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fuming

So my mom and dad recently went up to watch my nephew play in a basketball tournament. Piper was there, of course. At one point, she was wandering outside the gym with Nana when she suddenly stopped to have this conversation. Um, I’m still not over it:

Piper: Nana, let’s si’down and have a tawk.

Nana: Okay. About what?

Piper: About da woild.

Nana: Oh, well, what in the world do you want to talk about?

Piper: Deers.

Nana: Deer?

Piper: Ye-ah. I think deers are bery beautiful. Don’t you, Nana?

Nana: Well, yeah, deer ARE beautiful, but they’re very dangerous. We once saw a deer jump up on a man and rip open his chest.

UHM, WHAT?? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, MOM?! YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER JUST WANTED TO TALK ABOUT DEERS AND THE BEAUTIFUL WOILD AND YOU SUDDENLY TURN INTO MARLIN FREAKIN’ PERKINS FROM MUTUAL OF OMAHA’S WILD FREAKIN’ KINGDOM?? WHY DON’T YOU JUST POP ‘BAMBI’ INTO THE OL’ DVD PLAYER WHILE YOU’RE AT IT?? DAMMIT!!

AND BY THE WAY, WHEN DID THAT CHEST-RIPPING DEER INCIDENT EVER HAPPEN?

Okay. Sorry. Obviously, I’m not over it. I think about it and fume inside. (Or, um, outside, like now, but just this once; I promise.) I mean, she’s just a little girl and I love her so much it aches and I don’t want her beautiful woild shattered, especially by people she loves and trusts. UGH. I’m ranting here because I doubt I’ll ever talk to my mom about it. Besides, that’s my sister and brother-in-law’s prerogative, I suppose.

But I feel compelled to vent and protect and find like-minded people to do the same, like this guy:


“LOOK OUT, PIPER! WILD NANAS CAN BE VERRY DANGEROUS!!”

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oh, peggy!

Sweet Lord. Did I just catch a glance of Kathy Najimy on some weird amalgam of history’s cheesiest game shows? Some Game Show Marathon or something? What WAS that??

If you don’t know who Kathy Najimy is, this is Kathy Najimy:

“Sister Acts I and II,” “The Wedding Planner,” the voice of Peggy Hill on “King of the Hill,” “various gay and lesbian events,” etc.

Oh, and let’s not forget “Godspell” with yours truly.

Yep. It’s true. Years ago, I was a brazen little minx and auditioned for a local production of “Godspell” during the summer before my freshman year at high school. I was 13. And I got in. And so did Kathy Najimy, an actress, may I say, several years older and several pounds bigger than I.

(That’s really not nice, Tracey. You should delete that. But it’s true. Still, someone will point out that you’re mean or a bad Christian or history’s worst monster or something. But it’s true, the age and the pounds thing, that is. Still, remember that commenter who scolded you to be “more sensitive and fair” about that Katharine McPhee? Yeah?? Well, you’re being a tad insensitive here. And don’t forget the evil poppet. Oh ?#@!!%?! Bugger off, Jiminy!!)

Um, huh??

Anyway …..

Oh, man, I’m just remembering that whole thing! SO weird. I’ll definitely write more on that another time when I have the time to do it some justice.

But can I just say now that after seeing her for 10 seconds on this thing, this “Voyage of the Damned Celebrities,” or whatever it is, I realize just how far she’s fallen since “Godspell”? Clearly, it was the pinnacle of her career.

Oh, Kathy. KATHY!! NO!! Stop this right now! Didn’t “Godspell” teach you anything about redemption? Come back! Jesus says come back! You are on a show with that bug-eyed Lance Bass, for freak’s sake! And Ricki Lake is the host! Can a sobbing David Hasselhoff be far behind?

I dunno, actually. It may be too late for you now. And, you know what? THIS time, YOU get to be the one to fall backwards off the car and hope someone catches YOU. I’m not gonna do it.

“Oh, DEAR LORD, three things I PRAY!!”

