Mother's Day Contest

My mom asked me to enter a Mother's Day Essay contest so she could win a massage.
On the day of the deadline, somewhere between emails and phone calls, I snuck in a little time at work to dash off a few words. I don't think it's a marvel of modern literature. But, through some miracle I won. And Mom won.

So, here is that essay:

"Some women are born great mothers. They seem to pop out of the womb with an apron around their waist, freshly baked cookies in their hands and a yen to nurture in their hearts. Other women learn to be great mothers. My Mom is in the latter category.

Mom doesn’t bake. She uses her oven for storage. Really. She may not resemble the idyllic Donna Reed Mom archetype, but Mom is an astounding woman and an amazing mother.

My Mom wasn’t built to be a soccer Mom. Her own mother died when she was only 10. (And from what I hear, was not exactly peach before she passed.) From then on, she was shipped and shuffled to boarding schools and reformatories. When she came home, she was a guest. So, her exposure to positive parental role models was limited.

Though unfashionable at the time, she didn’t fantasize about 3.5 kids and a suburban tract home. She wanted a career. And she got it. She worked her way up and was the first female VP in her corporation (in the 1970s when such a thing was rare). She left that position to start her own company and has been the President of that empire ever since. She’s been on TV, written books and spoken at podiums in front of thousands of people.

And somewhere in that mix, after 8 years of marriage, my father talked her into having a baby. And because life is funny this way, as soon as I was born, they divorced
So, she not only became a mother, she became a single mother. With a full-time job. And absolutely no idea what she was doing.

But, she learned quickly.

She apologizes now for the long hours working and for not being able to give me all of the things my affluent friends had. But, I don’t remember any of that. All I remember is that she always tucked me in at night. She always read me to sleep. She always made me feel safe and happy and loved. And that’s all the stuff that really matters anyway.

Although being affectionate is wonderful, the greatest gifts my Mom ever gave to me are her strength and humor. I call my Mom the Iron Pixie. She’s warm and giggly and fun, but don’t let that fool you. When push comes to shove, Mom is downright unsinkable. She has taught me what it means to stand up, survive, overcome and find the gift, the gratitude and the funny part in it all.

When I was 10 years old and Mom was my whole Universe, we got some news. Mom was diagnosed with bladder cancer and given a 2% chance of survival.

Time stood still. I remember barely choking out the words, “Are you going to die?” And Mom grabbed my chin, looked straight into my eyes and said, “Absolutely not. Nothing, I mean NOTHING is going to take me away from you.”

And she meant it. That year was a big year. She quit her fancy job. She started eating a bland, but cancer-fighting macrobiotic diet. She painted my room pink with me. BIG things.

And then she beat cancer.

And 15 years after that, cancer popped up somewhere else and she beat it AGAIN.

And that’s how Mom is. She may face challenges, but she is never defeated.

Mom manages to handle scary things with a light touch. She doesn’t get bleak or despondent. I think at her glummest moment in cancer #2 she said, “You know, honey, sometimes these cancers really piss me off.” And that was it. Otherwise, she saw the hospital as a great time to catch up on sleep, see old friends and get up to date with all the trashy celebrity mags.

Unsinkable.

Great mothers come in a lot of packages. Some drive minivans and cook like Martha Stewart. That’s not my Mom. Mom didn’t teach me to knit. But, she has taught me what it means to have an inconquerable spirit, to be bigger than your circumstances and how to keep the world funny side up.

For all she is and all she’s done, please massage this lady!"

Quick Conversations with Mom: Tina Fey's Bossypants

I mumble and my mother has fuzzy hearing. This winning combination leads to some of my favorite phone conversations.
Here's a recent single from our miscommunication hit parade:

Me: I'm reading Tina Fey's Bossypants.

Mom: What word are you saying?

Me: Bossypants.

Mom: Pissy clams?

Me: (Choking on laughter) BOSSY. PANTS.

Mom: Oh. PUSSY clamps.

Me: No. Not Pussy clamps! BOSSY. PANTS.

Mom: With a P??

Me: Pants is with a P.

Mom: Pussy pants?

Me: No! Not pussy. Bossy.

Mom: P like Paul?

Me: B like Bossy.

(No response.)

And Brandy.

Mom: Oh! B!! BUSTY pants!

Me: Bossy.

Mom: Who?

Me: Like a boss. B-O-S-S.

Mom: Ohhh!! BOSSYPANTS. Ooookay.

