Sweaty, Sweaty Sunday

So the air conditioning wasn't working in church yesterday, resulting in a very moist experience for everyone. For some inexplicable reason I offered to play the organ in church a long time ago and was finally asked to do so yesterday. Apparently I had forgotten how much torture and personal distress is involved in such a commitment, much like how I forget why I don't swill Tabasco sauce more often. Anyway, not only was the experience uncomfortable per my usual experiences with it, but the heat in the building made my fingers so slippery that they kept sliding across the keyboard and hitting several wrong notes. Fortunately, I wisely chose every wrong stop setting I could manage, making it impossible for me to hear my own playing and to know exactly when I was making these mistakes. So it all worked out in the end.

From there I ran to Primary, dragging Peawhistle behind me. Fred and Ethel (you remember Fred and Ethel) had lovingly agreed to watch Peawhistle while I played the organ and they would get their chance once again since they were forced at gunpoint to teach the four-year-olds in Sunday School (or at least I only assumed they were threatened to do it as I cannot envision any other possibility in which they would do so willingly). Surprisingly and gratefully enough, the Primary room was not nearly as hot as the chapel was. That, or running between locations either cooled me off or miraculously caused me to shed several pounds of weight. Given my unchanged girth, I'll have to go with my first assumption.

Here's the thing about playing the piano for the Primary. It's easy to focus when you're forced to pay attention to the words in the verses you're singing. Playing the accompaniment, however, presents a slightly different situation. Sure, you have to pay attention to what you're playing or you'll play the wrong notes (more on that in a bit). However, the song never changes for you, the pianist. You play the same tune repeatedly, regardless of the verse. And when I say repeatedly, I mean repeatedly, because, you know, this is Primary. So I'm usually alert and ready to roll for the first few times through the song, but eventually my mind begins to wander a bit because I start to get a little too confident, having played the same song 16 times within the last 30 minutes. This is when I always make a mistake. I forget where I am on the page, where my fingers are on the keyboard, what key I'm playing in, what song we're singing, and why I'm playing in the first place. After several wrong notes, I catch up and pretend like I totally meant to do that. And two songs later I do the exact same thing. And what am I thinking about that makes my mind wander? If yesterday was any indication of the norm, which it absolutely was, probably Batman. The next time you hear me make a mistake that I hadn't made before? Batman.

Back to Fred and Ethel. Primary was proceeding fairly smoothly when my crime-fighting reverie was disrupted by a very familiar and grating sound: whining. If there is one child-related activity that I absolutely cannot abide, it is whining. And if there is one activity that Peawhistle excels at, it is precisely that. Peawhistle's whines typically start low, as most children's do I imagine. Low and unalarming. At the first hint of resistance, the sound gradually escalates to a full-blown siren's wail, ending finally with the Screaming and the Crying. Peawhistle's sound had begun low and had gradually taken on some volume by the time I recognized her voice. This will not do. I stood up from the piano to see over it so I could confirm that in fact my progeny was the one making that dispicable noise. Fred, the silly man, was attempting to reason with the child. (Such inexperience....) I caught Peawhistle's eye and, shaking my head, gave her the most powerfully disapproving look I could muster, indicating to her that The Whining Would Cease to Commence Immediately. She came up short and sat down, hopefully terrified. I certainly know Ethel was terrified, given the look on her face at that very moment. I can only equate her expression to the reaction you would expect if I had quietly stood and announced that I was the anti-christ foretold in the Bible and that the mass slaughter of innocents would begin momentarily. I ignored Ethel's horror and sat back down, satisfied that the hole in the dam had been plugged, if only temporarily. I think I heard more minor Peawhistle-related whining some time later, but it ended abruptly, possibly with Fred offering her cash if she'd shut up.

My time at church ended on a high note in the parking lot as I was preparing to depart in my vehicle. The bishop, who had been visiting Primary that day to hear his youngest son, Peter, give his first Primary talk (which was quite possibly the best, and definitely most exuberant, Primary talk I've ever heard, ending with a very decisive "AMEN" at its conclusion) stopped me before I could leave.

"That was a great Evil Eye you gave your daughter in Primary."
"Did you like that?"
"Yeah, I did. That was awesome."

While I detected the finest hint of sarcasm in his end of the conversation, I instead decided to take him, the Grand Poobah of Scowling himself, at his word and was instantly flattered.

And people act like parenting is so hard or something.

