Never Judge a Book by its Movie

I know movie adaptations are awful. I know that you cannot take hundreds of pages of innermost thoughts and feelings and melt all that down into two hours of visual information. I know all of this. But what I don’t know is how you can take a multimillion dollar special effects laden extravaganza based on a classic science fiction book such as A Wrinkle in Time and just throw up all over it. Why bother using the source material if you are going to dumb it down to the masses in such a way as to render the entire point of the book absolutely meaningless? Oh, I’m angry. I’m so fucking angry.

First off, let’s talk casting. Instead of three old biddies in New England, they subbed in three multi-ethnic drag queens of various ages. Fun! Instead of an all white family, its racially diverse, which opened the story to a wider audience. Great! But can someone please for the love of God and all his angels explain to me why you can make the cast the color of the rainbow, but you can’t make Calvin’s hair red? SERIOUSLY. My love of redheads started with that book. Calvin was my first crush and his vivid red hair was definitely part of my imagination. Would it have been so hard to find a bottle of Manic Panic? Oprah had metallic eyebrows for fuck’s sake. Reese Witherspoon turned into a flying artichoke. But Calvin couldn’t have red hair? That’s bullshit.

Second, when even my kids notice how bad the directing was, you know you have made some poor choices. The entire movie is a series of close ups and extreme close ups. I can draw, from memory, the exact dimensions of Storm Reid’s nose. There were big CGI shots of alien planets, but no sense of scope. Ava Devernay was hyper focused on the spectacle but didn't know how to focus on what made the book special. 

Third, the screenwriters obviously didn’t know what to do with the story as it was told in the book. They took out entire chapters worth of story only to add in empty set pieces. For me, the book was always about Meg realizing that she has to love herself and her faults, that she can’t rely on others for her happiness, and that strength comes from within. The movie was about being a warrior of light. What does that mean? Damned if I know. But it sounds good in commercials.  

Fourth, the had the worst villain name in the history of cinema. The IT. Say it out loud. The big bad in the book is simply IT. My best guess is that the evil clown is so well known that the screenwriter felt that calling the darkness that takes over the world IT would invoke King instead of L’Engle. Fine, I will grudgingly accept that. What I will not accept is “The IT.” Call it The Darkness. Call it The Happiest Sadist (a description in the book I didn’t understand for years.) Call it Camazots after the planet where the final third of the story takes place. But don’t call it “The IT.” That just sounds stupid.

Fifth, the average movie goer is smarter than a pumpkin. Not all of them, but most. So I would really like if the movie treated the viewers as if we had half a brain. The book has chemistry, physics, higher mathematics, and Shakespeare. The movie has a giant action adventure set piece that defied all laws of logic, physics, gravity, tone, character, and plot. Given a choice between a scene of dialogue and (gasp) acting, the director chose overworked CGI every time. The movie also never bothers to explain a tesseract. It is only the central McGuffin and the freaking title of the movie.  I would have happily skipped almost all of Oprah's self-help guru nonsense word salad for a cogent explanation of a tesseract. (This is even more egregious because there was a shot of this scene in the previews!)

Sixth, the Exposition Fairy called and she wants her wings back. Kids can’t remember what day they have gym on a four-day rotating schedule, but they can remember something that happened to another kid FOUR years ago and commemorate it with a nasty note? Also, whomever had a six-year old listening to news radio in the middle of the night while it randomly discussed a non-celebrity scientist going missing certainly deserves a Razzie for exposition so clunky it clanged. We don’t need THREE back-to-back scenes telling us that Meg’s dad is missing. We ARE NOT PUMPKINS. We have brain cells, not seeds. Allows us to use them!

Seventh, the quotations. One character in the book speaks only in quotations. In the movie, she does and doesn’t depending on the needs of the script and a very lazy screenwriter. For a few months, I amused myself on Facebook by using Hamilton lyrics for every update and I could always find a line that fit. So it pissed me off that when they did quote Lin-Manuel Miranda, they used the weakest quote in his arsenal. There are billions of lines of poetry and literature and plays and quotations in the world. And the screenwriter switched Goethe for Chris Tucker???  Jesus wept.

Eighth, speaking of Jesus, where did all the religious Christian allegory go? Oh right, we can pray to God (to win a football game), we can thank God (for winning the football game), but we can’t incorporate God into a movie unless it stars Kirk Cameron. Got it, my bad.

Ninth, the problem with Calvin. Not only did they take away his red hair, they took away his balls. Calvin isn’t set decoration. He isn’t ornamental. He is integral to the plot. He is the one who explains, who communicates, who listens. He’s the Giles of this particular band of Scoobies. The Mrs don’t give all the gifts to Meg. That’s dumb. They had one for each child. And his gift helps save Mr. Murry. He almost saves Charles Wallace! He doesn’t just stand in the background and nod at people – he does stuff! And if they couldn’t figure out what to do with him, then he should have shared the same fate as Sandy and Dennys. 

And finally, we clearly have a winner in the Battle of the Actors Named Chris. Did anyone go through space and time looking for Hemsworth? Thor disappeared from Earth and no one noticed. Pratt? We put him on a starship to nowhere and let him die on it. Evans? Nope. He isn’t even the hottest Chris in the Marvel universe. Chris Pine is the only Chris that people will literally do anything for in every single movie. All Hail King Chris.  

Rest of the Best

I watched the final five candidates for Best Picture yesterday. As always, if you want an actual review, ask a movie critic.

Dunkirk ­– One day, someone will explain to me the absolute manic devotion of white males of a certain age to WWII. The war ended 74 years ago! There have been lots of wars since then (unfortunately) and lots of other stories to tell about lots of other things. But every goddamn year, we get another goddamned WWII movie. Enough. Considering how little dialogue was actually in the movie and how little plot, I wish Nolan had fully committed to his theory of making a movie based entirely on visuals and music and eliminated dialogue entirely or had subtitles. I also think he and Tom Hardy should just fuck already because Nolan obviously has a hard on for Hardy’s eyes. Why else does he once again make a movie that all but covers up Tom Hardy’s face and filters his voice.

The Darkest Hour – Gary Oldman only did this movie because he lured famed makeup artist Kazuhiro  Tsuji out of retirement. If Oldman wins, and Tsuji doesn’t, then Oldman should absolutely hand his Oscar over, post haste. It was absolutely the best makeup I have ever seen in film. Hands down. Oldman was completely unrecognizable as himself and totally and completely Winston Churchill. That was the whole point of the movie, really. They could have told any story from any point in Churchill’s career, and the only thing really holding it up was the makeup and acting. It certainly wasn’t the lighting. Apparently overhead lighting was outlawed during the war. Only small desk lamps or whatever light filtered in through windows. (Please don’t tell me about London turned off its lights at night to avoid bombing. This wasn’t that. This was “setting a mood” and it was ridiculous. )

Call Me By Your Name – This was the most honest acting I’ve ever seen. It was also as if the actors didn’t realize they were acting at all. I was constantly surprised by the line readings and by how they handled every scene. It was very intimate and disarming. Slightly problematic was the concept of consent and watching sex scenes between a supposed 17 yr old and a 27 year old, but I liked that the movie didn’t have a label. No one was gay or straight or bi. They were just who they were. I also think it did wonders for Italian tourism.

The Post – This was a perfectly respectable movie with perfectly respectable acting in a mediocre script. Spoiler, the Washington Post wins. And while I have watched movies with obvious outcomes before (Titanic, for example), there was no real sense of suspense. There was also some questionable dialect work. Was Tom Hanks supposed to be from Boston? Every few scenes, he’d remember to throw on an accent. This movie is a textbook account of white male Oscar voting. Meryl Streep? Check. Tom Hanks? Check. Steven Spielberg? Check. A plot that makes liberals look good and politicians look bad? Check.

Get Out – This movie did NOT fuck around. You know how in most movies, when the young blood ingenue starts getting scared, she doesn’t really try to kill her assailant, but mostly run from him? Not this movie. Chris was out for blood the minute he realized what was happening. But Jesus, his apartment was the most over decorated room I have ever seen. I met my husband when we were 24. His apartment had the bare minimum of cast-off furniture, no art, one massive television, and linens straight from Target. Every male apartment I have ever been in was about the same, plus or minus some crappy posters on the wall. Chris had beautifully framed art, a complete living room set, a complete bedroom set, and everything was color coordinated in pleasant hues of greys and blacks and blues. Bull. Shit. Also, who starts a transplant without having both the donor and the receiver in the room? A terrible surgeon, that’s who.

