Body and Blood

My daughter's First Communion was this past weekend. Considering the stress, time, and money involved, it might as well have been a mini-wedding. I send her to Catholic school so that I don't have to deal with the religious education of my child specifically to avoid questions such as, "Mommy, why does the communion wafer taste like cardboard?" My first response, aka, my inner voice, was to ask what dried blood and decayed meat should taste like, being that she is, according to the tenets of her faith, eating the body and blood of a dead man. My second response, or the words I actually said out loud asked what flavor would work best. She thought lemon would be good.

As readers of this blog know, in second grade, the kids make the sacrament of confession and the one of communion. At her school, this entails endless meetings, e-mail reminders, paperwork, and really, really random take-home sheets. Confession was in February, and no, I did not confess my sins as my priest would have preferred. Instead, I watched my husband dither about whether he should confess from the relative safety of my pew. In the end, he missed his window because my daughter raced to the front of the line and by the time he made up his mind, she was already out and we had to get to basketball practice. Priorities, right?

Communion was a whole other basket of cats. There was the nighttime, parent-only meeting. One hour of my life lost to the ether. There was the Saturday morning tour of the church that was required for parents and children. The "tour" included a fascinating 15 minute lecture about the history of the church and its architecture. There was a 45 minutes lecture about the history of the alter which was insanely age-inappropriate and at least 35 minutes too long. During it, the lovely head of religious education held up cue cards with long, Latin words on them for the children to say, like a demented, ecclesiastical Vanna White. This was followed by a 20 minute fashion show wherein the priest took out every single vestment, robe, cassock, etc., in every single color he owned and lovingly spread them out to be oohed and aahed over. Let me tell you, the boys were really into that part of the program. Finally, with 10 minutes to go, we were all rushed through the sacred space behind the altar with barely enough time to take in the sink without plumbing (to wash remnants of the host directly into the soil, which just has to violate building code) and the fact that there is a full-length mirror hidden back there. The children also got to enjoy a Saturday retreat (separate from the tour), and not one, but two 90 minute rehearsals for the big day.

The parents got to spend money. All the boys wore suits, either bought or borrowed, but all very, very dapper. I've already got my eye on a suit that has made the rounds through two different families. Those parents got off lucky. I've got a girl, which means the prep started a full day in advance. We had a Mommy/Daughter mani-pedi where I tried not to moan in pleasure while the burly Asian man pummeled my legs with hot rocks and she acted like a grown up in her mini Hello Kitty pedicure tub. There was the hair appointment. My daughter had so much hairspray to keep her bun in place that when we took out all the pins, the hair still didn't move. Putting on her jewelry (all family gifts), putting on her shoes, and zipping up made me flash-forward 20 years to her wedding day.

Then of course, there was the banner. Every child had to create a banner for the church. I spent a full week trying to find a banner kit that met our specific size specifications (where were of course different than those found in the standard kit sold in every St. Jude store). My child lovingly crafted the dumb thing, I managed not to burn myself using the glue gun putting it all together and where did they hang them? At the end of our pews, helping us find our designated seats? No. These lovely banners that most of the kids made themselves with felt and glue and love and attention were hung on the altar rail where no one could see them. So, what was the point of the banner again?

The ceremony itself was quite lovely. The priest rose to the occasion and actually spoke to the children instead of lectured the parents. All family was present and accounted for and the worst behaved of the lot were the uncles in the back row, not the little guy tucked in with them and a stack of comic books. A family friend came to the church and took lots of pictures for us, and the food I cooked must have been half-decent because there wasn't a whole lot left of it. It was perfect weather, the dogwoods were still in bloom in my backyard, and the track meet that took up all the parking on my block ended long before my guests arrived. Sure, my mom showed up an hourly early (so once again, my hair didn't get done), and stayed two hours late (without even once attempting to clean up a plate), but she and my father were appropriately dressed, so I'll take that as a win. By the time my husband, son, and I climbed into my bed to watch the Phillies game, my daughter was long asleep, and the rest of us weren't far behind.  