Randomness I've seen

Back when I lived in No. Virginia ages and ages ago, I frequently went to the IHOP in Alexandria with my friend, Teri. Actually, there were two IHOPs in Alexandria, but once we discovered the second, we never went back to the first. Sure, the first one had good pancakes, but the second. Well, the second one had dinner and a show for the same price! She was there every night we went, leading me to surmise that she simply lived at work, possibly in a stall in the bathroom. She was our Crazy Waitress and we looked forward to seeing her every time. Crazy Waitress would wander from table to table taking people's orders while simultaneously carrying on her own long-running conversation with herself. "I told him, I tells him, hi ladies, can I take your order? I tells him "If you think I'm working this Sunday, you've got another thing coming!" and I'm afraid we're out of that drink, how about a Coke instead? and my boss continues to yell at me so I tells him, you want that with the pancakes or the hashbrowns ma'am? OK, so I tells him that if I don't get off Sunday I'm finally quitting! and how would you like your eggs done? I'm telling you, your order will be out shortly, I'm telling you I'm not doing this anymore!! We'll have words and...." And the conversation would fade as she moved on to the next table of enthralled, incredulous customers. When Teri moved away I never went back to that IHOP, but I sure hope Crazy Waitress patched things up with her boss because I would hate knowing the establishment had thrived without her.

I was at the mall the other day munching on a slice of pizza in the food court. We sat right next to one of those Tetris-like stand-alone games called "Stacker." The prizes you can win ranged from crappy, cheap stuffed animals to PlayStation 2s. I was entertained by two young future juvenile hall candidates who were thrilled out of their brains that they could possibly win a PS2 just by playing a lousy mall game. I was even more entertained noting that they didn't bother to notice that the PS2 box they so lusted after was twice as big as the prize claim chute and door they would supposedly retrieve it from. How can such a thing not totally make my day?

I saw a bumper sticker on a car in the mall parking lot one day. It said "Fat people are harder to kidnap." I've pondered the depth of this statement and have come to the conclusion that truer words have never been communicated via car appendage. I'm going to switch from eating donuts for breakfast to serving them for dinner instead.

I had a friend in elementary school named Joey. He was a delicate, sensitive boy, and the only boy among several sisters; he was spoiled like crazy. Joey, the little flower, had a penchant for passing out when he saw gross things. In 5th grade we were watching a film of a woman being X-rayed while eating an apple. When the apple began to move through her digestive system, we heard a loud SMACK on the floor. The teacher turned on the lights and we all crowded around the limp form of Joey sprawled out on the floor. The teacher, an elderly lady (she was our 6th grade teacher's teacher back when he was a boy, if that's any indication), grabbed his hand and dragged a newly conscious and confused Joey down the hallway to the nurse's office. The next year, we were watching Eskimos gut a seal when, again, a loud WHAP disrupted our fascination and turned it toward Joey's body. Andy had the sensitivity to inquire if Joey was dead this time around. The teacher, a fairly large and fit man, kindly carried poor confused Joey to the nurse's office. I think Joey got notes from his mom after that. Later, his mom confessed that Joey frequently passed out while watching TV at home, which only raised even more obvious questions like "What the hell are you letting your son watch at home?" and "Why are you letting him watch it?" *Sigh* Poor sensitive, girly Joey. He's making a dollar-a-minute as a concert pianist now, so I guess it all worked out for him, especially considering the comparative lack of gross things associated with piano-playing and all. And I guess classical concerts in general.

And finally, Stephenie Meyer. Ah, Stephenie. Do you hate us that much? Or did you just get bored and decide to stop writing? You know, before the last Indiana Jones film came out George Lucas said he knew some people would hate the ending. I said at the time, "Well I refuse to be one of those people!" Well, I hated it. Before Breaking Dawn came out, Stephenie Meyer said she knew some people were going to hate how it ended. I thought, "Well I'm not going to be one of those people!" Again, I hated it. I've come to the intelligent conclusion that I am in fact "some people" and "one of those people." I think I should just start listening to folks when they tell me I'm not going to like their work and take their word for it.

My Own Personal Edwards

I apologize for my brief hiatuses. For those that don't know me well, it should prove interesting to know that I talk on my blog precisely as frequently as I talk in reality. I'm still unsure how I have friends at all since I rarely, if ever, speak to them. Shockingly, I was actually talking to one of them yesterday and we mused over our penchant for emailing friends who live two minutes away. Myself, I like to change things up once in a while. Sometimes calling them, sometimes emailing them, sometimes showing up at their houses unexpectedly and demanding answers, and sometimes writing my questions in their front lawns with gasoline (pricey means I love you!). Regardless of the vehicle, I only talk when something needs to be said.

