his new California neighborhood, trying to meet friends and find a way to fit in, he was intrigued to come across some kids---looking to be about his age---who were running around town, filming home war and action movies.  These kids?  Oh, just some guys named... Emilio Estevez, Chris and Sean Penn. 

He soon befriends the local guys and works his way into costarring in some of their homemade flicks.  His circle eventually comes to include Charlie Sheen (more interested in becoming a pro-baller at the time), Emilio, the Penns, Holly Robinson and eventually Tom Cruise.

My favorite scenes from the book are the tales of these future Brat-Packers' high school days, running around town (including Rob's first frightening encounter with Martin Sheen, freshly home from a hellish Apocolypse Now shoot), auditioning together and heroically becoming stars together when a chunk of them land parts in Francis Ford Coppola's The Outsiders.  The film, who's the making of, provides even more favorite chapters and the movie set's behind-the-scenes tales could become a tome all their own.

He continues his Hollywood story through sobriety and up unto the present day.  As I was finishing up the last chapters, someone had snuck up beside me and asked what I was reading.  I sheepishly showed her the cover, to which she exclaimed, "Rob Lowe?  I wouldn't think he'd have much to say!" 

To which I replied, "Neither did I."

When I Grow Up

I recently found my copy of Dr. Seuss's My Book About Me in the family basement.  My Book About Me was a popular Seuss-illustrated book, that most of us kids in the 1980's owned, in which you filled in the blanks about your life. 

It asked you such questions as how many doors and beds are in your house, how many buttons you own and what sort of noises you are capable of making (complete with checklist containing the options of "rooster", "dog", "cat", etc.  I checked off all of the options and added in "person", "robot", "cow", "duck", "horse" and "weirdo".)

There's a page titled "I Like to Write Stories: Here is one I wrote" accompanied by two lined pages for the child to complete their story.  On the first page I wrote, "MY Book about ME.   My book a bout me.  I ♥ Ricky Schroeder." On the second page I drew a self-portrait in which I'm wearing an orange shirt with the word "Cat" on it, blue jeans and brown shoes.

There are pages to trace your hand and foot on.  A page for favorite foods ("Peanut butter, chicken mcnuggets - only McDonald's, nachos, pizza, popcorn, etc."  All still dietary staples.)  A page devoted to drawing your hair, on which I inexplicably did this to myself:

 (No I didn't have orange hair as a child.  What I apparently did have was a lack of mousy brown crayons.)

There's a page looking into how you handle your anger.  It's titled "Sometimes I Get Mad at Some People" and provides a yes/no checklist.  I checked "yes" to sometimes getting angry and moved on to the section that's a psychoanalyst's dream.  The further options given are "I kicked someone", "I pushed someone", "I hit someone" and "I yanked hair".  I checked "yes" to all of the above, including a "yes" next to the box which states "I'm sorry I did it." (And, yes, my veins do contain Irish blood.)

Then toward the end of the book, is the "When I Grow Up, I Want to Be ________ " section, filled with two pages of helpful suggestions, in case you needed ideas.  I filled in the blank with the word "nothing".

Work was never an appealing concept to me.  I re-completed this book several times over my elementary school years, and eventually came to circle the options "T.V. star", "Frogman", "Writer", "Mother", "Artist", "Dog Trainer", "Millionaire", "Singer", "Cartoonist" and "Yak Trainer".   (I also scribbled out the options "Nun", "Burglar" and "Rabbi" with very deep no. 2 pencil markings.)

Thirty years later, and I still have no answer to that question.  In a week's time I will be joining the ranks of Michigan's unemployed as a result of the company I work for's need to close two of its smaller offices.  I will have seventeen severance-paid weeks to figure out this answer, or to at least find the nerve to reenlist in another soul-snatching job that simply pays the bills (as has been the pattern set in the twenty years since I've graduated high school.)

It's always interesting to look back at the goals you had as a child during these fork-in-the-road moments in life.  The hilarious choice of doing "nothing", certainly still seems appealing, though won't exactly make ends meet.  (Although my ever-ready hopes of the Publisher's Clearinghouse win does seem to fall both under the childhood wish of doing nothing and becoming a millionaire pursuit.  So, let's call that Plan B for now.)