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oh, by the way

Just in case anyone’s been losing sleep wondering, “Hey, what happened with Tracey’s drama class?”

Ready. Set. RANT:

So you remember when I had that upcoming gig teaching home school drama classes for flaky NFL wife, right?

Yeah, well, I was spot-on about that whole “flaky” thing. The week we were supposed to start, she cancelled. Next week, next week for sure, she said on our machine. I called back, left a message. I need directions to your house. I heard nothing. “Next week” arrived. It was the day before. I called again, left a message. I need to hear from you by 7 p.m. tonight or I will assume class is cancelled.

When I came home later that evening, there was a message on my machine from NFL PLAYER HIMSELF. Tracey, this is Player You Really Admire. Uh, Flaky is out of town until tomorrow night. (Class is supposed to be the next afternoon at their house and she is out of town??) Um, I don’t know the status on the class. I can see how you need to talk to someone. Um …. (He chuckled. HE CHUCKLED ON MY ANSWERING MACHINE, PEOPLE!) He gave her cell phone number, but the machine cut off before I got it all.

NFL Player was having to call for her because she was so disorganized.

But he’s married to her.

Why — I began to ask myself — should I have to keep chasing this woman down??

The next day arrived. I still hadn’t heard from her, so I made other plans for the day. Because, frankly, she’d strung me along since September. She’d regularly chosen noncommunication as her preferred method of communication. She’d called at the very last minute giving information I’d never heard before as if I’d heard it before. She was basically just a sweet-voiced little pain in the ass. Did I want to teach these classes? Yes. But did I want to be her personal Little Miss Snap-To? Uh, no. And I was really starting to feel like that. The phone rang 20 minutes before class was to start. She had directions on how to get to her house, a 40-minute drive away. I swallowed hard and just said it: It’s not going to work for me today. I didn’t hear from you, so I made other plans. I’m very sorry.

I actually didn’t think I’d hear from her again. I mean, we’re coming down to the end of the school year, here. What had been envisioned as a 10-week drama course was now, what, 3 weeks?? Why bother? I’d invested both time and money and gotten bupkis. But she did call, the day before the “next” session — remember, this class had not yet met AT ALL! — to leave me a message that there was a “change of venue” and we’d be meeting at someone else’s home. I had no idea if we’d be meeting in someone’s living room or bathroom or laundry room. This matters to me, a lot actually, because to teach a decent drama class YOU NEED SOME FREAKIN’ SPACE! I had no idea what kind of “space” I had now. And she’d left no phone number or directions to this “change of venue.” She just said, Oh, it’s the Smith’s house. They’re on such-and-such street. I think that’s near you. WHAT?? It’s not ANYWHERE near me. I live 40 minutes away from that. I don’t know that street. What was I supposed to do? MapQuest that street, cruise on over, and just start yelling, “SMITHS! SMITHS! WHERE ARE YOU? AM I NEAR YOUR HOUSE YET? AM I GETTING CLOSE? IT’S ME — THE WUSSY DRAMA TEACHER WHO LETS COOKIES LIKE YOU WALK ALL OVER HER! BUT I’M HEEEERE! WHERE ARE YOOU??”

I’m sorry. That was it for me. It was all too retarded. I decided that as much as I might want to teach this class, I didn’t want to be treated with such perky-voiced presumption and carelessness anymore. It was becoming too stressful, too ridiculous. And with each passing week that the class didn’t meet, I was making less and less money anyway.

So I called and said “no thanks” to the WHOLE thing. Maybe it was a cop-out. I don’t know. But I actually felt a huge relief when I finally just MADE that decision for myself instead of feeling desperate, as if I HAD to have it and had to tolerate her chirpy neglect.

Sorry, NFL Player. No, really, sorry. Sorry your wife is such a flake. And sorry, little rich kids. I don’t know what you’re gonna do now. Maybe Paloma has some spoons you can play with.

Ach. They were all middle schoolers anyway. Despicable age.

