My Week in Words and Pictures

It's been quite a week for me.  On Sunday, we said farewell to Pastor Ron and his family at Church @ Cross Point.  Our small numbers, both in members and monetarily, could not support him as a full-time minister any longer.  It was one of those situations where it was simply time for change.  For everyone.  And my faith in Christ assures me that this is expected and okay.  In fact, rejoicing is the order of the day.  But the very human part of my heart falters at letting go of good people and releasing them back into the larger stream of shared humanity.  I'm better for knowing them.  Each and every one.  His wife, by the way, can replicate several farm animals with a startling degree of mimicry.  Oh, the hidden talents of a pastor's wife; they are a special breed of woman, to be sure.

PASTOR RON EXPRESSING A HOLY OPINION OVER LUNCH

HIS GREAT WIFE AND ELDEST DAUGHTER

My kids roped me in to watching the Grammy Awards.  Overall, I thought it was one of the better produced award shows that I've viewed in years.  They might want to hold onto that production crew.  Or better yet, send them over to the Globe Awards -- they need the help!  I found myself singing and snapping my fingers and acting life a goofball: being both entertained AND the entertainer.  One song in particular stood out.  I'd heard it on the radio once when my son was driving; it's not one that would grab airtime on NPR.  Some guy by the name of Cee Lo Green belted out a colorful number called "Forget You" with a surprise guest spot by Gwyneth Paltrow.  I was ready to hop on my iPhone, click on iTunes, and download it right then and there.  What I failed to understand at the time (this is where my lack of hip-ness, though not HIPS, comes into play) was that the original explicit version of the song carries the title "F*@$ You!" My kids clued me in.  I suddenly understood the previously cryptic references Jamie Foxx made as he introduced the singer.  Yup, I'm not slow at all.  Folks, I couldn't keep up with pop music even if I wanted to because the myriad versions, including ring tones and American Idol renditions, confound my stressed brain.

HARD TO FORGET THIS!!!

But I did buy the clean version.  I practically danced down the street during my walk with the dog this morning!

I started my anti-depressant pill regimen.  For those of you who haven't read my entry addressing this decision in my other blog, "The Reluctant Suburbanite," it's been a difficult couple of years.  Though I tried my darnedest to work through a growing depression with diet, exercise, friends, blogging, and prayer, I reached a point where I knew I needed something beyond the scope of my efforts.  So, for the first week, a half-dose each day was ordered by my doc.  Today, I began the full dose.  Fatigue may be the main side effect for now: I napped for THREE hours on the couch this afternoon.  That is unheard of.  (Sarah thoroughly cleaned her bedroom during those same three hours and it looks it.  THAT'S unheard of.  Check and see if the sky is still attached to the heavens.)  There was a strange little episode with my eyes earlier in the week but that seems to have faded.  I'll keep you posted on the benefits.  I do believe I'm experiencing those in minor ways already.

A CHEMICAL ASSIST

On Thursday and Friday, my late morning and early afternoon hours were filled with volunteering at the TSSAA state wrestling championships just outside of Franklin.  And though the calls for help are sometimes a bit much in my opinion, when added to the always-growing TO-DO list of life, I had a blast!  I met a friendly older woman named Pat and a spry older gentleman, Howard, on Thursday.  Both are regular TSSAA big event workers/volunteers.  Both of them possessed a quality about them that pulled me right in.  On Friday, I came bearing fresh-baked goods from our local bakery to share with my new friends.   My ongoing conversations with them revealed that they are a married couple.  I was surprised and thrilled.  They have volunteered for TSSAA for fifteen years.  In their off-time, they cook and deliver for Meals On Wheels.  They also manage an eleven acre spread in the country, have a stable of wonderful friends (including a chef who journeys to their home each year to prepare a sumptuous birthday feast for Pat and any friends and family she invites) and are doting grandparents.  They met at fourteen and married at seventeen right out of high school.  I want to be them in twenty five years!  We even exchanged numbers: they liked me as much as I liked them.  Though my shift ended at 1:30, I remained just to be in the presence of their company.  I hated to leave them!

