When You Wish Upon A Blog

So an awesome (but sadly anonymous) commenter points out that instead of waiting around for big companies to create the products I need, I should just make them myself. To which I say, YES. I totally support that notion. I am all about making things, and if they end up involving slightly more duct tape than they might if I bought them at the store.... well, duct tape's charmingly punk rock, right?

However, in this case? Big companies have already made them! WHAT??

Bare Escentuals On The Spot

AND
Andrea Eye Q's Make-Up Correctors Swabs

A Public Service Announcement for America's Undereyes

Apparently it's August. I'm not sure exactly how this happened, other than the whole inevitable passage of time, clock slowly ticking toward death, blah blah blah. It has often been pointed out to me that I don't understand the passage of time, and my frequent exclamations as to people's age relative to the number of months or years since I saw them last ("When did you turn into a big grownup girl??" "Last time I saw you, you were still a tiny thing!" and other such Obnoxious Old Aunty behaviors, though I'm not to the cheek pinching stage... YET) only serves to prove this point.

Anyway, so it's August, which in the midwest is another word for humid. And humid, as everyone knows, is another word for "I looked fine at the beginning of the evening but all my eyeliner has since run off my eyes in tiny rivers of sweat, pooling in the huge bags beneath my eyes which explains why people keep joking about zombie raccoons and giggling."

Seriously. Do you just stop wearing makeup in the summer? Every single time I've attended some sort of professional event at which it seems remotely important to look kind of like a capital-g Grownup, I've spent the evening making sparkly, witty, charming conversation only to glance in the mirror toward the end of the night and realize this whole time I've looked like the Undead. And not in a sexy way.

Slight tangent: A billion years ago (well, like 10) I was in this magical poetry class with the Amazing Dan Beachy-Quick (who we lovingly called DBQ) and the whole class basically fell in love with each other. Or itself, as a collective. Either way, we decided we really wanted to get a bus and drive around the country writing poetry and hanging poems in random bathroom stalls and chalking it on sidewalks and Spreading the Gospel of DBQ. But in order to fund our Poetry Bus, we would need some cash. So one of the ongoing projects became thinking of Million Dollar Ideas to fund our Poetry Bus (which in my mind always looked a lot like that of The Electric Mayhem -- I mean OBVIOUSLY. What else would a poetry bus look like??) and our ongoing Cross Country Poetry Bus Adventures.

End tangent; begin segue.

So here's my latest million dollar idea. (Listen up, Makeup Industry!)

I need a little tiny box of Q-tip type swab thingies to carry around in my purse. But not just any Q-tips; I need Q-tips that have been premoistened with whatever magical solution is in Almay's magical eye makeup remover pads.


+




Just kidding, not that Q-Tip.



+


=
BEST PRODUCT EVER.

Seriously. You would buy that, wouldn't you? I know I would. I would carry those little almay-tipped-darts around with me and offer them to every summer-smudged sad-eyed woman in every public bathroom across America. I would be like the Robin Hood of gross summer zombie eyes, taking from my purse and giving to the Raccoon Faces.

And I would ride my Electric Mayhem Poetry Bus to National Hero Town.

Lame Superpowers I Have Wished For

The ability to put every car on a block in neutral and roll them closer together in order to maximize street parking efficiency... with my mind.

The ability to talk to woodland creatures... so bunnies wouldn't have to hop away when I walk past them. Also so they would come clean my house.

Super hair that never needs to be washed.

The ability to shrink my car into a tiny match-box sized car that I wouldn't have to park, I would just carry around in my pocket.

The ability to instantly transport myself to any location in the world... so I can go home and take a nap.

The ability to stop time... also for napping.

The ability to read minds... in order to know if my dog really does think I'm consistently both the least interesting and most disappointing human she's ever met.

Why, She's the Size of a Human Baby!

You know you're hanging out with writers when, in the middle of a conversation, someone spaces out and murmurs, "I should use that...."

My most recent "I should use that" was tonight when I was telling people about this song my family sings. That we made up. About how the Boston Terrier is the Size of a Human Baby. ("Size of a human bay-beee! Size of a human BAY-beee!") Because what family doesn't immediately turn inside jokes into songs?

(Sidenote: This song became even funnier when I was visiting my friends and their four month old baby, who was -- by definition -- the size of a human baby. You know, being a baby and all. She was also the Size of a Human Bay-bee! -- and incidentally, the size of a Boston Terrier -- so I taught her mama the song and then we added random cowboy-style hoofbeats, a Godzilla finale, and choreography. WIN.)

Anyway, my "I should use that" made me start thinking about family inside jokes. I'm particularly interested in family dynamics as a YA writer & teacher of YA writers, because so often teen books have parents who are either super evil or just dead. Dead and evil parents are very convenient for young protagonists, you see, being the impetus for many a teen's adventure. Or sometimes the parent is oblivious to the point of being neglectful, allowing our young protagonist to become romantically involved with the undead.