Is The Pope Catholic?

I have discussed before that I am not a sterling example of Catholicism. During my daughter's recent tour of our church to get her prepared for her Holy Communion (a building she visits frequently and, considering I send her to the attached Catholic school, could have been visited during school hours), I found myself pondering the inanities of my religion. Never is it more clear that we really do suspend disbelief than when the priest held the host and made sure to let the kids know that it was just bread until it was blessed, after which, it becomes the blessed body of Christ.

To be clear, a man dressed in long flowing robes mutters an incantation in a foreign language while waving his hands in a specific way, thus transmogrifying one object into another. Yet, we happily burned witches back in the day. It really does baffle the mind.

Anyway, as always, I am not a good Catholic. But as I recently told a friend, I am as much Catholic as I am Caucasian. It's a part of who I am and I cannot change it. I can mock it, yes, but I do so in the form of trying to understand it.

Which brings me to the pope. I am fascinated by the idea of conclave. Locking a bunch of important people in a room together and not letting them out until they have reached a decision is brilliant. Imagine how quickly Congress would work if they couldn't all fly home every weekend? I love that they send the important information of whether a pope has been chose via smoke signal. It is so deliciously old school. I also like the thought of little old men fussing around a fireplace, trying to get it to light.

The white smoke signal was released when my daughter was still in school. She came tearing out, yelling that we had to get home right away to see who was the new pope. Similar scenes were being enacted all over the schoolyard. It seems the kids had been watching the news indoors and couldn't wait to see what happened next. I put her in front of CNN, then I folded clothes in front of BBC News, a channel I have found chatters less but imparts more information. Lo and behold, our new pope was announced. In the rush and clamor to give us a description of the man who is one step removed from Christ himself, the best they could give us was that he was a humble man.

Humble? HUMBLE? What does that mean, exactly? At it turns out, humble means that he actually pays his own bills. He carries his own luggage. He prefers to ride public buses rather than private cars. He likes to kiss babies and mingle. He stood for his first holy (televised) blessing in a basic white robe instead of sitting in a throne, bejeweled and bedecked in sparkling diamonds.

Basically, to paraphrase Wil Wheaton, he's not a dick.

This, apparently, is his crowning achievement. I've read several stories about him in the past week and have learned little to nothing more about him. He's from Argentina. He is a Jesuit. I could get more information off of LinkedIn than I am getting from Time magazine. All everyone can talk about is the fact that he prefers an open-aired Jeep to the Pope-Mobile (seriously, who wouldn't) and keeps asking people to pray for him instead of the other way around. Why this tickles peoples fancies is beyond me. Hello! There is God, then there is the Pope. In terms of the business of Catholic INC., he's the CEO to God's Chairman of the Board. Why is HE asking for prayers? There is no on earth with a more direct pipeline to God. In fact, the phrase, from your mouth to God's ears is technically true when discussing Pope Francis. One good prayer from him should make you solid with the Lord for the rest of your earthly life, whereas a million prayers from the great unwashed are really nothing more than a general din, like a chant in the background of a football game. P-O-P-E Pope!

Is this how far the Catholic church has fallen? We break our arms patting ourselves on the back because the new pope isn't a dick? Years ago, while enjoying a nice relaxing lunch on Boston Common, I was approached by a bible thumper who asked me if I had taken Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior. I replied yes, I'm Catholic, then went back to my book. His next question was if I was a good Christian. I thought that was covered by me being Catholic, said as much, and though he seemed confused, he did move away to bother someone else. I realized later than being a good Christian is not seen as being a good Catholic. Being a good Christian means being, in general, a good person. When someone says, that was a Christian thing to do, they mean that it was generous, kind, and thoughtful. Being a good Catholic, on the other hand, is a whole different ballgame and means that you deny homosexuality and women's rights and look the other way when priests diddle little boys. I spend a lot of time defending my faith instead of extolling it.

So, is the pope Catholic? I'm sure he is. The better question is, do we want him to be?