HOWARD AND PAT

I also made the acquaintance of a state trooper who volunteers to patrol these large-scale events during his days off from patrolling the highways and byways.  We swapped opinions on iPhones, though he owns the new Verizon-coverage iPhone.  I'm an ATT girl.  There's a bit of a divide there.  Already.  We agreed on the many merits of the Otter Box cases, however.  He has a super-dee-dooper deluxe heavy-duty military version that I now covet.  We also share March wedding anniversaries; his wife feels that an iPod is in order per a gift.  I told him that I fully support her choice.  "Oh, I'll just BET you do!" he quipped back.  He's a tall gregarious black man who wears reading glasses and spends half of his time looking over the tops of them to see the screen of his phone or the words on the newspaper.  I'm betting he's in his early 50's based on tidbits from our casual chit-chat over the course of two days.  At one point in Friday's shift, Howard (aforementioned new pal) whispered to me that Harold (the state trooper) was a very good and modest man who would never tell a person what he did in his capacity as a protector of the people.  It turns out that he is (or WAS as the case must be) the bodyguard for Coach Fisher of the Tennessee Titans NFL team.  That's kind of nifty!

OFFICER HAROLD GOODINGS (sans spectacles)

I added a new blog to my watch-list courtesy of one more individual I ran into at this event.  "Suburban Turmoil" is the blog.  Here's the link:http://suburbanturmoil.blogspot.com/   Check it out.  It's good.  Makes mine look like a freckle on its rump, but that's okay.  My pride will survive.  I didn't have a lot of it to begin with.  Hah!  Anyhoo, her husband is a local television reporter for Nashville-based WSMV, Dennis Ferrier.  He came rushing in through the double doors of the foyer, saying he was late and where did he need to go.  I thought he was another harried father who happened to have that you-look-so-familiar-but-I-can't-put-my-finger-on-why-right-now look to him.  But when he mentioned PRESS and I took in the size of the camera in the hands of his companion, I realized he was that news guy, you know, what's-his-name!  Until he was leaving the tournament an hour later, I thought nothing more about it.  But seeing him across the ticket tables, headed for the exit, I muttered aloud something about wishing I could get his picture.  Harold, the state trooper, marched me over.  I asked.  Dennis obliged.  Harold snapped the shot.  When Dennis asked what I planned on doing with a shot of his mug, I mentioned it would most likely find its way into my blog.  He asked the name.  I gave it; he turned me on to his wife's blog.  The fact that our titles say much about where we live and how we deal, and feel, was NOT lost on me.

WHO CAN RESIST THIS?!!

OTHER PARENT VOLUNTEERS FROM OUR HIGH SCHOOL: AREN'T THEY CUTE?!

A VIEW TO THE VENUE: MAYBE ZACHARY WILL ONE DAY WRESTLE HERE

DENNIS FERRIER (R), MISTER CAMERAMAN(L) and YOURS TRULY

What My Living Room Says About Me

This morning Bob Vila popped onto the television screen in a commercial for flooring.  No surprise there.  He said that a room is a reflection of me (the owner, decorator, housekeeper, I surmise).  Then, he blathered on about how a beautiful floor is the foundation of the room.  Blah, blah, blah.

But it got me to thinking.  (It got me to run instantly to my laptop and record my thoughts before they vacated the premises.)  What do MY rooms say about me?  Considering there are numerous rooms in the house, three of which are inhabited by my messy offspring, and two are restrooms utilized by these swine masquerading as older children, it might be helpful to narrow that down to one room.  Say . . . the living  room.