I've discovered that I subconsciously seek out chatty friends. I have very few friends who are as quiet as I am; otherwise, the conversation transforms from the obligatory small talk to a perpetual staring contest. We have to be Made For Each Other for me to be friends with a quiet person and obviously, my list of that type of friend is short. Otherwise, I seek out talkative friends who can carry the conversation for me so I can nod and express my interest through a series of grunts and raised eyebrows. Don't get me wrong; if you ask me a direct question, or if I have something to add that is pertinent enough to the conversation you're engaged in, I'll say it. Aside from that, don't expect me to say much, if ever. It's not that I don't like you. I just don't like people and talking to them. See? We're still cool, right?

On to today's business. It has come to my marvelous attention via my personal informer that there are several people out there who either know me only vaguely or not at all who read this blog on a regular basis. My source also tells me that these people seem to be embarrassed by this because they don't know me well and don't want to be seen as "creepy" or "stalkerish." First of all, it's obvious that they don't know me because it takes a lot to scare me. Commenting on my blog is not only not creepy in any fashion, but also very fun for me. I do not think you are a stalker simply because we have not been properly introduced. Perhaps if you were to secret yourself away in my window well, or maybe mail me Hallmark cards made out of bullets, well then, I might be a tad concerned and suggest you save those well-thought out activities for someone who can appreciate your time and talents a bit more. But reading and commenting on my blog? Please. Nothing would give me more joy. (Please note the stress I'm placing on the word "comment." There's a reason for that. Go do it.)

Second of all, have you looked at my sidebar recently? The one titled "Websites and Blogs I Regularly Stalk"? I am so not kidding about the stalking part. And that's not even all the blogs I frequent, just the ones I think large audiences would also be interested in visiting. I have a ready list of total and complete strangers that I keep up with. Why? Because I stumbled upon their blogs one day and had to come back to see how it turned out. I even comment on their blogs when it strikes me to do so. They may think it's weird, but who cares? If you don't want me reading your blog, then switch off the option that allows your blog to be found via search engines (you can do that you know). Anyone who enables that option clearly doesn't mind visitors. I take full advantage of that invitation.

And lastly, I especially love knowing that there are people out there who know me but pretend they don't know I have a blog they read despite the contrary. They think because they weren't specifically invited to this party that they are unwelcome. Pfft. I specifically invited about three of my readers personally--the rest came by word-of-mouth. Obviously I'm fine with it and I even encourage it in a passive sort of way. So for all of my neighbors named Melissa who live three doors down who think I don't know they read my blog but probably shouldn't have told Stephanie if they wanted to keep it a secret, I love that you're here. The fact that I'm watching you right now through your front window should indicate just how much. Oh, I'm not there? I probably just went on a bathroom break. I'll be right back so just hang tight. Next time you could be a little more supportive and offer your own bathroom so I don't have to walk so far and lose my concentration.

Please, by all means everyone, read away. If I didn't want you here I would make my blog private so all of three people could read it. If I didn't want you to comment on anything I would turn off that option. If I didn't want you as friends I would never talk to y--...wait, scratch that. Point is, stay. Feel welcome. And for the love of Michael Phelps, comment when you have something to say, OK? Don't make me come to your house to get what I want. Gas is so expensive these days.

Curse You, Whitney!!

Here I was, completely settled and happy that finally I would be able to take a brief nap while Peanut took a long one of his own. I decided to quickly check my email before retiring and what did Whitney (you remember Whitney) send me? Only a link to the Best Blog In The Universe! Behold, I give you "Cake Wrecks," a blog dedicated to horrifically gone-wrong professionally decorated cakes. Oh my goodness, the laughter and the tears were mighty in the reading and the seeing. By the time I finished the blog (it's not terribly long) I had a headache from all the laughing and the crying. Don't forget to stop by my favorite post as a whole, "Drew's Birthday Wish," which is rendered perfect by the writer's accompanying "explanation" of the creepy birthday cake meant for a nine-year-old. Also, don't be afraid to follow the author's various provided links within posts--you will never regret it. Oh my goodness, you will never, ever regret it. I found "I'll Take My Chances" doing that. Go cry for yourselves. Go now. I'll wait.

And also linked from the site is a fun blog called "The 'Blog' of 'Unnecessary' Quotation Marks." Not as funny as the cake one, but still pretty entertaining. Enough so to make me miss the last 1/2 hour of my would-be nap.

Thanks Whitney.

No seriously, thanks.

Won't Someone Think of the Children?

Ken Jennings, the Wonder Boy, has a new post on his blog about an impending trip he and his family are about to embark upon. Most of the post is posted below:

"I hereby apologize to anyone flying an afternoon Delta flight from Sea-Tac to Salt Lake City today. It’s right during Caitlin’s usual naptime, and I predict trouble. Squirming if not squeaking. Hopefully no squawking or squealing. Something that starts with “s-q” anyway.