Live Blogging the Oscars

6:30: I abdicated all parenting responsibilities and plopped myself down on the couch for the Oscars. My phone is fully charged, my laptop is powered up, and I've been texting my best friend in California nonstop since preshow for the "gay Super Bowl" started. Off we go!

7:46: A preshow so boring my daughter actually voluntarily went to bed is not a good preshow. Where are the celebrities? And, for the celebs I've already seen, where are the colors? Where is their lipstick? Where did Ryan Seacrest go? Why did E! stop interviewing people and just keep shoving random people around a really big table? Why couldn't someone give Kristen Chenowith a box? She keeps shouting up at people and they keep leaning down to shout back and a basic apple box would have solved a lot of problems. The ABC preshow is quite honestly the worst I have ever seen, and I've been watching this since birth.

8:30: Seth McFarlane. Hate. What does the Kaleesi see in him? Every joke is telegraphed and obvious. He is the least charming man in existence.

8:35: Oh Captain, my captain. What on earth is William Shatner doing there?

8:40: A fully dressed Channing Tatum is a wasted opportunity.

8:50: Best Supporting Actor is Christoph Waltz. First upset of the night. DeNiro is going to get him wacked.

8:56: Both Melissa McCarthy and Paul Rudd have far too much hair going on and their bit is never ending.

8:58: Paperman was adorable. Finally, I've actually seen a winning Short Film!

9:00: Brave wins best animated feature and all I can wonder is, "what is he wearing under that kilt?"

9:05: Avengers Assemble! It's too bad they gathered five actors from the movie but couldn't be bothered to get them onto the screen at the same time. It's called a wide shot. Look into it.

9:11: I am completely appalled that they played off the winners of Best Visual Effects with the Jaws theme, making a joke of his speech. That wasn't right. That wasn't right at all.

9:16: Channing is back and he is still fully clothed.

9:20: Making actors look thin and dirty (Les Mis) won over turning grown men in hobbits. I don't agree.

9:26: My husband, on the Bond retrospective, "Are they ever going to let the woman actually nominated for the Bond theme sing it?" Me, "Apparently not." I think they gave Shirley Bassey a standing O just to make her stop singing.

9:33: I'm so glad Jamie Foxx has finally stopped singing every time he gets near a microphone.

9:42: Where are the audience reaction shots? A Gigli joke but no cut to Ben Affleck? If he isn't in his seat, then hold the joke until he is. The director choices regarding camera work are baffling.

9:49: Jennifer Garner's dress is a formal mullet. Plain in the front, all fluff and flowing butt flowers in the back.

9:52: The theater doesn't have room for a live orchestra? Yet another terrible production choice.

9:55: So this is just an ode to musicals from the last decade? Or just an ode to Chicago? A partial list of musicals in theaters since 2002 include Rock of Ages, Footloose, Rent, Pitch Perfect, Phantom of the Opera, Fame, Nine, Mama Mia, Sweeney Todd, Once, Walk the Line, and The Producers. Why aren't they represented? Plus, you already have Channing Tatum there - he couldn't do a bit from Step It Up? Finally, the sound quality for this musical performance is wonky. Too bad they didn't have a live orchestra or anything.

10:05: Boy, they fucked up that Les Mis song big time.

10:09: Who decided that when the new Star Trek actors took the stage, that they would used Star Trek: The Next Generation music instead of the class music from the original series? Music cue fail. Again. On the bright side, the Captain Kirk count is up to two.

10:11: My husband, when Marky Mark was forced to take the stage with a talking stuffed animal, "What did he do wrong?"

10:15: A tie? Really? The most intriguing moment of the awards and there is a fucking talking bear on stage. Everything wrong with tonight was just summed up by the above sentence.

10:23: Things you should know. I hate Anne Hathaway. Every interview she gives, she acts like she invented marriage, love, acting, and singing. The fact that she had to do two of those things at once at the same time is apparently the hardest thing anyone has ever done in the history of history. Can you believe it? Acting and singing - at the same time - about love? Inconceivable. I also wish she would put her nipples away.

10:32: Sandra Bullock needs a sandwich.

