"If Bobby doesn't love football, he won't lead a fulfilling life, and then he'll die." --Hank Hill

Yes, I have to worry about a woman-hating QB1 who's suspended for at least the first four games, but . . . I don't care! I've thought a lot about it, and I'm not dumping the team for the one bad apple (who I admit is trying to clean up his act), and I'm going to enjoy the hell out of this season. The Boy retired from his travel-league soccer team and will only ref on Saturdays, which means that months of beautiful Sundays are stretching out before us. Here we go!

School starts Thursday, although The Boy has been going every day this week for soccer practice, so he's already kind of getting back into the swing of things. He's been taking a city bus and getting himself there; I don't have to spend my lunch hour driving around, which makes me grateful for the kid's growing independence. He's due for a little more independence, as he's about to start eighth grade! It's his last year in Middle School, and his tenth year at his school--he's been there since Kindergarten Readiness--and . . . this line of thought leads to high school and college and my baby being a man, and I'm not ready to think about that kind of independence.

So: I am ready for some football, but not ready to accept that my kid will be in high school next year.

That is all.

Crucio!

Well, we’re back. The trip was a strange one, because I found out while sitting at the airport Thursday morning, waiting to board the plane to Florida, that my parents’ neighbor of 35 years, my mother’s best friend, my “surrogate mother” through high school and college, had died of cancer.

It was the first time I’ve been the person to tell my mom a loved one had died—usually it’s been the other way around—and it was terrible. My mom saw my face and said, “What,” and all I could get out was, “Kathy.” And then we stood in the airport, hugging and crying. I asked whether we should still make the trip, and my mom said we absolutely should, so we did. We were home in time for the funeral on Monday, which: Ugh. At one point the new widower, who is a kind and patient man who never left his ailing wife’s side, said in passing at the funeral home, “I just keep looking around for my wife.”

So there was that to deal with. We did have a good trip despite the sadness, and I was very, very glad to be there with my mom, so she could talk about things when she felt like it. She’s furious more than anything, because Kathy found a lump in her breast six years before she did anything about it. By that time, of course, it was too late, and the cancer was everywhere. It’s hard to see my mom so sad and angry and frustrated, and to know that my emotionally retarded father isn’t going to be much help to her. Again: Ugh.

Anyway, though, we truly did have a good time, even in the face of the heat. Sweet Jesus, the heat. Only damned fools would go to central Florida in July/August, and damned fools we were. Between the heat (“Feels like 104!” Thanks, Weather Channel), the humidity (enough to steam my glasses every time we left an air-conditioned space), the crowds, and the flies, it felt like I imagine the slums of New Delhi must feel. Slogging through that park was like a punishment. And the crowds in the Potter portion of the park were so thick that I swear people would have been trampled to death if someone had yelled, “Fire!” The lines were so long and winding that you couldn’t even tell what you were in line for.

You couldn’t tell if you were in line for a ride, to get into the Three Broomsticks for something to eat, or to get into one of the many, many stores. The first day, Teddy and I managed to get to ride the roller coaster that’s set up to mimic a Hungarian Horntail racing a Chinese Fireball, and it was a good coaster, but that and a trip to Honeydukes and Zonko’s was all we could accomplish. We didn’t buy anything from Honeydukes because we knew it would melt at our touch, so we got some butterbeer from a barrel in the street and beat it out of there. (Butterbeer is delicious, by the way. We had the frosty kind, which tasted like an ice-cream float made with vanilla ice-cream, cream soda, and butterscotch. That may sound gross and too sweet, but it was a really nice treat.)

We staggered out of Potter and into Jurassic Park, where we had the stamina to wait for one water ride, which was very well done, and then we beat it back to the hotel pool (the indoor pool, because the water in the outdoor pool was HOT).

I took charge the second day, and we left the hotel in a cab an hour before the shuttle was scheduled to take us to the park. We got in before the park opened, and waited in line for about an hour for Potter to open. Yes, we were in line, but it was super early and the heat was tolerable. Plus, our line wound past a shop in Jurassic Park that generously left its doors open so the a/c could flow out to us. That wait was fine. Potter opened, and we made a beeline for Hogwarts, where we only waited for a little more than an hour to get in.

All of the waiting and the trudging and the sweating and the money were worth it.