All right. Rant over.

(And now to cleanse your palates …. look at the pictures below!)

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the hand pile

Oh, the things you discuss when in the car. Is it just us, or does the mere fact of being in a car create conversational weirdness? Because it’d better not be just us.

We were out and about in the car this weekend when I started the following conversation out of the blue. There was literally no segue into this topic. There had been a moment’s amiable silence where I sat looking at my hands and then, well, this:

ME: Hey, if one of your hands was cut off and thrown into a pile of similarly shaded man hands, could you pick out your own hand?

Now MB is a good sport. He utterly accepts almost any premise. He doesn’t fight it or say, “That is so stupid,” even when it is, like now. He actually considers it. Hahaha.

HE: Well, I probably could. (Looks at hands.) Yeah, I definitely could. I have a scar on this hand and another one on this hand.

ME: Okay. So out of a 50,000-hand pile, you actually think you could find your hand?

Notice how we never address the utter grotesqueness that would be the reality of the pile of hands. No, this is theoretical, you see, and can only exist on a theoretical plane with a pretend pile of hands.

HE: Yeah, I could. I know I could.

ME: Hm. I don’t think you could. I’m not sure I could pick mine out of a pile of women’s hands.

HE: Are you kidding me?

ME: No. I dunno. They’re just small white hands. Lots of women have small white hands. I mean, a 50,000-hand pile, that’s a lot of hands.

(What followed were numerous arguments by My Beloved as to why I could definitely pick out my hands because they’re so this and so that and so the other and, well, he just really likes my hands.)

ME: Well, still, I’m just saying I’m not sure.

HE: How can you not be sure?

Silence, somewhat less amiable now because of a pile of hands.

ME: Okay, then. What about your big toe?

HE: Sigh …..

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wow, are you kidding me?

Look at these photos of Owen, a baby hippo orphaned by the tsumani, and his unlikely best friend, Mzee, a 130-year-old tortoise:

Go here to read their whole story and see even more great pics! Oh, click on the link in the sidebar there that says “Owen and Mzee Book.” It includes their story, but also some blank coloring pages for kids, which I think is very cool.

Apparently, animal behaviorialists are at a loss to explain this bond between a mammal and a reptile. They say reptiles are only creatures of instinct, incapable of deriving pleasure from any signs of affection. But that’s not what the caretakers at this wildlife refuge say they are seeing. Amazing. I just love how God leaves scientists scratching their heads sometimes, you know? How He chooses the “foolish things to confound the wise” and all? He’s got a whimsical streak, that God.

Oh, and the “Owen and Mzee” book comes out on June 6th. I guess, too, there was a movie about them that was recently screened at the Tribeca Film Festival.

Go Owen and Mzee!!

(I’m frankly a little smitten with the whole arrangement here.)

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me. ow.

UPDATE: More photos added. Keep scrolling down!

Piper, last Halloween. This picture kills me because it’s taken before she started losing all those little niblet teeth. And it reminds me of trick-or-treating with her and the way she would raise her right arm in the air like a “Price is Right” model whenever she said, “Frick or Freat!” (And I know she’s never seen that show.) Oh — and she didn’t just mumble the “Trick or Treat” like all the other inferior kiddies. Oh, no. She would singsong it, loudly, like this: “Frick or FREE-EEATT!!” The word, uh, “freat” was sung in two distinct, melodic syllables, higher to lower. My sister and I would stand back a respectful, non-controlling distance, you see, and guffaw with laughter at her “presentation.” Then somehow, my sister would start blaming me. “This is your fault,” she’d gag. “How is it MY fault?” I’d choke back. “Well, she’s just like you,” she’d gasp. “Huh, THAT’S good,” I’d counter.

HAHA! Sisters. So stupid. But look, LOOK at the poodie tat!