The Envelope, Please . . . .

I love the movies. I don’t go as often as I’d like and honestly, the number of movies released per year v. the number I actually watch is depressing, but come Oscar season, I am all in.

For the last few years, I try to see all those movies nominated for best picture, and if possible, all the ones that cover the acting categories as well. I am not a member of the Academy of Motion Pictures Art and Sciences and nobody gives a shit who I think should win and why, but I still like being knowledgeable about my choices. I have been watching the Oscars since I was a child and will watch them until I am dead. I love them unreservedly.

This year, I once again embarked on my quest with Bubbles in tow. I see most of my movies with my partner-in-crime and we have very similar tastes. The best part is that we can see all the movies over two days! Two very long Saturdays, four or five movies per day! Its awesome. This past weekend was our first day and I was going to write a basic series of reviews, but then I realized that if you want a thoughtful, reserved review by a critic with a background in film, then I will direct you to the poorly-named Drew McWeeney over at Tracking-Board.com. His name may be awful, but his reviews are terrific. However, if you want to know the weird and odd things I thought about the movies, then bombs away.

Three things – First, I do not speak for Bubbles. The opinions expressed therein are my own. Second, I still have several movies to watch. Third, spoilers abound. SPOILERS ABOUND!

Movies I Stopped Watching:

Mudbound (best cinematography and best supporting actress) – I tried. I really did. I made it 45 minutes into the movie before I gave up. It was depressing, dark, and dismal and checked every box of things I dread in movies: overt racism, everyone in the South is dirty and sweaty, obvious plot “twists”, hateful characters, WW II, and the constant use of the n- word. I want to be more enlightened and enjoy the film as a film but the oppressive sense of dread in the first third meant the rest of the movie was only going to get so very much worse. Pass. (However, from what I saw, this movie was absolutely deserving of the cinematography award because the lighting told a story that dialogue could never convey.)

Roman J. Israel, Esq. – (best actor) ­– They should have just given Denzel the best actor Oscar last year and been done with it. I lasted 24 minutes before I turned this nonsense off. I couldn’t figure out the year, setting, plot, character motivation, or anything else in this ugly, flat movie.  

Random Movies in Random Categories:

The Big Sick (best original screenplay) – Cute, but the least romantic rom-com I’ve ever seen.

I, Tonya (best actress and best supporting actress)  – I expected light and airy, I got down and dirty. Allison Janney is so bad she’s good.

Blade Runner 2049 (best cinematography) – It’s pretty, but empty. Watch it on mute to get the visuals. You won’t miss the plot as it barely exists. Honestly, the best thing about this movie is Ryan Gosling’s coat.

Beauty and the Beast (best costuming) – Sure, the costumes were gorgeous – when they were first created for the original animated film. But rending something from 2D to 3D doesn’t do it for me in terms of calling it the “best of” anything.

Baby Driver (film editing) ­­­– The movie is dumb as hell, but it is well edited. I’ll give it that.

Star Wars: The Last Jedi (music – original score, sound editing, sound mixing, visual effects) – Does anyone even notice the music in Star Wars movies unless it is some version of the original pieces made new? Or the editing/mixing?

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol II (visual effects) – If you like visual effects that scream LOOK AT ME, then sure. But its all just so much green screened noise.

Kong: Skull Island (visual effects) – The punctuation in these movies is killing me. Anyway, I actually think the F/X here were much more organic than the other choices. Doesn’t make it a good movie though, not by a long shot.

Best Pictures:

The Phantom Thread – As soon as the heroine was seen gathering mushrooms, you knew what she was eventually going to do with them. While I admit that his agreeing to be poisoned came out of left field, I don’t really understand why he would agree. Yes, he loved her more when he needed her caregiving, but how many times were they going to cycle through sick/well/happy/unhappy before they both tired of the game? I also would have preferred more scenes with Woocock’s sister (Jesus, what a name!). Her internal monologues were probably fierce.

Lady Bird – Can I have an entire movie about gay Danny, please? Or the salty nun? Or the depressed priest? Can I have any movie other than the one I watched? I am all for women winning the best director award, but not this woman and not for this movie.

Three Billboards – WTF! Ok, so I have a lot of problems with this movie. In what universe does a woman FIRE BOMB a police station and there is zero follow up? Yes, she was given an alibi by a bystander (and seriously, WHY would he do that since it is so obvious to everyone in the movie that she is the culprit?), but it isn’t a very good one and is very easily checked. In fact, during the entire movie, characters just keep getting away with the most insane stuff. Throw a guy out a window? No worries. Ok. Set fire to all the billboards? Sure! Its not like anyone does any actual investigation. A man stood in a burning building and didn't notice the heat! If that's the level of intelligence of the men in blue, then no wonder no one found her daughter’s killer – they couldn’t find their assholes with both hands and a mirror. (P.S. - Dear Hollywood, police stations don't close down at night like the post office. I live in Smalltown USA and even we have two cops on duty 24/7. Sincerely, The Real World.)  

The Shape of Water – Who fills a bathtub all the way to the very top? You are going to get water everywhere. Every scene, whether someone just got in or just got out, the damn bathtub was filled to the very top. Very cinematic, not very practical. Also, towels do not create airtight seals. You cannot flood a bathroom to the ceiling by stuffing a few towels into a wooden door. Again, very cinematic, but not very practical. My biggest problem though, was the one line of dialogue that completely and utterly telegraphed the ending. Can we at least try to be subtle about her scars? Nope. Its way better to shoehorn in an explanation that tells you everything you need to know. Ugh. Show, don’t tell!

I will try to post my reviews of the rest of the top contenders on Sunday before the show.  

Fosse! Fosse! Fosse!

My daughter has been doing competitive dance for the last few years. The first competition was quite an eye opener. There are point scores, best in each category, division, and even judges’ awards.  Everywhere you look, there are girls in enough makeup to make a drag queen jealous and enough glitter, sparkles, and bling that sunglasses are required indoors. My daughter, who may wear Chapstick on a good day has become an expert at wearing false eyelashes. It’s all very overwhelming. It is not, however, Dance Moms. Put that out of your head. These girls practice one dance, with one costume for months at a time. They don’t have suitcases that turn into fully-lit makeup mirrors. Instead, most of them have the family suitcase outfitted with some contraption made out of PVC pipe to hold all their clothes. They have teachers who love them and emphasizes substance over style.  The parents support one another. At least that is what it’s like at her dance school. I can’t speak for others.

Last year, the costumes at competition were very risqué. Lots and lots of nudes, cut outs, and S&M wear - for tweens. I watched a child perform an exquisite ballet to Amazing Grace while wearing a vibrant red costume with nude patches over her genitals. The under-ten set embraced cut outs to show off their abs, but mostly just showed off their rib cages. This year, the costumes were very different. Gone were all the straps, leather, and nude patches that made the dancers look like the world’s tiniest people performing the world’s oldest profession. This year's overall theme seemed to be stripped instead of stripper. Instead of elaborate costumes in bright colors, we saw a lot of sack clothes in muted earth tones. Buns were out, braids were in. There were still lots of outfits you could consider pajamas, but instead of lingerie, they were closer to night gowns. One entire category of modern dance looked like the girls were acting out scenes from a play set during the 1930s Dust Bowl. Who knew they made so many shades of dirt brown? Flesh tone was also a big hit. I saw girls practicing in what could best be described as a nude bikini with nude mesh over top and was curious to see the rest of their costume. Turns out, there was no “rest” of the costume. That WAS the costume! With prop canes! I’m so bummed I missed that performance because I was dying to know what song required canes but not clothing? Our girls, in comparison looked like Mormons. They wore layers - nude leotards, nude tights, then fishnets, then their costumes. In terms of dance wear, they were dressed for winter in New Hampshire while the rest of the teams were on Spring Break in the Bahamas.  

