Practicing Safe Coverage

Is it just me, or is the cast of Glee frolicking with giant condoms?

Do You Think Safeway Would Go For This?

Oh, how I wish this would happen JUST ONCE when I’m at the grocery store!

Stephanie

If any of you watch Oprah and saw Stephanie Nielson on the show today (the beautiful young mother of four who survived a terrible plane crash here in Arizona), I must urgently direct you to her blog, NieNie Dialogues, if you don’t read it already.

Oprah’s spot was nice and all, but it didn’t even come close to relating just how inspiring, gifted and courageous Stephanie is.  In my down moments, I think of her and feel lifted.  I aspire to her bravery and generosity of spirit, in her own life, as a wife and as a mother.  She is an amazing woman, and all mothers and anyone who has ever felt crushed by life should read her blog.

Ahem.  Yeah, so she’s pretty cool.

READ IT.

Especially this one.  And this.  And maybe this one, too.

To Be Or Not To Be

When I when back to school for my English degree at ASU, I had a fantastic teacher who taught me everything there is to know about writing, helped me create my own column in the school newspaper, and generally let me behave like a spoiled writing diva.

He only had one hang-up:  “to-be verbs.”  You know, verbs like is, am, are, was, were…  To my professor, to-be verbs carried the stench of rotten meat.  (See, I was going to write, “to-be verbs were the devil,” but realized I shouldn’t use a to-be verb in my own attack on those little scoundrels.  Image of rotten meat better than image of devil?  Discuss…)

Anyway, those damn to-be verbs hounded me in my writing, haunting every sentence and appearing against my will.  With each exorcised to-be verb, three new ones would spring up in its place (like gremlins!).  My papers came back with every single to-be verb circled repeatedly in red pen.  I maintain that it is (damn!) impossible to write a four-page paper without using at least one to-be verb.  After graduating and bidding adieu to my professor, I found peace with to-be verbs, and frankly, sometimes writing, “she was angry” is just a little more satisfyingly succinct than, “she quaked with the anger of a thousand thwarted lovers.”

But oh!  How my old professor would love Moo.  I think that more than toys, candy, and snakes put together, Moo loves action verbs.

Watching a little girl run around:  “Oh! She skittered across the room!”

Me, from the kitchen: “What are you doing, Moo?”  Moo: “Just scrambling on the couch!”

Pretending to be a duck:  “I can run really fast!,’ Duck boasted.”

Playing with her animals:  “…And then he twisted away and jumped down and the bunny bounded over and bounced and bounced and BOUNCED!”

A+, Moo.

Happy Birthday Rosalind!

Rosalind turned 35 on Saturday – for the record, still not old. 

To celebrate her not old-ness, we visited Smeeks, a brand-new candy shop in town, right next to the best boutique in Phoenix, Frances.

I have found heaven on Earth, and it is called Smeeks:

 

 

 

 

 

 

We treated ourselves to root beer barrels, Skybars, Chick-O-Sticks, candy cigarettes (which we smoked while buying movie tickets later), cupcake lipgloss (see above) and an ice cream cone that is actually a pen/lip gloss COMBO!  Genius.

A Flag Named Michael Jackson

I don’t know if I’ve confessed this previously, but I have a serious addiction to the magazine Entertainment Weekly.  My sister and her husband have had a subscription forever, and I remember how, every time I visited them, I would hug and chat and think, “How long until I’m alone with EW?”  Then once they were asleep, I’d skitter about the house like a rat, scooping up back copies and staying up until 3 a.m. reading about Buffy the Vampire Slayer and this newfangled technology called the “DVD.”

Finally, a couple years ago, I realized that I probably had enough money to buy myself a subscription.  I did, and now I giddily look forward to the mailman every Friday, counting the minutes until Moo’s naptime, when I can collapse on the couch with the latest issue.  Except last Friday, EW did not arrive – and it was the Michael Jackson tribute issue, no less!  I wept all weekend, and staked out the mailbox early Monday morning.  It arrived just before lunchtime, and so I just couldn’t resist flipping through it while Moo and I ate lunch together.

