You're Much Ado About Nothing!
by William Shakespeare You're not really sure what all the fuss is about, but it seems
like it's all a lot of overreaction. Light and playful, you tend to be the one
making dirty jokes in the corner, or even in front of a whole bunch of people.
You end up being more or less unable to keep a straight face, even when something
serious seems to be on the line. Despite this, you still have something to say
about gender equality. In the end, you're just looking for a hero.
Take the Book Quiz II
at the Blue Pyramid.
***
As an airplane is about to crash, a female passenger jumps up frantically and announces, "If I'm going to die, I want to die feeling like a woman."
She removes all her clothing and asks, "Is there someone on this plane who is man enough to make me feel like a woman?"
A man stands up, removes his shirt and says, "Here, iron this!"
***
And you know I have something to say about that. Which is...iron your own damn shirt! You're gonna die alone!
"Put your left hand on the table. Put your right hand in the air. If you stay that way long enough, you'll get a plot," Margaret Atwood says when asked where her ideas come from. When questioned about whether she's ever used that approach, she adds, "No, I don't have to."
Jack, our youngest cat, was sound asleep in front of the fire. Our large, black long-haired cat, Lego, was stretched out in the middle of the living room floor asleep. I was lying on the smaller couch reading I Love You More Than You Know by Jonathan Ames when Blue Kid came downstairs. He sat in the floor next to Lego and began petting him.
"When did Dad fall asleep?"
"I don't know. Fifteen minutes ago?"
"Ah, they're gonna kick a field goal."
"Who?"
"West Virginia."
I slid my reading glasses to the end of my nose and peered at the game over them. Tied 16 - 16. Four seconds left.
I got nervous. I always feel anxiety for the kickers. They miss, they've lost it all for the whole team. They make it, they're the hero. It's too much pressure for me! Someone called a timeout and I pushed my glasses up and began to read. Lego had crawled up into Blue Kid's lap.
"Mom? Can I borrow some money?"
He was waiting for the game to end and then he was going to pick up his girlfriend, Emily, and take her to Steak and Shake. He looked handsome, wearing khakis, a navy blue shirt and his new Doc Martins. He rarely asks for money anymore now that he's working. And he had a good reason to ask for some tonight. He didn't want to have to spend his own $20. How could I refuse?
"I don't have any, but I'll give you my card."
"Thanks. I'd appreciate it."
The Skimmer rolled over. "I think I've got a twenty in my wallet." He paused and then said, "I'd like to get ten back."
I laughed, "Oh geez, I'll get you ten tomorrow."
The game came back on and as the kicker stepped back from the ball, I shut my eyes tight. Blue Kid said, "He made it!"
I opened my eyes as his teammates jumped all around and on top of him.
"Aw, he's the hero. He'll sleep good tonight!"
The camera cut to one of his teammates on the sidelines. He was crying. I felt like crying for him! Then the camera cut to a Pitt player sitting on the field, sullen, holding his head in his hands. I felt like crying for him! I'm now at an age where it seems I can't take winning or losing.
Blue Kid stood up to leave and I said, "Check Dad's wallet." He did, waved and said he'd be home in a couple of hours.
I smiled and told him to be careful. The Skimmer rolled over and said, "There goes my twenty."
I laughed and shooshed him and went back to reading my book.
I was just one of those people in the grocery store. Texting. Talking on my cell.
You'll notice I didn't write my cell phone. Just my cell. That's how those people refer to them. You know, like...
Call me on my cell. I'll have my cell with me. I never go anywhere without my cell.
The reason I was one of those people is that friends from all over were communicating with me by cell.
One friend, the one I went to see Cheap Trick, Poison and Def Leppard with, the friend who promised me we'd have free tickets and maybe even backstage passes but when I met her at the concert, had neither and I ended up paying $139 to see Cheap Trick, Poison and Def Leppard, texted me. I haven't heard from her in awhile. Last time I heard from her was by good old fashioned snail mail.
She had clipped a newspaper article she thought I might find interesting. Something about Phil Spector and Charles Manson. And how they're in the same prison. And how Charles Manson is trying to get Phil Spector to hear his music or something.
She knew I'd find it interesting because she knows me from way back. Way back to my Helter Skelter days. Well, not my Helter Skelter days. Just the days of my reading the book Helter Skelter so many times that I was the go-to girl for all things Helter Skelter.
I never responded to her sending me that little clipping. Bad of me. Sometimes I receive very heartfelt things where I know people have been thinking of me and have taken their time to put together a little package -- have put put whatever it is in a cute little red envelope -- have found a stamp to put on it, have been motivated enough to put it in the mailbox. Things they'll know I'll get a kick out of, like a Charles Manson clipping. And I don't respond. Bad, bad of me. In more ways than one, I think!
Let's not even go into how much I know about the O.J. Simpson trial.
So, when I got her text while I was grocery shopping, I knew I had to respond right away. And I did, with:
Sexy sadie!
She had texted me a sexy photo of herself posing in the mirror, making a Betty Boop face.
She texted back: She died.
Me: I no.
Sexy Sadie: So did Michael Jackson.
Me: I no.