Hmmm.  The Spanish moss green walls and jewel-tone blue accessories say I prefer color to a neutral palette.  They also say, "Guess what?  We need painting.  Again!"  Um, the brown leather couch and easy chair, along with the dark cherry wood entertainment center reveal my affection for natural textures.  (The worn easy chair, with its matching eruptions of stuffing on either side of the foot rest, let a person know we use things until they fall apart . . . and we own a ruffian of a feline who can't keep his outdoor fighting claws to himself.)  It's readily apparent that I admire the artistic works of my beloved relatives: the enlarged prints of Colorado mountain scenes taken by my Uncle Zan that adorn the wall behind our sizable Samsung flatscreen -- which screams "MY HUSBAND BOUGHT THIS!"  --  and the seascape framed painting created by my Grandma Opal hanging over the fireplace are dead giveaways.

Digging a bit deeper, beyond the furnishings, it appears that I wash a fair amount of clothing, delicates and cotton by the looks, that should never, ever, EVER see the inside of a dryer; but I think the tiered metal drying-rack stationed in front of the aforementioned fireplace reflects and balances the other metal elements in the open room -- for instance, the doorknobs.  Feng shui, MY way!  Neat rows of DVD's state my admiration for Julia Roberts and good drama. The weights, Thighmaster, and Bosu ball in the corner say, "My husband's music studio is too small to double as an exercise room.  Welcome to my workout studio."  (There's that husband character again!)  A pile of large floor pillows in the corner suggests I don't mind possible bed bug or mini-mite infestations because they've been in use for well over ten years!

The surfaces of the stacked coffee table books, and the coffee and end tables themselves, reveal my well-reasoned thesis that DUST HAPPENS, why fight it?  And the carpet simply declares, "Surely you recall that this blogger mentioned earlier that she must lay claim to three messy children.  Those children have friends.  And they all wear shoes and conveniently forget the 'no-shoe rule.'  And they sneak food in here.  Please, take up a collection so she can replace my spotted compacted self with those gorgeous durable hardwood floors that Bob Vila says will best reflect her personality to any and all who enter!"


Thanks, Bob, for nudging me to get in touch with who I am.  I imagine my company over the past year already has.

Walker No More!

Busy week! A trio of doctor appointments for my mom with me as the designated chauffeur; Monday and Tuesday outings with a highlight of Starbucks on both days.  Culminating in her 73rd birthday night dinner with the family.  Tempura shrimp, kept company with Hollandaise-drizzled asparagus and tender baked sweet potatoes.  Chased down with whole grain cranberry-chocolate-oat bars for mom's healthy sweet tooth and Marie Callendar's peach cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream for the refined sugar dessert crowd.

There's simply nothing better than laughter and chatter at the dinner table.  Ice rattling in the glasses.  Silverware clinking against emptied plates.  Kids engaged and interacting with the adults.  Me ordering the antsy boy to quit tipping his chair.  Even the wild and random subject matter -- serial killers and sexual predators!?  Don't ask.  I couldn't tell you how we got there!

Without question, it's a unanimous decision concerning the best birthday present a gal could ever ask for this time around.  That timely third doc visit was with Mr. Orthopedic Surgeon.  His exam resulted in a status downgrade of the ol' seated rolling walker.  He asked mom to rise and walk. "Just get up and walk?" I wondered a tad disbelieving.  I think I may have inquired out loud.  And she did.  Walk, I mean.  Though I had my camera at the ready, the shock of seeing her suddenly shift from two months of absolutely no weight on that knee to steadily hobbling the short length of the exam room stilled my usually itchy trigger finger.  I kept waiting for trumpets to sound, noisemakers to go off, people to joyously shout.  A soundtrack to close out the exhausting passing of eight weeks seemed to be in order.  Fitting to the momentous occasion.  But all there was to hear was the soft landing of her feet on the carpeted floor.

