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Clean Sheets & Dirty Books

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The clean-sheet feeling is fantastic, isn’t it? I don’t get to experience that feeling very often because cats and dogs like clean sheets too. 

Most nights I reluctantly share my bed-for-one with at least one animal. This is not of my choosing but as I’ve mentioned before, there is no door to my bedroom. Doorlessness is both invitation and mandate to cats. My husband’s Maine Coon often sleeps upstairs. He’s the loudest snorer you will ever hear, worse – by far – than Ken ever was. He’s also a blanket hog, a trait he definitely learned from Ken. 

My daughter’s rescue cat also likes to sleep on my bed. She makes bread for at least 15 minutes every night while she purrs loudly. Then, she cleans every single piece of fur on her very furry body – also loudly. After that, she circles around like a dog, making her bed, and then sleeps like the dead for hours, until, that is, I disturb her by getting up to use the bathroom.

Like the cats, the dogs are not invited guests but when they’re not kenneled, they occasionally sneak to the third floor for a snooze. The doxies can’t make it onto my bed directly; but like crows, they have mastered rudimentary tools, such as jumping to the bed from a nearby futon or footstool. The pitbull needs no assistance and is often the instigator of bed-ageddon. (In case there’s a question, the bed is the good guy in this battle.)

First, the dogs get on the bed. Then, they unmake the perfectly made but de-pillowed bed. The littlest doxy – the runt of the litter – likes to crawl between the sheets to nap. The furry doxy likes to build a blanket throne and climb up to snooze. The pitbull prefers pillows, thus my daily de-pillowing efforts.

By the time the dogs have been discovered on their illicit snuggle island, the bed is a wreck. Unmade. Dirty footprints on the blankets and sheets. Dog fur everywhere. Sometimes there’s slobber too if the pitbull has decided that one of “her puppies” needs to be cleaned. Perhaps because it is still technically standing at the end of the battle, the bed generally wins but oh the cost. 

Tonight, after I diligently foiled every effort by the dogs to sneak upstairs, I am tucked between truly clean sheets. And it is delightful. I’ll only have it to myself for a brief span. My daughter’s cat is on the futon, waiting for me to finish typing so she can jump on the bed. She abhors typing (though she loves to sit on the warm keyboard).

Today’s success against the dogs was not without its own price tag. The pitbull was so mad at me this afternoon that she refused to look at me. She sat on the sofa for over an hour, grumbling, which sounds a little like the noise an angry toddler makes while sitting in timeout. 

She knows – as do I – that tomorrow is another opportunity to sneak onto the bed. Since she regularly outsmarts me, I’m determined to appreciate the luxury of clean sheets. So, even though it is 19F outside, the windows are open and I’m pretending that a balmy spring breeze is rustling my curtains. (I don’t actually have curtains and the breeze is anything but balmy.)

I’ve been working on a blog post about the current round of book bans in schools. The anger and disappointment I feel are currently getting in the way of productive words so for now, I will just challenge you to read some of the books on the ban lists. You can be sure the people who are advocating book bans haven’t read these books. Knowledge is most threatening to the un- and ill-informed. 

The frustrating thing – as I’ve posted elsewhere – is that book bans hurt the most vulnerable children, those who don’t often see themselves in books, those who can’t buy books, those who aren’t safe at home. My kids have library cards, ready access to the public library a 10-minute walk from our house, and a parent who will buy them any book they want.

That’s privilege and that’s part of what this book ban is about.

My beloved husband would be so angry about these bans. He would have bought copies of all the banned books and driven to Tennessee or Texas or even Ohio to offer free copies to students. It’s not a viable solution for a lot of reasons, but there are advocates with reach who could make free books available to these kids, these kids who need to know that we care and that we’re not sitting by while the book bonfires are being lit. 

Maybe you are one of those advocates ….

Be safe. Be loud. 

Much love.

Clean Sheets & Dirty Books

HONK

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I did not find the gratitude I was searching for last week. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to read that, Hallmark-movie-like, I awoke on Thanksgiving morning with a full resilience bucket and an abundance of … thankfulness?

Ah, to be so blithely happy. To find joy in the simple pleasure of feeding my family. 

It’s not so easy as all that. For anyone, if we’re being honest. 

I do find joy in putting a well-executed meal on the table, particularly on a nicely set holiday table. And our day together was lovely. A few bumps occurred, as expected … in particular the meringue crust for the chocolate cream pie but that edifying story will have to wait for my bitterness to fade to a mild astringency. Suffice to say, the meringue did things meringue is not supposed to do, namely expand during cooking to fit all the available space, and I do mean all.