10:43: Nicole Kidman needs to lay off the Botox.

10:48: My husband and I debate whether Kristen Stewart is high or just unwashed.

10:58: Ode to Dead People - at least they finally edited out the sound of the audience clapping for their favorites, which always turns a touching tribute into a popularity contest from beyond the grave.

11:01: Is Barbra Streisand drinking the blood of virgins now? Between the weird super straight hair, the talons, and the Wiccan nightdress, she looked like one of the lost Witches of Eastwick.

11:08: The cast of Chicago? Again? Seriously, the movie is 10 years old. It is too young to be a classic or get rebooted. Let. It. Go. But I am really curious why Renee Zellweger seemed incapable of reading the cue cards.

11:27: I am not a fan of Quentin Tarantino. Intellectually, I understand that he has his own voice and makes relatively interesting movies. Emotionally, he seems like a egomaniacal prick who breaks his neck giving himself blowjobs.

11:41: Go Jennifer Lawrence for Best Actress! (Silver Linings Playbook is one of the best films I've seen in years.) Holy shit, she just fell down. Thank God for well-fitted dresses because it never moved an inch, but perhaps they could have hemmed it up a bit?

11:47: Daniel Day Lewis wins Best Actor and without seeing Lincoln, I'm willing to stipulate that he was excellent, but I really wanted Hugh Jackman. Obviously, DDL is not getting played off the stage to shark eating music.

11:51: Jack Nicholson got to present Best Movie and FLOTUS!  

11:55: Argo! Best joke of the night goes to Grant Henslov. It says a lot about George Clooney that Grant spoke first, knowing that the Academy would have cut him off if he were to have gone last. But good lord, Ben needs to give Jen Garner some jewelry for his acceptance speech. Oof. First he compares her to Iran, then he talks about how much WORK their marriage is, and you could actually hear the capital letters. However, only George Clooney is so cool that he doesn't even need to thank people for his Oscar.

Overall a shitty production. The director kept missing key audience reaction shots, the spotlights kept missing the actors, the musical cues were insulting, the pacing was off, the sound quality was awful, and well, the host sucked. McFarlane never seemed to go away because he closed every commercial break. I'll give him a laugh for the Von Trapp family joke, but that's it. After three and a half hours of wretchedness, he came out and sang yet another song. Argh. I hope the Khaleesi let her dragons eat him.

Big thanks to my BFF in California, my other half on the other side of town, and my husband, who was very thankful I had social media to keep me company while I watched the show so that he could read in peace and quiet.

What's the Weather?

There are days when the weather sets your mood, no matter if you work indoors or out. Today is one of those days.

It has been well under the freezing mark for over a week, so the sudden rise to 60 in January, should be beguiling but is instead off-putting. The air doesn't feel right. It's both wet and dry, so that even the lightest coat seems too warm, but the bare air on your arms feels clammy and disturbing. The wind is alternately howling and lying completely dormant, so that all of the normal outdoor sounds keep fading in and out of focus. The sun, when it shines, is bright and glaring with that faded quality particular to winter, that makes it seem like it is streaming through a dense fog before it lands, thuggish and plain, on the windows of your car. But it won't stay out for long, and it darts in and out between ever darkening skies with clouds that are moving in the wrong direction, creating an optical illusion of speed where none exists. A storm is coming, but it is strutting leisurely into position, taking its time to set the proper mood, almost as if a dinner party is being laid with everything from soup to nuts and we all have to wait, course by course, for the dessert to finally arrive in a puddle of oozing black chocolate and blood red cherries.

Today would be a good day to open all your windows and let some fresh air blow through - but I'm not a big fan of demons or demi-gods, witches or winged creatures, so I'll be keeping my windows closed tight.

Today is a good day for a fight on a beach, the wind tearing the words from your mouth and tossing them hither and yon onto the salty air. It is the day for a horror story, to curl up with the best of King or Lovecraft and let yourself be carried away by the gusting and groaning of wood and steel. It is the kind of weather for mischief and magic, for waiting. Today is the kind of day to keep the doors locked but all the lights on, because in this weather, just about anything can happen.