Me: Okay.

Mom: Now, who is Tunaface?
--------


In conclusion...If you're in the mood for a good read, I highly recommend Tunaface Pussy Clamps.

Right in the Kisser

I want to talk about facial hair.
I have no problem with the way facial hair looks, but kissing a guy with a beard or stubble is a personal nightmare for me.
Now, I know that I don't have a regulation-sized mouth.
It's freakishly small. Like a child mouth. Which some guys are into - but I don't want to be into those guys.
Kissing is already a challenge for me. In most cases, kissing a guy feels like making out with a St Bernard.
It's not the guy's fault. They have a very small portal to hit and they often miss. I can't tell you how often I've just stood there while some handsome lad slurped up half of my face, swallowing my chin and nose simultaneously. I have to just wait patiently before I can extract the bulk of my head from the inner recesses of their maw and wipe the saliva from my neck and nasal cavity.
And then with a sigh, go in for round 6.

It is said, (by me), that there are no BAD kissers, just people you are compatible with and people you aren't.

In my case, it's very hard to find a compatible kisser.
Because of my dwarf-mouth, I often try to over-compensate by being aggressive and opening wider than is humanly comfortable. This has backfired repeatedly. I think I might be guilty of face-rape charges in multiple cases.
If not for my rockin personality and my sweet, sweet rack, I doubt many men would ever try to have sex with me after enduring a make-out session with my tiny head.

But, occasionally, I do find another diminu-mouthed soul who is willing to kiss my mug. And this is where facial hair comes into play. I really wish all men would have to kiss another man with facial hair just so they would know how it feels. If you are a man and not feeling homosexually adventurous, just go out and buy one of those 1950's hairbrushes. Take it home and then slap yourself in the mouth with it. That's what a peck feels like. Then, take the entire brush and grind the bristles against your face repeatedly for an hour or so. Then, fucking shave.

If you are just a guy with 5 o'clock shadow, do the same steps, but with a 6" swatch of coarse sandpaper.
Then, fucking shave.

I am not speaking for all women. I have girlfriends who don't mind it at all.
They clearly do not have my skin.
At 35 years old, everything in the world still makes me breakout.
My sensitive skin has given me an awesome 20 straight years of puberty.
As much as I appreciate the lengthy exfoliation session, the day after making out with a face carpet, it looks like I've been in an arctic, windy climate for several months. Everything from the nose down is red and chapped, swollen and sore, cut in places, bleeding lightly in others. I've gone through a face war and I was not the victor.

I'm saying this here because these are not the things I usually get to say to the boy leaning in for our first kiss.
I'm usually hoping against hope that his desire to eventually see me naked overcomes all the awkward smurf-kissing.
It doesn't seem like the time to complain about what he's bringing to the party.

So, if you're a chick out there who resents ladies like me with an awesome hourglass, take heart that after sampling my wares, most guys would much rather kiss you than me.
And if you're a guy, please, for the love of God, FUCKING SHAVE.

Walter Fogel

When I was growing up, my best friend was a 30-year-old man named Walter Fogel.
Whenever this tid-bit comes up in conversation, there are always a flurry of follow-up questions, usually along the lines of:

"How old were you when he first molested you?"
"Did your parents know he was molesting you?"
"How is possible he wasn't molesting you??"

I don't know. But he didn't. Nowhere near it.

In all respects, we just had a perfectly normal, utterly healthy, grown-man / toddler friendship.

Walter was a neighbor and a limo driver. So, he worked nights and lived in sort of an odd, glamorous world. Especially to my young eyes.

On weekends, after I spent an hour pounding on his door screaming for him to wake up, he would take me to bet the ponies at the track or drive up the coast to see one of his many girlfriends or we'd just run errands or go to beach all day.

Then at night, he'd take me out to an insiders-only restaurant tour of LA. We'd dine at historic places like Perino's or Musso & Franks or show up at some locals-only place in Chinatown or Little Ethiopa.

Wherever we went, Walter always knew somebody - the owners, the waiters, the head chef. And quite often, he knew everybody. The room warmed when we walked in. Hugs, handshakes, laughter. There was always space for us. Even if they had to make space. Sometimes, if they were full, we got to wait while the staff taught me new things - which is how I learned to use chop sticks, kiss on both cheeks and hand jive. All the essential life skills for a young lady in society.

When I was super lucky, I got to dine in the kitchen with the staff - which how I learned a lot of Spanish, some Korean and a whole bunch of curse words. It was the absolute best.