Of course, if you're a sixteen year old girl, it's often hard to distinguish between a truly evil mother and a mother who's not exactly evil but *is* a real pain in the ass, what with curfews and limitations and not letting you dress like a hooker and whatnot.

Because evil and kinda evil parents are so prevalent in teen fiction, it's always interesting to see totally non-evil parents. Ruby Oliver's parents in E. Lockhart's books (The Boyfriend List, The Boy Book, and The Treasure Map of Boys) are among my favorite parents in fiction, ever, because they're 100% non-evil. They're just really, really, really embarassing. And actually, doesn't it seem so much more realistic to have super embarassing parents than super evil ones? I'm sure that a national poll would show a much higher percentage of us have embarassing parents than have evil ones.

If you're lucky, they're still embarassing you long past your teen years, like this weekend when I went to talk to my mother at work, and she introduced me to her coworker: "Rob, this is my beautiful daughter. DON'T LOOK AT HER BOOBS!"

Thanks for that one, Mom. I may have to use that one day.

Tonight as I was singing the Size of a Human Bay-bee song to my friend, I realized that most of our family's inside jokes come directly from trying to make my mother laugh. We compete for it. I think it was my sister who discovered the easiest way to make Mom laugh is basically to make fun of her. Hence the song, which all started when my mother picked up Megan's dog and cried, "Why, she's the size of a human baby!!" (When retelling this story, you must give Mom a warbly old-lady voice.)

Cherished family moments include: the time we made her laugh so hard she sprayed hamburger meat across the table. The time we made her laugh by talking about religious-themed sex toys during Thanksgiving dinner. That one Christmas when Megan wouldn't stop comparing Mexican hairless dogs to sweaty ballsacks. (Gross-out humor gets her every time. The SNL skit with the NPR ladies and Alec Baldwin and his "Schweddy Balls" makes her giggle to this day.)

Sometimes you can make her laugh just by telling her about a different time she laughed, like the time at dinner when she laughed so hard she peed a little.

I started wondering why I never use these, all these random hilarious moments that turned into family jokes. Most of the families in my stories are cranky and sad. They're never cranky and funny. Why not? When I was at Ragdale, I found myself telling story after story about my Dad, who is kind of bonkers, but in a nice way, and about whom I apparently have a billion hilarious stories. I was surprised by all the stories, because I never really considered writing about him, but at Ragdale I started to realize I apparently have some major Dad-stories in my arsenal, which I totally should use someday.

As I was thinking about my mom and all the ways we make fun of her, I started thinking about Mrs. Glass in Salinger's stories, specifically in Franny and Zooey when Zooey's constantly making fun of her. I always wanted to punch him and be like, dude, stop being a dick to your mom, but now I feel like I need to go back and re-evaluate. Did the Glass family torment Bessie the same way we torment our mother? Did she ever laugh so hard she peed a little?

Anyway, I'm always encouraging my students to write interesting, complex, complicated parent characters, and I suppose this is my way of encouraging myself to do the same.













Hey, remember that one time I didn't blog in like six years and then I randomly just started making fun of my mom? I should totally use that.

Crushing on Writing; or You've Lost That Mudpie Feeling

When I was 23, I moved to New Mexico with my truck and my dog and my laptop and a bunch of notebooks. (And, you know, underwear and stuff.) At the time it seemed pretty straightforward, like of course I'm moving across the country without a job or friends or any kind of particular plan, what else would I be doing at 23? In retrospect, I'm fairly impressed with myself, even though it didn't seem like a big deal at the time. In fact, when my friends from college were picking up and moving to Ecuador and Namibia and Lesotho, Albuquerque seemed pretty tame in comparison.

It took me a few weeks to get a job, and then I was only working four days a week, so I had these loooong 3 day weekends every week, and almost nothing to fill them. I had no friends, no hobbies, no real obligations... one would think I'd be reading all the time, but I don't actually remember going to the library until a few years later, when I was living up in the mountains by myself (and then I was at the library every few days). I'm sure I wasn't buying many books, seeing as how I was terribly poor (though at 23, books seemed just as important as food. This is slightly less true today, but not by much). So what did I do?

I taught myself a slightly fancier version of html code so I could build a slightly fancier website for myself than the one I'd built when I first taught myself html at 19. I started blogging. I mopped every Sunday while listening to This American Life. I researched ways to kill cockroaches. I wrote in my journal. I played with Zeke.

But mostly, I taught myself to write short stories.