Joseph, her 11-year-old brother, last Halloween. He insisted his aunt (me!) do his camoflauge, Night-of-the-Living-Dead-Platoon makeup. Um, what can I say? I don’t have gifts in this area. Luckily, I don’t think he knows that yet. (Shhhh ….. ) I must say, I love the attitude he’s got in this pic. He’s sellin’ it, baby!!

More Piper:

Piper, Patrick, and Joseph, all together. Those boys dote on that girl!

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oh, how I love C.S. Lewis!

A brief but heartwarming article I found in Response magazine. See if that C.S. Lewis doesn’t just choke you up a bit here:

Among the many things for which C.S. Lewis is well known is his personal correspondence with friends, family, and readers the world over. He was most careful and considerate with children. To them, he often revealed a human and playful side, whether telling a joke, gently disagreeing with a particular point, or heartily commending a drawing or insight. One child received high praise for having sketched especially lively “snaky snakes”; to others he revealed his loathing for math and fondness for mice; and though he commended eight siblings in one family for washing dishes and reading at the same time, he wanted to know, “How many plates do you smash in a month?”

In “C.S. Lewis at the Breakfast Table,” Erik Routley said of Lewis’ letters, “They were always written for you, and no one else. I think that was his great secret.”

Perhaps no one knows this better than Laurence Krieg. Among his most prized possession are eight letters that he and his mother, Philinda, received from Lewis between May 1955 and December 1958. Now kept in a safe deposit box, they reveal the very real concern and deep responsibility that Lewis felt for his writing and his young readers.

It began when 9-year-old Laurence, an eager fan of The Chronicles of Narnia, confided to his mother that he was afraid that he loved Aslan the lion more than he loved Jesus. Did that make him an idol worshipper? Philinda prompty wrote in care of the publisher and told Lewis of her son’s confusion. So concerned was the author when he learned of Laurence’s distress that the Kriegs had an answer in just 10 days:

“Tell Laurence from me, with my love,” Lewis wrote in a detailed letter, “he can’t really love Aslan more than Jesus, even if he feels that’s what he is doing. For the things he loves Aslan for doing or saying are simply the things Jesus really did and said. So that when Laurence thinks he is loving Aslan, he is really loving Jesus, and perhaps loving Him more than he ever did before …. I don’t think he need be bothered at all. God knows all about the way a little boy’s imagination works (He made it, after all) ….”

Before closing, Lewis asked if the boy would pray for him: “It would be kind and Christian-like if Laurence then added to his prayer, ‘And if Mr. Lewis has worried any other children by his books or done them any harm, then please forgive him and help him never to do it again’.”

Krieg recalls being filled with excitement and wonder that someone who wrote a book would actually write to him. “As more letters arrived, the excitement didn’t diminish,” he says. “If anything, it increased. Everything about his letters shows Lewis to have been a man of great humility, wisdom, and sensitivity. The way he handled my anxiety at the time has been a real inspiration to me. I still find it more helpful at times to picture Jesus as the Great Lion when I worship or meditate.”

Krieg says his three grown children are “very much Narnians at heart.” Small wonder after growing up in a household where they heard their father speak of Lewis as a friend. “I still consider myself fortunate to have benefited from Lewis’ love and wisdom at an early age,” he says. “I often think of Jack Lewis as my guardian ‘angel,’ looking down with amused tolerance — and often concern, I’m sure. Someday, I hope to get to know him better in ‘Aslan’s country’.”

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AI finale results: barf bucket moments

1) Meatloaf & Katherine, uh, singing. Well, it’s not so much singing as it is staggering and strutting and sweating and caterwauling. Although watching her desperately try to ignore him whilst singing a love song WITH him is amusing. And I usually like Meatloaf. The singer AND the tasty meat dish.

2) Puck & Pickler & snails & lobsters. She makes “icky” faces and screams a lot. You know, hon, you really should eat that lobster. I hear it’s brain food.

3) Seeing Li’l Woody Allen again. And I think I just saw him grab his crotch. Does that kid even know where babies come from yet?