You enter Hogwarts through the greenhouses, where you get to see all the plants—including the mandrakes—and then you flow into the (blissfully cool) castle. You get to see the glass cases that hold the jewels representing the house points, various suits of armor, and then you’re in front of the big statue that marks the entrance to Dumbledore’s office. You wind around, and there you are, with Dumbledore’s gadgets and trinkets all around you, and Dumbledore himself sitting at his desk.

He’s a projected image, I guess, but it looks like a hologram almost. And it’s Michael Gambon sitting there, his fingers templed under his chin, telling you a bit about Hogwarts. My first thought was, “But Dumbeldore’s DEAD,” but I got over it and was just charmed. He asked us to step into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, where we came across the same kind of projected images, this time of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They were arguing amongst themselves when Hermione said, “Ron! You’re making it snow again!”

AND IT SNOWED ON US. REAL SNOW! I nearly swooned.

Then we wandered around, past the Mirror of Erised and the many, many moving and talking portraits on the walls, and past the Fat Lady, until we made it into the Great Hall where we were seated four across in a little car. Harry popped out on his broom and asked us to meet him at the Quidditch Pitch, and then took off. We started moving (the car did move, but there were projected images all around us, too), and then Hagrid showed up on that covered bridge from the films and asked if anyone had seen a dragon . . . and then we took off on a flight that kind of echoed the one Harry had when the Horntail was chasing him in Goblet of Fire. We were up and down and flinging around near the roof tops, and tiles fell and the dragon screeched, and then we were in the shelter of the Forbidden Forest. With the spiders. These were really there, not images, and they were creepier than in the movies because we were so near to them. They were shiny and moist looking, and Aragog was huge, and spit at us. I squealed at that point.

And then it got misty and colder, and the dementors showed up. They were real too, although there were projected ones as well. One flew right up to The Boy and startled him so much that The Boy kicked out at it and lost a shoe (he’s now proud that one of his shoes will live forever in Hogwarts). And then dementors swooped down at us to give us the kiss, and we could see silvery images of our (wide-eyed) faces shimmering and stretching out above us, but Harry came and cast his Patronus just in time.

We past the Whomping Willow and made it to the Quidditch Pitch when Draco showed up and chased us through the stands. This was fast and furious, and the images here (I think it was 3-D) were really good.

Then we landed, Harry asked what took us so long, and the Hogwarts staff and students were there to welcome us and tell us we’d done a good job. We disembarked and were spit out into a gift shop (the only amusement park gift shop I’ve ever seen that sold books), and we floated away to find a kiosk to buy The Boy some flip-flops.

As we were leaving Potter at about 10am, we heard the guards TURNING PEOPLE AWAY, because the place was at capacity. People were being told to come back at 3pm. It was unbelievable, but that’s how bad the crowds were.

The rest of Universal was fine. The Boy and I rode The Hulk, which is quite an excellent coaster, and we rode the Spiderman thing, which was totally crap after having been through Hogwarts (I think I may have actually yawned while on the ride), and we bopped around to a few more things, bought some swag, and beat it back to the pool.

I know this is a long post, but I wanted to express the greatness of that castle. I’ll never visit central Florida again unless it’s winter, but I will say that the castle is worth every bit of suffering it took to get there. Even if it felt like Bellatrix was after us with the Cruciatus Curse.

To Squee, or Not to Squee?

A work friend recommended that I watch Warehouse 13 on Syfy, and I'm nearly caught up to the current Season 2 episodes. The premise is a little tired, what with the two government agents with Odd Couple personalities working as partners (yes, I'm looking at you, Bones and X-Files), but the fantasy aspect of the episodes and series' arcs more than makes up for it: In the world of the show, things like Alice's looking glass are real. How cool is that? And the people who work for the Warehouse (which is a super-secret government agency) are charged with tracking down such "artifacts" and containing them. The writing and acting all seem to be improving pretty much by the episode, and all in all, it's a fun thumbs up.

The most recent episode I watched, though, pretty much clinched me forever, because of its guest stars. Think of my Firefly love, and then imagine my fangirl dorkitude when I saw Kaylee and Simon show up! Together! Looking older, and so cute and sweet! It honestly made my day. Sure, their names were Loretta and Sheldon, and they were in a pie shop rather than a space ship, and no one said anyone was shiny, but there was kissing!

Aw!

