The Very Bowels of Hell: Take Two

I was stuck behind an old people shuttle bus today. On the back it said "Dept. of Aging." We have a Department of Aging? Since when? And why does my Coke taste like eggnog? It's disturbing.

Anyway. Have I ever mentioned that I hate Annapolis? I have? Have I ever told you exactly how much I hate Annapolis? I have? Have I told you lately? No? Then allow me to update you: I FRICKING HATE ANNAPOLIS AND THE WHOLE CITY CAN GO TO HELL. OH WAIT, IT ALREADY IS HELL. NEVERMIND. Consider yourselves appropriately caught up.

Several months ago a friend mentioned some Christmasy show for kids that some kid-based theatrical company puts on every year and it's so cute, yada yada yada. I figured Peawhistle would get a kick out of it, plus it included breakfast, so I signed us up. I noted well at the time that it was in Annapolis--and mind you, not the good part of Annapolis, the part you can actually escape from, but the really bad part that won't let you out. The heart of the evil if you will. I assumed that over the course of three months I could come up with some scheme that would allow me to avoid getting myself stuck in there alone. I tried everything, which is to say I emailed another woman who was going and tried to con her into carpooling, but she would have none of it. Foiled! So I printed off as many directions and maps as I possibly could before trekking into our virtual perpetual graves. I bid a loving final farewell to the Husband and Peanut; PW and I made our way out the door to our demise.

As soon as I approached The Evil's epicenter, I could sense something was wrong. My map showed two roundabouts (a traffic device with which the state of Maryland has a special love affair if you recall) near and around the capitol building--one of which would lead me to my destination, and the other to my doom. It's like I was living a storybook maze. I missed the turnoff to the roundabout that I actually wanted (why? Because Annapolis doesn't believe in properly marking its streets, remember?) and headed for the Hateful Roundabout instead. I began to swear profusely and did not cease doing so for the better part of an hour. We circled the capitol hoping to come upon the exit we needed, never once seeing it. We went up streets and down streets, not having any clue which led where. We got back on the roundabout (SAME DANG ROUNDABOUT MIND YOU) only to discover that some of the streets had changed, while others had not. I came to realize that there were not two roundabouts as promised by Mapquest, but only one mystical and possessed roundabout that constantly shifted depending upon the city's cursed whims.

The street I wanted, which I could see clearly from Lucifer's Roundabout, I could not access as it only led into the roundabout but not from it. I kept trying to drive onto various streets near to it, hoping to find a sidestreet (all of them one way streets) that would allow me to head in its direction, only to find that upon finally finding one that led the correct way it led me no where near it. I finally drove around long enough that I found my sidestreet, parked nearly right next to the Roundabout From Hell, and ran as fast as I could while dragging a four-year-old the entire length of this road to get to this breakfast fiasco. And we made it 15 minutes before they stopped serving breakfast (it having started 45 minutes before) and before they started their idiotic program, what with the kicking and the dancing and the gyrating and the Christmas Bear (?) and Christmas elves and Christmas Rat (?) and whatever.

Tangent Time. I fell asleep watching TV the other night only to waken at 4am to a standup comic talking about how much white people suck at dancing. I started gaining consciousness right around the time he said it's not so much that white people can't dance, it's just that they confuse various dancing moves and put them all together. He then proceeded with an imitation of White People Dancing (I'm assuming anyway; my eyes were still closed). Then he said, "There is one song that no white person can resist dancing to. They hear it and they immediately get up and begin dancing to it; they just can't help it." In my half-awake state I said, "YMCA." And then he said, "YMCA." (Speaking of the Village People, when the Husband was in the Navy lo these many years ago, he had a ship's captain who insisted on departing for every six-month deployment to the tune of the Village People's "In the Navy." That is, until someone told him what it was actually about. He stopped requesting it after that.) Indeed, we do love our "YMCA." Probably because you have to be a total moron to screw it up. [Fun fact: the Village People never spelled YMCA with their arms in their video. Musta been some white kid who couldn't dance who did it.] For the record, I can resist dancing to any song you care to play. Any song at all. Try it and watch me sit with my arms folded as I stare at you.

Back to our story. They had open dance time halfway through the show in which the kids could come down to the performace floor and get down and boogie with it. They played several Christmas songs. Finally they ran out of those and pulled out the non-Christmas songs. Guess which song they played first? And guess which song every fricking person in the place went wild over? And guess which song PW and I both managed to resist dancing to? And guess which song the only black guy in the entire room walked out on?