It didn’t take long for Moo to ask me who that smiling fella was on the cover of the magazine.  “That’s Michael Jackson,” I said.  “He was a really good dancer, and a great singer, too.”  Then she requested more pictures of him, and I obliged, carefully editing or covering up the freak-face pictures (I’m sorry, but it’s true - he was so handsome when he was young!).  Then she wanted to hear him sing, so I put on some music.

Moo:  “Mommy, why he say ‘Ow?’  Is he hurt?”

After explaining the fine line between “ow, boo-hoo,” and “Ooooowww, woo-hoo!”, Moo wanted to see him dance.  So I pulled up You Tube on the laptop and found the “Billie Jean” video.

Moo:  “Oh, he pretty good, Mommy!”

Then we watched the video for “The Way You Make Me Feel,” which I remembered as Michael flirting with a girl on the street, but is actually rather stalker-ish and disturbing.

Moo:  “What he doing with that girl, Mommy?”

Mama:  “He really wants to dance with her.”

Michael grabs his crotch.

Mama:  “He really, really wants to dance with her.”

I saved the “Black or White” video for last, watching her eyes bug out during the face-morph section at the end.  You remember that part, right?

I fast-forwarded past the Macaulay Culkin-as-obnoxious-brat section, of course.  My favorite part is when Michael dances with the Indian woman in the middle of the street – I think it’s so sweet and surprising how their styles of dance are actually very similar.

Anyway, after the head-morphing wackiness, Moo turned to me and declared, “Mommy!  Let’s play Michael Jackson!”

Delighted, I turned to my Ipod.

Moo:  “No, Mommy – let’s plaaaay Michael Jackson.”

Mama:  “Huh?  You mean like play pretend?”

Moo:  “Yeah!  Who can be Michael Jackson?  I know!!  Maybe one of my animals can be Michael Jackson!”

Mama:  “That’s a fantastic idea, Moo!”

This was awesome.  I could rewrite Michael Jackson’s entire life to be one beautiful singing/dancing extravaganza, without all the icky stuff.  I thought Froggy might be a good contender.  Or maybe Ostrich – he’s got moves.

But Moo’s eyes had landed on something else first.

Picking up a leftover 4th of July decoration, she shouted, “Oh Mommy!  How ’bout this flag be Michael Jackson?”

Mama:  “…You want that flag to pretend to be Michael Jackson?”

Moo:  “YEAH!!!”

And that is how my tardy issue of Entertainment Weekly caused Michael Jackson to be reincarnated as an 8-inch craft-store American flag. 

He’s still got some pretty great moves.

Dancing Fireflies

Yesterday we visited the Phoenix Art Museum, because we believe it’s so important to expose Moo to art, and also, um - Rosalind gave us free tickets.   Oh yes, we’ve got connections – Rosalind helps out in the museum store whenever she can, and sometimes gifts us her museum passes.  She’s not quite a museum expert – as she told me, “Every time a customer opens their mouth, I’m just praying they’re going to ask where the bathroom or the elevator is, because other than that, I have no clue.”

So of course when we arrived, I asked if she could direct us to the Early European Impressionists, and also do you have any books on Himalayan art?  Rosalind was not amused.  She did, however, know where we could find the fireflies, which is where we spent most of the afternoon.

Technically, the fireflies are called, “YOU WHO ARE GETTING OBLITERATED IN THE DANCING SWARM OF FIREFLIES!!!”  by Yayoi Kusama.  I don’t think Kusama included the capitalization and exclamation marks in the title, but I just don’t see how you can’t SHOUT IT!  DANCING FIREFLY SWARM!  ACH!  SO BEAUTIFUL AND SO SWARMY!  EEK I AM GETTING OBLITERATED!

Here’s someone’s trippy picture of the experience:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the obliteration is actually much more peaceful than that – it’s simply a dark, mirrored room with thousands (?) of LED lights hanging down and constantly changing color.  You can’t see yourself at all, and it looks like these little firefly lights go on and on forever.  I thought Moo might freak out, but safely in her Daddy’s arms, she made best friends with the fireflies in a snap and was soon deep in conversation with them.  “I’m red!  Ooh no, now I’m green!  Look, you’re pink!”

