They're HEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

Day One: In which I unpacked an entire house and solved a minor medical crisis.

My parents moved this weekend. I swear to God, there are more boxes in my house than in theirs. College kids moving into their first apartment armed with little more than Salvation Army finds and some cast-offs from the family moved in with more boxes. Homeless people have more stuff. It was baffling. They had a big house. It was filled with crap. Liberally. And yet, here we were and there were barely enough boxes to fill one room, let alone one house.

However, since my mom seemed content to sit on the couch and do nothing, and my dad needed to keep taking frequent breaks due to age, I was pretty pleased to have fewer boxes to open. That is right up until I got out the scissors, the box cutter, the Swiss Army Knife, and Grindelwald’s wand to open the damn things. Secret organizations sending ancient artifacts to underground vaults put less tape on boxes than my dad. They also probably wash the relics before they wrap them, and possibly use materials other than gift bags, cardboard cutouts, and oven mitts to wrap breakables in, but maybe that’s why they have the big bucks. As I gingerly handled the various kitchen items, found places for them on the shelves, and tried to put order to chaos, it suddenly occurred to me that this was far too easy. One set of glasses and two mugs after a lifetime of living together? Where were the plates, bowls, and serving items? Where was the cutlery? For God’s sake, why couldn’t I find a spoon?

My mother threw them out, of course. She didn’t want to pack too much stuff.

Meanwhile, I was opening entire boxes filled with paper plates, anther filled with dozens of packets of cheese and crackers, and others filled with, no lie, empty bags. Not just the plastic ones you get at the grocery store, but actual empty dog food bags, and rice bags, etc. When I tossed them onto the garbage pile, I was told that they needed to be saved and used for picking up dog poop. I found a box of Tupperware all jumbled together and a box filled with nothing but plastic wrap and aluminum foil.

My dad literally just shoved everything not nailed down into a box and triple-taped it before my mother could get to it.

As I unpacked, I noticed a trend. My mom would wander by and try to unpack the exact box in which I was already elbow deep. She would move in alongside me, reach in, hand me an item, tell me what the item was, and then watch me put the item away. Yes, I know what a wine glass is, thank you. I would kindly point her toward another box, since many hands make light work, and she would immediately lose interest and drift out again. Over and over and over again.

At one point, I walked her into the master bedroom, told her that I refused to put away her clothes, pointed at the stack of boxes and told her to have at it. Every ten minutes for the next hour, I found her sitting in the living room again, studiously not unpacking. Her excuse – she couldn’t find the box of hangers.

Record scratch.

Wait, what? Why wouldn’t you just put the clothes, WITH hangers, into the boxes? Why would you take the time to take every single item off the hanger, pack the clothes, unpack the clothes, then put everything BACK on the hanger? Do you know how difficult it is to untangle an entire box filled with wire hangers? Jesus!

I spent quite a while unpacking books. I like to unpack books. I like to put them away by genre, in alphabetical order. That is actually fun for me. This was not fun. My mom was really helpful in that room too. She kept interrupting me to tell me that books were on the wrong shelf. I kept telling her that I was simply taking them all out first, and then organizing them after as it was far easier that way. She would nod and then tell me that something was on the wrong shelf again. I unpacked three full shelves of dog training books, one entire shelf of Harlequin romance-esque books, one shelf of books for my dad, and a shelf that had nothing on it except Good in Bed, Memoirs of a Geisha, and the Fifty Shades Trilogy. That one shelf alone might have scarred me for life. Oh, there were also multiple shelves of actual VHS and cassette tapes. If you ever need the soundtrack to Top Gun on cassette, I’m your girl.

Finally, I too, sat down on the couch. My mother turns to me and said, well, I guess your dad isn’t getting his oxygen.

Record scratch, part deux.

My dad has lung issues and needs oxygen to sleep lest he never wake up. He had been without it for a few days during the move and the new tanks had not been delivered. My mom decided to drop this little nugget of information after 5 p.m. on a Saturday, in the summer, in a house with no Internet. When I finally picked my jaw up off the floor, I immediately asked for the paperwork so I could make some calls.

