Waking to Barney Stinson

About a month ago, David got this fancy-schmancy light that gradually becomes brighter and brighter to simulate a sunrise in our bedroom. I'm not making this shit up.  We live in Canada - it is now winter - coming out of hibernation sucks at the best of times.  This light takes about half an hour to gently accustom its owners to the morning before having the most soothing of Asian plink-plonking pseudo bells as an alarm.  I will freely admit that it is a more civilized way to greet the world.  You can snuggle in the blankets and reflect as you snooze (David ALWAYS hits the snooze button at least once), basking in that gentle nudge into wakefulness.

At least that's the plan until Rissa's alarm goes off about 5 minutes later, at full volume. She recently made a new CD with all her favourite ITunes songs. This morning it was Barney Stinson singing Nothing Suits Me Like a Suit at full volume.

And though I revel in my daughter's delicious musical weirdness, I know that I will have that mind-worm of a song in my head all frickin' day now.  Bright side: it could have been more jarring, could have been American Idiot.

Rissa's Wake Up Mix

American Idiot

Nothing Suits Me Like a Suit

Rehab

Taico drum number from Cirque du Soleil's Dralion

I'm Yours

Summer of '69 

Superstar - from the Australian cast recording of JC Superstar

The Flesh Failures from HAIR

and...

Walkin' on Sunshine 

Where are the REAL Christmas Cards?

Okay, seriously?!?  How hard can it be to find a heart-felt Christmas card for your Mom that is not overly schmaltzy, poorly rhymed or full of guilt-driven sentiment?  SERIOUSLY?!?

I went to two stores looking for the right card for my Mom.  Found perfect cards for David, Rissa, even my Dad, but for my Mom?  Nothing, nada, zip!  There were a couple of cards that would have done alright, but they were like $9.95 and $11.00!!!  ELEVEN FREAKING DOLLARS?!?  For a card?  Since I had my first rant last May on this subject, Mother's Day without the Crap,  prices have sky-rocketed.

First off, why are most of the cards addressed to: A Wonderful Mother, The Best Mother, A Special Mother...  Who on this planet, not raised by nannies, calls their Mom, MOTHER?!?  I don't even call my Mom, 'Mom,' I call her 'Mare' - after the French, Mère, but horsier, and because I like bad puns.   Or 'Mor' - the Danish word for Mom.

There were so many cards that started with this sort of text:

"Mother, during this season, you will never know how much you truly mean..."  
Yes she will.  And you know when?  When she finishes reading the card.  Because you are telling her right now with this stupid card how much she means to you.

"Mother you've always been there for me at Christmas..." 
Lie.  No mother has ALWAYS been there for her kid.  Except maybe Mildred Pierce.  There are times when kids are shits and have made dumb-ass decisions and they need to be told "You're on your own on this one sweetie... I am not bailing you out of jail tonight." 

"Mother, I know that I don't say 'I love you' a lot, but because it's Christmas..." 
Why not?  Why aren't you telling your mother that you love her a lot?  Are you a bitch and you're just trying to make up for your bad behaviour and get into her will with a crappy card?  OR... is she the bitch, in which case, why are you even giving her a card?  Stop this toxic Catch-22 relationship and spend time with your friends who are nicer people. 

So for Mare this year, she's getting a handmade card with a hand-written sentiment which might be as simple as writing out "I love you,"  or "I'm so glad that we get along."  I don't want to give her a crap card that other people wrote that sort of fits the circumstances.  I want her to know that I'm proud that she stands up for the under-dog, happy that we still get into giggle fits, and when she does her Arsenio Hall fist pump and sings "I am the Champion" after she beats me at Perquacky, she is a goddess.  Where's the card that says that?

Christmas 1969, Summerside, PEI

Bottom of a Birdcage Mouth

So why is it that when you're sick, your mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage?  What is that?  It's like the virus crawls up onto your tongue when you sleep, lies there overnight all cozy and pasty white under you uvula, clutching your tonsils and adenoids as fleshy stuffed toys for comfort.  It spreads out across your tongue and glories in its stench.  My cat padded up to me in bed this morning.  I said "Hello," and she looked offended.  And this is a cat who cleans her own ass - badly.

Bright side - Although I am muzzy headed, I have this week to get better before I have actual things that I have to leave the house for.  Annnnnnd... that sentence made next to no sense because apparently my brain, in addition to my other organs has been affected by whatever that virus ridden toddler slipped me.

