The Crybaby Kid

Wait a minute!  Superbowl Sunday is THIS Sunday?  Somehow I had created a schedule based on self-misinformation whereby the NFL waited for two weekends between play-offs and the big send-off.  Not that I actually care about this in any significant way.  Really, I should rejoice.  Football season ends a week earlier than I thought.  (Though with this impressive winter weather system now holding the venue hostage, an extra week might not be so very far-fetched.)  So as to appear competitive and mildly informed, however, "GO, Packers!"  I'm a fan of cheese.  End of story.  Nothing against the Steelers.  Black and gold is a sharp color combination.

I had what I can only describe as another movie meltdown this afternoon in the thankfully darkened theater as the credits for "The King's Speech" rolled on the screen.  While I'm watching a great film, there's an internal dialogue going on as I naturally draw parallels between what's happening on the big screen and how it applies to the world and the smaller worlds within it.  And whether it stems from my writing or my writing stems from it, I have an intense need to understand, or at least try to understand, what it's like to be in the hip waders, Manolo Blahniks, Keds, loafers, or running shoes of others.  Thus, though I'm entertained by movies, I sit at their feet expecting to learn, to experience, to know this life better.  Consequently, I am affected.  Often profoundly.  

This afternoon I was unable to keep the tears at bay as the realization of who King George VI was as a man hit me.  My admiration and empathy swelled.  The burdens he carried as a stammering bow-legged son born into a famous royal family as the second son!  The tremendous challenges he faced as he struggled to discover his own self-worth AND lead a country willingly into a second World War.  The sheer pressure of internal and external forces.  Every frame of the movie was art and truth.  And then I could see my own second born brother of the second round of kids (my mom had two sets of kids -- I refer to us as Side A and Side B of the record) with his own set of inward and outward pressures.  Was there any choice BUT to cry, I ask you?  


It still wasn't as bad as the time I went with my good friend and cousin, Laur, and her sister, Netsy, to see "The Piano."  Quite literally, I was speechless except to weep for a good fifteen minutes.  My voice box could not form words.  I had to hide in a bathroom stall for a bit.  I'll bet they remember it, too.  It was probably around that time that Netsy began to realize just what an odd, but lovable, little birdie I really was.  It's one of the reasons I have to sit and watch the credits, much to the chagrin of my family.  They're ready to exit the building the moment the final scene fades.  I, on the other hand (is the other hand the left one or the right one?) need to come down off of what I just experienced.  And do you know how many times a deleted scene or preview or series of outtakes makes a guest appearance at the end of the credit roll?  I don't want to miss one darned thing!

A memorable scene from "The Piano"

This is why I am a fan of the Oscar's and all the award shows which pave the way to the grand Kodak theater and it's red carpet.  Though I have not the training and roughly a thimbleful of the talent required to write a screenplay, I entertain a fantasy or two whereby I rush to the stage in a confection of dazzling finery fitted to my large-for-Hollywood size eight curves to accept my own little gold man for Best Adapted Screenplay of one of my own books.  I'd thank my mom, the Lord for allowing me the freedom to write, my husband for supporting me, my kids for knowing I could do it, the best darned agent a gal could have for taking me on as her client, Gary for loaning his story, my bevy of girlfriends for being such bevy-licious lovelies, Starbucks for being so DE-E-licious . . . and my dear blog readers for hanging in there!

When Julia won the Oscar -- one of my favorite moments!

But until such time as dreams allow, I'm content to enter yet ANOTHER Oprah-sponsored contest for that star-studded after-party affair that I won't win.  And because it's her final year, this will be my last time to feel that particular sting of disappointment.  Sigh.  What will I do with all of those oranges I throw at the TV screen, trying to hit the blubbering joyous winners as they prance onto the stage in their Oscar party dresses supplied by the queen of daytime?  Now THAT'S entertainment . . .