A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

It was 32 years ago today...

With immense respect for McCartney & Lennon, it wasn't Sgt. Pepper who taught the band to play, at least today.

It was George Lucas.

May 25, 1977. On this very date, Star Wars made its debut in theatres. And changed the face of cinema forever.

Cut to a conversation on a "play date" with several families at a private beach club several weeks later My friend Rachel and I and a couple of other girls whose names escape me at the moment were bobbing in the water, trying to stay away from our pesky younger brothers and talking about the things 12-year-old girls talk about.

Boys.

Boys.

Boys.

The conversation turned to what movies we had seen or were going to see or didn't want to see. In those days, before the advent of cable telly and the internet and such, going to the movies was THE big thing to do. Actually, it was pretty much the only thing to do that didn't involve sweating outside (putt-putt golf or the local pool.) Hanging out at the mall wasn't what my crowd did in those days -- that was considered tacky. Why I don't know. But there you are.

Of course, we'd all seen Star Wars. Multiple times (again, something that was the "thing" to do.) And while my galpals were all swooning over Mark Hamil and how "dreamy" he was, I was more concerned with the considerable charms and swagger of Harrison Ford. Which included his chest hair.

Leave it to me to be the odd woman out in that discussion.

But I digress.

I'm a self-proclaimed Not a Geek. Especially in the sci-fi area of pop culture. But even I have been bewitched by the myth and message of Star Wars. The original three, anyway.

Good versus evil.

Coming of age.

Teamwork.

A strong female role model.

And a damn good story.

All there. It still holds up. Even after all these years. And it's still bewitching generations of wide-eyed movie watchers. One of my Choir Urchins, age 6, is one of the biggest Star Wars fans I know. Right down to his dancing like Darth Vader during Freeze Dance time and saying a Star Wars prayer before we ate our end-of-the-year cupcakes.

I'm gonna see if I can find a showing of it on the telly today -- shouldn't be too difficult, since it seems like it's shown constantly on some channel or the other. Constantly. Won't have quite the same effect as seeing it on the big screen, but you know, that really doesn't matter. The story's the thing. As well as Harrison Ford's tight pants. And chest hair.

May the Force be with y'all.

Thank you. Again.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.



Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
~ Lt.-Col. John McCrae

Flashback Friday: Jane's getting serious. Could you get serious too?

It's Wayback Machine Time! Pop open a wine cooler, throw on your Wayfarers, sit back and yes, relax.

You know you are a product of the '80s if...

... you’ve ever ended a sentence with the word “psych.”
Probably. It’s been a while, save for me saying "Hey! Did you catch the most recent episode of 'Psych'?" But I don't think that counts.

... you can sing the rap to the “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” and can do the “Carlton.”
Can do both of these, thanks in no small part to the constant repeats on Nick at Nite.

... you wore biker shorts under your skirts and felt stylishly sexy.
Oh yeah. I was big into this -- biker shorts under minis and longer leggings under long jean skirts that were unbuttoned to the knee. So fashionable.

... two words: Hammer Pants.
No. No. Never.

... you wore a ponytail on the side of your head.
Damn straight I did. With a headband, too.

... you bought one of those clips that would hold your shirt in a knot on the side.
No. Not so much.

... you wore stone-washed jean jackets and were proud of it.
I had a jean jacket that I wore everywhere with everything. It literally disintigrated and we had to finally part ways. That was a sad, sad day. I miss that jacket.

... L.A. Gear
Nah. Not my style.

... you know the profound meaning of “wax on, wax off.”
“Don't forget to breathe, very important.”

... you ever wore fluorescent clothing.
Absolutely. Mostly t-shirts and, yes, socks. I was really into bright-ass socks for some reason.

... you can remember what Michael Jackson looked like before his nose fell off and his cheeks shifted.
But of course. Thriller and Off the Wall. Classic. "Working Day and Night" and "Beat It" are part of my regular workout playlist.

... you still get the urge to say “NOT” after every sentence.
Please. That’s way too silly for me these days.


NOT!

... you ever owned a pair of Jelly-Shoes (and probably in neon colors, too).
Oh yeah. Hot pink jelly pumps. LOVED them. Bought a pair of Jelly flip-flops last summer... de. light.ful.