Today, a Klingon would believe, is a good day to die.

Singing John Cougar Mellencamp

The past few weeks, some little shit with too much time on his hands and too little parental supervision has been terrorizing my little town with random and predatory acts of vandalism. (Or so I believe. It could be multiple little shits, or female little shits. But the fact that whomever is doing this is a piece of shit is of no question.) Anyway, if they ever find this little shit, I hope that someone strings him up by his toes in front of our little hometown market so we can all throw stones at him.

The biggest problem that has been caused, beyond loss of property, is the loss of a sense of safety. If you can't park your car in your own driveway without your tires being slashed, well, you aren't going to want to walk out of your own door in the morning because you will be afraid of what fresh hells awaits.

I don't want to live in that kind of town.

So, instead, I want to talk about the town I actually do live in. It's got lovely tree-lined streets that cast shade all summer long. It has Fourth of July parades, Christmas parades, an outdoor fruit and veggies market, lots of sports, and a feeling of community so strong that my kid made a fortune selling lemonade on our front steps. My husband likes to joke that he wants to bring another woman to the local bar just to see how long it will take for me to get the first text message trying to find out who she is, why my husband is out with her, and if I know about it. My guess? Under an hour.

When my son's preschool was vandalized by the aforementioned little shit and their entire library of children's books had to be destroyed due to fire retardant material being blasted all over it - well, that's when a town like this comes alive.

I will flatter myself enough to say that I started the ball rolling by posting a plea on social media asking for help. However, everyone knows that the ball is the least important part of a Rube Goldberg machine. It is all the resulting pieces and explosions and moving parts that get it to its final and fantastic conclusion. In this case, it was the dozen other people that reposted on Facebook. The fantastic individual who showed up with 12 boxes, and the equally fantastic people who showed up with one. One enterprising woman rallied her mother's group, another asked her children to kids pick their favorite book out of their private collections and then donate that one, many dropped a bag off at my house without waiting for a thank you or any acknowledgement at all. There were books shipped from California and Virginia and money donated from people who don't have kids, let alone kids books. Hell, my own mother got a one-week free pass of me complaining about her because her donation was so generous and then my in-laws doubled her, getting them out-of-jail-free for a month. (Not that I ever complain about them. Hi Dad!) There are also so many stories I don't know. Many, many bags and boxes dropped off by those many others who rallied their troops, gathered their friends, and asked their own families for help.

That is why I live in a small town. Small towns don't turn their backs on neighbors (though they do gossip about them constantly.) They don't focus on acts of stupidity, they focus on kindness and joy. Two weeks ago, the school library was empty. Today, it is bursting at the seams, so overfilled that another bookcase needed to be added. And still the books spill over the tops and sides. Soon, a few lucky charities will get the excess. Those books that were over the age range, the duplicates, the ones that don't quite work for preschools.

So I say thank you, small town, for making me so glad I moved her, that I have friends here, and that I call this place home. (And when that little shit comes to justice, as he surely will, let him learn what small town justice is like.)

Reading Rainbow

It is once again time for my Best Of Books list. This year, I read 65 books, a good dozen of which were re-reads at the end of the year, when my brain cannot handle anything new, but I still need to read something. I'm weird that way. I know some people never read the same book twice. I am not one of those people. I have my go-to books the same way others have go-to movies. I did experiment with a Kindle this year and while I understand its appeal, it isn't my thing. Reading a new book on a Kindle made me feel like I was trying to read with only half my senses. You can't feel the weight of the book or the texture of the pages. I also have a very visual memory. I can look at a book, turn to roughly the right section, and know which side of a page, then how high up or down in the paragraph a remembered sentence or section ought to be. All that is lost on a Kindle since it is akin to reading on a computer screen. Also, I need to know how long a book is, how small the font, to help me decide if I am in the mood for it. But my Kindle came preloaded (Thanks A!) with lots of awesome books I have already read, which makes it perfect for waiting rooms, dance class, etc. and my daughter already likes to borrow it for car trips.