Anyway, the second thing I'm dorking out over is that tomorrow my mom, The Boy, and I are headed to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Dum, DUM, da da DUM, da DUM, DUM! (That's my text version of the theme song that plays over the movies.) We're all pretty excited, but I swear my mother is bouncing off the walls. I'm pretty sure she'll cry when she sees the Hogwarts like she did when she saw Cinderella's castle the first time.

It's going to be hot and miserable, but there will be pumpkin juice and dragon races and Merlin only knows what else. We're coming back Sunday, so I'll report soon after.

Expecto patronum!

Paul Bunyan’s Mega Movie Marathon

The Boy and I cut down a tree. I told my parents that I had a dead tree in my backyard, and they sort of rolled their eyes and told me I had a dead bush. My mom said she’d bring a saw and help me get rid of it, and my dad was happy to be left to his own devices on a Saturday afternoon while she did so.

Does this look like a weed?

And then she got to my house, and saw that her puny wee saw, a sort of electric carving knife on steroids, was no match for my TREE. Granted, it wasn’t a giant redwood or even a mighty oak, but it was clearly a tree. I told her I’d get a chainsaw and manage on my own, so she went through my yard and identified which of the things I’d been trimming were weeds that could and indeed should be obliterated—who knew I was filthy with wild grapes vines—left the handy hook-on-a-stick, and The Boy and I got to it, despite the fact that my mother actually said out loud in words that cutting down a tree was man’s work. Man’s work! I explained later to The Boy that my mother’s comments were clearly an illustration of the differences between her generation and mine, because it never once occurred to me (or to him) that I wouldn’t be able to wield a chainsaw successfully.

I was indeed successful: The tree is now a neat stack of wood, and neither our house nor our bodies were harmed in the process. (Finally, the hard hat I’ve kept since I worked on a road construction crew in college came in handy—I made The Boy wear it.)

Say hello to Stumpy, whom my dad will have to deal with.

We rewarded ourselves yesterday with a day off—the weather was too rainforest-like to think about leaving the comfort of the a/c, so I stuck to laundry and cooking, and we spent lots of time reading and watching movies.

The Men Who Stare at Goats is funny and fun, and more than a little puzzling when you consider that it’s based somewhat on fact. Really? Our military had (or has) programs that deal with psychic activity? Huh. The only weird thing about this movie (other than its premise) is the casting of Ewan McGregor, who is forced to use an American accent. No idea why this had to be, because it clearly wasn’t easy for him, but I guess it added an extra layer of fun.

We also watched Hot Fuzz, which I really cannot say enough good things about. It’s the story of a highly talented and successful London cop who’s transferred to a small village when his superiors start to worry that he’s overshadowing them. He’s frustrated with what he sees as a waste of his skills, until he realizes that the rate of accidental deaths in the village is suspiciously high. The action that follows is part homage, part good natured ribbing of American cop and buddy movies, action flicks, and British mysteries. It’s funny, it’s fun, and so, so very endearing. Two thumbs way up.

We closed out our marathon with X-Men Origins: Wolverine. I like the X-Men a lot—I used to set my alarm when I was in college, so I’d be up to watch the X-Men cartoon at 11am. Wolverine’s hard-ass attitude used to annoy me, but the more I came to know him, the more I liked him. I own the comic the movie is loosely based on, and while I’m probably in the minority, I have to say I liked the movie better. Maybe it’s Hugh Jackman and Liev Schrieber, or maybe it’s the fact that the movie is less dark and hopeless. Or maybe it’s the fact that my beloved Tim Riggins was there—granted, he was Gambit, and I hated stupid Gambit in the cartoon, but TIM RIGGINS! Sigh and swoon. Anyway, if you like X-Men at all, this is one to see—the story is good, the effects are good, and you get to see Professor Xavier when he could still walk around. Good times.

Speaking of Tim Riggins, did you know that he and Eric Northman are going to be in a movie together?!?! Yes, it's a movie based on the board game Battleship, but who cares? Sure, Tim won't have his Texas accent, and Eric won't be immortal, but maybe there will be shirtless wrestling! A woman can dream.

Preach

I'm here to preach to you today, but not like that guy. Do you know who he is? Why, he's L. Ron Hubbard, of Scientology fame. Why do I have a photo of him? Because he came into my house via the magic of television, care of my good friend P, who may just be my equal in weirdness. See, P was in Half Price Books and happened to notice this DVD on sale for 99-cents, and she just couldn't not buy it. Nor could she miss the chance to share it with me. We're the friends, after all, who have shared the DVD glories of Left Behind--The Movie and The Book of Mormon Movie, Volume 1. I suppose we can blame it on our Catholic backgrounds, but for whatever reason, we share a need to know about religions that vary so differently from our own.