My dad looked at my mom.

My mom looked at me.

“I threw that out too.”

Seriously?

Thankfully, (and after an emergency call to a doctor friend who is always willing to hand out free advice, much to my eternal thanks), with the help of my husband, an excellent customer service center rep, and a game technician who happily popped into her car long after hours to deliver his needed oxygen, the crisis was resolved. After feeding them the third meal of the day, and successfully managing to keep both of them alive one more day, I sent them home.

One point two miles away from mine. 

Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts

My parents are moving in a few weeks. It is like being smothered to death, one cardboard box at a time. They believe that certain things should not be put on a moving truck and instead, should be brought to my house for safekeeping. Their biggest concern is theft. Why anyone would steal some of this stuff is anyone’s guess. They also are taking the opportunity to clean out all the junk accumulated over almost 15 years of living in their current house. Things they always meant for me to have, but somehow never gave to me. Or things they think I should have, no matter whether or not I want them. Or things they bought a million years ago and are now “worth something.” My dad is a true believer that if you paid X for an item 10 years ago, then that item will automatically increase in price instead of decrease. This is doubly true if said item is “collectible.” Let’s be frank, nothing they collect is worth collecting. My husband and I agreed that we would take whatever they bring and either store it, keep it, or dump it. What follows is a list of the completely random items that have made the way from their house to mine.

Things I am storing:

• The past seven years of taxes
• Christmas wrapping paper – My mother didn’t realized that the rectangular storage box in which she already keeps all the damn paper is a perfectly acceptable moving container. She honestly thought everything had to be in a square box.
• Two complete sets of wedding silver – neither of which are from either of her weddings
•  Random tools, tool boxes, and tool sets - that are so laced with rust, they require thick gloves and a tetanus shot
• Family albums – filled with people I have never met, in photos that are all unlabeled
• “Art” – and yes, while I realize that art is subjective, this stuff is just beyond ugly.
•  A white chest freezer – which, I must say, looks mighty white trashy sitting smack dab in the middle of my goddamn living room

Things I am keeping:

• An antique liquor cabinet – which will house first edition and/or signed books
• A steamer trunk – which must be fully refinished to chip away the fossilized cat hair 
•  A giant toy box – It is a standard issue craft fair item, but they insist it is worth a small fortune. It’s not, but they will throw a hissy fit if I dump it.
• 24 rolls of paper towels 
• 12 boxes of mac & cheese
•  A Blair Witch angel – yes, an angel that looks like it came right out of the prop department of your basic low-budget horror movie is taking up permanent residence on my lawn because, sometimes, you need that little jolt of terror to get through your day

Things I am dumping:

• Several pounds of meat so old and freezer-burned they may actually be from a wooly mammoth
• Five pounds of frozen corn and two quarts of fake maple syrup
• A set of champagne glasses – My mom insisted that I needed wine glasses. I don’t. And even if I did, the ones she brought are clearly champagne glasses. Says it right on the package.
• A cornucopia  - because nothing says let’s give thanks for bountiful food than neon red plastic apples
• Multiple Christmas decorations that were broken, bizarre, or just plain terrifying. Carolers should not be screaming in terror.

Things I have killed:

• The mouse that joined the exodus of boxes met death by peanut butter, which, to be fair, isn’t the worst way to go

I can’t wait to see what their truck looks like when it opens up its bounty at the new house. After dumping endless piles of nonsense at my house, basement, and shed, they have also sold or donated at least three rooms worth of furniture. I fully expect a half empty truck to pull up and unload a dozen boxes of dog food and cat litter, a box of bedding, and a teapot. Then my mother will ask where the closest Boscov’s is so that she can go out and buy all the stuff she threw out. 

Neil Says “Hi” By The Way

As always, I blame Rorey for starting this.