T.V. star and singer should now be the choices scribbled out with deep no. 2 markings.  I have since come to terms with the fact that the good Lord graced me with the singing voice of someone who is simutaneously blowing a train whistle while trying to shoot peas out of their nose.

I'm not sure what the duties of a Frogman or Yak Trainer involve, and am no longer curious, so it's probably safe to scratch those options off of the list as well.  I never had children of my own, which places Mother out of the running.  Allergies that have developed over the years eliminates Dog Trainer. (Although, I'm pretty sure I never wanted to train the dogs, so much as just play with them and scratch behind their ears.)

Which leaves us with Artist, Writer and Cartoonist.  All still hobbies of mine.  Although, I haven't practiced drawing in close to a decade and I remain completely clueless on how to make a living at any of these things.  I'm also one of those fools that likes to keep hobbies as hobbies, as not to tarnish my love for them with deadlines and such.  So, I guess what this all means is that you'll probably hear of me back in another office setting some time within the coming months.

A seventeen-week deadline to figuring life out?  Yuck.  I think I'll try to have a little fun first and leave Dr. Suess with a big ol' "Thanks for nothing!"  Unless, of course, I come across an ad for a hot-tempered, robot-noise-making, peanut butter-eating frogman.  Then I'll know for sure that destiny is calling!

Book Review: Prairie Tale, by Melissa Gilbert

I came across Prairie Tale while I was in the middle of reading The Wilder Life, by Wendy McClure. McClure's book left me so indifferent that I was uninspired to write a review on it, but in its pages it had mention that Half-Pint herself had published a memoir.

I was always a fan of the Little House television series. My family also owned the country blue box-set of paperbacks, although I never cracked one open other than to look at the illustrations. My reading likes, at that age, fell more into Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Shel Silverstein territory. If I had access to prairie life via an hour in front of the tube, God bless you Michael Landon, that's how I was going to take it!

Laura was always my favorite character in the series (becoming slightly over-shadowed once her handsome adopted brother was introduced into the show.) I also being the outdoorsy middle-child tomboy in the family, it was easy to relate. So I dove right into this easy read, even as it spun so insanely far from innocent prairie territory.

Prairie Tale certainly covers Melissa Gilbert's chaste and idyllic years growing up on the Little House set. Her home life was a stark contrast to that of the Ingalls, but she still grew up very privileged and loved. The discomfort in your stomach will come at the point were Melissa starts to party a bit, have teenage sex and dabble with cocaine. You'll do the math in your head and realize that this turn of events comes about while Melissa is still playing Laura, albeit grown Laura who becomes married to Almanzo and a mother... But, nonetheless, Laura Ingalls doing cocaine?!

Then the book got really good.

 

I always knew Melissa Gilbert had dated Rob Lowe at some point in the eighties. I just didn't realize how many years that relationship strung on for and how entrenched in the Brat Pack clique Laura Ingalls, eh... Melissa Gilbert actually was. She partied with the Estevez-Sheens (dad, Martin, included), dated Tom Cruise, Scott Baio, Billy Idol (this is not a joke!) and while Rob Lowe was cheating on her with a number of young blonde starlets, she cheated on him with his own buddy John Cusack!

At this point, you start to finally lose the Prairie image, forget about "Laura" and start to get wrapped up in Melissa Gilbert's story. Which is a good and triumphant one. She winds through heartbreak, addiction, motherhood, sobriety, breaks in sobriety, that whole SAG presidency and all of the drama that came with it. She does dish, but somehow in a way that doesn't seem dishy. Just like someone telling her story and deciding to be completely honest about it.

And, she's kinda funny. Who knew!

In the final Acknowledgments section she leaves a list of possible book titles that her friends (including the likes of Tom Hanks) had suggested to her, including:

• Half Pint Goes to Hollywood
• Lights, Cameras, Blackouts
• From Half Pint to Sag-ging Adult
• Nellie's Not a B****, Mary Is

and my personal favorite

• I Never Tripped on That Hill (But My Little Sister Did, Bwaaaaahhh)

It's a good tale.

Muppet Mania

Why don't we get things started?