So the Christmas Show nightmare finally ended and they unchained the doors, unbarred the windows, and allowed us to finally leave. Freedom never tasted so sweet. Until I remembered we still had to get out of the city. We got in the car and headed very quietly (I think PW could instictually sense the need for silence. Especially after I threatened her if she made a sound) towards the Roundabout of Death, so as to sneak up on it and not alarm it as to our approach. We proceeded cautiously, but purposefully, through and out the other side where it told us we should go (remember, following the signs it gives you to follow are its first trick against you). But then we pulled a fast one on it and took a left shortly thereafter leading us straight to the highway! Mind you, the fact that you must turn down this street to escape is never once advertised anywhere in the city. If you were to believe its signs, you would have proceeded down the first street and immediately found yourself in The Parking Lot of Despair. You remember The Parking Lot of Despair, don't you? Of course you do.

As we were leaving with the city of horror well in our rearview mirror, a fire engine roared past us and into the heart of the city. Poor sucker, I thought. Someone finally got desperate and crashed their car just to escape. May he find himself without the confines of the Ninth Circle of Hell very soon.

Just try and resist it.

Gettin' Jiggy Wit It

No, I haven't decided to post more. My life is just that much more exciting this week. Quit inviting me to stuff.

So our church had a dance last Saturday night with a it's-not-a-valentine's-dance-despite-all-the-hearts-and-crap-you-see-everywhere theme. Greta and I decorated for the event and were quite pleased to receive so many positive comments. And by "so many" I mean two grade school kids said it looked awesome. Hey, we're here to please.

You all know my thoughts on dancing, as I've expressed them in the past here. Bonny and I were comparing our various thoughts on the subject later in the evening and I told her what I'm going to tell you now: watching me dance is a terribly unsettling experience. I recall enjoying dancing at one point in my life. I danced at a wedding once as a young teenager, later saw the video, decided it was the most disturbing thing I'd ever seen in my life, and vowed to never subject another to such a sight ever again, including myself. I am not a good dancer. If I honestly can't resist the beat of a great song, I'll bob my head. Otherwise...no. So I sat at a table and instead enjoyed myself immensely watching other people who are far more talented than I dance for my personal pleasure. I was especially impressed with Jody and her husband getting their groove on, because they are wonderful dancers. I was also fascinated to learn that neither Stephanie nor Kristen have any shame at all whatsoever. Good for them, I say! Let it all hang out!

Towards the end, our DJ, Ryan (who happens to be Bonny's husband), played one of the songs I'd requested earlier: The Hustle by Van McCoy. You can't go wrong with The Hustle. The Husband was at one time quite the bar-hopping dancer in his day and when I mentioned the song earlier he treated me to a move or two. As always, I was delighted. As I sat next to a friend at the table at the dance, she leaned over and said, "Hey, wasn't there a dance that went with this song?" I said, "Yeah, the Husband said it went something like this..." and I proceeded to do a jerking arm motion or two to prove to her I wasn't lying. Two seconds later, Ryan stopped the music mid-song and inquired, "OK, does anyone actually know how to do the Hustle? I mean, besides Abby who's doing it at the table there at the back?" I was horrified that the entire dance floor of people then turned to stare at me, and even more so when he suggested I get up and teach them how to do the Hustle, which as I've explained, I only know like, two moves from. Personally, I was impressed that Ryan guessed what I was attempting to do at the time, let alone that he noticed I was doing it at all, given the quick and amateurish performance I had displayed to my table partner. I waved him and the whole fricking group off (really, for their own good) and they proceeded to dance however they wanted to, which is how it should have been anyway. I still like the song. Gets my head a-bobbin'.

Finally, DJ Ryan came to the end of the evening with his final as-yet unannounced song, and commanded everyone that this would be a full participation song. And I shivered to myself as I realized that there was only one song that had not been played yet, would be reserved to the end of a dance full up with white people, and that requires "full participation." Ryan said, "And that includes you, too, Abby." I responded, "IT BETTER NOT BE YMCA." And he said, "It IS YMCA." And the dance ended on a low note. I was curious to note that Kristen, who I mentioned was completely devoid of any self-consciousness as far as I could detect, also refused to dance to YMCA because she hates that song. So she has my approval, both for that and the fact that she clearly doesn't care what people think of her.