... after you saw “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure” you kept saying “I know you are, but what am I?
Actually, I was more an aficionado of “Pee-Wee’s Playhouse,” which came on Saturday mornings and was great to watch while waking up, even with a hangover. Which happened more often than not. Try to contain your shock at *that* revelation.

... you remember “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”
That poor old woman, living without Life Alert.

... you remember going to the skating rink before there were inline skates.
Oh heck yeah. My rink, the fabulously named Gay Blades, was the place to be in the afternoons. I was a master at doing the skate version of the Hokey Pokey.

... you ever got seriously injured on a Slip and Slide.
Yes. But I’d been drinking. Does that count?

... you have played with a Skip-It.
I have no idea what this is -- I got my driver’s license in ‘80 (shut. up.), so the toys of the decade are a bit foreign to me.

... you had or attended a birthday party! at McDonalds.
See above.

... you’ve gone through this so far totally nodding your head in agreement.
*nods head*

... “Don’t worry, be happy.”
Make it stop. LOATHE that song.

... you wore, like, EIGHT pairs of socks over tights with high top Reeboks.
No way. It was more like six.

...you wore socks scrunched down.
Yep. Still do. Sometimes. Shhhh... don’t tell.

... you remember boom boxes.
Heck yeah -- and they were HUGE! In every sense of the word.

... you remember Alf, the li’l furry brown alien from Melmac.
“Haaa! I kill me.” *hangs head in shame*

... you remember New Kids on the Block when they were cool.
See #19. They were never cool to me. Lo siento.

... you know all the words to Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name.”
Oh hell yeah. Wanna duet on the chorus?

... you remember watching Magic vs. Bird.
Vividly. Watched every match-up. Greatest basketball rivalry ever. I could wax poetical about this for pages and pages. But I won't. Unless you ask nicely... (GO CELTS!)

... homemade Levi shorts.
Yes. I did this. But when I was still in high school -- which only excuses it a little.

... you remember when mullets were cool.
There was a time when mullets were cool? Really? Are you sure?

... you had a mullet.
Are you joking? Have we just met?

... you still sing “We are the World.”
Still sing? Not so much. However, I did re-write the lyrics back in the day to reflect the then-current job market prospects for my fellow public relations majors:
“We are PR
We make no money
Our saleries suck
And it’s not funny.”

Ah, the angst of a smart-ass college junior... *gag*

... you tight rolled your jeans.
Can’t say that I ever did this.

... you owned a banana clip.
I owned a couple of banana clips as a matter of fact. I actually liked the way my hair looked in them. Had a pair of thick gold hoops I always wore when I had my hair up like that. And Cherries in the Snow lipstick. Fabulous.

Shut up.

... you remember “Where’s the Beef?
Clara Peller and her cranky old ladies, pimping Wendy’s burgers. Excellent.

... you used to (and probably still do) say “What you talkin’ ’bout Willis?”
Guilty. Poor Will gets this directed at him all. the. time.

... you had big hair and you knew how to use it.
Honey, you have no idea. Oh wait...


... you are still singing “You Give Love a Bad Name."
Absolutely. Although I actually prefer “Livin’ On a Prayer,” truth be told.

Bonus!

What’s the first song listed from the ‘80s (not a cover!) that pops up on your iTunes...
“Thumbelina” -- The Pretenders. Chrissie Hynde is a goddess. That is all.

A Public Service Announcement

Excuse me. Ahem. Pardon me, Gentlemen of the 'Y'.

Yes, you over there, with the JoePa glasses. I'm addressing you.

Psssst... you with the tufted gray hair hiding under that ball cap. And you with the comb-over that's fooling no one. You too, with the jet black I'm-not-sure-if-it's-a-toup-or-not scalp accoutrement.

I need to have a word with you.

So please, step away from the tricep machine and the water fountain and the stationary bike and stop flirting with the cute female personal trainers and join me.

Dudes of a certain age, I applaud you and your efforts to maintain your physical fitness. You're doing a great job and working so hard. Really. Although it does makes me laugh to see you all hop on the cardio machines when the gym TV showing CNBC cuts to anything stock market related. Not sure that in this economy, that's a good combination, especially where your blood pressure's concerned. But whatever.

Give yourselves a round of applause for focusing on your health.

However. This little gathering is not about your workout achievements.