At the end of the night, he would drive me home in his faded yellow VW Beetle that smelled like clean vinyl. I would barrage him with inane questions and observations about the things I heard and saw.

"Walter, what's a jelly head?"

"Walter, why does Shawn want to be under-the-table so bad? I looked. There's nothing but gum. And not good gum."

"Walter, how did Maureen's rabbit die? Why is Jose so upset about it?"

I'd babble on and on. Asking questions, spouting opinions, laughing at Walter's funny answers. But, evenutally, the lateness of the hour, the steady rhythm of streetlights and the burning smell of the heater would get the best of me and I'd nod off as his rickety Bug bounced down Vista Del Mar.

When we got home, he would hoist me upstairs, knock on my mom's door and say, "I've got a sack of potatoes for you" and then hand me over in a lump.
Mom giggled, thanked him and took me. She'd lay me in my bed, still mumbling details of my day and then I'd sleep. Fat and happy.

Even in those days, people asked my Mom if she ever worried about me with Walter. And she says that then, and even now, knowing all that we now know about him, she still always trusted him with me. And I feel the same way. I always felt safe with Walter. There's a million reasons to assume he was a psychopathic sex offender with evil motives, but he just wasn't.

He was, however...a convict on the lam.

Yeah.

That's how the Walter story ended. There was no child abuse, but it still crested with cops breaking down the door and the FBI interviewing the neighbors.

Walter Fogel, who was not really named Walter Fogel, was wanted by John Q Law on a number of boring charges like tax evasion and fraud.

Well...nobody's perfect.

As an adult, I've had some time to think about Walter Fogel (or whatever his name was). When I was a little girl, Walter was like the coolest kid in school and Prince Charming all rolled into one. He knew everything everywhere that was worth knowing. He was dynamic, free, charming, beloved. When I was with him, I felt like social royalty; I felt glamorous, fun and special. I thought he was the best thing that ever happened to Planet Earth.

It occurs to me looking at events through the eyes of an adult that maybe Walter was just some loser who had too much time to kill, spent too many hours at the track and knew a few busboys and waiters. Doors didn't open for us because we were special, but because he knew the janitor.

Maybe that's the case.

And maybe it was hard for a dude on the run to make a lot of close friends or fall in love because he could never really let his guard down. For Christ's sake, he couldn't even tell anyone his real name.

And maybe this boisterous little kid was a cute companion because she filled up the lonliness with her incessant chatter, never asked too many probing questions and believed every story she was told. And if she did find out anything or share it, no one would believe her because she was just a dumb, confused kid. Kids believe in the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. They're not super reliable when it comes to issues of fact v. fiction.

Beyond that, she thought he was the greatest person who ever lived. And maybe if you're a loser on the lam, it's hard to come off as a hero to too many people. So, maybe that was kind of nice too.

I've been asked if it was weird to find out that after all that time I didn't know him at all. And I said, "I knew him. I just didn't know his name."

It's been almost 30 years, but here are some things I knew...

His favorite comic strip was Wizard of Id. He kept an enormous pile of change on his dining room table and let me steal from it. He ate brown eggs. He didn't like TV. He never owned a bedframe. He liked vintage beer steins. He never bad-mouthed a woman; not even an ex-girlfriend. He recycled before it was popular to recyle. He loved animals. He was never mean and rarely got mad. He thought white Bentleys were the poshest cars in the world. He loved betting the ponies. He never answered the phone. His apartment smelled like Whole Foods wihout any ventilation. He thought I ate too much. He was generous. He was good at Pac Man but didn't think people should play it too often. He was funny. He laughed easily. He was afraid of things he couldn't talk about. He knew Liz Taylor. He wanted to get married. He drove a limo. He had a crush on my Aunt. He didn't like cleaning. He had a old, heavy cuckoo clock. He believed in second chances.

I needed to get that out. Details about Walter have been haunting me. I've been dreaming about brown eggs for days. According to my Mom, Walter was desperately private. He never discussed his past or personal life. No one even knew his real age or where he was from. By some freak accident, I was the only person who knew anything about him at all. And now you do too.

When the door splintered and caved in, the police knocked over two of Walter's beer steins. They stormed into his organic-smelling apartment, tore up the mattress on his floor, the one without a bedframe. They turned over the giant table of loose change. They ransacked the newspapers bins where he cut out Wizard of Id and kept haphazard piles of folded racing pages.