That was Tuesday.  Mom worked her legs the rest of that day and into the evening.  She was understandably sore on Wednesday.  And again, I neglected my shutter-clicking duties.  I can't explain it except that perhaps I was operating in a mild state of shock at the abrupt transition on the heels of everything she recently endured.  But I can clearly see her baby steps and relieved countenance in my head if you want to crawl on in and have a seat for a quick recap.  Besides being thrilled for mom and the closing of this painful chapter in her medical history, there is a deep and abiding relief within me concerning that dreaded seated rollator.  If I never witness my mother do the one-legged backward scoot on that thing over another sidewalk crack, door threshold, or uneven carpet, you can bet I'll be the happiest daughter in the mother-daughter universe.  Even this week, pulling her into and out of the car, warning her of raised entries and rough terrain, I cringed several times, catching my breath and bracing for a possible miscalculation.  Knocking her on her head emotionally scarred me for life.  (Not to mention my knee!)

I'll be sure to take video footage when next I see her.  We've had yet another round of the fluffy frozen white stuff here in Middle Tennessee, coupled with unusually cold temperatures and resulting in TWO more snow days for the kids, and I'm thinking mom in snowshoes would have been entertaining.  But that's probably stretching it a bit.  Instead, I'll warm myself with thoughts of her leg gaining strength with the passing of each day.

We won't discuss her necessary back surgery until she's 'therapized' this here situation.  One thing at a time, folks.  One thing at a time.

**For clarification and to quell possible reader concern: the walker is still in use as an aid for walking -- those knees are yet regaining their previous strength -- as was the original intent of its manufacturing.  The title was for dramatic effect and reflects my hopeful nature concerning the immediate future.  

Bowled and OVER!

It's all over.  The great NFL match-up between the Steelers and the Packers.  Packers won!  Yippee yahoo.   I guess.  I'm happy for the winners.  A bit sad for the losers.  Bummed that their paychecks have never mistakenly been written out to me and mailed to Murfreesboro.  I think the last time I actually watched the Packers through an entire game was back in the late 90's when they lost their helmets to the Denver Broncos.  The glory days for my husband and his entire extended family.  They continue to hang on by their orange and blue fingertips to the hope that the ghost of back-to-back-Superbowl-victories John Elway will infuse the entire team line-up -- including the handsome Tebow fellow -- and rekindle the winning flame.

And I continue to believe in pretty pink flying pigs.  Sooooo-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!!!

There are a few reigning reasons that I harbor any sort of affection for Superbowl Sunday.  Here they are.

The birds were plump, warm, fed, and cooing.  I shared in that minor miracle of nature.

My grumpy Yiddish L-Baby (see previous blog entry) had to do himself a few outdoor chores to earn his play time.  Now my senior dog won't bloat herself rooting around in all of that old, spilled, mildewy bird seed.

Somehow, a joint going by the name of "The Slick Pig" has garnered my complete foodie attention when it comes to the smoked wings!  These particular birds were once plump, fed me, and, thankfully, were NOT cooing.

The commercials!!!  Though they've gained such fame in the past decade that it has become rather challenging to develop material that is hilarious and fresh without coming across as 'trying too hard" there were still several winners in the group.  Among them, a tour de force by "Doritos."  Being fully in the belly of the PMS whale, I was highly suggestible and licked a few fingertips of my own!

Baked brie, snugly wrapped in puff pastry, topped with fruit preserves and chopped walnuts.  SCORE!

Anything watched from the vantage point of Sarah's famous top-knot is instantly glamorized!

I tried several times to catch our resident ex-cheerleader in action . . . 

. . . still trying . . . 

. . . TOUCHDOWN-N-N!!!  

The boy camped out on the floor with a full belly and a much improved mood from earlier in the day.

Hanging out with Jimbo, though, alas, he was on a work-related phone/computer call from 12:30PM until after 9PM.  Now THAT'S what you call teamwork and sportsmanship!  Good play, sunshine!

Vegetables, orange soda, and TOGETHERNESS!!!

We attempted to capture my general mood for the night's festivities . . . my Happy Dance . . . 

 . . . my Goofy Grin . . . 