It's about what you wear when you come to sweat with the oldies (present company -- me -- excluded.)

Let's start with your upper body attire. You there -- Harold, is it? You're fine in your Fox and Hound Tavern t-shirt. Got that on an elderhostel trip through the UK, did you? Very nice.

However, you two -- Millard and Arthur. Hanes undershirts are just not acceptable in this instance. Especially that thin v-neck one you've got on, Art. Can I call you Art? Thanks. That might be fine for an après-work cocktail in your den... at home. But you're out in public, man. Show a little pride in yourself, even here at the Y.

Millard, I just don't know what to say. That shirt, combined with your dark socks and sneakers does make for quite a look. Not a good one, by the way.

But... what we really need to discuss -- delicately, I might add -- is your lower body wear.

It's very simple, gentlemen. When wearing sweatpants, one must consider what one wears underneath one's apparel.

Much like when we women wear satin or Lycra (not that I wear satin very often, and haven't since I had to don the more-than-occasional bridesmaid dress for the myriad weddings I was an attendant in during the late '80s which was usually cheap satin and an ugly color and I call BS on ever being able to wear it again -- Melissa's mom, I'm talking to you -- and by the way that awful comb with flowers on it looked ridiculous in my Pat Benetar-short hair and... I digress), you must consider the sort of support garment you need to wear under such unforgiving material.

I'm not interested in seeing that much of you, frankly. Even in outline. I think I speak for the rest of the women here. Even that really mean lady who gave me the stink eye yesterday for getting on the treadmill next to her -- the ONLY empty one at the time -- when she was trying to "hold" it for her friend who showed up 10 minutes later. Bitch, please. You are not the Queen of the Y. I'm just sayin'.

You know, you can get just as good a workout in shorts. Nice, flattering, modest shorts -- not the 1980s NBA shorty-shorts, though. Something mid-thigh and not too tight. I know they sell such things. I've seen them. In stores, even.

In conclusion, gentlemen, keep on working hard. But take a look in the mirror before you leave the house and head to the gym. Make sure Millard's Filmore is appropriately in seclusion. Consider it your public service contribution.

Thank you. See you 'round the water fountain.

Yeah. I'm Mad.

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight, 
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no, I've said too much
I haven't said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try...

I’ve been a bit out of sorts lately. Internally. My psyche is askew. I'm bruised and battered inside. My reactions visceral.

I’m off plumb. Emotionally tired from my internal struggle.

I’m wrestling with being mad at God.

Because of Will. And his situation.

While parenting a special needs kiddo is the only sort of parenting I know, it ain’t always the easiest thing in the book. It’s tough sometimes to conform my natural standard issue maternal instinct to fit the template of my non-standard issue son.

He’s developmentally delayed. We’re still working on expanding our palette  and potty training and using our words appropriately and focusing when necessary. Our life is one big educational minute. 

And he’s really made tremendous progress. I have to keep reminding myself of that -- for a little boy who’s stood on the precipice of life in the first fortnight of his life, he’s one fantastic miracle. And my greatest blessing.

I just wish something -- anything -- would be easy for him. Wouldn’t be such a struggle or process. That something would come to him quickly and naturally and standardly. He works so hard to achieve every single one of his accomplishments. Is it too much to ask that the kid be given a break? That something just come to him without the lengthy one-step-forward, two-steps-back? 

This just makes my heart ache with heaviness. It's not fair. Not to me. I know I'm beyond biased here. But still.

I’m back to a place I’ve been occasionally in my faith walk -- this being pissed at God -- and it scares me a bit. My God is a big God and me being angry with Him is something He can certainly handle. But that doesn't mean I'm comfortable with it. Makes me a little nervous, but it is, as I like to say, what it is.

I'm not running away from church or my faith. Not at all. And I’m not in that place one finds oneself when one is mad at someone and doesn't want to be around that person. I still want to be around Him. Him being God. I just may be a bit of a snot when we're together.

My breaking point came, in, of all places, church. During the sermon last Sunday, which was focusing on the very cool topic of "Hanging with the Almighty," we were camped in Mark 9, talking about how in order to really gain relationship with Christ, you need to come off the mountain and get into the action. Christ encountered a man with a son who was plagued with seizure and convulsions -- in those days, they  viewed that as being possessed by a spirit. Nowadays, it's akin to epilepsy or a seizure disorder.