As anyone who cooks with egg whites knows, meringue does not expand, does not spread, does not change its shape during cooking. In fact, it simply hardens, creates a lovely, crisp, outer crust, a shell if you will, that gives way to a chewy, flavorful center. The great thing about meringue is that it is as consistent as Greenwich Mean Time. Usually.

ANYWAY … since I’m clearly not over the meringue crust, we’ll be moving on now.

The thing about grief — which shows up as weariness, anger, lachrymosity, sometimes simply the absence of gratitude — is that it’s not linear. It’s not predictable. It’s not rational. It’s an emotional game of pinball. 

Sometimes, you sit in a kickout hole, racking up points while the chimes ring out your success. Sometimes, you bobble a popper and …. drain. It doesn’t matter how well you play, how much experience you have, this is the game and you get the lane that the plunger sends you to. Period. 

For those of you asking, yes, actually, I did play a lot of pinball when I was a younger version of myself. Now, I mostly play open world video games or tabletop RPG like DnD or Pathfinder. In video games, I’m the character who meanders all over the map, doing all the side quests, finding all the treasure chests, while the NPCs beg me to do the boss battle and save their villages. 

“Hurry, Thimul.” (that’s my current character’s name). “Our village needs you.” Yeah, yeah. But first, I need to find out who stole Remi’s chickens. Oh, and I need to return Froki’s bow. And I still haven’t figured out who is selling skooma in Riften. Your villages will be fine. I’ll get around to that boss battle … eventually.

When I play tabletop RPG, I am that player, the one who is a little too into her role. GooseGoose, my current Pathfinder character, is a goose bard. Yes, you read that correctly. I play a talking goose who travels from town to town singing for money. And yes, I do sing all the time in the game — as I do in real life, to the abiding chagrin of my youngest. (MOM. You’re singing “Elmo’s World” again.) 

Also, yes, in game, I honk a lot. It’s something I’m less inclined toward in the real world though, which honestly is disappointing. I’d like to be the person who walks through Target occasionally issuing a gentle honk but it would feel performative so I just don’t do it generally. 

Wow. How did we get on this topic?  I remember. I was avoiding talking about grief. Oh no. And now we’re out of time. We’ll have to postpone the grief talk to my next post.

If you have an Audible membership, consider listening to Tim Curry’s narration of A Christmas Carol. I listened to it while prepping the Thanksgiving meal and it’s honestly quite delightful.

Much love.

HONK

ISO: Gratitude

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Wanted: gratitude, thankfulness, appreciation. Only actual feelings need apply. I don’t want any of that fake-it-’til-you-make-it gratitude. I’m looking for the real, honest-to-goodness, earnest appreciation, that I’m-thankful-for-everyone-including-my-second-grade-math-teacher emotion. 

Unfortunately, it is noticeably absent today. It’s not that I’m not thankful for my family and friends. The problem is that today I’m not feeling any of that. I’m a little angry, chagrined, if you will. Also sad. But that’s not news or new.

The ceiling fell this afternoon. That’s not a metaphor. 

I guess I am thankful, actually, because it was the ceiling of the finished portion of the basement. What if the ceiling in the unfinished part of the basement had fallen in? Since the unfinished basement is directly below the living room, I guess that would have meant that we no longer had a living room or maybe that we suddenly had a combined living room and basement? Maybe that I could sit on the sofa while also being on the treadmill…?

You’re going to ask me why the basement ceiling fell, aren’t you? I’m asking myself the same question. I have two theories: 1) that there actually is a god and he’s messing with me because he’s bored; 2) that Ken’s spirit has returned to us and he doesn’t want to use the flickering light cliche to get our attention. 

Regardless of which theory is correct, guess who has to fix the damn basement ceiling? Yeah. That would be me. I can do it. I’ve done it before — not that particular ceiling though so don’t try to tell me that it was my subpar workmanship that I just swept into a pile next to the basement stairs. 

I think my current lack of thankfulness is due to the near-empty condition of my resilience bucket. It’s definitely a little on the dry side right now. In truth, I could really, really, really use some good news. Just a little. A smidge. A few drops for the bucket. 

Yesterday, I got all my Thanksgiving baking supplies. But of course somehow, even though I had a list, I forgot to get sugar. We were completely out of sugar, mind you; it was very specifically on my list to buy. I just flat out didn’t buy it.

So, today, I went to the store and bought sugar. And when I got home, the basement ceiling was on the floor. 