It's my own fault.  I mean, toddler fingers are yummy and sweet and you usually get a laugh when you suck on them.  But I knew.  I KNEW as soon as those fingers went into my mouth that I should have rinsed with scotch right away.  But now it's too late, because everything that kid touched (floors, walls, his nose, other people's noses/mouths) that day is now making its way through my system, one exhausted, achy muscle group at a time.

OY.

I have family members who were down and out for the count over Christmas - actually unable to get off the sofa - quarantined, able to interact only with other infected members of the family.  I wanted to go round and wrap them all in Christmas garlands and twinkle lights so that their barfy, fever of 104, nearly comatose holiday was a bit more festive - except I didn't want to touch them or breathe in their air.  I'm kind-hearted and all, but not after I've already suffered from my own week of the flu.

Jack Lemmon with Maracas

Jack Lemmon with maracas Some Like It Hot 1959
Screenplay Wilder & Diamond after a story by Lomax and Thereon

Last night we shared Some Like it Hot with Rissa for the first time.  As soon as she saw the B&W hit the screen - she rolled her eyes.

"Is the whole movie like this?"

"Yes.  Give it a chance."

Eye roll with accompanying sigh - subtext: "Why, oh why, do my parents keep showing me stuff that just isn't cool?"

She yawns her way through the first act, but then we're in to Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in drag - and this line from Jack Lemmon's Jerry as he watches Marilyn Monroe:

"Will you look at that! Look how she moves! It's like Jell-O on springs. Must have some sort of built-in motor or something. I tell you, it's a whole different sex."

And that gave us our first of many true snorts of laughter from our oh-so-disaffected 12 year old.  Lemmon is irresisible as Daphne - watching him do the tango and then relive his romantic night with accompanying maracas is priceless.   David and I barked laughter over Wilder and Diamond's dialogue - yes some is a little dated (remember this was 1959, and same-sex marriage was NOWHERE on the radar), but when Daphne/Jerry is trying to explain Josephine/Joe about her/his great night, Lemmon is PERFECTION!!

Jerry: Have I got things to tell you!

Joe: What happened?

Jerry: I'm engaged.

Joe: Congratulations. Who's the lucky girl?

Jerry: I am!

Joe: WHAT?!

Jerry: Osgood proposed to me! We're planning a June wedding.

Joe: What are you talking about? You can't marry Osgood.

Jerry: Why, you think he's too old for me?

Joe: Jerry, you can't be serious.

Jerry: Why not? He keeps marrying girls all the time.

Joe: But, you're not a girl! You're a guy, and, why would a guy wanna marry a guy?

Jerry: For security! Look, I know there's a problem, Joe.

Joe: I'll say there is.

Jerry: His mother - we need her approval, but I'm not worried because I don't smoke.

Joe: Jerry. There's another problem, like what are you gonna do on your honeymoon?

Jerry: We've been discussing that. He wants to go to the Riviera but I'm kinda leaning toward Niagra Falls.

Joe: My God.

Jerry: I don't expect it to last Joe. I'll tell him when the time's right.

Joe: Like when?

Jerry: Like right after the ceremony. Then we get a quick annulment, he makes a nice little settlement on me and I keep getting those alimony checks every month.

Joe: Jerry listen to me there are laws, conventions. It's just not been done.

Jerry: Joe this may be my last chance to marry a millionaire.

Joe: Oh, Jerry — Jerry, will you take my advice? Forget about the whole thing, will ya? Just keep telling yourself: you're a boy, you're a boy.

Jerry: I'm a boy.

Joe: That's the boy.

Jerry: I'm a boy. I'm a boy. I wish I were dead. I'm a boy. Boy, oh boy, am I a boy. Now, what am I gonna do about my engagement present?

Joe: What engagement present?

Jerry: Osgood gave me a bracelet.

Joe: [examining it] Hey, these are real diamonds!

Jerry: Of course they're real! What do you think? My fiance is a bum?

Rumour has it that the maracas were added after a test screening because the audience was laughing so hard the rest of the dialogue was getting lost. 

The best part?  At bedtime Rissa said to David "I could see why you'd want to show me that.  It was awesome."

Demon on my Chest

So you know when you feel like this?? 
The Nightmare, Fuseli 1781

A toddler stuck his fingers in my mouth last weekend and I am now fucked.  Because why?  Because an adult's immune system sucks.  Kids?  Kids can be infected with a freaking alien plague, take some Dimetapp and be fine.