A few months ago, she sent me a picture of a little building filled with books in a yard. She pointed out that it would be perfect for me and I should have my husband build one. As I am in the habit of doing exactly what Rorey tells me to do, I am proud to say that my official Little Free Library is now open for business. Let’s get to the specifics.

Who runs it?

I am the official steward of my library. This means that I am completely in charge of stocking it, maintaining it, and spreading the word about it. If that sounds like too much work, then you can always get a whole group of people to rally. But I love books and cultivating my own little patch of reading is heaven on a two-by-four. However, I am always, always, always, looking for donations of books: adult, kids, fiction, non-fiction, board books, comic books, and everything in between.

What is a Little Free Library?

Well, a few years ago, a guy in Wisconsin thought it would be a great idea to build a miniature one room school house (in honor of his mother), fill it with books, put a big sign on it that said FREE, and put it on his lawn. His neighbors loved it. He loved it and started building them and giving them away as gifts. Five years later, there are roughly 15,000 teeny tiny libraries all over the United States. (They are also popular in other countries.) Check out Littlefreelibrary.org for more information.

Where is it?

You can find it right in my own front yard. My brother-in-law would disown me if I put my actual address out into the ether for this, but locals know how to find me. I live on a jogging, dog-walking, bike-riding street, so hopefully I’ll get lots of foot traffic and through social media, lots of word of mouth.

When is it open? 

All the time!

How do you build one? 

Any way you want! I’ve seen birdhouses, lighthouses, magazine racks, newspaper stands, doll houses, miniature houses of all shapes and sizes, and dozens upon dozens of Tardis replicas. Make it sturdy, make it durable, make it water-resistant, but make it accessible. It has to be visible, easy to reach, and not require people to really trespass on your property to get to it. My husband is installing a little spotlight on ours. If you don’t want to build one, you can buy one right off the Little Free website.

Why did I do this?

Because Rorey told me to? Actually, it is because I love books. I am constantly putting books in my mailbox for people to borrow. I love nothing more than talking about books, reading books, and buying books. If you know me at all, you know that I am a bibliophile and a bookworm. I am not precious about it. I haven’t read Proust, or all of Shakespeare’s plays, or every book on the top 100 books of all time. I love comic books, hate the term “chick lit”, and think that if you love it, you should read it. Period. It makes me weep that the year E.L James raked in millions for 50 Shades, there was no Pulitzer given for fiction, but I do realize that 50 brought a lot of people back to reading whereas The Pale King didn’t.

But do your really, really, really want to know why I did it? I did it because books are cool. Last night, I tweeted three authors about my library, telling them that their books were inside. All three responded. Let me be clear – Neil Gaiman, Jennifer Weiner, and Joe Hill all personally responded to tell me that they loved the library. Neil F'ing Gaiman tweeted me. Then retweeted it. So did Joe Hill and Jennifer Weiner. I told them I was giving away their books, for free. I was not buying them as gifts and handing them out. I was not in any way putting a dime in their pocket for their work. And still they loved it. Why? Because they want books to be shared, loved, and discussed. (Erin Morgenstern, author of The Night Circus tweeted that she thinks the library is fantastic. I may just die happy now.)

Books are a great equalizer. When the Apocalypse comes and knocks out all the power, you can still read books. When the zombies come and start eating people, there are lots of books on how to survive. You can get books in prison, on a cruise ship, and everyplace in between. Don’t want to buy a book – borrow one from the millions of free libraries (big or small) throughout the world. All you need is the ability to read or listen. Books can take you anywhere, to any place or time. You can read about anyone, doing anything, anywhere. Books are the gifts that keep on giving. And my husband built me a library so I can share my love of books with you. Don’t let all his work go to waste.

Please, stop on by and pick one up for yourself.
Take a book, leave a book.
Always a gift, never for sale.

Mommy Dearest

A good friend gave me an excellent piece of advice today. 

She said, “Treat your mother the way you want your kids to treat you.”

Well shit.

I may just be heading for an early death smothered under a pillow if that’s the case. 

So long and thanks for all the fish.