Which is what Will has.

Christ says, in Mark 9:23, in response to the boy's father, "Everything is possible for him who believes." Fine. I believe. So why are things so hard and scary for my boy?

Despite my questions and anger and pain, my love for and belief in God hasn’t changed -- that’s rock solid. I suppose I'm simply in a bit of a spiritual crisis. And on the good news front -- this emotional mess I'm currently in is only slightly compounded by the residue of my still-lingering guilt over my body having failed Will in the womb. I went through a long period when I carried the burden of guilt about not doing *something* or knowing that *something* was amiss when I was in premature labor. Not there now. Not a lot, anyway. So that's good.

I’m frustrated. And tired. And even a bit melancholy. I just want my baby to have the easiest and smoothest path in life possible. The definition of easy and smooth, however, is not only constantly changing, but seems further and further out of reach. And because of that, I’m pissed. I'm also tired of questions and pseudo-sympathic nods and clucks and being avoided because of Will. Because people just don't know what to say or don't want to say anything at all. We're the family that people only ask after. It hurts. Badly. It's an ugly truth. One that I need to get over as well. This wallowing is not constructive. I know that. But still.

As I hear my boy in the garage right now, helping with the laundry (if you can call lifting the lid to watch things spin around helping) and singing  that “happiness is anyone and anything at all that's loved by you,” I gain some hope and a bit of perspective. I’m still angry, mind you -- this snit I’m in might take some time to work out. I just have to keep focused on the important matters at hand, checking my emotions and yes, my ego, at the door.

Here’s hoping that this too shall pass. Here's to it being sooner rather than later.

Nothing's gonna harm you
Not while I'm around
Nothing's gonna harm you
No sir, not while I'm around...
~ Mr. Sondheim

Meme Monday. It's down and dirty...

1. Are your parents married or divorced? 

Married -- 47 years next month. Wow.

2. Are you a vegetarian? 

Please. Have we just met? I’m the OCG. Original Carnivore Girl.

3. Do you believe in Heaven? 

Absolutely.

4. Have you ever come close to dying? 

No.

5. What jewelry do you wear 24/7? 

None.

6. Favorite time of day? 

Morning.

7. Do you eat the stems of broccoli? 

Ugh. No.

8. Do you wear makeup? 

Oh yeah – usually just mascara and lip gloss, but there are times when I do the whole face thing. I clean up nicely, thankyewverymuch.

9. Ever have plastic surgery? 

Not yet… (Don't want anything serious – just a boob lift… shhh…)

10. What do you wear to bed? 

It depends…

11. Have you ever done anything illegal? 

Yes.

12. Can you roll your tongue? 

No. And I hate that I can’t.

13. Do you tweeze your eyebrows? 

But of course.

14. What kind of sneakers? 

New Balance.

15. What is your hair color? 

Salt and pepper. Emphasis on the salt.

16. Do you snore? 

I have been told that I, on occasion, do.

17. If you could go anywhere in the world where would it be? 

Havana. Manhattan. Rio. Buenos Aires.

18. Do you sleep with stuffed animals? 

Are you joking? Good grief no.

19. If you won the lottery, what would you do first? 

After I came to after fainting, I’d call my attorney.

20. Gold or silver? 

Silver.

21. Hamburger or hot dog? 

Yes. Love them both.

22. If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be? 

Potatoes. The world’s most versatile veggie.

23. City, beach or country? 

City.

24. What was the last thing you touched? 

Keyboard.

25. Where did you eat last? 

In the car doing the morning school run.

26. When’s the last time you cried? 

Yesterday. All day. Don't ask (or I'll tell you...)

27. Do you read blogs? 

You betcha.

28. Would you ever go out dressed like the opposite sex? 

What does this even mean?

29. Ever been involved with the police? 

Nope – neither professionally nor personally.

30. What’s your favourite shampoo conditioner and soap? 

Alterna Caviar. I am a total diva when it comes to my hair.

31. Do you talk in your sleep? 

Nyet.

32. Ocean or pool? 

Yes. I am part mermaid.

33. Who would you take on a ménage à trois for a dirty weekend? 

Wouldn’t you like to know…

34. Window seat or aisle? 

Window.