It was too much. It’s still too much. I sat down on the basement steps and cried and cried and cried (very quietly, though, so as not to disturb any of the animals or other people in the house). And then, I got up, splashed water on my face, and used that stupid sugar to make pies. Because tomorrow is Thanksgiving and there were pies to bake.

Here’s hoping we don’t have a Like Water For Chocolate situation brewing. 

May your Thanksgiving qualify as a feast and your home be filled with warmth and laughter and … gratitude.

Much love.

ISO: Gratitude

Can St Anthony Tile?

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I woke up crying this morning. It happens. I’m trying to shake it off but I’m not having much success today. (I almost typed that I’m not having as much success as I would like but let’s examine that language for a moment — who has more success than they would like? Possibly the ALS when they raised more than $115 million in 2014 via the deeply misunderstood ice bucket challenge. The idea was to pour cold water over your head OR donate to ALS (or another charitable org) but people really enjoyed pouring water over their heads for some reason. And they still gave to ALS in huge amounts which I guess is a rare example of social media encouraging a trend that did some good. Sir Patrick Stewart may be one of the few people who actually understood what the challenge was about. You can check out his glorious response here.) 

Anyhoo, as my mom would say, I was crying because I was having a hospital to hospice dream in which Ken was mad at me for being “emotionally unavailable.” That fight did actually happen. I wrote about it in the blog at some point. The dream was, as dreams often are, unfair. Ken didn’t accuse me of being emotionally unavailable. He accused me of “having already moved on,” basically waiting for him to die. It hurt then as much as it hurt via last night’s dream. 

Don’t try telling me that he didn’t mean it. Of course he meant it. He was the master of saying exactly what he meant. He had a PhD in Rhetoric; and even in the final stages of his illness, he was brilliant. However, it is important for me and our children to remember that the person who loved us, the person we’d known so well, was not the Ken we lived with for the last year of his life. He was changed by his illness and treatment. Medication, pain, anxiety, grief had turned him into someone who was often, usually, unrecognizable. 

Sometimes, he was cruel. Sometimes, he was sodden with grief. Often, he was bitter. We don’t talk about *that* Ken very often. In fact, we all work hard at remembering the Ken we knew best. It’s easy — so easy — for the final stages of illness to erase the memories that we want to keep, to replace those memories with ugly treatments, angry words, fearful thoughts, nightmares, things left unsaid, things better left unsaid, last words, regrets. 

Years ago, I was shopping somewhere with my kids and they found a banana slicer that they were desperate to buy. I said, “We have one at home; it’s called a knife.” They haha’d and begged for that stupid banana slicer but I held firm. You know what’s coming, though, don’t you? Ken had already bought one. He saw it online and thought it looked useful. That’s the Ken we like to remember. Yes, I still have that banana slicer which I have not, to this day, ever used. 

I know you are all enthusiastically awaiting an update on my grout DIY project. I am too. 

Just kidding: I worked on it last week until my $4.59 diamond-tipped grout tool broke … twice. Ken always said we should use the right tools because it makes the job easier so I decided to borrow my long-suffering BIL’s oscillating multi-tool but he let me down. Dude doesn’t own an oscillating multi-tool.

So, as soon as my wonderful houseguest moves into his new apartment, I’ll be back (with the Terminator vibe and Arnold’s muscles) to continue the DIY grout removal with a brand-y new Dewalt oscillating multi-tool and the carbide blade. Now, unfortunately, I’m going to have to do more DIY’s that require this particular tool — what’s that saying? Oh yes. I remember. If all you have is an oscillating multi-tool, everything looks like a grinding project. 

I have one very big problem to resolve with this re-grout. When handyman dad tiled the shower with those big square granite tiles, he didn’t leave enough room to grout the space where the wall and floor meet. So, here I am, scraping his half-axxed grout job from the corners and trying to figure out how to put grout in between the wall tile and floor tile. 

If I were my mother, I would send a quick prayer to St Anthony (the finder of lost things — and in my mom’s opinion that included ideas). Not that I doubt St Anthony’s abilities but I think I’ll start with r/HomeImprovement. Reddit, as a whole, is pretty toxic but the DIY subs have helped me enormously over the last four years. 

In other news, I have seen the issue proof for 34 Orchards November edition. GAH. It’s gorgeous. I seriously do not know how I will survive the wait. Haley’s story looks fantastic and so marvelously creepy.

It’s time for dinner. Last night was beef stew with carrots and potatoes and warm rolls. Tonight we’re doing chili and skillet cornbread. Can you tell it’s fall here?!

Enjoy the last week of October. Next week, everything changes.

Much love.

Can St Anthony Tile?