Moo also was hypnotized by this dancing tree:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And of course, she loved the miniature room, a gallery of tiny bedrooms and dining rooms replicating period-style European and American houses, which has not changed a smidge since I was a kid pressing my nose up to the glass.  Moo seemed entranced by the teeny tiny books lining the walls, and declared that she was pretty sure her snake “King True” lived in the most opulent rooms.

We also visited the “Kids Gallery,” which apparently re-opened last May, and left me scratching my head.  I visited the kids’ space a few years ago with my niece and nephew, and it was pretty lame back then – remarkably, it has become even more lame.  I don’t think you can call a stack of books about art and a glorified puzzle a “gallery.”  I felt nostalgic for the good ol’ days at the Phoenix Art Museum when I was a kid – correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I remember a shadow room in the basement, giant blocks, and a velcro wall.  And at Christmas, they always had a Christmas tree and gingerbread house exhibit.  Back then, they courted younger visitors – now it almost seems like they don’t want children to visit.  But I don’t know, perhaps the good folks at the art museum are just trying to save the youth from TOTAL FIREFLY OBLITERATION!

If you haven’t seen the fireflies yet, I highly recommend that you go check them out.  And while you’re there, say hi to Rosalind!  Ask her where you might find the Spanish Colonial art.  She’ll love it.

A Trip to the Dentist

For the love of God, people, FLOSS!   Floss like your life depends on it!  (Of course, according to my dentist, it does, but…he’s like the Ahmadinejad of dentistry.  Kind of a dental fundamentalist.)  Anyway, I have learned today that there are dental hygienists out there who will happily dig at your tender gums like they’re cutting into a nice juicy steak.  OW.

I brought my Ipod with me because Herbie assured me that it would all be easy-peasy if I listened to the soothing sounds of NPR podcasts.  But no no no, when dental sadists shoot that cold water jet/air missile doo-hickey at your super-sensitive teeth (it’s true, I’m sensitive, the dentist told me so), Ira Glass is just an annoying PRICK, and his self-satisfied prattling about the ad men of the 60’s just made me want to stab him repeatedly in the eyeball.  So I tried Michael Jackson, but even MJ couldn’t help, and I had to resort (apparently – I didn’t notice the scratches until later) to digging my nails into my arm to keep from having a Hulk moment and throwing that sanctimonious, skinny, tooth-torturing bitch and all her evil suctiony diggy tools across the room.

Okay, I’ve learned my lesson, I’ll floss.  Jeez. 

Now - what am I supposed to do with this little stringy thing?

Mama Say Mama Saw Mama Coo Saw

With all my talk of getting old, I don’t know if I ever really felt it until yesterday, when Michael Jackson died.  Is this how it felt for the generation of Elvis-lovers?  I’m sure it’s a little bit different, since so many people really did love and lust for Elvis, and I, and probably most people, have mostly felt befuddled and/or deeply disturbed by Michael Jackson, the man, over the years.

But his music!  His music, as I’m sure many folks my age would say, was the sountrack of my childhood.  Not just my childhood, but my adolescence, and even my young-adult New York years.  My mom thought I was too young to see the videos for “Beat It” and “Thriller,” with their somewhat violent content, but I watched them, again and again, at my friend Kelly’s house after her parents went to bed.  I remember crowding around the TV with a bunch of friends when the video for “Bad” premiered as a primetime special in high school.  In New York, studying dance, all my teachers choreographed again and again to “Man in the Mirror,”  “The Way You Make Me Feel,” and that “Free Willy” song.  I did my first triple pirouette to “Black or White.”  In fact, a few years ago I realized that while I never really obsessed over MJ’s choreography, all of my childhood dance teachers did, and so I was brought up learning MJ-style jazz dance, minus the moonwalk.

Even as an adult, whenever I’m in a funk, all I have to do is put on Michael Jackson and I am flying around the house.  “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” is my go-to sit-ups song.  A few years ago, Herbie and I had to pull over so we could bust out, car-dance-style, to “Smooth Criminal.”  Once, at a dance party, I made an instant friend in Jenna the Great when we spontaneously recreated the entire knife fight from “Beat It.”  And two years ago, Herbie and I won a “Thriller” dance-off at his office Christmas party.