I.  Love. Muppets.  I love Muppets in all shapes and sizes and everything they encompass.  From Sesame Street to The Muppet Show to Muppet Babies to watching them take Manhattan. 

They were puppets!  (I loved puppets!  I had my very own cast of puppets that I'd fashioned out of used toilet paper rolls.  When  I'd run out of used toilet paper rolls, sometimes I'd be forced to slide the cardboard tube out of the roll that was currently in use.) 

And, they sang and danced. 

And, they sang about putting on makeup! (Makeup being a dream beyond my childhood reach in the late 70's/early 80's.  I learned this swiftly when trying to get away with sloppily applying my mom's bright pink lipstick, not only to my mouth, but to my cheeks and eyelids as well.  And, then following up that act by walking around the house like that as if no one would notice.) 

They had celebrity guest stars each week (I knew this because Kermit would cackle at the beginning of each opening number, "It's The Muppet Show, with our very special guest star, Ms. Madeline Kaaahhhhhn!!!!") but this went completely over my head because the real stars, as any dummy could see, were The Muppets themselves.

In fact, I loved the Muppets so much as a kid that I missed my aunt's bridal shower because... well, that's what you get for trying to throw a party on a Friday night!

My Muppet love has been newly restored by the debut of an all new Muppet movie that is coming to theaters this very week.  (One, two, three... Geek out!)  I've almost got my nephews talked into accompanying me to see it.  (Don't want to look like the weirdo adult going to see the kids movie without any kids in tow.)  Although, the five-year-old's initial response was, "Who are the Muppets?"  When I showed him Kermit on a magazine cover, his next response was, "Oh!  Those guys?  They creep me out!"

What?!?

I guess Muppets have always had a way of eliciting strong responses.  Although it was my most favoritest show on earth, I definitely had my list of felt celebs faves and the ones I only tolerated because they happened to turn up every week on my favorite show.

On the "Like" list were:

• Fozzie Bear:  How could you not love such a cuddly wuddly widdle bear whose one and only agenda was to spend his every waking moment trying to make you laugh?  Wocka wocka!
• Scooter:  I had a strange human-puppet crush on Scooter.  He was so adorable and helpful.  But, mostly I coveted his shiny windbreaker.  (And, girlfriends got to wear boyfriends' jackets from what I understood about dating at the time.)
• Janice:  My sister and I used to laugh at her and call her "spaghetti hair".  But, boy did I secretly envy that head of uncooked pasta that I publicly mocked.
• The rest of The Electric Mayhem:  Always a fan of rock and roll and anyone who could play "cool" instruments.  But, let's be honest, if puppets could muster the ability to inhale, these guys had it figured out.  I was particularly suspicious about blue-faced sax player.  And, just try and tell me that Animal hasn't been snooping around the medicine cabinet!
• Kermit: You'd have to be a terrorist not to love this sweet-hearted singing froggy.  Case in point, I played a violin solo of "Rainbow Connection" for my fifth grade music recital.  The audience literally gasped when the teacher introduced my piece as if Kermie himself would appear, swaying along in accompaniment atop my bow.
• Rowlf:  Another felt mammal too cute and cuddly not to love.  (And, I've always been a sucker for a piano man!)
• Beeker:  He seems incredibly annoying to me now, as an adult.  But, I thought I had my impression of him nailed back in the day.  (As if it were so complicated!)
• Rizzo:  Yes.  The rat.  I thought his "Rat Scat" in The Muppets Take Manhattan was the bomb.  "The coffee's fine.  Come on in!" one rat sings while skinny-dipping in a pot of coffee.  Cracked me up every time!  (Plus, to add to my jacket-envy condition, he usually wore a slick-looking Letterman's jacket.)
• Robin:  A mini-Kermit. What's not to love?