And in case you all were curious:

Owing Taxes on Your Three Wishes

Well folks, it's tax day! And you all know what that means, don't you? Long-forgotten St. Patrick's Day Memories! Now settle down, settle down. I know I promised this weeks ago, but if there's one thing I'm not too particular about, it's your happiness. So here we are.

When you think of St. Patrick's Day, what do you think about? Leprechauns? Pots of gold? Random green crap? Drunken Irishmen? Drunken non-Irishmen? Correct responses, all. But the Husband and I decided that the best way of celebrating this holiest of holy inebriation holidays would be to pay to see hopefully mostly-sober Irish folks singing on stage. Celtic Thunder/Man you hope? I'm afraid not, although the Husband did at one time suggest that we might see them in concert, to which I laughed and laughed and laughed. And then I laughed some more. "Wait, I assumed you would like them?" he asked. And then I snorted and laughed again. No, gentle readers, we went to see the better of the two groups, Celtic Woman, who was performing on the 17th in Baltimore (aren't we special here in Maryland?). I was surprised that the Husband had suggested we go several months ago, but he lamented that he'd been too tight with money lately and we never get to go out and do fun stuff like that anymore (darn our little ball-and-chain children) and he knew I really liked them. And later I got it out of him that he thinks they're all hot. Fair enough. So my mother flew in extra early to babysit so we could go and we headed off for Baltimore. After parking, we knew we were walking in the right direction given the flow of white-haired PBS-viewing old fogeys headed for the same location.

After finding our seats inside we were awed by the realization that we were, in fact, the youngest people in the entire audience. Being considerably younger than the Husband, I was the youngest in the crowd BY FAR. I think only a few of the performers themselves approached my age range. I sat there thinking how strange it would be to be a young person, have an amazing talent, go on the road with your talent, and find that the only people it attracted were escapees from the old folk's home. Nice.

I won't bore you with all the details from the show, but suffice it to say it was highly entertaining. As always, Chloë Agnew was amazing, although it took me half the show to realize that she was not wearing a short-sleeved shrug over her sleeveless gown, but rather just had a very noticable farmer tan. Despite this revelation, she still managed to wow me/us all. That chick really can sing something fierce.

I was also pleased that they not only decided to sing the very appropriate "Danny Boy" for us that evening, but that they chose not to torture us by having Méav Ní Mhaolchatha attempt to sing it a cappella. You know, seeing as how she sucks at it. As it turns out, she's no longer with the group anymore anyway, saving us all a great deal of nausea that evening. Instead, the four singers sung it in four-part harmony, also a cappella, and a more beautiful rendition I have never heard. The audience didn't even make a sound after it finished they were so stunned (which then turned to a standing ovation). So good call on dumping the crappy chick! It completely made up for the fact that they failed to do justice to one of my favorite songs, "Shenandoah." But they're Irish so I'll give them a break. YOU GET ONE, CELTIC WOMAN.

But the most unexpectedly entertaining part of the evening was dealt to us by the group's fiddler, Máiréad Nesbitt. She is talented, no doubt. And also quite insane. Now, in an interview she claims that what she does she does not consider "dancing," but rather just really getting into her music. Personally, I'd consider it "flinging her body across the stage in a most awkward and delightful fashion that under any other circumstances would conclude with a fractured pelvis and a trip to the emergency room." The fact that she never once landed on any body part other than her feet was jaw-droppingly awing, and it was exciting to see what she would do next and if she would kill herself trying it or not. Her fiddling and flinging was accompanied by near-constant commentary coming from almost directly behind us by a group of likely not-too sober old people who had no clue they were in a live audience and not at home yelling at their television sets. Every single time that crazy woman leapt onto the stage one of the old women, without fail, would say, "Oh, there she is! There's your girl!" To which the other woman whose girl Nesbitt apparently was, would reply, "Oh my goodness I just LOVE her!" Every time. The Husband and I were polite throughout this annoying habit of theirs (swearing at old people is not a hobby of mine, although I'll do it if necessary), only turning to look at each other every time they did this to simply roll our eyes. The second half of the show they tired of commenting on "her girl" and began critiquing the stage decor. "I just love those curtains! Don't you just love those curtains? What great curtains!" For your enlightenment, their favorite curtains consisted of a cloth loosely draped over a metal rod.