L. Ron looks surprisingly like an aged Craig T. Nelson in bad makeup, and he talks as if he borrowed George Washington's false teeth. Very odd. Odder still is the things he says. Scientology is seriously weird. Like more weird than the religion I was raised with, where transubstantiation is accepted as a matter of course. The worst thing about Scientology, though, is a quote from L. Ron that we found on the official website, regarding Scientology and belief in God:

“No culture in the history of the world, save the thoroughly depraved and expiring ones, has failed to affirm the existence of a Supreme Being. It is an empirical observation that men without a strong and lasting faith in a Supreme Being are less capable, less ethical and less valuable to themselves and society....A man without an abiding faith is, by observation alone, more of a thing than a man.”

So atheists aren't people. You know who calls other people non-human? Hitler. And slave owners. And L. Ron Hubbard. Nice trio there.

So. P and I watched what we could stand of the riveting Scientology video. We continued feeding our odd fetish for watching weird things with a screening of Sherlock Holmes. Not the one with Robert Downy Jr., but the one with DINOSAURS. In London. Oh, and there's a Krakon that robs a ship. So the bad guy can use the gold the ship carried in order to be able to buy the dinosaur, so he could use it to steal a pipe from a fountain. And then a dinosaur killed a man in a rubber factory, apparently by metling his face. And that's not even the half of it. We laughed, we cried: It was better than Cats. Seriously. It's available on Netflix to watch instantly, and if you dig a good B movie, you won't be disappointed in this.

The evening wasn't pure junk, though (even though cheesecake was consumed in honor of the late Rue McClanahan), because we began our viewing with an innoculation: I made P watch the most recent episode of Friday Night Lights. I can't believe what a fantastic show this is, and why the entire country isn't in awe of it. I know I've mentioned it before, but this show is seriously great. You know I'm a big Joss Whedon freak, and I will state for you here that I think FNL is better than anything Whedon's ever done. There's no fantasy here, no metaphor, no need to suspend your disbelief; this show is about real people living real lives. They go to church. They pray. The stumble through pancake breakfasts given in fire halls. They get on the floor to play with their kids, one eye looking at a chewed up book that's been read a million times, the other eye on the TV. And they creak and groan and moan and sigh when they finally get up off the floor.

This show honestly raises television to the level of art: It makes you think about what it means to be a person. It makes you look at the humanity in others. It makes you want to make sure you're doing your best and living life and loving the people you love. It's not without its missteps, but I'm here to testify that it's the best thing I've ever seen on television, with the best actors, writers, show-runners . . . just the best of everything, showing how talented people who care about stories and life can make Art out of the idiot box.

Amen.

Sock it to Me

Behold, the Sensational Socks training sock.



It's far from perfect, but I understand how socks work now, and am pretty sure I could knit people-sized socks from actual sock yarn, on those tiny #2 needles. I'm still not quite sure I have the patience, but I think there might be at least one sock in my future.

And it's all about the future for me, as I am thrilled to be seeing the last of the month of May. In addition to the passing of my great Aunt Mary, this month has seen trouble at work, an understaffed pledge drive, a four-day stomach virus for The Boy, which turned into a four-day stomach virus for me. This month saw me trip and fall at work, squashing my lunch and gouging me knee. It saw me accidentally pay a bill twice, screwing up my accounting. And finally, it saw my face morph into something like Sloth from The Goonies, thanks to an enormous sty that grew on the bottom of my left eyelid, effectively flipping it over and making impossible to blink or fully close my eye for days.

Goodbye, May. Kiss my ass.

The Screenplay That I'll Never Write

My grandmother is turning 86 tomorrow, and I know she's feeling a little conflicted about her birthday this year, because her elder sister, my Great Aunt Mary, died two weeks ago. Aunt Mary lived in Sacramento with her son Steve (a notorious family fuck-up--that'll matter later), and my grandmother lives here in western PA, but the two were very close. This was always surprising to me, because my grandmother is a combination of Rose Nylund and Dorothy Zbornak (smart, industrious, and extremely capable but utterly, utterly sweet and more than a little co-dependent) and Aunt Mary enjoyed swilling cocktails, dressing to the nines, and smoking unfiltered Pall Malls while grumbling like Patty and Selma. The two should have clashed at every encounter, and often did, but loved each other fiercely. Aunt Mary moved west in the 50s, but the two always found time for visits, and as they got older and found the time, those visits could last six weeks or more. They talked on the phone often, and I just found out that as Aunt Mary's health started failing, my grandmother would end each phone conversation by singing You Are My Sunshine.