In truth, I work very hard to keep my kids in the dark about my feelings toward my parents. All venting is done in private, to my husband, after the kids are in bed. Unfortunately, my eldest has the aural acuity of a bat. Though she tends to ignore us when we use words like clean, laundry, or shower, say the word “cookie” under your breath, in the basement, with your head in a dryer and I assure you, she will, from two floors away and the depths of sleep, come barreling down the stairs in search of the aforementioned treat. She has probably heard more than I want or realize, but I think it is the little ticks that occur whenever my mother calls that might possibly give more away than the occasional “AND THEN” echoing off the walls. Things like not answering the phone, for one. Or the fact that I often have to take a deep breath, close my eyes, count to 10 (“in Greek” quotes my inner Sean Connery), and then answer it, for another. When a visit occurs, I tend to be a bit tightly wound both before and after and as much as I try to hide it, I’m sure they notice. They notice when I change my earrings or my toenail polish, surely they notice the days when I tend to snap at them without reason.

So how can I teach my children to respect and revere me while at the same time, actively disrespecting my mother at every opportunity? It’s a stumper. You may all shake your head at me, upset at the language I use and the tone I take, thinking of how awful it would be to speak of your own beloved mothers in such a voice. I get that. I really do. But you have to give me one vice. I don’t cry. I don’t scream or shout. I tend to calmly describe my emotions instead of actually acting them out. (This has led to some truly odd conversations with my husband.) I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. I’m currently “on a break” from Ben & Jerry. The one thing I do, and I do it really, really well, is make fun of my mother.

And let’s be honest, if you all had such rich material, you would do the same. I have dined out on stories about my mother for years, possibly decades. She is legendary among my friends and acquaintances. She is not abusive, she is not harmful (in large doses), and she is not dangerous. However, she is, completely and utterly batshit crazy. I share her stories in a sane, rational voice to help others enjoy and appreciate their own mothers. I have never exaggerated a story. I have never lied about something she has said or done. I don’t need to. In all instances, the truth is strange than fiction.

As my parents get older, I will take care of them. It’s the right thing to do and I am the only person to do it. I’m okay with that. While I don’t necessarily want them living on my block, living in the next town is perfectly acceptable. I don’t mind being the parent in the relationship; I just wish the actual parent did not dress like a toddler run amok in the Disney store. While it would be nice if my advice was taken as Gospel, I’d be fine with it at least being the Book of Mormon. I don’t mind listening to a seemingly endless play-by-play of last week’s episode of The Amazing Race as long as the same conversation includes an equally detailed accounting of my dad’s last doctor visit. It’s all about moderation. I will help them in their life, but I will not let them take over mine.

So, how will I teach my children to do as I say but not as I do? Simple – by showing them that a sense of humor can get you through just about anything in life - even a visit with my mother. For the time being, I’ll still work blue, but I’ll at least try to stay pastel. Because, let’s be real, when the midden hits the windmill, it will be an important life lesson for them to learn that even when you can’t keep your cool, you can always keep your wit. 

And the Oscar Goes To . . .

This year’s Oscars were as bad as this year’s Super Bowl. Lots of excitement leading up to the big show, but almost immediate and total crushing disappointment once it got started. I’m talking about Ellen.

Look, she seems like a lovely woman. Obviously, with a talk show that survives on celebrity guests, she wasn’t going to make fun of them on a Sunday and then try to book them on a Monday. I get it. However, she was so far from biting wit that she was nothing more than a toothless mutt gorming wetly onto a blanket. Give me a song and dance number, or some mean-spirited jokes, or anything that shows the host prepared, even a tiny bit, for the evening. Instead, we got selfies and pizza. That is comedy?

Other lowlights included the gallery of dead people montage. I believe this section is officially called In Memoriam and while those in attendance have finally figured out that they should not clap when their favorite person is shown on the screen – as this is essentially a wake, not a popularity contest – it still leaves the audience at home scratching their heads trying to remember if they knew such and such was dead. It is the perfect time for a potty break, refills, etc. This year, they did the entire bloody thing and THEN had Bette Midler stride out in all her glory and belt out Wind Beneath My Wings. Um. What? Couldn’t she have sung during the montage and killed two birds with one warbling stone? Did the slowest, most boring part of the evening have to be TWICE as long?