The music was similarly stripped down. There were so many muzak versions of songs that I wondered if I was trapped in the world’s loudest elevator. Every song has one instrument and one vocal. Or no vocals and all instrumental. I spent half my time desperately trying to name that tune because the venue had no wi-fi so I couldn’t use Spotify to save myself from going crazy. Did you know that there are slow, instrumental versions of Depeche Mode? I wish I didn't. 

The worst part of competition is not watching my kid dance and get judged, which is super difficult, but keeping my eyes averted in the open dressing rooms. I obviously don’t want to see any part of anyone I didn’t help bring into this world, but its not that easy. I reached down to get my phone out of my purse, and when I sat back up, I was eye-to-thong with a dancer from the next company over. I heard the unmistakable sound of tape ripping and looked up in time to try not to see a teenager taping her breasts down. With masking tape! She held them up while two others taped them down and dear God, you know that stung when she had to rip it off later.

I know that judging is subjective and that its all relative to how many kids in each category and a host of other factors. So I’m not even going to touch upon that. What I do find most perplexing are the songs and themes chosen by the dance instructors. Last year, there was a song about drowned brides and another about dead babies. This year, we got a song about murder (complete with the onstage death), dead dolls, a funeral, zombies, and, I kid you not, an anti-Korean war song with a prop Army coat! There was a relatively brilliant song about depression where the major emotions all wore bright colored body suits and the rest of the team all wore black. There was a showstopper about the backstabbing inherent in a royal court that had the kids literally flinging themselves at each other and then there was the dance that won the crowd award. Reader, I was NOT happy with that last one.

The song was Can’t Stop the Feeling. Fucking Justin Timberlake! Again! The theme was “Night at the Museum” wherein a janitor starts playing that dreaded song and all the statues come to life. Each dancer had on a different costume. There was a Wonder Woman, a Blonde Ambition-era Madonna, Elvis, etc. (There was also a waitress, which I found odd, but I digress.) But I didn’t understand why the black girl was dressed as Marilyn Monroe. Why not let the black girl be Tina Turner or Whitney Houston or any number of famous black women performers? In fact, why make any of the girls into men? Couldn’t the song celebrate strong women of all colors? Did it need an Elvis or a Michael Jackson? Does anyone really think Prince is rising from the dead to dance to Justin Timberlake? Now, its possible that after three days of competition, I was just tired and cranky and hungry so that I was more annoyed than usual, but I think my point is fair. (Also, what museum was he IN, anyway?)

Overall, I’m glad the weekend is over. I watched roughly 24 hours of dancing over the course of 48 hours and my brain was turning into mush. My butt hurt from sitting, my ears hurt from the music, and my head was pounding from watching people spin over and over and over again. Thank God I have six weeks to recover before the next one and I can only applaud those parents who do this every single weekend and thank both the olds gods and the new that I am not one of them.

I've Got This Feeling Inside My Bones

I cannot stand Justin Timberlake. My reasons are far ranging and many. Last night, I complained about him on Facebook and Etsy requested a blog post about it. So, in no particular order, the top ten reasons I hate Justin Timberlake:

1 – His voice. He sings at a pitch that only dogs can hear. When his balls drop and he can sing a register below castrato, let me know and I’ll give him a listen. Until that time, please tell him that his version of sexy has been marked return to sender. He can’t bring back what he never had. Also, Can’t Stop the Feeling is an ear worm of a song, but that doesn’t make it good.

2 – Britney. She cheated on him, he cheated on her, whatever, but it all happened 15 years ago so would he please STOP invoking her name in interviews. He has been in the spotlight a long time – he knows that when he mentions her, it becomes the pull quote.  You are now a grown ass man with a family – she is a respected performer with mental health issues. Take her name outta your mouth! Don’t sing about her, don’t make videos about her, don’t make fun of her, and don’t talk about her.

3 – His wedding photos. Yes, I clearly said “his” not “theirs” because based on the photos they chose to release on the cover of the most popular entertainment magazine in the country, the wedding was all about him. Their official photo had her seated on the floor, her dress puddled up around her, her flowers casually held in one hand – looking all the world like a bored bridesmaid taking a breather after a long day. What is Justin doing? Jumping like a tuxedoed monkey on a trampoline. His feet are at her eye level. If you moved his photo more to the left, and hers more to the right, he would be perched on her shoulders, hands outstretched, screaming “me me me.” Sit. DOWN. Stand next to your wife, not above her.

4 – His acting career. He can’t act. No. Please don’t argue. Go back and watch any one of movies. He telegraphs every move he is about to make in advance. You can practically see him practicing the words in his head before he says them. His eyes are always blank. He is overshadowed by every other actor in his scenes. He is always Justin Timberlake. It is why he is so good on SNL and so awful anywhere else – he works so hard at being himself that he can’t possible figure out how to be anyone else.

5 – How he treats his wife. I actually have nothing against Jessica Biel. She has to live with that dumb bastard, so all the power to her, but I’ve never seen a husband step on a wife so much in interviews. The drill is simple: when a celebrity husband and wife walk the red carpet, the attention is supposed to be focused on whichever one has a project to promote. If the carpet is for her, then he is supposed to be quiet and supportive and vice versa. Not JT. He makes every carpet about him. She was nominated for her first ever Golden Globe this year. That’s a big deal to actors. So what did he do? He released news about new album two days before the award show. Guess what happened? Every interview became about him and his music instead of her and her acting. He could have released that information the day AFTER the Globes. It still would have received plenty of media coverage. But no, he had to take her spotlight and shine it on himself. He had to put her in his shadow because his ego can’t stand being in hers. When she has photo calls, he jumps around in the background making bunny ears with his fingers and all sorts of juvenile nonsense. That poor woman.

6 – His thirst. While I obviously cannot stand his music, others do not agree and he has been nominated for and won several major awards. And let me tell you, he works for those nominations. He promoted that damn Trolls movie so far in advance that by the time it came out, the target audience of toddlers had graduated college. When The Social Network was in theaters, it received many Best Ensemble awards. He was one of many and his performance as Sean Parker was basically him just playing an asshole, which is hardly out of his comfort zone. Yet he strutted through those press screenings as if he were the male lead. He actively campaigned for award nominations. The entire movie was about a bunch of dicks arguing over who was the biggest dick of them all and Justin was basically holding a thumb, but that didn’t stop him from thinking he had a chance in that particular pissing contest.  

7 – He (allegedly) cheats. A man who cheats on a woman is dead to me.

8 – Super Bowl 52. The big game was played in Minnesota, home to the dearly departed Prince - a legendary performer who has gone on record stating that he believed artist holograms are demonic. Rumor had it that Justin was going to play “with” Prince via hologram until that information leaked and Prince fans went batshit. Instead, he included a video projection of Prince and sang along. Toe-may-toe. Toe-mah-toe. Prince had more sexy in his elfin toes than JT has in his whole friggin’ body. Prince knew who he was. He didn’t change his aesthetic with his albums like SOMONE who performed during the half-time show. Man of the woods my left butt cheek! Justin Timberlake is the target audience for glamping. He is only capable of eating artisanal meats and cruelty-free marshmallows. The fact that his carefully distressed, quasi-camouflage outfit was head-to-toe couture only makes his lack of irony even more pronounced. While the crowd seemed to enjoy the performance, the Twitterverse proved via video clips that the paid performers on the floor were enthusiastically clapping along while the rest of the stadium remained oddly quiet.

9  - His hair. He is a human Chia pet. No amount of straightener is going to make me forget that he has a glorious head full of pre-Ralphaelite curls.   