"Which reminds me: how people react to a screaming baby on a plane is, I sometimes think, a perfect mirror of the human soul. People who smile ruefully and try to help out the poor bedraggled parents are The Good. (Guess what, genius: the parents are typically more unhappy and stressed than you are about the situation, not less.) People who make a big show of scowling and rolling their eyes and otherwise venting at the parents are The Bad.

"People who stop the poor parents on the way off the plane and tell them what terrible people they are, as once happened to my sister-in-law, are The Ugly."

What do you call people who only scowl to themselves, offer no help at all, and alternate thoughts between "I'm so glad that's not me and my kid" and "Please kill me now before I take an innocent child's life"? Moderately attractive and vaguely unhelpful?

Children perplex me. Even growing up I was never a fan of kids. Babysitting was torture. Babysitting jobs usually wound up with me pretending a lethal intruder had broken in and was ransacking the children's homes. If I liked the kids, I finally let them in on the joke before I left. I didn't typically like the kids.

Since having obtained children of my own, I've relaxed somewhat around their kind. I have a vague idea of what they want, but even that is fleeting at times. I still have no idea what to talk to them about. After taking a cursory inventory of their immediate interests and pets, my mind is thoroughly depleted of ideas and I turn the topic towards the economy (which usually results in the outcome I'd initially prayed for: that they'd go away and play by themselves). "Playtime" with a child feels oddly like how I imagine waterboarding to feel like. Any positive opinion of any of the children I presently know has been gradually earned on a strictly case-by-case basis; absolutely no free passes allowed just because a creature is short and cute. I barely tolerate my own children for crying out loud and Society demands that I love everyone else's too? That's just asking too much.

Naturally, I know enough to keep children out of danger and have their physical and medical needs met. I am surprisingly patient when it comes to teaching them and other academic-like endeavours. Aside from that, I know that children in general are plotting and conspiring against me to drive me towards new levels of crazy. The perfect child, to me, is one who doesn't demand that I entertain him or her constantly (or at all, but I know that's impossible), keeps to himself, doesn't destroy anything, and asks as few questions as possible. Essentially what I'm looking for is a middle-aged midget.

So watching parents struggling with their own children on a flight doesn't bring out the kindest thoughts in me, but I don't hate them for it. I pity them with all I can muster, but I pity myself even more. Unless a parent asked me directly, or unless the child was in danger in some way, I cannot even fathom offering to help in a situation like that. The most you would ever get out of me would be a polite smile followed by me going back to whatever it is I was doing before your child kicked me. If I've ever helped you willingly with your child, without being asked (and even when I have been asked come to think of it), it is because I adore you and I'm willing to sacrifice every shred of sanity to see to your happiness.

You're welcome.

My Birthday Wish Came True!

First off, my many thanks to my parents for my new digital camera. It allows me to finally show you my photos in near-real time!!!

Friday was my birthday. I spent it well enough, mostly looking for things to buy with various gift cards I'd legally acquired. I found myself at Barnes & Noble. They were advertising the Twilight Saga book release party for Breaking Dawn. I asked a few questions. Nah. Amusing thought, but nah. However, with my curiosity now piqued, I drove to Borders Books and found a couple of more helpful employees who were decorating for their version of the party. Now, Borders I had a gift certificate for. And I'm a member of their thingy or whatever. And they told me I would get 40% off the book price if I bought it that night. Hm. "Is it going to be a bunch of 16-year-olds and me? 'Cause I refuse to be the old freak there." No, they assured me that "other old women" would be there, too. Well that was a load off. I made up my mind regardless. The reduced book price, combined with the winning formula of a teenaged debate over Edward and Jacob and a sure-to-be-awesome costume contest, and how could I not go?

I mulled over exactly who would be willing to accompany me on such an excursion rife with possibilities. Of the friends who had read the book(s), I could only find two who were willing to go on short notice (the rest of the people I considered are dead to me now. DEAD!). Jody read the books and enjoyed them. She's also too nice to say no, especially on my birthday. She agreed to go. Lisa read the first book and hated it. She's not too nice to say no, but fortunately I have guilt working on my side that forced her hand. Her excuse was something about her getting away from her family, but I know deep down that she only came because 1) it was my birthday 2) she DITCHED MY BABY SHOWER, and 3) SHE DITCHED MY BABY SHOWER. So she agreed to come. I was giddy with anticipation. Our mighty trio was unstoppable.

And then we got there. Jody and I arrived together first and just stared at the unholy mass before us. This mass was in the midst of a painful trivia contest led by one of the fearless employees I had spoken with hours before. Jody and I stared at each other. I instantly thought to myself that this was a big mistake. Gah, two more hours of this?? What was I thinking? Fortunately, it didn't take long for the quiet observations to begin, and when Lisa arrived those observations stopped being as quiet.