But it was no use.

Walter Fogel was gone.

I don't know where he went, how he did it or even if he's still alive. I don't know his real name or how to find him. And even if I knew that, I have no idea what I would have left to say to him after all of these years.

So, this is my thank you letter. And in the purest sense, my love letter to him.

To Walter Fogel. Best Friend and Hero 1978 - 1984.

You are missed.

You are remembered.

The Tough Mudder

So...I'm running the Tough Mudder.
What is the Tough Mudder?
If, like me, you're too lazy to type "tough mudder" into google, here's a link: http://toughmudder.com/

It's the world's hardest endurance race. Designed by British Special Services, it's 7- 12 miles of crazytown obstacles and feats of derring-do.
Some of the highlights include:
*Crawling through snow (daunting in a tank top)
*Running through a brush fire (exactly how do they control 8' flames again?)
*Trying to stay on course while you get pounded on both sides by protest-breaking power hoses (my friend suggested we "practice" this one. Holy Jesus.)
*And my personal favorite: running through a field of 10,000 volt live wires (what goes better with a jog than a mild electrocution?)

I was under the impression it was relatively safe until I read the medical waiver and basically had to stipulate that I would not sue them if I died. Which made me nervous, but I could understand. Accidents happen. Some people have died from an undiagnosed cavity in their molar. They can't be responsible for freak occurences.

But, I also had to agree that I would not sue if I lost any limbs, suffered any major brain or nerve damage, heart "episodes" or any other permanently debilitating injury.

That's when I started to panic.

But, panic or no, I plowed ahead anyway. The very worthy Wounded Warrior Project has my $200 and I'm in.

To be honest, in the past month, I've mentally adjusted to the seemingly scary ones. I can't really prepare for moderate electrocution and partial frostbite. It will just be what it is when it is.

But, the thing that has me most freaked out is running. Uphill. For miles. While RUNNING.

I'm not a runner.

I can walk for thousands of miles. I can stairmaster for days. I'm a-okay with lifting heavy things repeatedly. And I can go for hours on a dance floor without a break.

But, running...ugh.

Running seems to highlight the sins of everything I've ever eaten, drunk, smoked or
absorbed. 3 minutes into every run, it's like a get a physical clip-show of every harmful thing I've ever done to my body. My stomach boils, my lungs collapse, my head pounds and flashes of late night shots, deep fried mozzarella sticks and hazy Vegas moments flicker before my eyes.

In general, my body was not designed for this shit. I'm a curvy lady. I've got fat in pretty places. And having boobs and hips and a juicy heiny is aces when you're in a dress and heels. It's less convenient when you're slamming those extra bits up and down against asphalt.

Good runners always look the same - like tight, compact, genderless robot machines.
They don't look like Mae West or Sofia Vergara (Modern Family).

For good reason. It's inconvenient to have extra fat (pretty or no) when running. Amidst your crushed lungs and acid throat you also have to deal with a constant jiggle, sway, lift, SLAM!, wiggle, shimmy, lift, SLAM!, waddle, jiggle, lift, SLAM! rhythm of your breasts and hips fighting this torturous activity known as "running".

Try to go running in a Jell-O suit with 5lb weights tied to your nipples and you see where I'm coming from.

So, the thought of a few thousand volts of electricity temporarily stopping my pacemaker is far less daunting than the thought of running...uphill...for MILES.

Wish me luck!


(#2)

2011: A New Year's Odyssey

I don't make New Year's Resolutions anymore.

"Why?" you ask, politely inquiring while you sip your macchiato, hoping my answer will be brief for once.

(No such luck).

BECAUSE...New Year's resolutions are like things you put on a family Christmas list.
What you really NEED for Christmas is a brand new car or a liver transplant. But, you can't really put that on your list. Too expensive. Too big. Too overwhelming. Too invasive surgery-ish. So, you have to put something small - something attainable.
Like...new socks.

But, the problem is that most relatively functional adults are able to take care of most of the small needs as they go. I'm never sitting around in early April with my big toe popped through a sock hole thinking, "I really need new socks. Only 7 short months til Christmas!"

Of course not.

I just buy socks.

And so do you. You buy socks. And underwear. And a new collander and music and toilet paper and kitchen bags and Apple accessories and cool t-shirts with irreverent phrases that make us feel hip. All of our basic wants and needs are taken care of by a Chase debit card and the Santa of immediate gratification.

Which leaves very little we want or need for our family Christmas list.