. . . my "I Know My Apron is Filthy and the Lighting is Bad, but I Made it Through Another Superbowl Sunday,  Until Next Year and Good Night, Folks!" Smile.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

Busy morning.  Tripped over the dog and bumped my chin in the chilly morning.  Washed my hair.  Donned my new $35 Lucky jeans from Ross (usually $80) and my $10 gray sweater -- please see headless model below.  Got the kids to and from the doc.  Had my oatmeal with flax.  Pumped out a few push-ups.  Ready for my day.

My fitting room opinion shot.

My pantry and cupboards have undergone a thorough inventory of contents.  I'm headed to Nashville for my once-every-cupla-months pilgrimage to 'Whole Foods' and 'Trader Joe's.'  It's still hard to believe that one of the higher ups within these companies doesn't comprehend the market niche they could snag right here in the 'Boro!  But I'm ready for bins of medium-grain basmati rice and steel-cut oats, organic sugar and sea salt, red lentils and French lentils, flax seed and whole wheat pastry flour.  Organic butter.  Expelled-pressed canola oil.  Raw almond butter.  Real amber maple syrup.  Raw walnuts and almonds.  Oooh, and the dazzling array of gourmet cheeses from around the world!?  Is there a Manchego with my name on it?  Perhaps there will be smoked salmon on Superbowl Sunday?  And I simply must stock up on almond milk -- much cheaper than Kroger.  Let me at those aisles and sample kiosks!!!

The kids swept through their early dermatology appointments and sashayed out with their prescriptions, complicated instruction sheet, and bagful of goodies, er, samples.  I, on the other hand, limped out with the two specialist co-pay receipts and glycolic acid face wash purchase . . . and the prescriptions yet to be turned in.  My wallet is limping, too.  Compound fracture!  The nurse for the skin doctor happens to be a friend of ours; Sarah babysits regularly for her toddler son.  Having never observed this lovely lady in a work setting, I must herald her superior professional skills to the blogging world!  She had texted my daughter as we were leaving for the appointment to request Saturday sitting services, unaware of our impending arrival.  Her surprised smile was most welcoming.  And she said the kids could go on a 'field trip' one afternoon there at the clinic and see just what procedure people undergo from a lifetime of tanning.  Oh, what a swell parent of a teenager she'll make when that baby boy of hers grows up and out.

Speaking of baby boys, my son read the blog entry I wrote in his honor.  His honor, I declare, and he was not a happy teen.  That must be the key.  I'm an adult.  He's a hormonal 9th grader,  prone to embarrassment and misinterpretation of facts.  Where I saw a sweet story about his tribulations with face breakouts and cute speechisms, he saw ACNE and L-BABY!  He threatened to start his own blog and reveal the undesirable details of my life.  I told him it would hardly be effective as I do that my own self!  I further stated that I had worded the incidents carefully and with great affection.  This was greeted with crossed arms, his own elephantine sigh, and eye rolling.  "Oh, I'll word everything for YOU carefully, too!"  Yikes!  I can't promise I won't write about him again, but I can attempt to tread likely around buzz words and sensitive subjects.  So much for that entry on jock straps.  (Just kidding, Zachary!)

Well, me and my travel mug of 'Get-A-Grip' PMS tea had better head out.  Thanks to 'The Republic of Tea' there will be yet one more hormonal roller-coaster week through which my marriage remains intact.  Through which my children retain their major limbs and breathing privileges.  An efficient blend of rooibos, chicory, and licorice will work their magic on my innards and thus mediate the export of thought into verbiage.  Inner reaction into external action.  Thank you.  Thank you.

Ta-ta for now, dear readers.