35. Ever met anyone famous? 

No. This saddens me greatly, being the connoisseur of People and Entertainment Weekly that I am.

36. Do you feel that you’ve had a truly successful life? 

It’s still in progress.

37. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it? 

Twirl. Anything else is heresy.

38. Basketball or Football? 

Yes. Again, have we just met?

39. How long do your showers last? 

It depends...

40. Automatic or do you drive a stick? 

Automatic. I cannot drive a manual transmission car – and that kinda freaks me out. I have a recurring nightmare in which I’m in a dangerous predicament and the only way out is for me to drive a stick shift car.

41. Cake or ice cream? 

Buttercream frosting.

42. Are you self-conscious? 

Yes. Why? Does it show?

43. Have you ever drank so much you threw up? 

Please. (Yes… shhh…)

44. Have you ever given money to a beggar? 

Absolutely – do it on a regular basis.

45. Have you been in love?

Oh yes.

46. Where do you wish you were? 

Let me think about this one… let’s go with NYC. Or Captiva.

47. Are you wearing socks? 

Nope.

48. Have you ever ridden in an ambulance? 

Yep. Not for myself – with Will.

49. Can you tango? 

No. Sadly. But damn, do I want to.

50. Last gift you received? 

A bike for Mother’s Day!

51. Last sport you played? 

Do Wii Darts count? If not, then touch football.

52. Things you spend a lot of money on? 

Groceries.

53. Where do you live? 

The F-L-A, kids.

54. Where were you born? 

The F-L-A.

55. Last wedding attended? 

I cannot even remember, it’s been so long.

56. Most hated food(s)? 

Black eyed peas. Lima beans. Gin. Olives.

57. Can you sing? 

I like to think so. And on occasion, have been told I can.

58. Last person you instant messaged? 

Stephanie

59. Last place you went on holiday? 

Quick trip to NYC over the holidays. I'm welllllll overdue.

60. Favourite regular drink? 

Sweet tea or Crystal Light Fruit Punch. Yeah, I know. I still love it, though.

61. Current Song? 

Have quite a few:

Current Faves

Breathing from the diaphragm

As your faith is strengthened you will find that there is no longer the need to have a sense of control, that things will flow as they will, and that you will flow with them, to your great delight and benefit.
~ Emmanuel Teney

The password for today is... visceral.

The English Major has a definition of 'visceral' for y'all, in case you were wondering:

*characterized by or proceeding from instinct rather than intellect 

*characterized by or dealing with coarse or base emotions

*earthy; crude.

The word "visceral" has its roots, so to speak,  with the word "viscera" which refers literally, in a non-scientific way,  to the intestines and/or bowels.

It's where I've been living these days -- that visceral zone.

Running on gut instinct. Having unvarnished reactions that pop out of nowhere and startle me. 

For a girl who has serious real estate and time logged living in her head, this modus operandi's a little unusual. And it's thrown me for a bit of a loop.

Talk about meta: having visceral reactions to having visceral reactions. Don't stop too long to ponder that one -- it's headache-giving.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm a chica with pretty strong emotions who's not afraid to show them. But they are usually tempered and balanced with whatever's going on in my head.  Not so much right now.

Exhibit A: While on the phone with a friend, a comment was made on the other end of the line that zoom-hit me like a lightning bolt, unleashing tears that flowed not from anger or sadness but from a blast of unexpected power and a rush of overwhelming joy. Caught me totally by surprise. 

Didn't quite know I felt that way. Shook me up a bit to have my subconscious feelings come barge in, steal the scene and pull focus from my emotional status quo. They chewed up a whole lot of scenery in the process to boot. Go big or go home, even subconsciously. 

Visceral.

Exhibit B: Was out on one of my independent walk/run interval sessions and was walking by a park in my neighborhood. A moms' play group was there, with kids running everywhere, being alternately chased by women holding on to Starbucks cups and left to their own devises as one mama eye was on them and their antics.

And I started to cry. Unexpectedly. Again. Not at the beauty or wonderfulness of the scene. But because I was pissed. Jealous. Angry.

Will never had a play-group experience when he was in that age bracket. Not once. Ever.