This was an especially bizarre choice because they also let Pink sing the entirely of Over the Rainbow in appreciation of Judy Garland. Let’s parse this problem out slowly. Judy Garland’s own children were in the audience. One of those children is Liza Freaking Minnelli. This is a woman who already owns an Oscar for singing in a musical. She has pipes (and an EGOT, but I’ll get back to that.) So why, exactly was she sitting in the audience watching someone else salute her own mother? It’s a mystery.

There were just so many strange choices. They brought out big name celebrities to rush through three best picture choices at a time, barely showing scenes or moments or even title cards. The best song choices got to sing at best, half of their songs. That left plenty of time for a montage of heroes (conspicuously free of any heroines) another one of animated characters, and the aforementioned shout out to the very dead Judy Garland. This type of producing drives me crazy. Focus on the essentials – the actual shit actually nominated. Then, if you have time, throw in some bonus stuff, but make it relevant and make it entertaining.

The presenters were also problematic. It felt as if someone wanted old Hollywood represented so they raided the closest old folk’s home to see who they could dig up and throw onstage. I am not disparaging the acting ability of Kim Novak or Sidney Poitier. However, she was an advertisement for The Joker’s makeup line and he was the textbook definition of doddering. While it was nice to see how gently Matthew McConaughey and Angelina Jolie dealt with these poor souls, I honestly felt they both should have been left wrapped in blankets, with a nice cup of tea back in their own homes. 

And then there was John Travolta. Jesus Mary and the oft-forgotten Joseph. I don’t know if he was channeling the Crypt Keeper, dead Elvis, or Castor Troy, but dear God, whatever they stuck on top of his head was terrifying. He had one job to do – introduce Idina Menzel. Now I realize that is an unusual name. However, I know they ask the actors to show up the day before to practice. For those who announce nominees, they actually pre-tape the names so that they don’t mess them up (which is why they always cut away from the actors on stage to show clips.) What John Travolta did to her name was a travesty. He got up on stage, seconds before she had to belt out the frontrunner for best song, a song beloved by millions of children, a song many people had spent the entire show waiting for – and he called her Adele Dazeem.

Uh-deen-a          does not equal                  Adele.

Men-zell              does not equal                  Dazeem.

Asshole.

There is also such an obvious cool kids vs non-cool kids vibe during the telecast that I thought things got weird. The first three rows are the cool kids. They get the pizzas. They get to dance with Pharrell. They are the ones who get to walk onstage. The rest of the audience, even those up for awards? Relegated to the cheap seats. A man won an EGOT last night. I yelled so loud in triumph that my husband, sound asleep on a nearby chair, almost fell off it in shock. An EGOT! Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony! One guy, all those awards! That is something worth shouting about. But did it get any more than a passing mention on the telecast? Nope. Because he is a songwriter, so no one gives a shit. There are only 12 EGOT winners in existence. If Bette Midler had won an Oscar and earned her EGOT, balloons would have poured down from the ceiling and a marching band would have come out. But it was just a song writer (even if he is the youngest person in history, at 38 years of age, to have accomplished this) so the show just went on.

I am not going to discuss the awards. I haven’t seen most of the movies, so my opinion is invalid at best. I did like the general bitchy vibe of Cate Blanchett’s speech and the goofy earnestness presented in Matthew McConaughey’s. He managed to throw out both a “Just Keep Livin’” and an “alright, alright, alright” so he’s still aces in my book. I still wish Channing Tatum didn’t insist on wearing clothes and wish some of the actresses wore more of them (bras, for starters), but overall, they were all no doubt deserving and hopefully were gracious in defeat.

One day, I am going to throw my own Oscar party. But until I have some skin in the game and it is a race for Matt vs. Ben, or a project I loved, or actors I can actively root against, I’ll just have to keep bitching on Twitter, Facebook, and blogs.  