WWASMD

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It was a DIY or perhaps a re-DIY weekend. The weather was good so there was also some outdoor-time during which I pretended that I was cleaning up the garden in preparation for winter (I wasn’t cleaning up the garden — I was basking in the sun).

A little backstory for DIY number 1: Two or more years ago (time has no meaning), a contractor advised me to put a clear waterproof sealant over my shower grout. Sheepishly (see what I did there?), I did as he suggested, mostly because it made sense at the time. 

Of all the DIY projects I’ve completed around the house, the one project I hated with the fire of a thousand suns was this caulk-sealant project. My shower is large — three people and a pitbull large — and completely granite-tiled. 

Yes, yes, this sounds like a flex. I know. Let me assure you that this entire master bath was built by the previous owner’s father in a last-ditch effort to make the house more attractive on the market because the previous owners had already bought another house way more expensive and were in a bit of financial distress. 

So, handyman dad, as I like to call him, built a master bath in our attic bedroom. Don’t get me wrong. I love having a bathroom for my middle-of-the-night, had-three-children-and-now-I-pee-every-two-minutes bathroom trips. However, there are more things wrong than right with this bathroom. First of all, it’s too heavy for the floor so I need to have someone come in and let me know if I’m going to fall into the second floor bathroom someday. 

Second, the beautiful jacuzzi tub is too big for the water heater and can only be filled halfway unless you want to sit in a full but freezing tub. And yes, the jets only work when the tub is full … AND even when they aren’t used, they have to be cleaned so mold doesn’t grow. So, yay, more cleaning. 

Anyway, back to this weekend’s project: The sealant had turned out to be a fiasco. It didn’t properly adhere (probably my fault), water got underneath the sealant, black mold started to grow …. Blah, blah, blah. So, this weekend, I removed every inch of that darn sealant. The only thing worse than applying the sealant was the memory of applying the sealant while I removed the sealant. 

My mom — who could build a pattern and make a suit from scratch — used to say that her punishment in hell would either be that she’d be cold for all eternity or that she would spend the rest of time pulling out stitches she had just put in. After this weekend’s shower sealant cleanse, I have to agree. And since I’ll now be regrouting all that granite tile, I’m deeply empathizing with her in a way that I never could have in my callow youth. 

Regrouting will — fortunately — not involve a caulk gun, a device created by men (sorry, guys, but it’s true; it was patented by Theodore Witte in 1894) to make individuals with weak hand strength feel even more inadequate. I am planning to start the regrouting this weekend, though I am hoping for a distraction that will allow me to procrastinate for another few days. Any suggestions?

For my second DIY of the weekend, I replaced a broken toilet tank lever. This was far easier than I expected actually. I have done some light plumbing work before but I wouldn’t even refer to this as light. The only problem I ran into was that our stupid mid-80s half-bath on the first floor has gold fixtures, including a gold toilet handle. Seemingly there are no gold toilet handles in 2021, a hypothesis I can get behind, honestly. 

The available toilet handle color choices were rather minimal, in my opinion — white plastic, silver plastic, stainless steel, “bronzed” stainless, or matte black. Where are the primary colors? Where is the sparkle? Where is the rainbow of options? I digress. 

The good news, since our sink and toilet are black, is that designers say a black toilet is dramatic and chic. Imagine how they’ll ooh and ahh when they see the brand-new matte black toilet handle. Unfortunately, we still have the dreadful gold faucet but if we’re lucky that will break soon. 

Also on the list for next week is the louvered door hinge which I am proud to say I have ignored for the entire summer. But now that the weather is cooling, I might have to open the closet door to get a coat so I’m going to have to replace the broken hinge. Darn it. I knew there was a reason — other than cold fingers, toes, and ears — I don’t like cold weather. 

I got a text from my eldest this morning. He said he was having a difficult start to his day and asked how mine was going…. I decided to cheer him up by telling him that I just cut my hair without the benefit of a mirror. Apparently, that information is like a lightning strike to people, though I think it’s freeing to acknowledge that hair is much less important than the emphasis advertisers and marketers give it. 

Why, you ask, did I cut my hair without a mirror? Simple, really. The scissors and razor were at hand but a mirror was not. The front looks great. I haven’t seen the back but when my daughter saw it, she said “Oh my god, Mom,” which, I’m assuming, translates to “I can’t believe how great that looks. Did you really not need a mirror?!” She also took a picture to share with her friends — more proof that she thinks it looks great, right?