My baby didn't walk in earnest until he was nearly five years old. Didn't run. Didn't climb. His mobility was a long time coming. Hours spent with therapists and exercises and you name it. Every step he takes now and forever is hard-earned and precious.

And while we know people who are forging through life in a similar fashion with special needs and weird health issues and the like, there's not a collective group forging forward together. More like flotsam and jetsam bobbing along and occasionally bumping in to one another.

To be frank, most people -- at least the ones I know in real life -- don't know what to do with something like that. With us. The special needs family to whom it's hard, other than in the context of prayer during times of crisis, to relate. Our normal is drastically and painfully different than that of most folks. I get that.

But damn if it isn't hard to live our lives sometimes in the face of regular, stereotypical moments that we, for whatever reason, haven't had. To experience something as seemingly mundane as a morning with friends and at a park. To be something other than a family whom people simply ask after.

Yeah -- I'm taking a moment to mourn for just a minute Will not having had the opportunity to have regular, standard-issue kid experiences. Don't do this often -- so cut me some slack and save your judgment for another time, dammit. It's not easy to reach out when you're the oddball in the bunch. Believe me, I've tried.

And  I think I'm entitled to live here for a moment and get pissed, albeit briefly, on behalf of my beautiful boy.

Visceral.

Not sure where this hot bed of base emotion is getting its energy. I suspect my success in my "taking care of me" program is a big part of it. I'm making great progress with my health and wellness efforts and am feeling really good and confident about myself. And ready to discover and handle some of my more base instinct. Just like Shrek and onions, I've got layers.  I'm thinking I'm just in a position at the moment where they're peeling themselves away. 

And while I'm still processing my new-found and sorta startling reactions, I'm also curious to see what's under the next layer. 

I think. 

And that's about as visceral as I get.

Never ignore a gut feeling, but never believe that it's enough.

~ Robert Heller

Right Hand Blue. No honey -- your other left hand...

Highlights of my night with the Choir Urchins:

*The world's most chaotic game of Twister took place. Discovery: said event really loses something when played by earnest and easily bored four and five-year-olds as opposed to drunk and frisky grownups. Highlight of the game: when Conrad (no, not his real name) spun the spinner so hard it came dislodged from the board and flew through the air, causing collapse and catastrophe on Mat #2, as the players turned to watch the Fantasy of Flight and forgot that they were all precariously positioned.

Yeah. That wasn't pretty.

*Conrad! (a) goosed me and (b) presumably innocently ran up to me, gave me a hug grabbing my boob and then took off.

He's four. There you are.

*A musical chairs match turned into the Battle of the Sexes, with Team Girrrrl Power coming up victorious in two out of three games. Final taunt: Girls rule, Boys drool. And that went over with Team Testosterone about as well as could be expected.

*One of our favorite song-tivities to do involves some spelling and shout-outs and signs and yep, lots of dancing.
Here's a little visual to give you an idea of what's what. And the song we loooooove to sing.

Choir Urchins!

Next week: our end of the year party extravaganza. Can't wait to see what tricks Conrad has up his Garanimal sleeve for me.

Flashback Friday: Beep Beep'm Beep Beep Yeah!

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?

Janis wasn't too far off with her lyrics where my first car and the world I lived in at the time were concerned. Substitute "Chrysler Le Baron Convertable" for Mercedes and "Cameros" for Porsches and you have a pretty good idea of my transportation state of mind when I turned 16 in the early 1980s.

However, my wheels were of a more, shall we say, vintage variety.

My nana's 1970-1/2 Buick Skylark.

Yep, that was my totally bitchin' ride.

For a status-conscious, slightly-shy teenager, it was not ideal. So not cool and rather attention-getting in its unfashionability. But it was better than nothing.

Even though it had no radio. That's right -- no radio. I drove around with a transistor in the front seat next to me. Plus it sported a black vinyl interior -- that was lots of fun in the summer when wearing shorts. Didn't have to shave the backs of my legs for years -- the damn heat just seared the hair off. And a brown vinyl roof. Why the interior and exterior didn't match has long been a mystery to which we'll never have an answer.

We called it The Bomb. For reasons that I've long forgotten.

The bone my parents tossed me was that I could get it repainted any color I wanted -- the original hue was a bland beige.

OK -- that's not bad

Off to the car paint place we went, my dad and I. Where I picked out a pretty swatch of color. Boy, did it look great in that book.