10 -  Nipplegate -  Justin Timberlake ripped off Janet Jackson’s bodice exposing her breast and pierced nipple for half a second during the halftime show of the Super Bowl. It was the most DVR’d moment in history as people rewound it over and over again in order to properly see what was so indecent. That moment basically led to the rise of YouTube and almost broke the Internet. But let’s be clear. HE ripped HER clothing. HE exposed HER breast. HE made the mistake in removing both layers of her clothing when he was only supposed to remove one. HE did it. Which performer was forced to apologize for the incident, though? Janet Jackson. Which one was fined for indecency? Janet Jackson. Which performer had their music blacklisted? Janet Jackson. Which performer was banned from the Grammy Awards that year? Janet Jackson. But which performer actually made the mistake? Justin Fucking Timberlake. Which performer walked away completely unscathed? Justin Fucking Timberlake. Only one performer saw their career almost come to an end and it was the victim! What exactly did she do wrong? Hire the wrong seamstress? She didn’t rip it off herself. That was the ONE time he should have jumped up to say “ me me me.” That was the ONE time he was supposed to step in front of a woman and speak. That was the ONE time he needed to act. The ONE time he needed to whet his thirst for attention by telling every media outlet, talk show host, and magazine that the mistake was his and his alone. But he didn’t. He said nothing. He did nothing. Don’t tell me that he supports the Times Up initiative. His actions toward her and the media circus that surrounded that performance showed exactly who he was. And as Maya Angelou famously stated, “when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

It's Still Magic Even If You Know How It's Done

Ursula Le Guin died this week and many people mourned her. She was a writer of science fiction, the old school stuff that changed people’s lives. I have to admit that I never read her books.

But I thought I’d take this opportunity to write the eulogy for the author whose works I have read.

For some people, the beach is their place of refuge. Their happy place. They post countdowns all winter long about the first day of summer and then post endless photos of toes in the sand, kids frolicking in the waves, drinks with little umbrellas in hand. Bubbles is one of those who loves the beach. Others are more specific in their locations. Etsy loves Saranac Lake in upstate New York. Rorey considers Sudbury, Vermont her personal slice of paradise. For my husband, driving a boat around Lake Wallenpapupack in the Pocono mountains is his idea of heaven on earth. One October, before the docks were pulled in, he spent hours racing around the flat glass surface, ears red with cold, going as fast as the motor would allow. Rain or shine, flat calm or full chop, he just loves being out on that lake. Some people love being on a mountain skiing, or walking the streets of Paris, or a million other places that calms their soul.

I love going to Anhk-Morpork. I know where the best pubs are, the best curry, and which shops are the most fashionable. I know that dragons really do make terrible Hogswatch gifts, so I support the efforts of the Sunshine Sanctuary (and, of course, the Lady Sybil Free Hospital).  I know to fear the Summoning Dark as well as The Shades and to pray to the goddess Anoia when my cutlery gets stuck in drawers. It is a city that never sleeps, eats whatever is put in front of it (even CMOT Dibbler’s sausage-inna-bun which only the very brave or the very drunk should attempt) , and has a river that you can walk across, but to me, it’s home. And I can never go there again.

You see, the Discworld, and all the cities and continents within, such as Ankh-Morpork, were created by Sir Terry Pratchett. He died on March 12, 2015.

He left behind the Discworld – a series of 42 books, all about a flat disc-shaped world, carried on the back of four elephants (it used to be five, but one fell and when it landed, it split the continents and its bones turned to gold). The elephants stand on the back of a giant turtle named A’Tuin. Unseen University is the greatest academic institution in the land and the Librarian is an orangutan who always know the exact book you need. Many of the Discworld books fall into categories. Some are stand-alone stories, some follow the paths of the Lancre witches, others follow the lowly watchman Sam Vimes through his eventual rise to becoming the Duke of Ankh (but he really hates wearing the ducal tights and especially the hat with the feather.) Death talks in all caps, rides a horse named Binky, and could murder a curry. There are books about gods, monsters, and those who fall in between. There is a huge cast of characters, one major locations, several minor ones, and all form an interconnected world where politics, race relations, good and evil, all come together to tell a story.

And now its gone. There are no more stories to tell.

I started reading his books about 20 years ago. They fall into the category of fantasy, but they are far closer to Douglas Adams in tone than J.R.R. Tolkien. I don’t know a single other soul who reads them, but in England, he was a best-selling author. He died, much too young, at 66 of early onset Alzheimer’s. His unfinished works were destroyed by steamroller, per his instructions. His daughter, a writer in her own right, made it crystal clear that the Discworld was the work of her father and that she would not be continuing the series.

So, imagine, that Saranac Lake is closed or Vermont has been, um, overrun by ice zombies. Imagine that no boats are allowed on the lake and there are no more visits to the beach. You will always have pictures and memories, but you will never get to go there again. Never get to immerse yourself in everything that you love about it. Every year, I got to go to the Discworld and make new friends, have no adventures, learn new details about the city and its denizens. Whereas I started as a tourist, I became a local. I know what happened when Mr. Hong chose to build the Three Jolly Luck restaurant on the site of a former fish-god temple and what happened when he opened on the night of a full moon and a lunar eclipse at the winter solstice. I know how to play Thud, both the troll and the dwarf side, and I know that Leonard of Quirm is more a prisoner in mind than body. And I know I’ll never, ever get to visit with him again.

J.K. Rowling gets much credit for how she was able to layer the cast and plot of the Harry Potter series. The vanishing cabinet is first mentioned as a blink and you’ll miss it gag in Chamber of Secrets, but becomes an integral part of Half-Blood Prince. In Deathly Hallows, a random collection of characters are overheard meeting in a desolate wood and even though none of the characters are main ones, we can easily feel the pain of Ted Tonks, Dean Thomas, and Griphook because we had met them before. While the chapter mostly is used as an exposition drop for our main characters to learn what is happening in the wizarding world, it is also an example of Rowling’s skill. She didn’t just know how to set off Checkhov’s gun, she knew how to build the firearm from scratch and hand-poured the bullets.

Pratchett was the same. Characters dipped in and out of the books so that the stories never felt isolated from one another. I actively dislike books where characters have no family, no friends, no coworkers and exist in a bubble of only the few people necessary to the plot. Life doesn’t work like that and neither did the Discworld.

The Discworld reflected our world. There was a Scone of Stone instead of a Stone of Scone, though both were stolen. There was a book about Australia, one about rugby, and even one that riffed on Shakespeare. When I am sick, or busy (or during those very weird few months when I was highly medicated and couldn’t follow a recipe, let alone a plot) I could disappear into the Discworld and be at peace. I would open the latest book, read it cover to cover, then flip it back to front and start all over again, once, twice, thrice until I practically had it memorized. I still check Amazon hoping that a magical final book will be revealed, that I’ll get one last visit to my home away from home, so that this time, I can really soak in all the details. Sir Terry Pratchett will be greatly missed by his family, obviously, but also by the millions of fans who raced to the bookstores to purchase his newest novel and lose themselves in the magical world that he created.    

At last, Sir Terry, we must walk together.

Terry took Death's arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.

The End.^[77]

Do You Hear the People Sing?

The first show I ever saw on Broadway was Cats. It was an excellent starter show for an 80s tween. When the sirens came on, startling the “cats” onstage, I almost went through the roof. Though, to be honest, it isn’t that good of a show. You either have to be really high or really young to really enjoy a show filled with people in actual, legitimate catsuits. I can’t imagine sitting through it stone cold sober now, but at 12? It had me at “meow.”

I know people hate musicals. That the very idea of someone just randomly bursting into song while everyone around them acts like this is perfectly natural is too bizarre to be believed. I get it. But I love them unreservedly.

From Cats, I graduated to more mature fare. I spent all of high school in thrall of both Les Miserables and The Phantom of the Opera. I had an airbrushed jean jacket with the face of the Phantom on the back that I wore with pride. Not irony. PRIDE. I still think sitting through three hours of what my husband refers to as “ that show about the French revolution where everyone dies” is my idea of heaven. I am not such a snob that I think a touring production is automatically lesser than one in New York City. I saw a Thenardier in Boston who brought down the house and a Marius in Philadelphia who broke my heart. There is something about hearing those striking chords and seeing that giant red flag fly that just destroys me each and every time.

(But, after multiple viewing, I have come up with a few questions about the plot. First, after Valjean agrees to take care of Cosette, he asks Javert for three days to care of the situation. What on earth is he expecting to do in that little time? Kill her? Adopt her off to yet someone else? It probably took him three days just to find Cosette, let alone set up a new life for the kid. Second, why didn’t Thenardier recognize Valjean in the sewers? And third, if Marius sings about all his friends being dead and Cosette sings about living a lonely existence with no one but her father – then who are all the people at their wedding? And what on earth did Marius tell her to get her to agree to get married without her father in attendance? Anyway, back to the blog.)