So, your list ends up filled with moderately-priced things that aren't truly important to you - but you wouldn't mind having. (ie: New pedometer and/ or Thai Cookbook.)

And that's how resolutions are for me.

What I really need in 2011:
A Focus and Goal for My Life - to have something to strive for that will one day make me worthy of an encyclopedia blurb and will validate my existence in this mortal coil.

Too big. Too overwhelming.
And very hard to accomplish.
Where do I start? And exactly how do I know when I've finished?
Chances are slim that I will wake up one day, stroll to my local coffee chain establishment, order a chai latte and then administer the heimlich maneuver to a woman choking on a biscotti, save her life and the life of her unborn child. Then, immediately achieve absolute clarity on the singular purpose of my life.
(To be barista!)

But, setting a random event as a resolution is impractical. There's no way to strive toward that goal and finally cross it off the list. It's too big. Too messy. Too poorly defined. It's just not practical.

The things on your list need to be easier, smaller, more attainable.
Something that leaves you with a sense of accomplishment.
But, here we see the flipside.
Goals that are too easily attainable can be dangerous too. In my 2005 resolutions, I basically just churned out a generic to-do list featuring such lofty goals as:
"#8 Better toothpaste" and "#14 Buy eggs".
(Those were taken verbatim).

(In my defense, I accomplished SEVERAL of my goals that year.=))

While attainable, there is no purpose or necessarily any big picture benefit from listing goals that are essentially chores.

And once again, we find ouselves seeking something in the hazy middle ground. Searching for a goal somewhere between the meaning of life and the reminder to buy groceries. Finding small goals that will help us if we achieve them, but offering no risk if we fail.

Our resolutions all become slight variations from the same template:

"1. Lose XX lbs.
2. Be a better person.
3. Do better stuff.
4. Make more money.
5. Change that bad habit I always feel guilty about.
6. Start that thing that scared me.
7. Get serious about that thing I said I would do last year...and the year before.
8. Keep resolutions this time."

There's something particularly awful about making empty promises to yourself.
And it's unbelievably tragic to have to make the same ones over and over again.

So, I quit it.

Two years ago, to be exact. I went cold turkey. No promises. No resolutions. No lists of things I should've done better before or swore to be better about in the future.

January 1st was just the first day of the next month. Like any other month.

No lists. No reflections. No goals. No reasons. No purpose.

And there's the rub.

I'm not a self-starter. I've never never finished anything that wasn't on a dare or didn't have a deadline.

So, in the past two years, I've done a staggering amount of nothing.

I'm 35. I'm not married. Or dating. Or can even remember what kissing was like. I have no children. I live in a tiny apartment. I have a job that's just a job - not a life goal or even a career. But, it pays my rent and keeps yogurt in my fridge. I have a car that's paid for even if it has a shocking amount of duck tape on the bumper.

Things are okay. Not maginificent. Not amazing.
My head is above water, but there's room for improvement.

If I had to make a wish list, there would be a lot of things on it.
*I'd love a better apartment or house. It would sweet if I could afford it too.
*It would be neat to have sex again. Even better if I could stomach the guy. A big plus if we actually loved each other. It's the trifecta if it could all happen without me getting so consumed by the joy of sex and fighting that I forget to live my own life. (Have I said too much?)
*It would be awesome to know to the core of my being what I was supposed to be when I grew up. And to be achieving that dream.
*I'd like my parents to stay alive forever. LIKE THEY PROMISED.
*It would be swell to travel to foreign locales. And would rock hard core if someone paid me to do it.
*It would be great to create something I was proud of. (Aside from my old sketches - which I like very much, but were summarily lost in the great Hard Drive Crash of 2010. (Screw you PC! Go Mac!))
*I would like money to rain from the heavens directly into my bank account in inexhaustible amounts.


Unfortunately, I have very little control over those wishes. I can have them. I can do a vision board. I can light a candle or rub oil on my forehead or sit cross-legged in silence and manifest them like Deepak Chopra and Oprah say you can. But, in the end, they aren't actions. They are hopes.

And in the wise words of Barbara Sher, it's not important what you do. It's important that you DO SOMETHING.

With that it mind, I will make one simple goal this year. It's tangible, quantifiable and will be readily apparent if I fail. To make it interesting, let me add that if I slack off and do not achieve it, I will cut off my hair. And I have awesome hair. Long. Mangeable. Creatively colored. And I look super man-ish without hair; I might as well grow an Adam's apple. So, these are stakes.