And of course I did. Because it was announced that Michael Jackson had died right before the Cheap Trick, Poison, Def Leppard concert! And my friend spent the entire night asking people if they had heard Michael Jackson died with a very insincere, concerned look on her face.
Her Betty Boop look in the sexy picture she texted me tonight looked much more sincere.
I texted her again: I owe you. Loved the Spector thing you sent me.
Sexy Sadie: I'm so glad! It totally cracked me up and only a freak like you would appreciate it. Hope you guys are well and I hope I'll see you over the fucking holidays.
I know that girl from way back. She sincerely meant that.
I believe these cobags were the perpetrators of the Def Leppard/Erasure double shot. They bill themselves as 80s and more, but what they mean by 80s is 83-95, and it seems like they are mining Hysteria nonstop. “Animal”, “Rocket” and “Pour Some Sugar on Me” have all featured, and I think we have to assume “Armageddon It”, “Love Bites” and “Hysteria” make it in their mix, but no “Foolin” or “Photograph” because that might break their algorithm.
And then he posts the song "Take it on the Run" by REO Speedwagon. Then he continues writing:
Keep in mind that I view this sort of music as “Blue Girl” music, and I realize that I do this because BG is the next generation up from myself, and I don’t want to even consider the possibility that I could be on the edge of the demographic targeted by this station. I started listening to the radio at the age of 8 (in 2007--Ed.), so I remember most of these songs from the first time around, but really would prefer that the alleged “horrible” “cheesiness”* of these songs is not aimed at any nascent or growing nostalgic reverie type behavior on my part. Therefore, I create an alternate universe where BG (no joke!) is listening to these songs and then posting about some awesome hijinks she got into with her cool friends and some crazy station wagon in an idealized midwestern town possibly involving harmless drug use or alcohol, things not present in my childhood or at least my memory.
And then he posts "Oh Sherry" by Journey.
First of all, Def Leppard?! Please. And who is Erasure? Never heard of them! “Armageddon It”, “Love Bites” and “Hysteria”? I don't even know what those are.
This type of character assassination reminds me of meeting Claire for lunch earlier this year. We were talking about desserts and I told her how much I love creme brulee and she said, “That’s so 80s!”
Pah. Shaw!
So anyway.
It was 1978.
I was a freshman in high school and my best friend was a junior. She had just gotten her driver’s license and my mother dared me -- double dog dared me! -- to ever, and I mean never ever get into a car that she was driving.
“Don’t you dare -- ever dare! -- get into a car that she is driving!”
So when Julie showed up at my door wondering if I wanted to ride along with her as she drove her younger brother, Robbie, to basketball practice, I said, “Sure!”
I ran outside and jumped into the passenger seat of her station wagon. Her brother was in the backseat.
Julie wound her way through our neighborhood and then took a right onto the long, windy country road. I was fiddling with the radio, trying to find the perfect song...
Ick! Blech!
Ugh! Blah!
I had yet to find the perfect song when Julie began to scream, “I can’t slow down! The car’s going crazy! It won’t slow down! Help! Help! Help me!”
“What?!”
“Help! It’s going too fast! The gas pedal’s stuck to the floor! Help!”
Robbie yelled from the back seat, “The brakes! Hit the brakes! Hit the brakes!”
“They’re not working! Help me!”
Then she started screaming louder, shut her eyes tight and let go of the steering wheel.
That’s when my mother’s face and her double dog dare ya appeared suddenly, in my mind.
“Julie! Watch the road! Grab the steering wheel! Oh my God!” I got down in the floor and pulled on the gas pedal, but it would just snap back in place, tight to the floor. “Oh my God!”
“Oh my God! Help me! Help me!”
I pushed the brake pedal down with my hand over and over again. It wasn’t slowing the car down.
Julie screamed, “Oh my God! We’re coming to the intersection! Get up! Get up! Oh my God!”
I crawled out of the floor, looked out of the front window and the three of us screamed, “Ahhhhhhhhh! Hang ooonnnnnnnnnnnnn!”
We hit the back end of a car at the intersection, sending it fishtailing. Then we flew through the air like Mannix, landing in the front yard of a house, which slowed the car down a little. To about 30mph.
We careened through the left side of the house and Julie must’ve cut the steering wheel hard to the right, because we came out through the front of the house, where the car finally came to a jolting stop two feet short of a very old and very large oak tree.
The doors wouldn’t open so I yelled, “Roll down the windows and jump out! The car’s gonna blow up!”
And then I yelled, “My mom’s going to kill me!”
Miraculously, no one was hurt. Everyone lived. Including me. My mom didn’t kill me. But, I know she felt like it when, a few months later, I begged her to go to a concert with Julie and her boyfriend, Mike and his friend, Pat.
“C’mon, Mom! C'mon! Please?!”
“Who’s driving?!”
“Mike! Mike’s driving! Mike’s a good driver! C’mon, Mom! I’ll die if I don’t get to see them!”
She was beaten down. She let me go.
And we had fourth row seats. And machines were pumping out fog. And strobe lights began flashing. And the band came up out of the floor. And the crowd went crazy.
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