I was lucky, living on Long Island, the theater was LIRR ride away. Back in the day, you could go to a booth on Times Square and try to get tickets to any show that day for cheap. Now, it’s a huge storefront and it’s all very professional, but back then, you felt like you were really in on a secret. Or at least I did. One day, I was able to get tickets to Miss Saigon. I called my mom on a pay phone and she actually left work early and hopped on a train to meet me in the city. Even more shocking, when she found me, she was happily eating a black and white cookie she had picked up from a random bakery. I could not have been more shocked if she had stopped for a bump of coke.

Think back to all the movies you have seen in your life. Thousands, right? And some have been great, some good, some terrible, but how many created indelible memories, moments that you will take with you to your grave? I have had those moments at the theater.

The moment the gunshot rings out in Miss Saigon.

The moment the witch takes flight in Wicked.

The moment in Once when she doesn’t tell him that she loves him.  

To me, that’s the power of a musical. It can create a moment so visceral, so real, that you feel like you are completely alone, but can only truly be experienced with two thousand complete strangers. I’ve seen show stopping numbers that made me want to get out of my seat and dance. I haven’t seen many shows, a few dozen, tops, but the ones I have seen resonate. Not all. I’ve seen some crappy shows, ones that had unmemorable music or actors, and I will never see a production of Annie again as long as I shall live, but the good ones that are always touring, or the revivals that keep popping back up again, those shows have legs for a reason. It’s because they can take you out of your life, your body, even, and transport you to another world where you can sing about racist puppets, telekinetic children, suicide, AIDS, murder, religion, or any number of odd things and it all makes perfect sense.

(Though some shows age better than others. Go watch West Side Story and try not to cringe. I listened to Rent recently and realized that Benny, advocate of fair housing prices and new business is not exactly a villain and that maybe the people singing about not paying rent in the most expensive city in the world may be the actual villains instead.)    

You don’t even necessarily have to see it in a theater to love a musical. I know its almost blasphemy to say a movie is better than the original production (much like saying a book is better than a movie), but let’s be clear – Grease is the word for a reason. It is a cultural touchstone – to this day, you can still see Pink Ladies on Halloween. And Sandy’s carnival ensemble, while completely impractical for anything excluding cat burglary, is iconic. “Tell me about it, stud.” Come one, just reading that, you know exactly how long to pause at that comma. And I bet every single person reading this blog has seen The Sound of Music at least once. You all know who tried to put Baby in a corner and why the Reverend doesn’t believe in dancing. And if you say you don’t, then you are my husband, who for some reason, seemed to have been raised in void of 80s and 90s pop culture.

I have so many more shows to see. Hamilton, obviously. I mean, I could sell my car for good seats, but then I’m not sure how I’d pay for my divorce. Both my kids are obsessed with In the Heights, but the only production I can find this year is playing three states away on a weekend when we are already triple booked (yet, I’m still trying to figure out how to make it work.) And while Dear Evan Hansen looks phenomenal, I’m not sure I can deal with two hours of that particular subject matter. For now, I’ll see whatever I can that come to Philly and raise my kids on a steady diet of Lin-Manuel Miranda and Andrew Lloyd Webber and hope for the best.  

The B is Back

I’ve abstained from blogging for a very long time.

A year and a half, to be exact.

Not for a lack of anything to say – ask my husband, I have not stopped talking. It was more like no one wanting to hear it. Not personally. Nationally. It’s hard to knock celebrity award shows when the Hollywood Advent Pervert Calendar is a living, breathing thing. It’s hard to blog when anything longer than two paragraphs is now considered a “long form” article because Twitter has condensed all of our thoughts into a character count. I’m not a mommy blog. I’m not a political activist, armchair sports analysist, or anyone particular with anything in particular to say. And after the last two years of politics, first the endless election cycle then living through year one of the Mad King, snarking about pop culture seemed as useful as dancing about architecture. 

Who cares what I think about a fictional female Doctor when actual health care is being turned on its head? Who cares about what books I read while the constitution is trod upon? How many posts did I think about, even write about, only to toss when something of actual value happened in the world? Reading the room meant realizing that the Internet had gone mean and rabid. The meek we had always hoped would inherit the earth turned into trolls who tried to destroy it. Being a woman with an opinion meant opening myself to being called words that even Carlin didn’t use on television. Was it worth it? Was posting something dumb and goofy that maybe 10 people would read on a good day a valuable use of my ever-diminishing “free time”? Was I just shouting into a hurricane, throat hoarse, unable to be heard?

Dunno.

However, what I do know is that I missed it. A lot. 

I am a much better writer than speaker. When I talk, I tend toward aphasia. I will stop mid-sentence, while the word I was about to say pops like a bubble out of existence. I try to remember the word and I have to get the shape of it, the sound of it, even the length of it correct before it will pop back into the sentence where it belongs. I say “um” and “ah” a lot. My vocabulary is limited. But when I write – well, the words flow much faster and have more meaning. I’m not saying I’m Shakespeare, but I’m not two monkeys banging on a keyboard either.

If you want to read what I have to say, that’s fantastic. If you don’t, I understand that too. It’s all good. I won’t take it personally. But I don’t just want to write it, I want to talk about it. I want comments, questions, I want a discussion. I want to remember what it felt like to talk about anything other than politics, climate change, and gross men doing gross things to women. I don't want to bring sexy back (and I'd really rather send Justin Timberlake away), but I want to remember what it feels like to write something on a regular basis that amuses, entertains, or interests people. Maybe I'll find an audience. Maybe a black hole symbolizing a complete lack of interest. Who knows? 

Let's find out together.   

Death by Dander

So I decided to commit murder this week.

Sure, admitting it outright on the Internet seems like a poor way to set up an alibi, but in my defense, I don’t actually think anyone is really going to die. The victim may be a bit stuffy, and maybe get a bit wheezy, but in general, a handful of over-the-counter meds and a strong door lock will probably be all the protection necessary to survive and live a long and healthy life.  

Whom am I trying to kill? My husband.

Why am I trying to kill him? My children asked me too. My son has spent years asking me in more roundabout ways and then actually spent quite a bit of time online researching the different ways in which my husband could be killed. My daughter doubled down and said that if her brother could kill Daddy, then she wanted to do it too.  

How am I trying to kill him? Slowly. Very slowly. One day at a time, a little bit by little bit so that he barely even notices.

Where will the crime take place? At home. Less fuss and muss and much easier to clean up in the quiet of the night.

What is the murder weapon? Cats.

Yes, my friends, I am killing my husband with cats. Two of them. And yes, getting pets when you have a family member who is allergic may seem like cruel and unusual punishment – but it’s not like I slipped them in through the back door when he wasn’t looking. There were multiple conversations about why we were getting pets, who was going to look after the pets, and what we were going to name the pets. I was firm that there would be two of them because I think it is mean to have a singular pet. Everyone should have someone to cuddle with and pets are no exception. Plus, I have two kids, so one for each.

Honestly, the names took the longest time. My husband wanted Starsky and Hutch. I wanted Statler and Waldorf. My son wanted Luke and Leia and my daughter wanted Xander and Willow. Multiple Hamilton characters were paired together. Peanut Butter and Jelly was rejected outright but Chewie and Han had some legs. For a short period of time, I was convinced Sparks McGee and Fluffer Nutter were the winning combo. Farty McFartFace was considered, but no one could come up with comparable joke for the second cat. Finally, one day on vacation in the Pocono mountains, while riding a boat around Lake Wallenpaupak, my brother-in-law had enough. “What about Kipp and Epply?” he asked. For those unfamiliar that would be two out of the three islands on the very lake on which we rocked. “Humph.” My entire family sat, stunned with the ease at which the answer had been presented. Winner!