Lisa brought me a giftbag for my birthday (I think there was something in it--I can't recall now). As she arrived during the Heated Debate portion of the festivites, I used my new bag to announce my preference for Team Mike, mostly in hopes of irritating some fans. Instead, mostly it just amused them to the point of one girl even asking if she could take a photo of my bag and the Volturi-chick high-fiving me. Sure, whatever, just take my joy from me already IT'S ONLY MY BIRTHDAY.

Over the course of the evening I offered $5 to Jody if she would get up in the middle of the debate and make a solid case for Mike over Edward or Jacob. I also offered $5 to Lisa if she would get up to the mic and tell the entire crowd exactly what she thought of Twilight. Sadly, neither took me up on my offer. Should I have offered $10?

Speaking of the Heated Debate. When I read the evening's program (organized, aren't they?) I was pleased to learn about the Edward v. Jacob debates and what that would entail. I was disappointed to find that instead of the orderly panel discussion that Jody and I had envisioned, it was a screaming free-for-all. Now, don't get me wrong. That was entertaining in its own right certainly. I especially loved the fiesty black mother who got up and yelled, "I'd rather have my daughter bring home a dog than a dead man!" Not surprisingly, this comment was met with much enthusiasm from the crowd, including Jody who applauded comments in Jacob's favor, and also Lisa, who was screaming loudly and applauding any comment from either side that she could hear or not hear. I've never been so entertained.

The costume parade was next. Most of the books' female vampires were represented, with my favorites being the Volturi member and "Rosalie." Of all the freakshows, Rose was the nicest and gladly let me take her photo. Imagine my joy when I discovered yesterday in conversation with Gwennifer that she actually knows the girl in the photo. Seriously, what are the odds?



While the "vampires" were getting their photo taken I attempted to sneak up behind in hopes of recreating my favorite photobomber photo:

Instead, Lisa saw me creeping up behind them and announced in a very loud voice, "My friend, Abby, LOVES your costumes! Can she be in the photo with you?" So I had to actually pose with the lot. Thanks a million, Lisa. At least I made up for it a little by mustering as much visible stupidity as I possibly could for their photos.

The evening progressed with various activities to keep us from trashing the place and ending up in prison (I'm assuming that was their goal anyway). Borders employees handed out buttons and stickers that said things like "I was bitten by Breaking Dawn," "Breaking Dawn left me breathless...." and "Bella & Edward 4ever." They also handed out stickers for Team Jacob and Team Edward with the respective actors' faces on them. I still regret not getting a photo of the girl who had covered her entire upper body in Jacob stickers.

Most of our conversations with strangers happened to be with mothers of daughters in the crowd. You know, since we looked old and safe. But by and large the most enlightening conversation we had took place with a couple of mid-teen girls. One of them expressed her fondest desire to live long enough to see the creation of an Edward/Jacob Rock 'em Sock 'em game. The only thing that she would love to see even more, as it turns out, is a topless mud wrestling match between the female characters in the book. When we didn't respond (what do you say to that?), she defended her wish by stating that no one would be more interested in such a match than teenage girls. We stared at her until she went away.

As 11:30 approached, the Event Staff (aka Book Event Law Enforcement) raffled off the first place in line (a raffle I was informed I could not enter because I hadn't had the foresight to reserve the book last week--and yet, a different lady said I could do whatever I wanted. I'm sure she knew it was my birthday. Mostly because Lisa and Jody kept telling her it was.). We didn't win. So we got in the back of the line and got pushed around by obnoxious, intentionally oblivious teens. As midnight approached, we began hearing brief screams from the front of the queue. We finally decided they screamed at the top of the minute as the time approached midnight. We got to hear two countdowns from the crowd, the first being a false alarm since the crowd forgot to take into account that the books only could be sold at 12:01, not midnight.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Jody and Lisa for going to a function they certainly didn't need to attend, all for company's and entertainment's (and Guilt's) sake. They didn't even buy a book and yet they waited in line with me until nearly 12:30am until I acquired one of my own, cheering me on and reminding the crowd yet again that it was my birthday. Smart-alecs....

You wish you had friends like mine. Well, two of them anyway.

DEAD! Do you hear me? DEAD!

The Peanut Gallery

I've devised a most clever and ingenious bedtime routine for Peanut. It is absolutely no-fail. I felt it only fair to share my techniques for everyone else's benefit in case my readers are ever in a pinch.

Peanut's job: to claw and snap at me like a rabid badger. Kicking is also preferred, and some strained grunting is good to throw in there, too, all while he gives his every effort to break free.