"Mummy I'm good to go.  If I stayed home, I'd miss recess/hockey/dance/horse back riding!  Time is a wastin'!"

"You have a fever of 103!"

"I feel nothing - let's go!!!" *

We all have our signals - that first feeling where you know, you just know that you're fucked with whatever illness has insidiously infiltrated your person.  Me?  My legs ache.  David, it's his throat.  Rissa, she starts sniffling.

So yesterday, when my legs felt a little off, it was just a matter of time before I was caught in the toddler virus vortex.  The entire back of my body hurts.  The back of my eyeballs, head, lungs, ass, legs, arms, throat, tongue, shoulders...  uterus...    I'm pretty sure that I can feel the tonsils and adenoids that I had removed when I was 11.

I have things to do today.  I have a whole list of shit that needs to be done.  It's a week until Christmas!!!  I had a day planned with pre-holiday tasks that began with doing (and this is just how dumb I am) my 42 minutes of exercise.  Yes, I am THAT dumb - I am still considering exercising - even though I know that you're supposed to rest when you're sick.  Thing is?  I'm worried that I won't be able to sleep tonight if I don't exercise.  Jogging would be overly ambitious, I'm 'with it' enough to recognize that.  But walking?  Not at my regular pace (that would be silly), but at a completely reasonable lower speed that might trick my body into thinking that it actually did expend energy?  That is doable.  Except that I can't tell David that I did it.  His last words before he left the house today were "Get some rest." Accompanied by a meaningful 'you will be in so much trouble if you don't' look.

So here I sit, clad in David's extra-large bathrobe, the personification of pathetic, trying to figure out if there's a way to get away with being stupid, instead of watching Buffy and/or Firefly all day.  Oh God, I really AM sick.  The virus has hit my brain too!!

Snuggling in one's partner's robe can mask a lot.

*Please for the love of all deities - DON'T send your child to school when they have a fever!  They are NOT well, even if they think they are.  Don't be the parent of Typhoid Frickin' Mary and start a flu/cold epidemic because it was inconvenient for you to take a day to look after your kid. 

Too sad to be funny

So you know how I posted about Jeff Buckley's cover of Hallelujah?  I didn't reckon it would shuffle onto our playlist last night as we were driving home from Toronto, nor did I think that it would make me cry for a completely different and soul-shattering reason than at the beginning of the day. 

I'm just hoping that all the cool people in Heaven are taking each and everyone of those victims into their arms.  I know my friend Shannon will be doing it along with my Gran, Granny, Kay, Grandad and Vivian.  Maybe even Jeff Buckley himself will sing for them.

Hold your kids close.

Best Cover of Hallelujah - EVER

from jeffbuckley.com

I'm crying now.  I'm crying because I didn't know until just moments ago, that Jeff Buckley died in 1997.  What the?  He died 15 years ago?!? And what do you mean you don't know who Jeff Buckley is?   Well, Jeff Buckley has the title of this blog post - that's who he is.  The best cover of Leonard Cohen's  Hallelujah EVER.  The first time I heard his version was on an episode of The West Wing in 2002.  It was so freaking beautiful and affecting that I found myself reaching blindly for David's hand as I started to sob uncontrollably.  This morning, I was all excited to learn more about him and he's freaking dead!  Had he lived, he'd be 2 years older than I am now.

I'm crying because I was so happy to be reminded of how brilliant he is and only just now found out that I should be saying was.   I was completely clueless that he had already shuffled off this mortal coil.  I'm crying because he'll never record another song and that sucks like a freaking black hole.  I feel cut off at the knees.

Those 'hit you upside the head' emotions...  Most of the time you cover them up, push them down... you don't delve.  It's too painful.  Go ahead,  brand me a 'sensitive soul.' I freely admit it.  Tears coat my throat if I really think about John Lennon when I hear Imagine on the radio.  I get overcome by the song and then I remember that he's dead and if I don't fill my chest with ice, it's as if I just heard that he was shot.

Eva Cassidy's cover of Over the Rainbow can send me off the deep end. When Brandon Lee died - I remember feeling devastated.  And you're probably thinking to yourself, Brandon Lee?  What the...?  Like Bruce Lee's kid?  Yep.  Bruce Lee's kid.  And I don't know why it hurt.  Maybe because he was young and had a life of promise.   I could see it there... just there... just beyond The Crow and then... nothing.  Dead.

So this morning I honour Jeff Buckley.  Those of you who haven't experienced him, listen to the song yourself.  I defy you not to be moved.