Now, I understand that you old people are senile and don't get out much and blah blah blah, but I do not get dressed up and leave my home to listen to you scream about curtains. I didn't pay wads of cash to listen to you people squak about whose girl you're successfully seeing in front of you, I paid money to watch a crazy woman in Princess Leia garb orgasmicly flail about the stage while I hope she trips and lands on her fiddle! Got it??

With the unpleasantness out of the way, a hearty congratulations to Celtic Woman for a performance well executed. The songs about turn-of-the-century Irish immigrants coming to America, their land of hope, were also very moving and it's always nice to hear at least one group say that they love America (to be fair, things probably would have ended poorly if they'd said otherwise). So good on ya, Irish chicks! Come back again if you can, but not before medicating that poor fiddling woman before she breaks something important.

Crazy for Elvis Tote Bags!!

On any given day I get between 3,000 and 5,ooo catalogs in the mail. I estimate that I personally invited around five of those catalogs to be sent to me; the rest I assume are being sent by terrorists.

Now, don't get me wrong. Terrorist-sent or not, I love me some catalogs. I've loved leafing through them since I was a tot; it's an obsession that haunts me and my mailbox continually. I get a strange sense of satisfaction when I've been able to go through an entire catalog without wanting anything contained therein. It's comforting to know that I'm not missing anything essential (or more likely non-essential) in my life.

When I picked up "The Lighter Side" last night, I was relieved to know that I would be satisfied by the end of it even before I opened it (much like my level of confidence before browsing through "Lamps Plus."). "The Lighter Side" is a new company to my collection, but not unknown to me entirely given my lifelong affair with the catalog industry. Their particular collection of products is eclectic, but at least they all have one thing in common: they're pure crap. John Wayne throw blankets, light-up Shamrock hats, Hillary Clinton nutcrackers, "Future Redneck" toddler t-shirts, Elvis bobbleheads, home pole dancing kits, illuminated pink corset lamps, and animated "deer with a target on its chest" hitch covers that move their legs while you drive: all these products and more are to be found in "The Lighter Side."

The trainwreck that I can't ignore is the novelty t-shirt section. With printed sayings like "I get enough exercise pushing my luck!" and "Only 1 shopping day left until tomorrow!" I fail to see how they ever sell any t-shirts at all. One t-shirt caught my eye though: "Am I getting older or is the supermarket playing really great music?" I've thought my supermarket has been playing great music for a long time. So just how old am I?

This catalog also sells a "Red Carpet Runway With Lights, Applause, and Music." I should also mention that it comes with a tent designed to look as if your obviously deprived child is emerging from behind her (or his I suppose) red curtain-draped dressing room. First of all, who would buy this monstrosity? How spoiled does your bratty child have to be to need this product to lift his or her tiny little self-esteem? And exactly how many times is your kid likely to even use it? If your child is normal, once to try it out, and perhaps two more times with her friends (a boy would not use it with his friends because they would beat him if he even suggested it) before they tired of it. That was a waste of your $50, plus added heartbreak from discovering that maybe your child will not turn out to be that runway model or film star like you'd hoped.

Finally, my favorite products, the "The ORIGINAL Founding Fathers" line of goods. In case you're having difficulty imagining what that involves, it is a picture of Mount Rushmore overshadowed by the heavenly apparitions of Chief Joseph, Sitting Bull, Geronimo and Red Cloud. Now, that's a perfectly nice sentiment and all, but who exactly is purchasing throw blankets and t-shirts with that picture on them? Are there that many Indians in the U.S. who actually buy these things? Or are they progressive/guilt-ridden crackers who want to show the world how sorry they are for slaughtering the Native Americans 200-300 years ago? These are the things that keep me up at night.

In summary: if you need a doormat that tells your visitors that Yorkies are proof that God loves you and wants you to have a happy home, or a set of personalized angel car mats, then boy howdy, do I have the catalog for you.

I Fill So Blessed....

The EDS Blog has a new humor blog linked. It's BRILLIANT. It's called "Seriously, So Blessed!" The characters are the author "Tiffany/Amber/Megan/Nicole" and her husband "Jordan/Jason/Wes/Taylor" (aka JJWT). As a satirical blog, the author embodies every negative stereotype of the typical young naive and empty-headed Molly Mormon who Blogs About Her Perfect, Awesome, Blessed Life. My favorite post so far is "Hooray for Date Night!!" Here we begin midway through her account of trying to find a parking spot at California Pizza Kitchen for her date night with her Perfect Husband, JJWT:

"So, after we were blessed to find a parking spot, we had a cozy dinner at CPK (LOVE it...so dang good!) and split a yummy BBQ chicken pizza (totally crave it), big salad and MONSTER raspberry lemonade. We really like to split things so that we can sit on the same side of the booth and feed each other from each other's plates and everyone can covet me and see how JJWT has broughten sexy back. I literally LOVE my life!!