So, one hot Saturday, I took Bubbles with me to the local Petco, where they present shelter animals for adoption. We were going to preview the selection so that the kids didn’t fall in love with something that bit or spit or had an extra tail or a gunshot wound. (You laugh, but my mother has brought home animals that fit those descriptions not once but three times.) And there, just waiting for us, were the atrociously named Mother Hen and Love Chicken. Some people really don’t take naming seriously. I dutifully filled out a questionnaire with such suspicious questions as “How do you discipline a cat?” and “Where will your cat sleep?” I wrote my best guesses (You don’t and wherever it wants), paid the nominal fee, and within an hour was the new servant of two cat masters.

My mother was prouder of the cat adoptions than she was the birth of her grandchildren. She has already given me cat beds, cat blankets, cat food, cat litter, cat magazines, cat books, cat calendars, and cat grooming supplies. The kids argued over who got to sleep with the cats until they realized cats are nocturnal and “sleep” was an adjective that does not describe listening to two kamikaze kittens race around the room knocking everything over, jumping up and down all night long and essentially behaving like crack addicts. My husband has already been spotting trying to get the damn things to sleep on his chest and I have amused myself by getting them bags of Halloween toys from the dollar store. There really is nothing like watching a cat roll blood-shot eyeballs around the floor to get into the holiday spirit.

The cats seem to appreciate their new home. There was little to no period of adjustment. From the moment we let them out of the cat carrier, they have followed us around the house happily. While they aren’t quite lap cats, they are lap-adjacent. Kipp, the three-month old kitten enjoys the rocket approach to locomotion and is already being referred to as the Sniper, as he is able to silently smack right into your ankles like a furry bullet when you least expect it. He’s a fast little beast and as he is too young for a collar, enjoys stealth maneuvers. Epply has a bell on her collar, which makes her easy to hear, but she also is the more vocal of the two and likes to meow or purr for attention. They also seem to be able to either pick locks or walk through walls because we keep closing bedroom doors at night and keep finding them inside the closed rooms come morning. Last night, I awoke to find a cat purring happily three inches from my face. The marital bedroom was supposed to be cat-free. No fur. No dander. No middle of the night barfing or coughing up of hairballs. An allergen-free space where my husband could breathe freely. But no, there was Eppily taking a bath right between the two of us while her son kept falling off the windowsills with loud crashes.

So yes, technically, getting cats with an allergic husband is probably not the best way to show my love for him. But it could be worse. I could have gotten a dog.   

Breaking the Curse

I just finished reading Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.

I didn’t like it.

It actually breaks my heart to say that. I think J.K. Rowling is a master storyteller. I just think no one needed to tell this particular story.

Before I monologue about the current book, let me touch upon the series as a whole. Mistakes were made; the biggest mistake being the final chapter of the final book. Albus Severus is a dumb name. Does Ginny not have any dead family member she could have memorialized (cough Fred cough)? Couldn’t they have given them middle names that were family-based and allowed them the freedom to be their own people with original first names? I always felt that Harry should have understood that. I also think killing Fred was an enormous mistake. A far better story arc would have been killing Percy, newly returned to the family. His sacrifice, for the brothers who distrusted him the most, would have absolved him of all his sins. Instead, he comes back in the nick of time to watch Fred die in the most unflattering way possible. It is the most unnecessary death in the series. I’d even sub in Arthur Weasley – at least he would have died protecting his family and Molly had proven that she was more than strong enough to carry on without him, even though his loss would have broken her heart. Her sons, including the newly returned Percy, would have rallied around her admirably.

But, here we are, 17 years later once again and I’m still not happy.

The play reads like fan fiction. There, I said it. 

HERE THERE BE SPOILERS.

BIG.

HONKING.

SPOILERS.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

The big bad is Voldemort’s daughter? Really? REALLY? What is this, a Spanish telenova? Did Voldemort seem like he was the type to take lovers? Even with Bellatrix basically throwing herself on his wand, I’m pretty sure his phoenix feather was not rising to the occasion.

The problem with having children grow up is that all the wonders of childhood have to fade away in the face of cold, hard reality. I like to believe that after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry hid away in 12 Grimmauld Place with Kreacher to come to grips with all that he had survived. I’ll stipulate that he did eventually become an Auror, but only after trying a few other paths first. I believe that Hermione would have gotten hired into the Ministry of Magic version of the mailroom and feverishly worked her way up to the top. And I agree with the fact that Harry and Ginny would have gotten married. But Ron and Hermione? Not so much. Sure, they would have dated, but her insane drive to succeed would have been at odds with his working at Weasley Wizard Wheezes, helping to fill the Fred-shaped hole in George’s life (which should be a Percy-shaped hole, but I digress.) I think they would have eventually broken up, had an awkward patch, and then returned to being good friends.

Basically, they would have become adults in a world that was peaceful and quiet. No bad guys to fight. While Dark Magic still existed, it would have been the type that Harry could hunt down during work hours and still be home in time for evening tea. In short, they would grew up to be boring. And that’s okay. They lived happily ever after. After seven books, eight movies, and countless pages on Pottermore, I think they earned that much.  

But now, I have to live in a world where the delicate father/son relationship enjoyed by Harry and Dumbledore becomes overbaked, overdone, and overly dramatic. We had hundreds of pages to mourn Cedric Diggory. We did not need another story based around a character that was best memorialized as being “the spare.” He really wasn’t that interesting the first time around and proves to be even less so as a MacGuffin. All these years, all the ideas she could have turned into stories and this is the one Rowling chose? Dumbledore wept. (Oh yes, in this book Dumbledore is so akin to a god that his name is used as one. Kill me now.)

By far the largest disappointment is that this is a play and not a book. What made the entire series so wonderful were all the details. The books were rich bowls of cream that needed to be savored because there were so many small ingredients that added to the story. The play is soy milk. It will substitute in a pinch, but no one ever really craves it. They just drink it because it’s the only thing left in the fridge.  

Details that are missing include, say, the rest of the goddamn Potter children! This is Hogwarts! Any fan can name a handful of minor characters off the top of their heads. Superfans, like my nutter of a daughter, can name dozens and show you how their minor actions, reactions, and behaviors added to the overall story in some way. In the play, we get mention of James and Lily Potter with a few throwaway lines, but little more. And where are all the cousins? Friends of the family, such as Teddy and Victoire? I realize I sound ridiculous here, but a man they refer to as Uncle Neville is a professor at the school and he doesn’t even get a line. NOT ONE LINE!

May I be super nitpicky for a moment? Why is there still even a Slytherin house? Every single bad wizard or witch came out of Slytherin. During the Battle of Hogwarts, the entire house was sent away because they couldn’t be trusted. Voldemort was the heir of Slytherin! Just sort people in three houses and be done with it. Get rid of the common room and turn it into a pool. Or rename it and try to give it a new reputation. But the whole concept of the (stupidly named) Potter child being put into the (stupidly) still existing Slythering is, let’s be crystal clear, stupid.

Also, my daughter wanted to know if Albus and Scorpius were gay. Um, maybe? Or not? There was definitely subtext, but not any plain text, so I said I wasn’t sure, but for now they are just really good friends.  

I hope now that Rowling has gotten the Potter universe out of her system for good and can move on to make good art that focuses on different mediums. While her Robert Galbraith books aren’t perfect, I am looking forward to the next one and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them looks like a lot of fun. Until then, I hope that she leaves well enough alone. 

And the Thunder Rolls

I just wanted to let you all know that the nominations for Parent of the Year are no longer necessary and that I am, without dispute, the hands-down winner of that most dubious award.

Whatever dumb shit you did, said, or attempted in the Olympic marathon that is parenting will pale in comparison to what I did to my daughter this week.

I sent her to sleep away camp.

Oh sure, it’s good for her. It teachers her independence and bravery, forces her to make friends and try new things, and according to a new article published this week, will actually help her earn higher scores on her SATs.

However,

Let me set the scene for you. My daughter refuses to open her bedroom windows. Ever. No matter the temperature, the weather forecast, and the time of year, she will not yield. If we open the windows while she is sleeping, she will most assuredly wake up and close them again. The sounds of nature are blocked at all costs. Not only does she have a fan to create white noise, but she also plays music all night long on top of it. As an infant in her crib, the very first thing she learned how to do was to smack her fat little foot into the music box attached to the slats to make it play. We could hear through the baby monitor every time she awoke because it was always followed by music. To this day, she has never slept without some form of music playing, whether it was a lullaby on repeat or Kidz Bop on her iPod.