4) These Brady Bunch singalongs. Sheesh. At least gimme back my Johnny Bravo. JOHNNY! JOHHHNNNY!!!

5) Oh, yes! These “Golden Idol Awards.” Oh, look. There’s that guy who sounds like Squiggy doing Michael Jackson.

Woo.

Annd …that’s it for me! Here’s where I turn it to the season finale of “Lost.”

If Pickler’s on that, I’m killing myself and taking you with me.

Oh. Taylor won. But y’all knew that, right?

OH. And what was UP with the season finale of “Lost”?? I’ve about had it with this show. I think the writers have written themselves into Creepy Mystery Corner and can’t provide answers to even the smallest of plot points, so they just keep creating more questions. SO annoying. If you can’t throw us the tiniest bone of an answer, can’t give the merest bit of satisfaction, I think you guys are in trouble.

*Pfffbbbtt*

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FIN-AI-LE

So here it is, down to Taylor, the chubby guy everyone loves, and Katherine, the pretty girl who loves herself.

Oh, and me. Let’s not forget about MEE! The somewhat bored girl who doesn’t love either of them and couldn’t give a rip who wins at this point. Well, maybe one little rip. I mean, I am writing about it, after all. Ah, what the heck. “Embrace the silly; don’t thumb a nose at it” is what I …… have never said before.

Nanny McPhee sings first. That Black Horse in a Cherry Tree song. It was good with a small “g” according to Simon. In the post-sing interview, Ryan mentions the “thousands of roses” in her dressing room. She says they’re from her McFans. She SAYS this. Her McFans. I guess that’s what they call themselves. Still ….. it’s just geeewww….

Taylor sings “Just Enough for the City.” My Beloved says this while he sings: “The difference is Taylor loves music and Katherine loves the spotlight.”

Yep.

He’s gonna win this. Even though when he repeatedly chants “Soul Patrol Soul Patrol Soul Patrol!” he sounds just like Mama Klump clapping and chanting, “Hercules Hercules Hercules.”

Judges say Round 1 to Taylor.

Her turn. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Her dad was bawling. That’s what got me more than the song.

His turn. “Levon.” Randy says pitchy, but I liked the feeling behind it. I really did. I really felt that his name SHOULD be Levon.

Judges say Round 2 to Katherine. It’s a TIE, people. Oooh.

Ooooooooh.

Then Ryan says, after the break, Katherine is singing her “debut single.” Wha?? Is this an original song? Oooh. Goodie. But goodie in I’m kinda hoping for a baddie way. (Forgive me, Lordie. Schadenfreudie.)

Her turn. A ditty with the wretched title, “My Destiny.” I hate it already. She hasn’t sung a word and I want her to shut up, because don’t we already know just hearing that title that it’s going to be epically stupid? Oooh. See what I’m sayin’? It has lyrics like “you were always by my side” and “you believed in me.” Wow. Someone who really dislikes her must have written this song. Hm. Did I write this song without knowing it?? She sings “can I get any higher?” The question is, babe-o, can you get any LOWER?? ACK. SHE JUST LOST. I can’t watch. I’d rather be looking at the ACTUAL Nanny McPhee with that dreadful snaggly tooth than this musical horror. With schlock like this, honey, your Destiny is a Carnival cruise ship. Buh-BYE!! The judges are FAR too kind to her. It was a trainwreck, but they can’t say that at this point. I don’t think they can actually admit that one of their finalists TANKED. The whole thing loses credibility. And did I just use the word “credibility” in reference to American Idol? Hahahaha! Speaking of credibility, Trace ….. No, I just mean that their goal has to be to buoy this moment, make it BIG, create momentum, so that everyone buys albums once it’s all over, right? So they can’t say someone was gut-rippingly awful. They should have, but they simply can’t.

Taylor sings an original, too. “Do I Make You Proud?” No, Taylor. You just make me barf less. A LOT less.

So here’s a tip ‘o’ the bucket to you, Taylor, the next American Idol.

HerculesHerculesHercules!!!