As usual, we’ve been doing some cooking. Last night, I ate alone and had a spinach omelet. My only complaint is that, surprisingly, there was a little too much spinach. Usually, I under-estimate — you know how much spinach cooks up! But somehow, I managed to overbalance my spinach to egg ratio in favor of spinach. 

On Friday, my daughter made meringue cookies for a really lovely strawberry-drizzled meringue, which we experienced for the first time at the Colonial Williamsburg King’s Arms. These are absolutely delicious. They were for a birthday party but I scored one of the extras and … mmm. 

If you are looking for a light, impressive looking, and impressively simple treat, give this Meringue a try.

Hope you are enjoying spooky season. Don’t forget that my daughter’s story is set to digitally publish on November 10th!

Take care of yourselves and your communities ….

Much love.

WWASMD

Is There A Karaoke Limit? And Can We Make It 3?

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Okay. Just humor me for a minute … could the inventor of karaoke be guilty of a crime? Because the students are doing karaoke on the quad right now — at 10PM on a Saturday and if what they’re doing to Tina Turner isn’t a crime, then we’re living in The Purge. Someone really needs to tell them that Sandra Bullock and Regina King are actors and that’s why Proud Mary sounded so good when they did it in the movie.

Ah. Good news. A drunk guy has taken the mic and is singing The Piano Man. Oh no, make that two drunk guys. Welp, we’ve just disproven the argument that two heads (mouths) are better than one. We’ve also learned that it was a lot easier for Billy Joel to stay in key during that famous la-la-la de-de da chorus than it is for the average drunk karaoke-ers. Also, they can’t follow the prompts and they’ve interrupted the song to apologize for screwing it up. And now they’re volunteering to sing it again. Please no.

Oh thank God. Someone took the mic away.

And now I’d like to point out that I still haven’t learned my lesson … which is that things can always get worse. And they have. Because we now have a man and woman singing the PG version of Cee Lo Green’s Forget You. See … I’m being ungrateful again. I should be thankful it isn’t 120 decibels of the NSFK (not safe for karaoke) version.

I’m both pleased and chagrined that I can’t report on the song that’s just starting. It’s a country song with a lot of OOOOOOOOO-ing. It’s off-key so it’s more like OOOEEEEOOOEEEOO-ing but not quite to the level that it’s EIEIO-ing. 

Okay. Okay. I get it. I’m actually being pranked right now. Right? Right? Haha You guys are funny. You almost got me. But you went too far with the second country song. And the group singalong. Nice touch. How did you get all the students to sing so badly? I hope you realize that I’m sitting in my bedroom so there better not be any cameras around taking pictures of my tiger face mask right now.

Gratitude. Gratitude. Gratitude. It’s my new mantra. I’m in cobbler pose on my yoga mat as I type. It’s a multi-task meditation — just go with it. If I use that word — gratitude — in my meditation right now, will the karaoke sounds fade away or will I come to appreciate them? So far, neither one has happened but I’ll keep trying.

There’s a woman doing a banging rendition of Walk the Moon’s Shut Up and Dance with Me. It’s really rocking. Yeah, I’m just kidding. It’s so awful the slugs in the garden have packed their little slug bags (got to use a bag if you don’t have a shell, you know?) and moved out. I would too but my daughter has the car so I’m trapped here. 

When you think about a song you hope never to hear sung by anyone other than the original artist, you think automatically of Uptown Funk, don’t you? If you were sitting here with me right now, trust me; it would be the first song that came to mind, especially with all 300 enthusiastic young women shrieking “Hot Damn” at every opportunity, whether the lyrics call for it or not.

I know. I know. They are enjoying that as much as I enjoyed singing “The Roof Is On Fire” and all the inappropriate lyrics that went with it. Well, I’m old now (but unlike Yusuf/Cat Stevens, I’m embittered) and I no longer remember how to have fun. I keep yelling “get off my lawn” but the music is so loud they can’t hear me.

Is There A Karaoke Limit? And Can We Make It 3?

Secrets Revealed?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 2 Comments

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am the world’s worst secret keeper. It’s not because I don’t want to keep secrets — it’s literally that I forget. I just forget that they’re secrets. So, generally speaking, it’s probably good that I’m not a spy. Or in charge of KFC’s secret recipe. 

If I had the KFC recipe, I can totally see myself making a batch at home for dinner. When one of my daughter’s friends said, “Oh this is soooo good,” I’d be right there texting her the recipe. In like 5 minutes, KFC would need a new secret recipe and a new secret-keeper. 

My lack of secrecy skills is why it should surprise you that I have managed to keep from blurting out THE BIG ANNOUNCEMENT. Personally, I’m amazed that I haven’t. But here we are and I can finally tell you what I’ve been keeping to myself for more than a month. 