Cleanin' Out My Closet

My parents are considering moving. Right before I got married, they moved into a new home in a new state. Their new home was twice the size of their old one for half the number of people and they immediately filled it with a menagerie of dying and decrepit animals. It is basically a nursing home for dogs and my daughter weeps in fear and breaks out in allergic hives every single time we go visit.  

Many years and a major health scare later, they want to move. They have finally realized that the house is too big and that, in case of emergency, my being an hour away (without traffic) is a problem for them. The fact that they decided to move onto the same BLOCK as my family is sort of a problem for me, but one that I may never actually have to solve because long before my parents will pack the last cardboard box, they are going to put each other into matching pine ones.  

Neither one is able to handle change well. Both are pack rats, though of widely disparate items. What this means is that every time she throws out one of his items, he hunts through the trash for it and returns it to its proper place in the garage or basement. He is convinced that every car part, tool, lamp, and piece of furniture is “worth something.” Every time he convinces her to give away a candle, beach bag, or garage-sale toy, she immediately buys something new to replace it, convinced that she will need it as a gift for someone at a later point in time. The best part is that they both call me to yell about the other one. It is a cycle of insanity that cannot be broken.

This weekend, after discovering that they have started dismantling and moving random pieces of furniture for absolutely no reason, we went to visit. As always, my daughter cried then swelled. My son wandered, bored out of his mind, desperate to find the one pet in the house with the normal amount of fur, teeth, and body parts. My poor husband, practically high on the amount of allergy medication required to get through a house liberally covered in dust, cat, and dog fur, simply lugged whatever he was told and tried to stay out of the way.

I prepared for battle. My first war zone was the liquor cabinet. My parents have a beautiful one that came from my great-grandmother. There may not be quite enough liquor in it for the average gathering at my children’s school, but it would be enough for an average wedding. I decided it was high time to clear out the shelves. Obviously, we all know I don’t drink. However, I know of many a beer-n-beer, bazaar, and family fun night that could use a basket of booze to raffle off for a good cause. As I emptied shelf after shelf of top-shelf liquor, my dad stood next to me, like a grumpy old troll guarding his bridge, eyeing every bottle. My dad, the Irish cop, never drinks more than the occasional Coors Light while at home. Thus, it was a mystery why he had both Jameson and Johnny Walker (red and black label), Baileys, Beefeater, and Bacardi, and not one, but two bottles EACH of Absolute and Courvoisier. My parents, neither of whom have ever once had a glass of wine, possess a dozen bottles in a variety of shades. They had mini-bottles of wine from weddings so long ago, the kids produced from those unions are of drinking age. When I was little, I was fascinated by a little bottle that looked exactly like a grenade. This weekend, I convinced my dad to detonate it and the “white dessert wine” that issued forth was a toxic, clumpy brown. I did eventually liberate all but the wine and the Jameson, but I kept an eye on my dad as he packed up the bottles lest he try to pull a fast one and take half of them back.

During this battle over alcohol neither party would actually drink, my mother was gleeful. She was less so when I decided that the second battleground was going to be her “crap closet,” so named by me years ago because nothing in it is worth greater than ten dollars. I have spent years going through this closet every birthday and holiday, as she parcels out one precious, discount item at a time. This weekend, I took it all. No more board games “for the poor kids,” or board books “for when someone has a baby shower.” No more puzzles “in case I need to throw one in with a gift” and no more craft sets “for when the kids come to visit.” My town pool needs new games, my town library needs books, and my town summer rec program needs crafts. And while she hemmed and hawed over every single item, she did eventually give up everything including the ugly umbrella-shaped lamp shade, which strangely enough, turned out to be an ugly umbrella-shaped bird feeder.  