My job: to hold him down like I'm about to brand a calf, and restrain him until he completely loses the will to fight and simply passes out from exhaustion. Then I gently and lovingly lay him in his crib until the blood returns to his brain and he regains consciousness. Ta-da!

In other Peanut News, the boy had his nine-month checkup not too long ago. Dr. Smart-alec is back to being his old jovial self, except he now laughs at absolutely everything I say whether I intended it to be funny or not. He shares family and personal stories with us and treats us like we're old friends. He is intensely interested in every single word I utter. Funny that he wasn't this attentive and caring before he nearly killed our kid. Ah...guilt. Is there anything you can't do?

As for Peanut's stats, he has gained weight certainly, but not enough to put him back on the chart. So he's still in the zeroeth percentile. But wait! For his length, in three months he went from the 5th percentile to the (wait for it)...35th percentile! Holy Mother of Hasselhoff, how did that happen?? At least I now know where all that food I fed him went. And since his checkup he's gained a pound in weight, so that's comforting. Here's to hoping he makes it to 20lbs before he's five! And before CPS takes him away!

Most people have to go a lifetime before finding their doppleganger, if ever. I found Peanut's twin in a Fisher Price catalog. Whew, glad that wait is over. I showed this picture to the Husband and we marveled verily. Now it's your turn to marvel. Marvel! I demand it!


Speaking of doppelgangers, I finally saw mine the other day as I was sitting in traffic. A woman who looked exactly like me was turning in front of me as I was waiting at a light. I was mesmerized by my own image before me. It's like I was having an out-of-body experience. My first thought accompanying the sight of her was not wonder at having seen my double, nor questions about where she came from or if she was related in anyway. My first thought, and I kid you not, was, "Huh. When did I get a silver car?"

Surprise! You Have No Friends!!

A most joyous and happy birthday goes out to my lovely friend, Stephanie, who is old today. For her birthday present, she is making me a birthday cake (what with my own, more special and joyous birthday looming on the horizon). The birthday cake will be a Princess Aurora doll cake, per my mother's instructions to her. Yea, verily I am giddy with anticipation. Forsooth.

I was talking to a friend on Sunday--we'll call her "L. Bowman" for anonymity's sake--about birthdays. I don't recall how we came to the subject of bad birthdays, but apparently she's had a few. Most of these bad birthdays occurred in her childhood. It's here that I would normally throw in a "that explains a lot" crack, but she's bad off enough as it is without me rubbing it in.

Shortly after she relayed the tale of her worst birthday to date, I informed her most seriously that she would be reading about it on my blog. She demanded to hear my version at that very moment but was disappointed to learn that I am hardly as articulate in reality as I am when I write. In fact, my version went something like, "Uh...your birthday sucked and your parents don't love you?" So this entry is specifically for Mrs. Bowman and no one else. The rest of you can go about your business.

Mrs. B. was about nine years old when the following horror was inflicted upon her. She (and the rest of her family I'm assuming; I'm hoping they didn't regularly force her out and make her move on her own) had recently moved to a new neighborhood where she had yet to acquire any new friends. Her birthday had arrived. Her mind only hinted at suspicious activity when her sister became anxiously engaged in keeping her occupied in the family van whilst her parents went inside the house and fiddled around. Finally Mrs. B was permitted inside and was met with any birthday girl's dream: a surprise birthday party! With absolutely no attendees! Well, that's not entirely accurate. In lieu of the friends she should have had, her parents summoned her stuffed animal collection and gathered them around the living room for the "surprise" part of the party. Said animals neither hinted at being surprised for her nor even happy to see her on this most special of personal holidays.

It is my understanding that surprise parties are usually considered a surprise in large part because the well wishers typically do not live in your house and have made considerable effort to not only be there for your happy moment, but have also gone to great lengths to keep their coming attendance a secret from you. It is also my understanding, which was also explained repeatedly by Mrs. B. in a most frustrated tone, that only three-year-olds would be both surprised and impressed that their stuffed animals had both kept the party a secret and bothered to make the arduous trek from her room to the actual party locale two rooms away. A nine-year-old is not nearly as impressed by such tight-lipped effort on the part of inanimate objects she likely no longer associates with on a regular basis; such really only reinforces the reminder that no living persons could be rounded up to attend her very real birthday party. "Surprise honey! You have no friends!"