Sweet, I know. It makes me want to hug my own sister, believe me.

Anyway, Gram got the call that Aunt Mary was on life support the day before my cousin--Gram's youngest grandchild--was set to graduate from nursing school. Gram's a nurse (still!), my mom's a nurse, and my cousin is now the third generation, so the ceremony meant a lot to my grandmother. Things were serious, though, and Gram didn't hesitate to get on plane with her baby sister, my great Aunt Frances, to be there with Aunt Mary.

Of course speculation started on our end right away: Would Steve (the fuck-up mentioned above) manage to be able to pick the two old ladies up, or would he leave them stranded at the airport? Would he send some old stoned dude with a long ponytail yet no hair on top to get them? If that were the case, would they go? We worried for nothing, though, because Steve picked them up and delivered them to the hospital, where Aunt Mary was indeed dying. According to Gram, she had time to hold Aunt Mary's hand and talk to her. She felt Aunt Mary could hear her, as her eyelids fluttered in reaction. She told Aunt Mary everything would be okay, and then asked if she wanted her to sing. Eyelids fluttered, my grandmother whispered You Are My Sunshine into her ear, and Aunt Mary died a few minutes later.

I cry every time I even think of it, and I doubt I'll ever be able to hear the song again without bursting into tears. I'm a wimp, though. My grandmother and Aunt Frances left the hospital with Steve, and they all went to a sort of restaurant/lounge place another relative owns. There were drinks, and singing, and Gram was befriended by a large black man named Hershey. Hershey pulled my grandmother to the little stage, and the pair lead the joint in a rousing version of, you guessed it, You Are My Sunshine.

So then they left the restaurant, and Steve took his two very sad old aunts to the house where he'd lived with Aunt Mary and his maid. Or the woman he referred to as a live-in maid, and whom Gram and Aunt Frances immediately decided had to be a prostitute because the house was a filthy mess. The prostitute had the run of the place, as did her large bird, whose cage was left open for his convenience. She kept a fish tank in the kitchen and a boa constrictor in one of the bedrooms.

The old ladies didn't eat much of anything while they were there, because they swear they saw the prostitute stir a bowl of fruit salad and then dip the serving spoon into the fish tank--as if to clean it--and then set it on the counter next to the bowl. They didn't want to hurt Steve's feelings by leaving for a hotel, so they pretended to eat and did a lot of cleaning.

And then the boa constrictor was discovered to have escaped.

Now our old ladies were not only not eating, but they weren't sleeping, either. They decided to kill some time by going through Aunt Mary's things, as they were staying in her former bedroom, ("I've never known a woman to have so many shoes and earrings! My GOD, the earrings! Such junk!") WHEN THEY DISCOVERED A SUITCASE FULL OF CASH UNDER THE BED. Knowing Steve's history of drugs, drinking, and petty crimes, they promptly WIPED OFF THEIR FINGERPRINTS and shoved the suitcase right where they found it. Gram says it was stacks of hundred dollar bills, likely tens of thousands of dollars.

According to Gram and Aunt Frances, the services for Aunt Mary were nice, the snake was never found but not a problem, and my uncle and his son came in from San Francisco and Las Vegas, so they covered the trip back to the airport and kept things uneventful. My sister wrote to the cousin to thank him for being there for Gram, and his reply included the following:

Two amusing notes from the excursion:

1 – I was sleeping in the room wherein the snake was at large, I did not realize this until the morning of my departure, which was probably for the best.

2 – The last of Aunt Mary's above-ground mortal remains (she was cremated) is being kept in what was described as "a beautiful hand-hammered pewter antique urn" by the donor, one of Steve's old girlfriends who remains a friend, but is really an old-fashioned cocktail shaker, it has a pour spout. I don't think there's anything particularly wrong with this, as long it is generally perceived as valuable. Don't tell grandma.

Aunt Mary loved her gin and tonics, and would probably be thrilled with her final resting place, but my god did that crack me up. If ever I need a lift, all I have to do is think, "It has a pour spout." But I won't tell Gram.