"Then we walked over to the fountain where we found the brick that Jordan/Jason/Wes/Taylor bought for me before he left on his mission. (Anyone want to guess what it says?? I'm not telling . . .) That brick brings back literally a bazillion memories--LITERALLY--of the two years he was away! Whenever I started to miss him too much I would go sit by it, gaze into the dancing waters of the fountain and find the inspiration to write him, even when it was impossible to live because I felt like half myself had literally been amputated. So hard! But we made it through – even though I got engaged twice during the time he was away – I just KNEW that Jordan/Jason/Wes/Taylor was the one I was meant to be with! And now we are more in love and have more fun than anyone else, so thank you for making each and every minute of each and every day the best possible minute and/or day for me!"

Ah, the funny. The author is looking for things to blog about so by all means, email away. Oh, and be on the lookout for the written Utah accent. Huzzah!

How About a Cheer for the Navy?

I love Veteran's Day. It's the day half the channels on TV show classic war movies. I ran across one of my favorites last night, "This Is the Army," a musical with songs by the famous Irving Berlin, and despite already owning the movie myself, I sat down and watched the entire thing. Not only is the music great, but the entire cast of the film and the musical show it was based upon was made up of active duty Army personnel with all proceeds of the broadway show and the film going to the Army Emergency Relief Fund. The film came out in 1943, the original stage production having come out the year before, and the original Army stage production that was based upon having come out during WWI (also written by Berlin), making the film basically based upon actual events. The film stars people like a then-Lt. Ronald Reagan, and as a special treat, the film is famous for actually featuring Irving Berlin himself on stage, singing one of the songs he wrote for the show. This song, "Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning" happens to be one of my favorites; the clever lyrics make the song particularly funny, although the idea of murdering the base camp's bugler simply for tending to his military duties as ordered is amusing enough.

As Robert Osborn of TCM recounted last night, one of the behind-the-scenes stories from the film had a stage hand, one who neither knew who wrote the music for the production or who Irving Berlin even was, upon hearing Berlin's less-than-melodious voice belting out his own song, said, "If the guy who wrote that song could hear this guy singing it, he'd roll over in his grave." Indeed, Berlin was not known for his singing ability by any stretch, but considering his extraordinary talent in the music composition field, most people forgave him for it just the same. It was still spectacular to see him in the show.

Admittedly, if you're not into song and dance numbers, you won't enjoy this film. The Husband felt patriotic enough to watch for the first 10 minutes before conveniently wandering off to attend to more pressing matters like staring at the kitchen sink. I did, however, make him come back for the Navy number, which frankly is the best song in the entire movie. In typical Navy fashion, approximately 1 billion sailors crash the Army musical number in progress, rush the stage, scatter the Army guys, and begin singing their own number instead.

The Army this, the Army that
Is all we heard from where we sat,
Now how about a cheer for the Navy?

The Army's great, the Army's tough,
But don't you think we've heard enough?
So how about a cheer for the Navy?

Incredibly enough, these sailors had the foresight to also include a scale mockup of a battleship onstage for their musical performance. Amazing. And I hate to say it, but their coordinated marching far exceeded that of the Army's (although I'm fairly certain it was Army enlisted merely dressed in Navy attire anyway) and made for a spectacular display onstage.

A few years ago the Husband and I went to the 1812 Overture performance on the lawn of the Washington Monument (that's in D.C., my geographically challenged friends). The performance is free and features the U.S. Army band and chorus putting on various numbers, not all military related. (The conclusion, as you may have guessed, is the band's performance of the 1812 Overture, complete with synchronized mortar fire provided by the 3d United States Infantry Regiment--it's incredible.) To my point, some of the numbers the chorus sang were from "This Is the Army." It was my fondest wish that they would get around to "How About a Cheer for the Navy" with the Navy chorus rushing the stage and taking over for one number. That would have been awesome. Why aren't I in charge of making these decisions again?

My point is, if you have never seen actual WWII-era Army enlisted men dancing in a chorus line in heels, boy howdy have you been missing out.

And lookie what I found! Not the best quality, but you still get the effect.