These Muppets and skits were on the "Dislike" list and I merely tolerated their presence out of my undying love for the show:

• Miss Piggy:  I never understood why Kermit put up with her.  Even as a small child, I understood that this was an extremely unhealthy relationship and I secretly wished that her Pigs in Space costar, Link, would find some way to seduce her away.  I never understood how a frog with a heart so golden could tolerate a such a bossy sow wearing way too much mascara.  And, just so we're clear, Hoggy... nobody believes that you're actually French.
• Sam the Eagle: Sam's largeness, both in stature and eyebrows, frightened my childhood self.
• Swedish Chef:  Memorable, but pointless.  He brought much shame to myself and that whopping 25% of Swedishness that makes up my heritage.  Nothing he said was at all discernible and nothing he cooked was even close to being edible!
• Pigs in Space:  To me, Pigs In Space rhymed with Bathroom Break.  And, it was a very good time for one.
• Lew Zealand:  You may not know him by name, but you'll recognize his face to the right.  He sat in the audience obnoxiously tossing fish around for no apparent reason.  Being raised with manners, I thought he was incredibly ill-behaved to be sitting in such a posh setting as Muppet Theater.  I hated him.  And, now I hate the fact that his face is posted on my blog.  I'd like to take him off of his puppeteer's hand and donate him as a chew toy to the pit bull sanctuary. 
• Statler and Waldorf:  Again, with the manners.  I thought heckling was highly inappropriate behavior.  Especially when aimed at such a sweetheart as Fozzie.
• Behemoth:  Behemoth may have been a frequent character in my childhood nightmares.  But, he did set the perfect visual image to the tuba solo in the opening number.
• Dr. Bunsen Honeydew:  Where are his eyes?  Did he even have eyes.  I could tolerate Dr. Honeydew, though, because with him came Beeker.  But, geesh!  I can't help it!  Science teachers are soooo boring!

But, I guess even the most disliked of felt figures left their imprint on my psyche.  Love her or hate her, I doubt there's anyone of my generation who can honestly say they've never "Hi-yah!"ed a younger sibling.  And, poor Sam couldn't help his eyebrows.  Is that any reason to loathe our nation's most patriotic of birds?  As an adult, I even came to find a comic appreciation for the heckling old timers.  They had to enjoy the show a little bit.  They're the ones who kept buying those box tickets and coming back!  And, Lew... Nah, I still hate Lew.

I could go on and on all night, but I'll wrap up this post with a few of my favorite Muppet moments.

The Opening Number:

They'd change around the theme song a little every year.  There was one version of the opening, I remember clear as day but can not find it anywhere... Where there was a puppet couple ballroom-dancing during the instrumental bridge of the theme song (The melody that eventually became Statler and Waldorf singing lines) and when their bodies came together, the female puppet's chest fit into the male puppet's pot belly like perfect-fitting puzzle pieces.  I always thought that was so clever!  Does anyone else remember this?  Leave a message in the comment field below if so, so I can prove I'm not crazy!

"Rat Scat" from The Muppets Take Manhattan:

The first Muppet Babies appearance (also from The Muppets Take Manhattan):

We cooed over this for months wearing a constant rewind on our VHS cassette until, lo and behold, they made the Muppet Babies into an official Saturday morning cartoon.  Bravo!

Things I Remember, But Don't Need to Know

Have you ever wondered how big of a percentage of your memory contains completely useless information?  I know so much stuff that's a complete waste of brain matter that I thought maybe if I purged some of it here, I could free up some prime real estate.

Things I remember for no good reason:

• Kim Kardashian was married for 72 days before filing for divorce.  Whoopity-doo!  All forms of media are pushing this fact on me and now it's stuck in the place where all the other celebrities short-lived unions are stored.  J-Lo and Cris Judd.  Kid Rock and Pam Anderson.  Lisa Marie Presley and Nic Cage.  Renee Zelleweger and Kenny Chesney (still trying to wrap my head around that one!)  Britney Spears and that guy from her high school.  Drew Barrymore and that bar owner.  Drew Barrymore and Tom Green.  Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett.  Actually, I'd like to keep the Roberts-Lovett marriage in there if I can.  It was one of the most unexpected, quirkiest, barefooted (and soon forgotten) short-lived unions between two celebrities that I actually like.  But, the rest of you all, be gone!
• All of the words to Jabberwocky.  I memorized this with great fervor in the seventh grade and have never forgotten it.
• All the words to "Pink Elephants On Parade" from Disney's Dumbo.  You know, the song the hallucinated elephants sang to Dumbo right before he woke up, hung over, in a tree full of jive-talking crows?
• My high school gym locker combination.  Don't believe me?  4-24-2.  Right, left twice and right again.
• The fact that all of my elementary school teachers wore polyester elastic-wasted pants (that made their butts look big) and shoes with wooden soles that clip-clopped down the halls, so you could hear them coming from a mile away.
• That my childhood neighbor from across the street once had a dead squirrel stuck in his tree.  Its head was inside a hollow about 15 feet up and it died somehow with its butt and tail hanging out.  We couldn't look away and peeked in on it for several days in a row.  One afternoon we were surprised to find it suddenly tailless!  The mystery still remains unsolved.
• That same neighbor's daughter was showing me a family photo album in which her dad had cut their dog's head out of the picture frame when taking it.  She chuckled and said, "Oh, Dad cut off the dog's head."  And, for the longest time I thought that her dad had cut off their dog's head!
• Every Adam Sandler, Chris Farley, David Spade, Mike Meyers, Phil Hartman, Julia Sweeney, Melanie Hutsell and Jay Mohr SNL sketch ever made.  Most of them, verbatim.  This goes for all the corny Sandler song lyrics and the farewell they all sang, in character, to Phil Hartman on his last night on the show.  (Favorite line: Michael McKean, "I don't have a character yet, but I was on Laverne and Shirley... ♫")
• My class room number for my first day of fourth grade.  The elementary school I'd attended grades K-3 had closed down and I was very nervous to be starting at a new school.  Class room 6 is burned in my memory because I did not want to get lost that first day.
• That my gym teacher was missing half a finger.
• E=MC squared.  Don't know what to do with this information, but I remember it!
• HONIFClBr.  My tenth grade chemistry teacher promised us we'd always remember the diatomic elements if we turned them into a nonsense word that was pronounced "Honey-Feklurbur".  Did it work?  Seeing that it's twenty-two years after the fact, I guess so!  What is a diatomic element?  Ummm...  It looks like your work here is only half done, Mr. Shalla.
• Janet Jackson has her cha-cha pierced.  I didn't want to know that either, but she had to go and mention it in an article I read in the 90's.  After her Super Bowl appearance, I guess we all know she's pierced elsewhere as well.
• Lots of mean things that were once said to me, but don't bear repeating.
• That the corners of the hallways that were painted orangey-red in high school had the girls' bathrooms.  If you headed to the wrong corners of the school, you would find a boys' bathrooms instead and you would be late for class.
• Daniel Day-Lewis won an Oscar for a movie called My Left Foot.  I had heard of the movie about a man with cerebral palsy that learned to paint with his left foot.  But, every time a presenter that night would name the movie title, I still thought it sounded like a phrase you use when you're trying not to swear.
• A friend in second grade made me sing her phone number over and over again, so I wouldn't forget it.  I still remember it along with the melody that she created for it.  I have no use for this information anymore seeing that I have no idea who would pick up if I dialed the number thirty years after the fact.
• The chorus to the first song I ever wrote, when I was about 8 or 9ish.  "Jack and Jill went up the hill, Humpty Dumpty fell off of the wall, Old King Cole was a merry old soul, but my love ain't no fairy tale at all."  I didn't know much about love at the time.  Just that singing about it could land you on the radio.

Well, I don't know if I've manage to purge anything tonight, but I've certainly made myself good and tired.  Now, my main concern in going to bed and dreaming about headless dogs and tailless squirrels.  Night all!

Candy Me!

I've had a life-long love affair with all things sugary.  Cookies, ice cream, cereals, cake and, of course, good ol' candy, candy, candy!

I was very particular in rationing my trick-or-treat bags and Easter baskets as a kid.  I knew candy only came in troves twice a year and I could make one holiday's worth of candy last for months!  Mainly by rotating my stash between several secret hiding places.  Protecting your cache from sibling invasions was the number one strategy in homeland candy security. 

I'd like to say I was pretty cautious in controlling my inner sugar fiend, but I could no longer admit that after I was old enough to realize that Kool-Aid didn't count as a serving of fruit juice and Pop-Tarts were hardly a healthy start to my mornings.  (Especially when considering the fact that I would only eat the ones that were filled with vanilla frosting and topped with cocoa sprinkles.)