Here it is...
For 2011, my simple and only resolution is: to write 25 blogs.


That's it. I'm not good at blog-writing. It violates my sense of privacy and perfectionism. But, all of my quality friends tell me that's why I should write them. It's like emotional stairmaster to this control freak.

So, I'll write them. I don't care who reads them or what they say. And knowing me, I'll be up at 11:57pm 12.31.2011 crying, typing and stroking my hair trying to finish all 25.

But, there you have it. It's something. It's doable. It's quantifiable. And it has consequences.

Now, just 24 more to go!

Happy New Year, fellow cynics. =)

Next to Normal Night

I saw NEXT TO NORMAL last night. It's a Broadway musical. It was nominated for like 237 awards and won most of them. It's about a family with a dead kid and a Mom that can't get over it. And they sing about it a lot.

I know I'm alone in my viewpoint here, but were the producers just sitting around watching Ordinary People and thinking..."you know what this tragic family drama needs? SONGS!" ?

In general, I 'm not a fan of dreary musicals. If it's happy or funny, add music. If it's sad, make it a play. Please don't make me watch you sing about Leukemia, the Holocaust or A.I.D.S. - unless you're making it hilarious. And I've seen RENT. Not hilarious. It's just folks singing about A.I.D.S. and dying and dying from A.I.D.S. It's not as funny as it sounds.

But, critics love it.

And critics loved NEXT TO NORMAL. They even gave the lead actress, Alice Ripley, every best actress award they could find. I think they even made up a few of them on their computers at home. (One award was just covered in yogurt lids.)

They really love this lady.

And I will say that she seems like a fine actor and her voice clearly has range. The only thing is, she sings...like the Swedish Chef. Yes, I mean the Muppet character.

The first time it happened, I thought it was a little flub. Whatever the line was, it ended in the English word, "Fear" which was pronounced, "Feeyewer".

I struck my ear as unbelievably odd...clearly a little mistakey-poo. But then, I found out over the ensuing hours...nope...she meant to do that. That's just how she sings. For no discernable reason, she swallows words and makes them all Bjorky. She'll be perfectly non-muppet for a few words, lull you into believing it won't happen again, and then she pops out a "GEWD" (GOOD) or an "AFFAHR" (AFFAIR) out of the blue and assaults your ears again without warning.

"Now I see her, feel the FUUUR! (FIRE)
Now I NEW (KNOW) she needs me THUUR (THERE) to SHAAR (SHARE)
I'm NOWAHR (NOWHERE)"

I looked around. Surely everybody there was as distracted as I was by this super bizarre phenomenon. But, they all just sat there, delighted and peaceful.

Thank God for my friend, Thomas. The second we broke for intermission, I asked, "what do you think?"

He replied, "Yeah, it's good; but what's the deal with that lady? Is she overcoming some kind of defect or just singing like that to win a bet?"

It has to be the latter because I looked it up and there is no earthly reason for Ripley's Muppet voice. She's not Norwegian or born with mugglewumps on her larynx. She's from San Leandro, California. She's a pure-bred, English-speaking, American bi-ped. Which means someone TRAINED her to do that. ON. PURPOSE.

And I guess people love it. In New York, she's a demi-God. In other words, they've heard her sing - with their ears - and liked it anyway.

I, however, found it SUPER distracting. I actually enjoyed parts of the show. The daughter was great; very believable as an awkward, sarcastic teen. She had a nice voice that came out sounding just like a human person. So, that was a a nice relief. And Dad was just like a Dad/husband guy should be. He had a nice, pleasant man-voice. The dead son guy was a little over-the-top, musical theater gay for me. (Lots of knee bending, quick turns and jazz-hands), but on the whole, he was fine.

Everyone was good.

It's just hard to watch when you're praying that Miss Scandinavian vowels doesn't sweep in and ruin whatever song you were starting to enjoy. And this is one of those talky/singy musicals where even the most banal dialogue is sung. And she's the lead, so you're never really safe from her chiming in. It was an aural minefield. I was exhausted by the end.

Even though I'd give this musical my "Most Likely to Forget By New Year" Award. (Add it to their pile of accolades), it was a decent production. They have some money behind it and a lot of talent on the stage. And, most importantly, it gave Thomas and me a reason to speak in Swedish Chef accents for the rest of the night. So, I'm glad I went. Theater is about amusement and distraction. For perhaps the wrong reasons, I got both.