My Yiddish "L" Baby

Zachary James Alexander Val-james.  THAT was how my son, now fifteen, used to pronounce his name when asked to give the entire length and breadth of it.  The maze of wee child's active brain.  'tis an amusing and beautiful thing.  Another of his engaging speechisms that he's been unable to fully shake involves his pronunciation of the letter "L."  We've attempted to dissect the anatomy of his verbal form and noted that he places the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth instead of behind his top front teeth.  Thus, every time he comes across this letter, the sound is somewhat swallowed and faintly guttural, causing one to speculate that there might be a Yiddish-speaking relative somewhere in his genetic woodpile.  Sarah christened him the "L" baby many years ago.  It's endearing.  He refuses to correct it -- evidently he has arrived at the conclusion that the rest of us, you, me, everyone in between, except maybe Barbara Walters, enunciate erroneously.

This boy of ours, the one who arrived as a complete surprise, because we elected not to find out if the baby in my womb carried the Y chromosome, and brought tears to my usually stoic husband's eyes, is rife with character, ripe with teen angst, rippling with lithe lean boy muscle, and riddled with the emotional make-up of his dear sainted mother.  Okay.  Okay.  Though he does find me to be quite dear, he presently rejoices in reminding me of how un-saintly I actually am.  (Ironically, the girls used to ridicule me in their maternally-disciplined moments and accuse me of being a nun.  I'd explain that #1: I'm not Catholic, and #2: they know my history and have seen my barely closeted skeletons!)  Not to mention that I've fallen from one who knew all things in his adolescence to one who knows nothing as he teeters on the cusp of manhood.  (Mothers of little boys who place you at the center of their wee universes, this will happen to you.  I've spoken with other sainted moms about the conundrum.  One pious parent actually informed me to allow any child who believes his mother knows everything to continue to believe that for as long as possible.  DO NOT, under any circumstances, tell him any differently.  A case of  a-little-too-late for me.  Thanks!  BIG sigh.  HUGE.  ELEPHANTINE.)

Tonight, while handing me hangers for his dad's slacks and jeans, Zachary struck up a conversation on the nature of his face.  A handsome face I absolutely, unequivocally, wholeheartedly adore.  Especially when it's sleeping.  Or grinning.  Or devouring two banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches on whole wheat bread.  Pointing to his cheekbones, angled planes which echo the American Indian lineage he inherited from my father's side, he informed me that his face is more like mine.  We have "lines."  I said we had a more pronounced bone structure.  He nodded and seemed to peer more intently at our reflection in the dresser mirror on the other side of my laundry-laden bed.  "My head is bigger than yours," declared this observant boy, "but women's heads are generally smaller than men's heads.  That's a good thing."  That rather tickled me.

The preferred breakfast and snack.

I'd post a picture of the two of us standing together, large and small heads contrasted, but he declined the photo session invite.  "Are you kidding?!  I don't want any pictures of my face looking like this!"  The poor kid is enduring a cystic acne breakout which has erupted along the middle of his forehead.  Wrestling and smashing his face against those germy mats hasn't been helpful to his condition.  He's now allowing his once #3 buzz-cut to grow in order to camouflage the invading purulent forces.  At church tonight for his youth group, he ran into a 5 year-old boy from one of the Hispanic families who were meeting for their own mid-week services.  Looking up at my only son's countenance, this innocent child quickly assessed what he saw and stated, "Oh, you have chicken pox!"  Ouch!  When he relayed the scenario to his oldest sister, she guffawed.  I quickly explained that she was laughing with him while sympathizing with his misfortune before he decided to put her in a half-Nelson.  Without skipping a beat, he forced one of his famous bear hugs on her and sniffed her head, declaring, "Your hair smells like daffodils!"

I love my boy.  Lots of people love him.  Old and young.  Male and female.  Athletic and geeky.  Overall, he's a well-adjusted kid with a good heart and enough energy to power our entire house if we could ever figure out the scientific equation for harnessing it!

Here are a few pictures I can share.  Including one of our other 'boy.'

Feasting on dad's BBQ babybacks!

The closest thing our boy will ever have to a brother.

The game hand!

Blurred Reality

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 . . .