Looking back, I'll now timidly confess that I had been know to fill my morning bowl of Cocoa-Puffs with grape Kool-Aid instead of milk.  And, it's with even more shame that I mention that, on quite a few Saturday mornings, when my cereal/Pop-Tart morning fix wasn't quite enough... I'd sometimes simply fill a Dixie cup full of pure white sugar and sit in front of my cartoons.  Dixie cup in one hand, spoon in the other.  (Don't tell my parents!)  Probably the reason I became hypoglycemic in adulthood. 

Yes, my ailment has certainly forced upon me the lesson of self-control.  I know exactly how many grams of sugar my saccharine-shocked body can now stand.  (Not many.)  I can quickly break this mathematically down into how many rectangles of a Hershey's Cookies n' Cream bar falls into this category (four).  Or, how many pieces of candy corn I can safely consume (8.3 ie. 8 whole ones plus one yellow stripe!)  Or, how large of a bowl of Trix I can pour myself, from time to time, when the moment calls for it (1/4 cup.)  And, which things are forever crossed off of my edibles list (Krispy Kremes) until I once again meet up with them in Heaven.  (PLEASE tell me there are Krispy Kremes in Heaven!)

So, in honor of the candies that I still savor in nibbles and to the ones the ones that got away, I give you:

• Candy Corn - If you eat them whole, you have no idea what you're doing.  I don't care if you start yellow end heading white, or white end heading yellow... They must be eaten in thirds.  (A special treat is saving all the white pointy ends for last.  They're extra crunchy!)
• Twix - Putting a cookie in a candy bar?  In the eighties this was genius!  Adding a peanut butter option later on?  Nobel Prize worthy!
• Hershey's Cookies n' Cream - White chocolate is my favorite.  I was the kid in the house that preferred the white chocolate bunny every Easter to the hollow milk chocolate kind.  I could easily swap any number of jelly beans and Peeps to end up with four white bunnies every year.
• Kit-Kat - In high school I had a special way of eating my Kit-Kats once the Michigan weather would turn warm.  I'd buy one out of the cafeteria vending machine (using my milk money. Sorry Mom!) and go outside to eat in the sun with my friends.  As I ate away at my sandwich and other lunch contents, my Kit-Kat would bask on opened wrapper in the the sunlight.  By the time I was ready for it, it would become four naked cookie sticks swimming in a warm puddle of liquid milk chocolate.  Drag the cookies through the chocolate melt like dip and consume.  Now, you can break me off a piece of that any day!
• Snickers - I never appreciated Snickers until adulthood.  Children have that deeply-planted peanut fear, you know?  Before my days of limited sugar, back when I worked in retail, I'd be known to make a meal of a Snickers during busy hours when taking a full lunch break was impossible.  Winning it the most filling (tastes great!) candy award.  (And, those new Snickers commercials are frickin' hilar!)
• Candy dots - I don't even know what these are called.  Probably because they didn't come wrapped with a label or anything.  You bought them unprotected and unsanitary, on a long strip of paper with rows of dyed sugar dropped on in perfectly measured lines.  I got my nine-year-old nephew to try these last summer.  He looked at them confused.  I instructed him, "Just scrape them off with your teeth. You might eat a little paper... that's normal."
• Fun Dip - In my day it was called Lick'm Aid and we gagged our way through the unmixed Kool-Aid portion just to eat the white sugar dipping stick in the end.  Rich kids would just throw away the Kool-Aid part and only eat the sticks.  I couldn't afford to be so frivolous!
• Bubble Gum - Any flavor, any shape, any time!  Gum balls, Bazooka, Hubba Bubba, Big League Chew???
• Runts - Don't know what they really are, how they were invented, or if they were just some happy kitchen accident in the Wonka factory... But, give me a half-grape/half-strawberry pack, stat!
• Skittles - They begged us to taste the rainbow. And, apparently rainbows stick to your teeth.

For the record: If you see me out this Halloween night, any and all of the above will be accepted in any of my nieces or nephews sacks. 

Siblings: I'm officially volunteering to do the candy checks this year.