I had to wait for the contract to be signed but signed and delivered it is so here we go ….

My daughter sold a story to a literary magazine, 34 Orchard. 

Isn’t that fantastic?

I believe the journal publication date is November 10th but you don’t need to keep that date in your head. Trust me; I’m going to get really annoying about this.  It’s exactly the kind of story Haley would write but not at all the kind of story people would expect Haley to write. As such, I’m excited to see what people think of it. It’s really the only reason to look forward to November, in my opinion.  

And now for something completely different ….

Today was the first day of school for my 10th grader. He’s thrilled to be back in school again. Hahaha. We’re actually still homeschooling this year. His doctor doesn’t want him back in the classroom yet. It’s fine — not for the faint of heart — but entirely do-able with patience and practice. This year, he set his own curriculum. It’s heavy on art, mostly digital since he prefers that to drawing on paper. I keep trying to get him to use pencil, charcoal, watercolor but he just prefers digital media. 

He’s also doing a college-level psych class with his therapist. They’re using The Noonday Demon and Behave, two massive tomes. He absolutely loves her and I think he’s looking forward to the class. Personally I find her rather terrifying. 

My favorite thing about her is how she occasionally calls me into her office to scold me and then dismisses me. It’s so deliciously grandparent-like. (She’s 78 years old.) You know — when your child tells their grandparent on you, and you get that phone call? Well, Ian has never really had any grandparents. The last one — my MIL — died before he turned 4; and since she had dementia, they weren’t able to form any relationship. So, instead of telling his grandparent, he tells his therapist and I get a text (or the visit to her office). 

I often wonder whether my grandmother ever called my parents when my sister and I sought her out. Her apartment was an oasis — loving, warm, accepting. But my grandmother and my father were not close. When my father was stationed in Germany (by the way, he was a fantastic secret-keeper, one of the few things I did not inherit from him), he frequently wrote to his father and some of the letters include complaints about his mother. 

Complaining via letter certainly suggests that the mother-son relationship was not even good in his young adulthood. After my grandfather died (when I was 2 years old), Grandma worked to take care of herself but she had no savings. Once she retired, she was entirely dependent on my father. Would she have risked him cutting her off (a thing he would absolutely have done) to defend her two grandkids? It seems unlikely. 

Perhaps, in fact, the scolding grandparent is something rare. I was regularly scolded by my MIL, who knew exactly who I was and often called me out on it. But she was a very balanced woman, really lovely actually (I was abnormally blessed with a wonderful husband AND a wonderful MIL), and just as likely to scold her son as she was to scold me. That’s not to say we didn’t fight. We did but we always managed to work through our differences without any collateral damage.

Before Ian was born, when his siblings were maybe 6 and 4, I planned a Disney trip. Ken had zero interest in going and was happy with the thought that he’d have the whole house to himself for a couple weeks. My MIL, bless her, didn’t like that he wasn’t going. She gave him the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. Of course, he decided to go to Disney with us, where he proceeded to have the worst vacation he ever had. 

The first, and worst part for him, was that it was a driving trip. I actually like to drive (another thing I inherited from my dad) and had a whole exploration vacation planned. He did not like to drive, found car rides quite confining, and was absolutely bored to tears. In addition, on day one, literally, he had an allergic reaction to our Cracker Barrel breakfast. On day three, he nearly got carried off by mosquitoes when we visited the alligator farm in St Augustine. Okay; he actually just got swarmed by them, not actually lifted off the ground. On day four, he pulled a hamstring during his morning run on Disney property. On day five– I’m not making this up — he got heatstroke. On day six, he got food poisoning. 

We left on day seven. What other choice did we have? It was clear he was going to succumb to something horrible if we didn’t get him back home again. All-in-all, it was not a great trip. For the rest of his life, he referred to that vacation as a death march, while the kids and I worked to keep Granny from bullying Ken into doing anything else.  

I did make another trip to Disney a few years later and yes, my MIL was still alive when we went. Ken did not go with us. Everyone was happy, no one more so than Ken who joyfully spent our entire trip at home doing whatever the heck he wanted to. 

And now, because I live next to a college campus and, I don’t know, because it’s Tuesday (?), I need to go outside — there’s a car fire on my street and the police are here. And no, I’m not joking. I think the car owner is like 15; is that possible? Probably not. I must be getting old.

Coming soon … more reminders about my daughter’s story.

Stay safe. Check that fire extinguisher in your car. You never know when you might need it.

Secrets Revealed?