The sound of the sea against the sand? The lake water lapping at the dock? Hates it. Rain pattering against the windows? Hates. It.

Why?

My daughter is deathly afraid of thunderstorms. She panics at the first sign of dark clouds and will start to cry at the first roll of thunder. If we are home, then she can stay relatively calm, but will opt to sleep under her brother’s bunk bed because she is worried about trees falling on her head. This is a kid who must see the weather report before any outdoor activity. In our house, our favorite weather people are spoken about as if they are our closest friends. “What did Adam [Joseph] say today?” Or, “What did JC [Severe Weather NJ] post?” I have multiple weather apps on my phone and when a storm approaches, my phone practically explodes with vibrations, noises, and alerts as multiple news outlets provide up-to-the moment updates on lightning strikes, rain levels, etc. We have found that knowing ahead of time helps her control her fear, because it allows her to control her location. Otherwise, she becomes the textbook example of a panic attack. Think I am exaggerating, feel free to ask any of my friends and family who have witnessed her losing her ever loving mind when a storm approaches.

How does this lead into my Parent of the Year award?

Because she spent her first night of camp out in the open while a thunderstorm raged around her.

I could not possibly have created a worse set of circumstances for her if I tried. When we took the tour of camp, and even when we dropped her off, the tent looked perfectly acceptable. Hot as hell, but I assumed there was some sort of flap that came up or down to allow air to enter. Well, I was right, in a way, in that the ENTIRE tent basically is lifted up and away so that the structure consists of nothing more than a ceiling, four poles, and a few beds covered in mosquito netting. Just going to sleep in that must have been an act of courage. The sounds of all those leaves, and animals, and wind must have been torture for her.

Then, in the middle of the night, when she had probably finally fallen into some sort of exhausted slumber, the first rumble of thunder hit. My daughter has superb hearing. Whisper the word “cookie” and she will come running from three rooms away. Say her name and she appears, like Voldemort, because she is desperately nosy and must always know what is being said about her. So trust me when I say that that when God knocked down a pin in his cosmic bowling game, my kid was wide awake. Out in the open. Surrounded by strangers. In the middle of a thunderstorm that she was not even aware was coming.  

I’m honestly surprised I didn’t get a call at 4am asking us to come get her.

When the second storm moved in 18 hours later, at the end of what must have been a very long first day, my husband and I watched the radar like it was our job. Was it going to hit her location? Sadly, the answer was yes. This time, the girls were all safely ensconced in the dining hall having a dance party. But they still had to walk back to their tents afterward, the pathways all mud and puddles, the bugs out in full force, using flashlights and head lamps to light the way. To go to sleep in a stifling tent, with absolutely no air flow, with wet feet and pants bottoms, hoping that yet ANOTHER storm didn’t rear its ugly head.

And still no phone call. 

See, the problem with the camps is that we can see her and contact her, but she can’t do the same to us. I can stalk her on camp Facebook page, which regularly posts pictures, and I can send her a daily e-mail that is printed out for her to read, but she cannot reply. I have no idea how she is holding up this week. I found out about the “floating tents” via Facebook. Did she enjoy getting chased by a counselor in a dragon costume? Or being blindfolded while she tried to untie a stuffed animal from a pole? Does she like making dragon snot? It’s all a mystery. I can follow what she is doing, but have no idea what she is thinking. The only thing I know is that she is still alive and even that is suspect since I haven’t seen her in any pictures since Wednesday.

She comes home today after another night of rain. Either she is cured of her fear or she will never go outside again. Regardless of which way the wind blows (as it were), I’m pretty sure her therapy bills for this week alone will rival those of her college tuition.

I’ll take my trophy now, thank you very much. 

Adventure of a Lifetime

I’m too old for this shit.

That is what I said to myself as I unlocked my front door at 5am on a Monday morning after staying out all night at a concert.

Bubbles and Boobs were going to set out on yet another adventure. We couldn’t acquire tickets to Coldplay, her favorite band when they played in Philly, a stone’s throw from our homes, but she was able to get us two tickets for the Meadowlands up in North Jersey. (I refuse to call it Met Life Stadium. There is no romance in bank-named locations.) Worried about the traffic in that area, we decided to take the train. Drive 45 minutes to the train, ride for almost two hours, transfer trains, ride another 20 minutes and viola – we have arrived. We did, however, find it troubling that no one was on the trains with us. I mean, this was a sold out concert in a stadium that easily holds 50,000 people (that is lowballing the 82,000 max capacity due to certain sections being closed because they were behind the stage.) And the train from Secaucus to the Meadowlands was empty. Weird, right?

Upon exiting, we turn to the conductor and ask, “Coldplay is tonight, right?”

This man turned to us and says, “No, that was last night and tomorrow night. Tonight is soccer."

Dead. Silence.

Bubbles looks at me. I look at her. The conductor looks at both of us like we are idiots.

“Really?” I ask, in a dumbfounded, oh shit, voice.

“Nah.” He says, cracking himself up. Bastard.

Turns out, we were just really early and most people don’t show up ‘til right before the big act hits the stage. Upon arriving at security, the friendly guard checked our ticket. His face dropped. He looked at me and said, “This ticket is for last night’s show.”

“Really?” I ask, in a dumbfounded, oh shit, voice.

He turns to the guard standing next to him. “Check it out.” She nods, turns to us and says, “This ticket says the 16^th. You had tickets for last night’s show.”

“REALLY?” Bubbles and I ask in unison.

“Nah.” They laugh, cracking themselves up. Bastards.

So there we were, four hours early, in 100-degree heat, with the average bottle of water going for $5 and seats five rows from the top. We were the concert equivalent of the early bird special. We were, in short, old.

We made do by making fun of other people. Yup. I’m like that. Never fear, body shapes themselves were off limits. I have no right to make fun of anyone on that score. But clothing choices? Totally up for mockery. Harem pants. A guy in a monkey outfit. Rompers! (Bubbles was for, I was against.) Women in super high heels were perplexing to us, as were the men in jeans and long-sleeves. (Much later in the evening, spied with our exhausted eyes a woman wearing a full length winter puffy coat. With sandals.)

Eventually, we scaled the stairs and made it to our perch. The show itself was fantastic. Bubbles is a huge fan, I am a casual fan, and both of us were very pleased with what we saw. I don’t know much about Chris Martin, but the man is in phenomenal shape. He ran up and down that stadium floor as if it were inches instead of yards, without every missing a beat in his songs. Every attendee was given wristbands that acted like coordinated glow sticks throughout the night. Michael J. Fox showed up to play Johnny B. Goode on the guitar and it was phenomenal. Overall, a great show.

But then we had to get home.

All those people we were worried weren’t on our train earlier? Yeah, we found them all. And then some. And then some more. Tens of thousands of people were herded like cattle into a huge pen to try to get on the train out of the Meadowlands. According to the crowd, we were actually experiencing the best case scenario in that we weren’t surrounded by tens of thousands of angry, drunk, freezing cold football fans but instead, mellow Millennial concert-goers. But it was hot, sticky, smelly, and chaotic. I reached a new level of friendship with Bubbles as we decided holding hands was really the only way to ensure we didn’t get separated.

Almost two hours after the concert ended, we finally made it to Secaucus. Thirty. Hungry. Sweaty. An hour after that, our train to Hamilton finally arrived. Still thirty. Still hungry. Even sweatier. Two hours after that, we finally arrived in Hamilton. I downed a bottle of hot water like it was a gift from God. After another 45 minutes of driving, we arrived in our town and into the only diner open at that ungodly hour. We snarfed down turkey clubs, drank copious amounts of liquids, and tried to ignore the episode of Law & Order screaming at us from the TV.

Finally, as the sun started to rise in the sky, I made my way into my house, into a hot shower, and into my bed.

Bubbles, the valiant warrior, actually made it through an entire day of parenting on two hours of sleep. I slept through til lunch and just hoped the kids didn’t kill each other while I snored. It was a long night, a great concert and a phenomenal story. But seriously, I’m way too old to do that again any time soon. 