Personally, I've only had one surprise birthday party in my life and my friends threw it for me as I was turning 16 (not precicely as I was turning 16, but around that time). I probably should have suspected something was up when I heard my parents arguing about something, culminating in my mother yelling, "JUST GET HER OUT OF THE HOUSE ALREADY." And so my dad took me to the mall. Now, as I said, I should have suspected something was up if only that were the first time someone was desperate to get me out of the general area of where he or she was. That the person was my mother was also not a surprise as in my teen years neither of us was much fond of the other's company in large doses. So her assertion that I be removed from her presence immediately didn't shock me in the least. Fortunately, when I returned I was greeted by many friends with many gifts and one birthday cake (made by the mother who wanted me out of the house). It was lovely. Now, you see how a surprise birthday party is supposed to happen, L. Bowman? We'll have to throw one for you one day. I'll be sure and invite the lawn furniture.

Got a Little Irish In You?

While I promised that I would make fun of my friend "Lisa B." in my next post, I decided that can wait at least until tomorrow. This is bugging me now and must be spoken of immediately before I get over it.

So I like Celtic Woman. I especially like Chloe Agnew, even if she does dress like your crazy, 68-year-old Aunt Toosey. She's, what, 8 or something? She's young. And very talented indeed. And I'm assuming Irish. Anyway. Good singer. The whole Celtic Woman crew is good and I enjoy their performances on TV and CDs in my CD players.

So was it any wonder that I would curiously marvel at the male version of Celtic Woman: Celtic Tiger, or Celtic Canine, or whatever the crap they're called. Celtic Thunder, that's it. Personally, I'm of the strong conviction that if you're going to rip off a group like Celtic Woman you might as well rip off the name correctly, too. I wish to assist them in this endeavor, so from now on I will only refer to them as Celtic Man. Being a somewhat regular viewer of PBS (what with me being in their target demographic of 87-to-89-year-olds) I was surprised when I first learned of the existence of Celtic Man and decided I must have a looksee. Their first number left me quite amused, until I realized that it wasn't supposed to. Then it left me exceedingly amused.

Five guys make up this group. First, there is Chloe Agnew, Jr., who I'm assuming is five or something. More shocking than his youthful appearance is his man-like singing voice. It's almost terrifying coming out of such a small boy. I told Husband that he had to come witness this aberration for himself, to which he exclaimed, "Holy crap!!" I'll let you "Holy crap" for yourselves:


Next on our list of oddballs is Depressing Old Guy, seen here:


Depressing Old Guy gets all of the weepy, depressing songs about kids and parents dying. He frequently conveys his depression over his lyrics by getting down on one knee and staring at the floor of the stage. He then rises, squints at the stage lights, moves to the other side of the stage, gets down on the other knee, and stares down. This goes on for some time.

Then there is Opera Guy, who is clearly a classically trained singer. That's fine, except when you're trying to take said singer seriously as he sings "Nights in White Satin." It's like listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing "Under Pressure."

Then there is some other Blond Guy who's actually quite good, so he has no place here.

And finally, my favorite guy in the group: Creepy, Leering, Future Public Sex Offender Guy. Not only is his musical delivery unsettling at best, but the songs he's chosen or been assigned are the worst songs in the entire group. My favorite of his horrific crafts is "Ride On," a mindnumbingly repetetive song that only has five words. Even with my idiocy still in tact I had the song memorized by the end and was gleefully singing it along with Creepy, Leering, Future Public Sex Offender Guy. I'll allow you the same joy here, mostly because I'm such a giver:



If you need to get that taste out of your mouth, here's Blond Guy singing a traditional Irish tune, "The Mountains of Mourne." Note how he can be Irish and not laughable at the same time. Creepy Guy, take heed.


Post Script: Celtic Man doesn't take kindly to Youtube posting their lousy crap so occasionally the videos posted here stop working. So as to prevent you from missing out on the intended fun, search Youtube for "Celtic Thunder Puppy Love," "Celtic Thunder The Old Man," "Celtic Thunder Ride On," and "Celtic Thunder Mountains of Mourne" in that order to see what I'm talking about above. Because you really, really don't want to miss any of that, particularly "Ride On."

Strangely enough, "Ride On" and the Creepy Guy who sings it has quite a fan following. I can only surmise that the following is largely made up of women who would otherwise fall in love with death row inmates awaiting execution but who have been temporarily distracted by this man's disturbing musical output. Speaking of which, I was reminded on a recent viewing of "Ride On" of one of my favorite parts where Creepy Guy is staring down the guitarist during a guitar solo as if he's wondering how best to decorate with his empty skull after he decapitates him. It's great.

Betrayal

It has come to my attention that my current interest in the Twilight Saga has not gone unnoticed by those who disapprove with this choice in reading material. I went to a wedding reception this evening where I briefly spoke with my friend, Ethel, upon entering the building. She warned me that her husband, Fred, had become aware of my recent readings and was most upset. She explained that he had come to believe I was one of the few non-crazy women in the world, what with my MST3K obsession and general interest in other "boy things" as Stephanie would put it (my friend, Bonny, pointed out that if he knew me was well as he claimed to, he never would have been able to reach the conclusion that I was less than insane to begin with; I concurred). The thought of me reducing myself to what both he and his wife call "pre-teen porn" was abhorrant to his sensitivies. Such amused me to no end.