Once they realized I was not taking no for an answer when it came to taking the good stuff, they started bringing out the boxes of bad stuff. Did I want a mini-crepe maker? No. How ‘bought a cast iron griddle so encrusted that it might actually have been used as a murder weapon? No. A giant princess piggy bank with a missing crown? No. The miniature version, but with feathers? No. If the crap closet was the backroom at a Boscov’s, this was the discount section of the same, where everything is half off and broken. Eventually, I just started saying yes to everything. In the end, it is far better that this stuff winds up in my trash cans than their moving boxes.

So, while a few battles have been won, the war is far from over. Realtors still need to be procured in their state and heavily bribed in mine. There are still many closets, rooms, and drawers filled to the brim with things that are both worthless and priceless and two people who don’t know the difference. Plus, the ultimate showdown, the epic battle of wills between mother and father has yet to happen. This will be the deciding factor between good and evil and will be an apoplectic Apocalyptic war unlike any other. Oh yes my friends, the final death match is still to come ---- the garage.

50 Shades: The Musical!

I recently received an e-mail from my friend “Rorey” telling me about something absurd called Fifty Shades! The Musical. Within minutes, I had bought tickets for both of us. You see, Rorey and I have already watched soft-core porn together by, as we thought of it at the time, supporting local theater. Last year, she took me to see The Full Monty at a local playhouse filled with local actors. What this meant, in the context of this play, is that I saw the crab cake guy from the supermarket in all of his, um, glory. For the record, shellfish is officially off the menu.

Rorey and I did not know exactly what to expect from our second foray into dubious musical theater. I knew the premise was supposed to be a book club that discusses the novel in song. I expected a bit racy, and maybe even slightly off-color dialogue, but I did not expect an entire song titled, “Fill My Hole” that was stuffed with so many double entendres, they went right into triples. Sure, the lobby had a kiosk filled with pink puffy handcuffs, a grey tie (not the one from the cover) and lipstick that you would could not apply in public without being arrested for indecent exposure, but I thought it was all in jest. Or I thought that until two actors simulated sex on top of a member of the audience. I have never, ever in my life been so excited to be in the cheap seats and far away from the stage as at the very moment in my life.

Basically, the show went back and forth between the women discussing the book, and scenes from the book itself. The show was not subtle, but it was smart. Ana was dressed all in beige. She addressed her roommate by her full name, every single time. Jose was a flamenco dancer who never stopped taking her picture and hit on her piteously. There were hot guys wearing very little clothing and a woman in little more than a corset and garters who acted as Ana’s Inner Goddess. And let me tell you, when the first hot guy came out shirtless, I was really looking forward to meeting Christian. And that is where the show was brilliant.

Christian Grey, the supposed hottest guy on the planet was played by a man who could have been Chris Farley’s long-lost twin brother. He belly hung ponderously over his pants, his shirt was too tight, his line readings were a marvel of Shatner-esque proportions, and he didn’t dance so much as flit and flitter about the stage. During one song, he donned a Borat-like swimsuit in ruby red and proceeded to prance and pounce around the stage like a drunken uncle at a wedding. It brought to mind the infamous Chris Farley/Patrick Swayze SNL sketch from the 80s where the two played Chippendales dancers. He was gloriously absurd, so anti-Christian that you were helpless to do anything but laugh. A lot. The show also threw in fantastic tributes to The Phantom of the Opera, The Mikado, Les Miserables, and in moment so bizarre that I will never, ever be able to look at light sabers the same way again, Star Wars. It also managed to skewer the basic premise of the novel over and over with Ana endlessly taking about freedom and Christian endlessly talking about fisting. Fisting. Fisting. Fisting. They used that word so much, it actually ceased to have any meaning at all.  

The show is a touring production (I included the link) and I highly suggest that you go see it. Grab your best girlfriends, specifically the ones you can talk dirty with (because the other ones may actually die of shame) and make it a girl’s night out. There is one section of the show that is customized by region and while my Christian sang “I could eat you like a cheesesteak,” yours will probably sing about something different that manages to be both wildly inappropriate but also completely hysterical at the exact same time – exactly like the book!

http://50shadesthemusical.com/tour/