The Room Where It Happened

I believe that many people underestimate the necessity of being able to read a room.  My mother, famously, is unable to do so. For example, the day I delivered my second child, I was in really bad shape. Not good. Dicey, I’d even go so far as to say. My son was whisked to the baby nursey while I stayed in recovery for a very long time. To this day, my husband and I do not know the length of time between delivering my son and actually meeting him for the first time and our best guess is several hours. I tell this part of the story not for sympathy, but to set the scene. So, I’m finally, finally being wheeled into a room. Finally, finally, I’m going to see the tiny little being that I made. My husband was walking alongside the gurney and my parents are hovering outside the door of the hospital room. I look like Death has come knocking and may still be lingering to see if anyone is home. (My MIL had a picture of me taken about an hour later, so trust me when I say, the only thing missing from my ensemble was a toe tag.)

And as I am being wheeled past, my mother turns to my husband, and says, “So, how’s work?”  

Honest to God, that actually happened.

The Internet is the room right now and the tone of it is hurt, sad, vengeful, and stupid. While my goal is to write a weekly blog that is entertaining, there aren’t a lot of laughs in the world right now. Every day, there is another terrorist attack, another shooting, another Trump story. We are splitting hairs over which lives matter most, who counts as a good guy vs. a bad guy, and what is actually a weapon. Let me give you a hint about that last one – if it can kill you, then it is a weapon. If you are using it to kill someone else, then it is a weapon. Good? Good.

Every time a celebrity dies, the world rushes as one to social media to be the first to say rest in peace. Now we are rushing to offer our thoughts and prayers. To what end? We are all, in some way, affected by the tragedies buffeting our nation and our world right now. I have never been to France, but I’ve been to Virginia Tech. We all bemoan what is happening, but what the hell are we doing about it? And if your answer is playing Pokemon Go, then good for you. If your answer is doing anything that involves being loving and kind and wonderful to the human race, then good for you. You are part of the solution. But if you are the dipshit coming up with hateful memes and splitting hairs about which guns, exactly, are the ones doing the shooting, then you, sir or madam, may go to Hell.

I want to talk about my severe case of Hamilaria. Or how my youngest SIL is trying to kill my husband with a kitten named Yoda. Or how I have embraced the concept of taking the summer off of errands and activities so much that my kids have dubbed me “Summer Mommy” and say I am much more fun than the regular one. I want to be lighthearted and silly, but it would be like introducing a fart joke into the Scottish play.

So, please, for the love of all things holey and stinky, can we PLEASE go a week without flying a flag at half-mast? I really want to put my happy pants on again.  

I'd Build a Tree Fort In Our Yard

Once again, the Mega Millions is up to the absurd amount of half a billion dollars. This is an amount of money no one on earth actually needs unless they are single-handedly funding a space program or buying a small island country badly in need of infrastructure.

Asking people what they would do if they won such a large sum is one of my favorite questions. I actually did a Facebook poll once and someone answered, "Stonehenge." Here I thought I was being frivolous buying a Burberry purse, but no, he was going to buy one of the wonders of the world. He won.

After thinking it over obsessively for several years (whenever a big jackpot is up for grabs), this is what I think you should do if you win.

For starters, buy the ticket in one of those tiny corner stores that still exist in this country. They get a monetary prize for selling the ticket and I’d much rather see that money go to some hard-working individual just trying to run a business than a billion-dollar corporation that sells bucket-sized beverages. The other bonus of a mom and pop joint is that they don’t tend to have security cameras. The computer system that spits out the tickets knows the exact date, time, and location that ticket was sold. Match that to security footage and suddenly, grainy photos of your clueless mug are being circulated on YouTube before you even had time to check your numbers. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will.

Next, call a lawyer and a financial planner. I'm lucky enough to know a few of each, and my hope is that since we are personal friends first, and my windfall, through fees, would become their windfall, that honesty would prevail. The signed ticket itself would have already gone into a secure safety deposit box in a random bank in a random town. Once you get all the legal details squared away, then wait. Every lottery system allows for a certain number of days to pass before you legally have to claim your winnings. Wait until the last Friday afternoon of that period of time. Much like celebrities announcing their divorces, the goal would be to bury the news story amid the mid-afternoon haze of weekend travel updates and weather reports.

Then, decide how you will take the payout. I would prefer to take the long-term installment plan to both get more money and to avoid any possibility of spending it all at once. I realize that many prefer the big buy-out, theorizing that they could manage their own money better, but if they were such adept money managers, they wouldn't need to win the jackpot in the first place. As time and history has proven over and over again, money does not buy class, taste, or intelligence. I like the idea of a big fat check getting deposited into my account on a yearly basis. It is an excellent life insurance policy as winnings do not automatically go to next of kin and my kids would need me alive to keep the money coming. Either way, I would wind up with more money than God, and really, what does he even need to buy? Even a yearly payment would allow for Scrooge McDuck-style shenanigans (though why anyone would want to roll around naked in something as dirty as money is a mystery.)

Then what? I say reboot and reset. Pay off all your debts. House, car, loans, school, bookies, etc. I have heard that it is better to keep your mortgage as a tax write-off, but that seems like a lot more work and allows for banks to collect a shit ton of interest, so I’ll skip that and just own my property outright.  

Oh, and let me be clear. All of this must be done in absolutely secrecy. Don’t post it, tweet it, or breathe a word about it to anyone excluding the people who will help you make the financial decisions. Telling even one person will be the equivalent of just having a few friends over when your parents are away. Suddenly, you are in the midst of a raging kegger except instead of reaching for a beer, people will be reaching for your Benjamins. Lottery winnings are found money. You don’t earn a winning ticket, which means everyone and their step brother’s half-sister’s cousin twice-removed on your grandfather’s side will expect a piece of the pie. This isn’t a credit card commercial. Every friend, casual acquaintance, one-night stand, and barista at your local coffee shop doesn’t need to know what’s in your wallet. The free mug or t-shirt you get from being a guest on the morning news programs or afternoon talk shows will cost you millions in lawyer fees as you suddenly make yourself a target for every con man in the country. Is meeting a B-list celebrity in the green room really worth it? Doubtful. This may be the biggest, most important secret of your life. Keep it!

If you have to go public, do it strategically. Once again, timing is key. Wait as long as humanly possible. Provide as little information as allowed by law. You don’t want bells, whistles, or giant checks that don’t even fit through the door. You don’t need an agent or a manager or head shots. You need to keep your head down and your mouth shut.   

Once you are in possession of more money you will ever need, sit on it. BUY NOTHING. Say your car dies. Buy the Mitsubishi instead of the Maybach. Short on bathrooms and storage space? Buy the bigger house, avoid the biggest mansion. Take small baby steps in spending so that, God forbid, if you are like 70 percent of lottery winners and blow through all your money in a few years, at least you’ll have the basic building blocks of your life still firmly in place.

You don’t need to rent out Disneyworld. Really. You don’t. Sure, spend the money on first-class airfare, the best hotel, book the tour guide that gets you to the front of all the lines, eat in the best restaurants, and buy all the souvenirs. This is true for any vacation; turn the dial to eleven, but don’t change the channel. I have always wanted to stay in one of those small, high-end, super classy hotels that go for thousands per night and have the best rooms, views, and amenities. However, I’m not high end or super classy and all the money in the world isn’t going to make me so. This is why I advise living the best version of your own life, and skip trying to live the life of someone who looks like you, but has a bigger bank account. I just want to up my threat count, not wake up in someone else’s bed.

Finally, after a year, when you have taken plenty of time to really think about what you want out of your life, start spending the money. Wisely. Slowly. If you can’t say no to friends and family over something as simple as who will host a holiday, then hire a group of trusted advisors, create a board of directors, and let them sort through the long line of charities, entrepreneurs, and charlatans looking for a benefactor, angel investor, and sucker. You were just given the opportunity to change your life and those around you – don’t ruin it. I’m not saying don’t enjoy your money, but I am saying that don’t lose your mind doing so.

In short, buy the purse. Just tell everyone it’s a knock-off. And if you do find yourself in possession of one of wonders of the world, don’t brag about it on Facebook. You’ll just look like an asshole.