To confirm Ethel's original assessment (lest I be deprived of humor if the answer changed), I checked in with her again before leaving the building. She further clarified that more than anything, Fred was "disappointed" in me. And as we all well know from our indoctrination via The Andy Griffith Show and Leave It to Beaver, having someone be disappointed in you is worse than being electrocuted while your murder victim's families witness your death.

As per the "pre-teen porn" angle, there were a couple of scenes I was surprised to see laid out in a book for 12-year-olds, too.

"My eyes narrowed as I clenched my eyebrows together into a single jagged line. "Hm. That was...saucy," I fretted to myself, convinced that the end of all that was good in my world had finally come to an end when the racy sentence concluded. My chest heaving, I wept openly for the rising generation of pre-teens who were willingly consorting with this brand of degrading literature. My only comfort in this time of uncertainty and misery was to turn to Edward, who was nearly--but not quite--as comfortable as a bag of brick bats in cement. I eagerly snuggled into his blindingly white arms and chest as his breath lulled me to sleep with its comforting and familiar aroma. His absolute-zero body temperature gave me hypothermia, but it was a sexy hypothermia so that was OK. He gently hummed the lullaby he'd written for me--composed no doubt during one of the hundreds of evenings he had illegally broken into my home to watch me sleep in a Ted Bundy-ish sort of "I love you so I stalk you" way. I suddenly felt his entire body tense and I knew that he was fighting his natural urge to kill me. Most people in my life had to fight the same urge on a daily basis, but with him it was different. It was different because he was hot.

"Sure, I had friends who hated themselves enough to hang out with me (I'm a bit of a Debbie Downer at times!), and even one kid who convinced himself that we were meant to be together, just because we "loved each other" and our relationship would be "normal" and "healthy" and "non-lethal." Whatever, screw him. "OH MY GOSH I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST SAID THAT GET ME THE PHONE EDWARD I HAVE TO CALL JAKE AND TELL HIM I'M SORRY AND I LOVE HIM AND WON'T HE PLEASE LET ME STRING HIM ON JUST A LITTLE BIT LONGER?" Edward, who loves being used and immasculated, dialed for me, apologized for me, confessed his love to Jacob for me, willingly continued the charade with Jacob for me, and hung up with a kiss and a fond farewell. Isn't Edward the best?

"Edward is absolutely everything I want, need, and dream about when I'm not wanting, needing, and dreaming about Jacob. I can't believe I just thought that! I instantly apologized to Edward, who immediatley, and appropriately, blamed himself and begged me not to feel even an ounce less than absolute and utter joy every waking second of my life. My cornflakes didn't taste quite right this morning, throwing me into a deep depression for the rest of the afternoon. Edward took full responsibility for my less-than-satisfactory cereal experience and attempted suicide. I honestly appreciated the gesture, even if it didn't rectify the cornflake-failure situation. Since then we've been as excruciatingly happy as any living being and corpse can possibly be together, and all because he was willing to take his own life the second the corners of my mouth even hinted at being less than electrically thrilled. His rippling pectorals and I are soulmates, and I will never again allow them to leave my side for any reason at all, including bathroom breaks.

"I just hope he doesn't ask me to marry him, because honestly, is there anything worse in this world than being married to the person you love, worship, adore, and want to spend eternity with? Marriage. Ew. If only there was some way to just bind our love together, officially, perhaps with some kind of ceremony. Of course we'd need some sort of official person to perform our love-binding ceremony, and we should probably get dressed up a bit for it. Maybe I should even throw on a dress or something. I'd love it if my family and friends could witness this love-binding ceremony, and oo! we could even have cake afterwards! I'm so glad I thought of this!" And...scene.

If it helps, Fred, I myself am surprised that I not only actually read Twilight to begin with, but that I found myself enjoying it despite its many shortcomings. Many, many shortcomings. It's fun, lighthearted fair full of mythical creatures like vampires, werewolves, and teenagers who are capable of rational thought. I can't always read books like biographies of General Douglas MacArthur (rivetting as that was for me). Twilight and all its silliness is the perfect balm when life walks the fine line between sanity and insanity, creating havoc and damage to your mind along the way. It reverts your memory to a simpler time when your only responsibilites were keeping a clean room and keeping your siblings out of your stuff. It's childhood all over again...but with fewer Indian burns and wet willies.