Cinderella Stinks And So Do Her Mice

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 4 Comments

I asked my daughter if we could live-tweet our impressions of Amazon’s Cinderella but she scheduled a root canal instead. Thus, I had to go it alone. Disappointing but all-in-all I think she got the better deal. 

So many great re-tellings/re-imaginings of Cinderella have been published recently that I should have been able to expect a good story. Alas. It was not to be. Amazon apparently spent the entire production budget on big name actors and song rights because they sure didn’t spend it on the story. 

Billy Porter narrates the beginning of the movie, which opens with a weird Beauty and the Beast-esque version of “Rhythm Nation.” If that sounds uncomfortable and cringy, you’ve gotten the right impression. Then, we meet the cast, including Camila Cabello’s Cinderella, who is supposedly covered with cinders even though she doesn’t ever seem to encounter a fireplace. It’s very confusing. Oh, and there’s a lot of singing. 

Rob Beckett shows up early in the movie for about 30 seconds, playing a creepy suitor similar to Richard O’Brien’s role in Ever After, except that O’Brien’s character is fully developed whereas Beckett’s character has maybe two tiny, messy, confusing and over-acted scenes. 

Then, there’s more singing, a lot more singing. There’s even a rapping town crier which is as out of place as it sounds. And like most of this over-stuffed movie, he also only has like two scenes. 

Not even 30 minutes into this abomination, the writers steal a page from Ella Enchanted and have the prince sing “Somebody to Love.”  It’s nearly unbearable and serves only to highlight how much better Anne Hathaway’s version was. Let’s not even discuss what chagrin Freddie  Mercury would be experiencing if he’d had to listen in.

As I watched, I figured out how this movie was developed:  a group of like 10 writers was brought together and told that each would write 12 minutes of the movie. When they all got done writing, the lead screenwriter shuffled the 12-minute sections together and handed the pages off to the producer. Ta Da. Oh, did I mention that each writer had to include at least 8 minutes of singing in their section? 

There are just two watchable scenes in this movie. First, Idina Menzel — at the 30 minute mark — sings Material Girl. It’s her only good scene. Her character is so badly written that it’s difficult to figure out who she’s supposed to be: Is she abusive or loving? Is she grasping or protective? We never find out. I’m pretty sure Idina doesn’t know. Also, Idina should sue whoever was responsible for her hair, makeup and costumes.

The only other watchable scene is Billy Porter — at the 45 minute mark — as Fabulous Godmother. Billy is lovely for the two and a half minutes he’s on screen — okay, it’s eight minutes. At any rate, it was far less than the impression offered by Amazon’s advertising. I guess they realized they needed to capitalize on his name because there wasn’t much else to promote about this.

The most unfortunate thing about this movie — the list of unfortunate things about this movie is, possibly, infinite — is that Camila Cabello — a heavy autotune user — was cast next to not one but two extraordinary Tony Award winning singers. It’s almost cruel to compare the effortless vocals of Billy Porter and Idina Menzel to Camila Cabello. She is a paper flower to Porter’s and Menzel’s garden.

There’s a princess who wants to be king (yes, I know she would be queen but she wants to be king). I think she’s supposed to be a young, singing Elizabeth Warren, if you can believe that. In addition, we have a fencing queen — played by the ever-marvelous and totally underutilized Minnie Driver. She could have had such a meaty role, if only … if only. 

The prince is supposed to be a stupid guy but that doesn’t actually serve the story because Cinderella would never fall for a stupid guy. As such, halfway through the movie he becomes a sympathetic man trapped in a role he never wanted, Prince Harry-esque, if Prince Harry had been the heir, of course. 

The king is an abusive totalitarian freak, as you would expect of a king, actually, but we’re supposed to believe, by the end of the movie, that he actually loves the queen — who he treats like dirt the entire first two-thirds of the movie. And then he rides up to the castle on a white horse to serenade the queen — but it’s Pierce Brosnan and his voice is nails on a chalkboard so that’s also a bit confusing. 

Really, the entire experience was rather worse than a root canal — though I’ve never had one so I’m just going by the visceral pain I felt watching Cinderella and I’m pretty sure it was worse than a root canal would be. 

I’m fully convinced that Netflix and Amazon are just messing with us, trying to see how awful a movie they have to make for us not to watch it. Amazon has nearly succeeded with this one.  I spared you the retelling of the “now that you’re an orphan” scene, the awful mice (James Corden, ugh), the potty humor, the attempts at feminism, the misogyny … You can have all of those experiences AND MORE, if you watch this movie. Or you can find something worth watching, like paint drying or plants growing or bread molding or … well, you get the picture, probably better than Amazon does.