Every generation has that icon – that ICON – and when that icon dies, a generation gains instant age lines.  I feel like all stores and radio stations and public venues everywhere should be playing MJ non-stop… and maybe they are, after all, we’ve only been to AJ’s and My Gym today.  At our house, it’s nap time, and with all these songs bouncing through my head, the quiet is feeling very heavy. I can’t wait for Moo to wake up, so that I can, despite my new age lines, try to teach Moo the zombie walk.  I’ll save the spin-and-crotch-grab until she’s just a bit older.

Glissade, Jete, Glissade, Jete

I went to ballet last night for the first time in over a year, and I came home wincing and angry.  I’ve attended Ballet Arizona’s adult classes off and on since moving back to Phoenix, and my most beloved teacher, Joe, got fired for some unknown reason when I was pregnant.  (Too funny?  Too freckled?) After I got too big to bourrée, I took a break from ballet until last year, when I started attending regularly for awhile.  But they just haven’t been able to find that Joe magic again.

The last class I attended was taught by a member of the Ballet Arizona company who clearly thought it was far, far below him to teach a bunch of hopeless adults.  He lazed around the studio, trying to keep from rolling his eyes at us and every so often showing off his incredible extension, remarking, “You know, like that.”  That last day, I was unable to make it through class because my inner thighs were completely destroyed from doing the Mommy Crab Walk while helping Moo learn to walk.  When I gave up just a few combinations into the barre, Monsieur Snob saw me limping out and drawled, “Remember to stretch…”  I couldn’t figure out if it was an admonition or a helpful suggestion for rehabilitation.  Either way, I couldn’t stand the guy and stayed clear of ballet, nursing my sore muscles, which improved as Moo got her sea legs working.  With my two shows, I got some great exercise, but as soon as The World Goes Round ended, I fell victim to that familiar self-delusion: I’m in great shape!  I can eat anything I want!  Weee, I’m going to bake banana bread and blackberry turnovers every week!  Then, suddenly:  big ol’ tummy, flappy arms.

So I returned to ballet last night, hoping for a new teacher, and happily I discovered a long-limbed, elegant, grey-haired fellow, let’s call him Pierre.  Unfortunately, I arrived a few minutes late, so I didn’t have to warm up, and I got stuck at the front of the barre, which meant there was nobody in front of me to follow.

Normally that wouldn’t be such a problem, except that it turns out I was way out of shape, and way out of practice.  Also, Pierre seemed to be teaching the class to the two advanced students poaching the beginning/intermediate class.  Ballet has never been my strongest suit in dance, and I have never been able to remember all those damn épaulement positions – effacè, croisè, ecartè – even though I’ve been tested on them many times.  Pierre had us do complicated combinations at the barre, constantly changing directions and adding in lots of  port de bras and blah de blah.  I struggled to keep up, and at the end of one combination, in which I was supposed to have released the barre and balanced in arabesque but sort of forgot what the heck I was doing, and OH GOD my aching muscles, Pierre came up to me.

“I need to see you release so I can tell where you stand technically,” he said.

“Oh – okay, sorry!” I said.

And then I thought: “????”  What the heck is going on?  Why does this feel like an audition, and why am I so concerned with impressing Pierre, when I am here for me, because I love dancing, and I need to exercise?

I wrestled with that question for the rest of the class.  I pushed my body far beyond it’s out of shape limits, at the same time reprimanding myself, “Just do what’s right for your body! You’re here to have fun!”

But there was no fun in that room, no joy of dancing.  Just Pierre quizzing us, “Where does the line of the arabesque end?”  Apparently, it ends with an alien eating out your intestines, since that is the gesture Pierre provided as an answer.

When class finally ended, I stalked out, convinced I’d have to resort to Jazzercise.  But today, my muscles are delightfully sore, especially my booty – and you know you’ve had a good workout when both booty cheeks ache.  So I guess I’ll give it another try, do my best to remember why I’m there, and perhaps just review those épaulment positions.  (And yes, I did have to look up how to spell all those ballet terms.)