In no particular order, the top five:

1.  We Need to Talk about Kevin - Lionel Schriver Why this author isn't more popular is a mystery to me. Her book The Post-Birthday World is one of my top reads of all time. This book is much darker, but equally excellent. The subject matter is horrific (mass murder at a school), but the book asks the most basic question of what makes a child, nature or nurture, in a truly revelatory way. Every sentence is a jewel, hand crafted, and complete all on its own. There are no throwaway words. This is not a light read, but it is a really, really good one.

2. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon  I always take recommendations, especially from people whose taste I trust. In the Raleigh NC airport is perhaps the best used book store I have ever seen, so I trusted the owner when he recommended this book. Set in Barcelona, it is both a mystery and a coming of age story and has, by far, one of the best imaginary locations of all time as a set piece. There is wonderful atmosphere just oozing off the page that once you start, you will find it very difficult to stop reading, and when you do look around, will find yourself surprised to be anywhere as ordinary as your living room.

3. The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern Maybe I just like atmospheric books, because this is another one where you are dropped into a fully realized world where you can practically taste the caramel popcorn and smell the scents that waft out of tiny glass bottles. An tale of magic and love, both twisted and neither very clear, is set among a Night Circus, a roving amusement filled with both the mundane and the fantastic.

4. The Passage - Justin Cronin Part one of a trilogy (part two, The Twelve is already out), it set in a world destroyed by a sort of vampire never before seen in fiction. Part vamp, part zombie, it exists only to feed. Often, books like this feel like fleshed out screenplays, just ready to be made into a movie. And while this one has some truly terrifying sequences (there is a train chapter that will rival the Lincoln Tunnel scene in Stephen King's The Stand) it is the littlest details that are the most riveting.

5. Heart-Shaped Box - Joe Hill. This is an excellent book to read in the darkness of winter. However, if you actually want to go to sleep at night, perhaps a midsummer day would be a better time. It is horror at its finest (the author learned at the knee of a former master). Our protagonist finds himself owning a dead man's suit and things go from bad to worse very quickly. The best part for me was the main character, a complete bastard who is richly detailed and not just a foil for the action.

This year, I don't actually have a bottom five. While I still shake my fist at the heavens to rail against the fact that in a year with no Pulitizer Prize in fiction, 50 Shades made millions, I will allow that it was a gateway book for a lot of people who had stopped reading and/or stopped having sex and that this book helped people come back to both. The rest of the books were good, maybe even very good, but each had one central flaw that kept them from being great.

Angelology - Danielle Trussoni  - Not once, in an entire book set in the real world, with characters who were being introduced to the idea that angels were real and evil, not once did any character ask, "Really?"

Broken Harbor -Tana French  - This book is supposed to be mystery. However, since each "clue" is practically highlighted and bolded on the page, that part falls short of the mark. Instead, read for the excellent interrogation scenes, her gift for characters, and the Irish setting.

There are several others that I would complain about, but to do so would be to give away important plot points and I firmly believe in not spoiling books. Suffice to say that I wouldn't be one of Michael Connelly's clients, I'm tired of long lost loves being reunited at the expense of the memory of the people they loved in between, and while George R.R. Martin is not my bitch, I would highly appreciate it if he actually merged character arcs here and there so that every single character wasn't flailing about in their own storylines with little to no interaction with each other.

Also, the award for authors who really have to stop destroying their characters is a tie between Steig Larsson (posthumous) and Charlaine Harris. Larsson gets it for the ridiculous choice of relegating Lisbeth Salander to a tertiary character in The GIrl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest and since that book was so bad, I can only hope the two other books supposedly hidden on his computer remain there forever. Charlaine Harris get the whip for apparently forgetting that her main character, Sookie Stackhouse, is a telepath, and perhaps should stop walking into trouble she should have known about long before she entered the room and for writing entire books where no one has any sex.

So, my friends, the new year is almost upon us. My to-be-read shelf is newly stocked, my brain is just about ready to take on new fiction, and the good rocker by the fire is calling. As my buddy Levar says, "Butterflies in the sky/I can fly twice as high/Take a look/It's in a book."