Cinderella Stinks And So Do Her Mice

Karaoke in Scooter-ville

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 4 Comments

If I have to suffer through this, at least I can blog about it. I thought (hoped?) that the abomination that is karaoke on campus had been cancelled for this year. Ever the optimist! Today is the day, loudly announced by a remarkable rendition of “Watermelon Sugar.” Whoever that young singer is, they are definitely optimistic if they think that sounded anything like Harry Styles … or singing. 

A couple days ago, I sent my annual email to the neighborhood’s campus contact, reminding him that students aren’t allowed to park on our street for more than 2 hours.This year, they’ve promised to patrol (campus police have jurisdiction on our street), remind students via campus communications, and, if necessary, write tickets. Since we’ve already had our first student-parked-in-front-of-someone’s-driveway incident, it seems appropriate to get the school involved. 

This might seem like me curmudgeonly asserting that these young kids need to “stay off my lawn.” But those of us who don’t have driveways, including my 90-year-old neighbors, need to have ready access to our houses and we pay an annual fee for that privilege. Since the campus library parking lot is directly accessed from our street, there’s always a lot of traffic during the school year and a couple hundred students try — at least three days per week — to use our street as extended campus parking. 

I wish I were exaggerating but literally every open spot (including driveways) is taken by students and if I’m foolish enough to move my car, there won’t be a spot for me when I get back. My neighbors sometimes use big orange cones — they even gave us some — but it isn’t legal or a powerful deterrent.  

Anyway, I heard back from Campus Dude within an hour. He agrees with my concern, reiterated their commitment to enforce the parking regulations, and then confessed that they have a big NEW concern that has them in a kerfuffle. Wait for it….wait for it … SPIN SCOOTERS. 

Yep. Spin scooters have invaded our city. In case you aren’t familiar, Spin is a company that provides rental scooters. I think it’s 15 cents a mile to rent them and you don’t have to find a station to lock them up when you’re done. You just drop your scooter wherever it’s legal for a vehicle to park. Ta Da — scooters everywhere. 

Yesterday there were at least 10 dropped on our little two-block street. (Yes, our street is literally only two blocks long.) Technically, it’s not legal for scooters to park on our street for more than two hours during the day (after hours and weekends it’s a free-for-all) but there’s no mechanism for ticketing scooters past the two-hour mark and you know those scooters are staying until someone needs a cheap ride. 

They don’t bother me, honestly. I can move a scooter out of my parking spot and I would rather have students using scooters than cars — better for the environment! But Campus Dude likes to shiny-object every discussion and this is his latest attempt. I know some folks are really complaining about the scooters but I’m actually student-friendly and want to encourage them to find effective ways to navigate inexpensively. 

I know you’re wondering what happened to the karaoke updates but they’ve temporarily(?) turned down the microphone so now I’m only getting occasional snippets of sound. I *think* someone is singing Charlie Puth’s “We Will Go” right now but I might have to go on campus to hear better. Just kidding. I’m not moving a single inch closer to that shrieking. 

Are you patiently awaiting the Big Announcement that I promised recently? It’s almost time. We’ll definitely have the great unveiling within the next week and I’m absolutely dying to drop a hint … but I can’t! What is it that those tiktok-ers say? “Like and follow for more!” HeHe

I heard today from a doctor friend that all the PICU beds in Alabama are filled with COVID children. As a parent who has needed a PICU for her child, this is terrifying. Where do they put non-COVID kids who need PICU beds? You already know the answer to this. Please, do your part to end this nightmare. (If you think doing your part is ingesting or inserting cattle dewormer, you actually — literally — are a danger to yourself and to everyone around you.)

When you enjoy your long weekend, Americans, remember that Labor Day is a celebration of workers’ rights. It began in the late 1800s but The Great Resignation of 2021 is a continuation of that desire for fair pay and good, safe working conditions. Be kind to the people who work difficult, often inhumane jobs delivering your packages in less time than it takes my dog to hoover up a dropped apple slice, taking your taco orders, bringing your extra ketchup, warming your not-hot-enough french fries. They’re people and they don’t deserve your discourtesy. 

Now, let’s end on a positive note (yes, intentional pun — come on, guys, I’m a writer) with a really loud, preferably off-key, version of Lizzo’s “Rumors.”

Much love.

Also, I’ve got a bunch of stuff out on sub so if you want to cross your fingers for me, that would be much appreciated. I’ve got mine crossed but it’s making typing really difficult.

Karaoke in Scooter-ville