I never considered the bigger picture of what it might look like on the car.

Said swatch: a lovely sunshine yellow.

On the car: a bright blast of lemon-hued tone. Bright being a total understatement.

If I was worried about attention before -- the paint job just sealed that deal. No subtle drive-bys anymore for me. No quiet appearances in any parking lot. People could see me coming a mile away. Literally.

The Bomb did have its good points -- well, one good point, anyway. It was GINORMOUS and could hold a whole posse of people in the front and back seats. Plus the trunk was huge, which came in handy when smuggling folks into a drive-in theater. We had some good times in that car -- the dust of teenage hijinks and tears of teenage angst and residue of teenage chatter embedded in the interior.

Even though I've tried to paint an accurate picture of this automobilic wonder, a photo really is worth a thousand words. So here are two, featuring my brother who inherited the car when I went off to college.

Stunning, isn't it...

I have no idea what the TP's about...damn CRS.

Please save your laughter until you've clicked off the page.

Every once in a while, I'll see a car that shade of yellow and a similar shape and do a double take. Although I doubt seriously that it's my ride -- bloody thing would be nearly forty years old. Plus, it ran on regular gasoline and Al Gore probably would have a stroke if he knew it was on the roads.

However, in the midst of my double take, I'll smile at the memory.

It was, after all, my first car.

And just like one's first kiss, it's unforgettable.

My World on a Wordless Wednesday

Serenity Now

Put Your Records On -- It's Time for Tuesday Tunes

Welcome to another installment of The Wonderful World Janey's Musical Mind. 

Today we're playing Word Association -- what’s the first musical thing that these words bring to mind. 

Here goes...

Foible
“Crazy” ~ Patsy Cline


Radio
“Video Killed the Radio Star” ~ The Buggles
(and ps: Video didn’t kill the radio star. It just forced him to hire a stylist.)



Heat
“You’re So Damn Hot” ~ OK Go


New
“You Make Me Feel Brand New” ~ The Stylistics



Angel
“She Talks to Angels” ~ Black Crowes


Girl
“Girl” ~ Davy Jones



Fear
“Don’t Fear the Reaper” ~ Blue Oyster Cult

Siren
“Whatever Lola Wants” ~ Sarah Vaughn

Sex
“Naima” ~ John Coltrane

Weird
“Weird Divide” ~ The Shins

A Word from the Sports Chick

PLAY BALL!

Two words that are music to my ears. It’s that time of year. Baseball season. America’s Pasttime.

I love sports. Passionately. I’m the chick watching SportsCenter with all the guys at the bar. The one placing bets on games. The one who reads SI.com and ESPN.com daily.

And while I love all sports (save for NASCAR – what’s up with that, anyway) baseball and the boys of summer are part of me. Chalk it up partially to genetics – both my dad and brother played, with Daddy getting drafted while playing college ball but having to change gears due to an ankle injury. And partially an innate affection for a game that’s deceptively simple on the surface and always accessible.

A read of an article written by a Houston Astros fan about his own personal baseball creed inspired me to develop my own similar statement.

Call it Janey’s Baseball Manifesto. It goes well with peanuts and Cracker Jacks, dontcha know.

A good cigar is like a beautiful chick with a great body who also knows the American League box scores.
~ M*A*S*H, Klinger, "Bug-Out," 1976

***I am a fan of the game. Period. Then, now and forever. I’ve been watching baseball for as long as I can remember – Saturday afternoons were all about the ML Game of the Week on NBC with Joe Garagiola. Weekday evenings were spent with tuchuses on rough wood bleachers watching my brother play ball and my dad coaching his team.

This is probably why I love the purity of the Little League game, with its crazy scores and earnest players, as much as I do the nuanced finesse of the Big League game. Give me an afternoon/early evening on a field one step up from a sandlot with a steamed hot dog, a Pepsi and kids engaged in America’s Pastime and I’m a happy, giddy girl.

The other sports are just sports. Baseball is a love.

~ Bryant Gumbel, 1981

***I will always have a passionate opinion about my team:
They’re wonderful!

They suck!

They’re great!

They’re awful!

Amazing!

Damn, they suck!

These opinions will be spewed forth fast and furiously and quite often in the span of a week, a three/four game series, a day or even a game.