Ritzy's House of Horrors

I consider myself a cultured woman. I've seen everything from Broadway to Cirque de Soleil. I've been to the ballet, to musicals, to Shakespeare in the Park, and to countless dance recitals. In this past week alone, I've seen The Nutcracker (twice) and Scrooged! But, good Lord in Heaven above, save me from local children's theater.

Years ago, I went on the preschool class field trip to see Frosty at, you guessed it, the local children's theater. About ten minutes into the "show", the little girl sitting next to me asked when it was going to start. You see, a bunch of adults wandering around the fully lit theater wearing sweats wasn't exactly her idea of a production. It wasn't my idea of one either, but I did try to keep that to myself.

This year, same preschool, but a different kid and a different show. Instead of Frosty, We were treated to what my husband refers to as Mrs. Tinkerton's Toys of Terror. The plot is simple, a bunch of broken toys are sad that they are relegated to the back of the toy shop, the toy shop owner realizes that they are alive, and one by one, teaches them that they all have different talents that make them lovable. Blah blah blah. What makes this show horrifying is the lead character, Mrs. Tinkerton.

In an artistic choice that leaves me baffled, the sweet (female) toyshop owner is played by a wolf in woman's clothing.

The mascot, as it were, of this theater is a wolf. He is, quite possibly, the most demented looking thing I have ever seen. Red sweat pants, a spangled red sweater stolen off the back of a chair during the annual Boca Raton Senior Citizen Home Christmas Gala, stage makeup more reminiscent of Kabuki than cannibal, and as a final touch, two wolf ears, one of which (I swear) was on backward. He kicks off the show by chatting with the audience and waiting for Mrs. Tinkerton to arrive. Very quickly, we learn that Mrs. Tinkerton is out sick and the wolf has to play her part. He happily dons her apron, capelet, and bonnet (with the already pale and strange makeup, turning himself from a deranged wolf into a zombie Mrs. Claus) and we proceed with the show.

So, to clarify: there is now a guy wearing both a crappy wolf costume AND a crappy knock-off Mrs. Claus costume AT THE SAME TIME pretending to be a woman.

Moving on.

There were other strange artistic choices through the production that I just couldn't wrap my head around. A drummer toy, who had a broken arm and only one drumstick (the other one and the drum itself were the casualty of a what must have been a short-lived but particularly violent war), spent the entire show up on a pedestal conducting the other toys in their various songs and dances using his drumstick as a baton. Yet, when it came his turn to learn his true worth, it wasn't for his skills as a maestro, but for being a one-armed drummer. But! But! He already WAS a one-armed drummer! WTF dude!

The ballerina with a broken foot (who spent the entire show twirling on the one with the cast) learns that she is very good at making funny faces and the dancing bear who can't dance learns that he is an excellent comedian. Well, funny thing that, since they are both toys, I imagine they won't get to make faces or tell jokes to anyone since, you know, they aren't supposed to move! Wouldn't it have been better to teach the ballerina to twirl on her non-broken foot? (Which the actress can't seem to remember to do for love or money.) Or, this being a toy shop and all, actually fix the foot? Also, since the only reason the dancing bear can't boogie bis ecause his batteries ran out, you know, maybe insert new batteries?

I am going to ignore the rest of the toys because, let's face it, a good toymaker could have just fixed them all. Instead, Mrs. Tinkerton finally confesses that she keeps these broken, beaten toys in the back of the shop because she loves them best of all. Isn't there a word for someone who prefers consoling the sick instead of healing them? Munchausen by proxy anyone?

Thankfully, the show itself is short and ends, as everything must during the Christmas season, with a visit from Santa Claus. And while I want to put both preschool teachers on the naughty list for subjecting all of us parents to this little slice of madness, the kids laughed, sang, and enjoyed themselves immensely. They didn't notice the bad puns, the bad cross-dressing, and the even worse singing. But I did. Oh, I did indeed.