I’m a chick. It’s my right to chance my mind. Yeah, that’s right. I pulled the chick card. Nyah.

There have been only two geniuses in the world. Willie Mays and Willie Shakespeare.
~ Tallulah Bankhead

*** I’m going to defend my team’s players – through stupid comments and asshattery and bad behavior. Most of the time, anyway. That’s just how I roll. Love my team, love its players. Regardless. Usually.

However, once a player that dabbles in the aforementioned asshattery is no longer a member of my team, he is automatically Dead To Me and his actions, which I previously ignored or overlooked, become abhorrent.

See, Spurrier, Steve as a classic example of this. He’s a Jackass. Through and through. Once upon a time, he was My Jackass. And it was OK. His antics and arrogance didn’t bother me one whit. I embraced it. Then he wasn’t part of my Team anymore. Now he’s Dead to Me AND a Jackass.

(Yes, I know that I’m mixing sports analogies here. You know the deal: My blog, my rules. Have we just met?)

Baseball is a ballet without music. Drama without words.

~ Ernie Harwell, "The Game for All America," 1955

*** My prerogative: as a fan, I get to criticize and lambast and bemoan the fate and play of my team. My heart’s with them – nothing wrong with a little tough love and constructive criticism.

However… when anyone else opens their big trap to criticize or lambast or bemoan the fate or play of my team… pffft. Not cool.

Even worse: I really don’t appreciate being mocked or taunted or goaded about my team and their standing, success or otherwise. Don’t do it to get a rise out of me – unless you want to fall into Dead To Me status with Spurrier and Joakim Noah (once a Gator Boy, now a member of the newest enemy of my Boston Celtics, the Chicago Bulls.) I take my sports teams very seriously – thinking it’s “funny” to mess with me about them is the fastest way to end up on my Very Bad Side.

Exception to the Dead to Me rule: Rocco Baldelli. Once a Ray, now a Red Sox. I’ve tried to push him into Dead to Me territory but he just won’t go. He's just too cute and adorable for me to loathe.

Baseball? It's just a game - as simple as a ball and a bat. Yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. It's a sport, business - and sometimes even religion.

~ Ernie Harwell, "The Game for All America," 1955

*** Let’s be honest: try as I might, there’s no way I can be objective or impartial or benevolent with a wrong call when it comes to my team. Yeah – that ump really does need glasses if he thought that pitch was a ball. And please – Carl Crawford was SAFE by a mile, dude. When I love, I love unconditionally and with a biased, affectionate eye. Suck it, ump.

Don't tell me about the world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball.

~ Pete Hamill

*** Embedded in the fiber of my being and the foundation of my soul, there lies a well-bred, genteel Southern lady who was taught not to say unkind things about anyone (at least in the presence of those to whom she would be referring.)

However – that engrained character trait goes out the window when it comes to the main rivals of my team – specifically the Red Sox and the Yankees. I loathe them. Despise them. Would even go so far as to say I hate them. I heckle their players whenever they appear on the telly, even if just in a commercial. I would root for the Devil himself in a three game stand at Fenway. I have already bet on the first Yankee/Rays series of the year (and paid up on my part of the bet, too. One thing I’m not is a welcher.)

By the way, this venom is also spewed at my other athletic rivals, including the horrid, wretched and vile Florida State Seminoles and Tennessee Volunteers. In case you were wondering.

There are three things in my life which I really love: God, my family, and baseball. The only problem - once baseball season starts, I change the order around a bit.

~ Al Gallagher, 1971

*** I am a true, through and through sports-loving girl. Let's emphasize that "girl" thing for a moment... while I'm going to appreciate the game and the stats and all the things my fellow testosterone-laden fans do, my estrogenical sensibilities are going to come shining through. And I'm going to make comments that reflect that. Like "nice tuchus" or "damn, he's hot" or "Hit the ball long and hard, sweetie." I spent several years in the mid '80s following the Los Angeles Dodgers simply because I was in love with Steve Sax and his outstanding posterior.

I'm a girl. It's what I do.

So there you are – the Janey Baseball Manifesto. Read it. Learn it. Know it.

And I’ll see you in the cheap seats. First dog and draught are on me.

Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good too.

~ Greg, age 8