Today, I will tell you that I can NOT write a short story to save my life. I can't even TELL a short story. But back then, in 2003, I was determined to learn how. I'd spent the previous nine years writing poetry and journaling, but fiction had never been a strength. In fact, I'd written some short stories that were so awful, I still blush to think of them (and even worse, I studied with the amazing James Alan McPherson, and I actually workshopped one of these hideous stories with him! SO embarrassing, in retrospect. Actually, I think it was even embarrassing at the time, though JAM was such a genius he could make the most sophomoric drivel seem profound).

(There are, I should say, two surviving stories from that time that I love fiercely, even though everyone else thinks they suck. I don't care; I still love them.)

Anyway, the point is: my goal was to write one short story a month. I had no idea how to write fiction, or short stories, but I didn't care, because I was determined to figure it out by doing it. And every month I'd write some bizarre story about dead fathers or bats or young teachers or unhappy relationships or raccoons, and then I would send them off to my friends! Because I was so proud of them! Even though I knew they weren't great, I could feel myself getting better with every story, and that was so exciting. And my friends were incredibly supportive and excited about these crappy stories I kept sending them, possibly because they were also 23, and possibly because they appreciated the sparks of excitement and newness that shone through the pages.

And what's important about that time is that I kept going, even though I kind of knew I sucked, because I could feel myself improving with every story until I finally wrote a short story that my MOM liked (she's a great reader and a very tough critic, so I didn't care that none of my friends liked this particular story -- my mom did! Plus, writing it taught me a little about non-linear timeframes).

And what's also important is that feeling of giddy beginner's luck, that first sense of wonder and the desire to say "Look what I did!"

I was lucky enough to sustain that giddiness through the very first draft of my novel, partially because I still had friends who were excited and impressed and would email me demanding more, and partially because here I was, writing a NOVEL! Who knew I could do that? Not me!

After that, writing started to feel less like playing in the mud, and more like a job, particularly as I started to acquire serious grown-up things like an agent and suggestions for revision and deadlines. I've come to love revising -- really! -- but it definitely doesn't have the same "Woo! Look what I made!" feeling, especially when you know your agent or editor is going to zip the manuscript right back to you with enough nice comments to keep you from defenestration, but also a million more suggestions.

But. But! Recently I've been working on this weird thing that may or may not fit into my current WIP, but it's so weird and unlike anything I've ever written and so far beyond anything I ever thought I could write (it's historical fiction! seriously! I know nothing about history but I'm totally loving making it up. I keep pausing to go, wait, when did the Korean War happen? I have no problem fudging historical details as I go because I've promised myself I'll find some history savant to read through it sometime in the future) and it is SO FUN. And I have been so excited to show my friends -- for the first time in YEARS I am emailing people going "Look what I made! I don't know what this is, but isn't it neat?"

It's pretty awesome.

So here is my advice to you -- and more importantly, to myself -- learn to love revisions, but keep an eye out for that mudpie feeling, too. And when it comes, follow it, relish it, and live inside it as long as you can. Gather ye mudpies while ye may, my friends, and don't forget that you're doing this because you love it.

Poopsplosion

Hang out with dog people long enough, and you will hear tales to take your breath away and freeze the blood in your veins. I don't mean Lassie stories of daring rescues or tearjerkers about loyal little pups who waited faithfully by their masters' graves. I'm talking about the dog lover's version of the famed fish story: the most repulsive, upsetting, and offensive story possible involving a dog, what he rolled in, what he ate, or where he pooped. And we will tell you these stories whether or not you ask for them.

Take my friend Adrienne, for example. She had one simple question about her newly rescued dog Paul, an affable fluffy little dude who may be part chow. Did she ask us for our horror stories? Did she invite us to rehash the worst and smelliest moments of our lives? No. She just wanted to know why Paul had a poopsplosion in the front hallway.

Dog lovers, I hear you. You are already frothing at the mouth to tell me about the time your dog ate a partially decomposed squirrel and then thoughtfully barfed it back up on your brand new carpet. Or the time he got mad at you and decided to teach you a lesson by knocking over the garbage can, methodically spreading the egg shells and coffee grounds and used kleenex across your antique Turkish rug, and then – just so you wouldn't miss the point – pooped on it.

Non-dog people, I hear you too. What is wrong with us? Dogs are smelly and slobbery and hairy enough on a daily basis; why must we rehash the times our dogs outdid themselves on the scale of disgustingness? And why do we sound so giddy about it? Why are we laughing??

Here's why: When my dog Zeke was dying, I would sometimes give him warm baths to relax his muscles and soothe his constant joint pain. It was kind of a hassle to lift this 55 pound, arthritic, lumpy, tumor-ridden old guy into the tub, but the doggy smile was totally worth it.

Until that one time.

The tub was probably three-fourths filled with lovely warm water, and Zeke was relaxing, and his old bones didn't hurt as much, and I was starting to rub doggy shampoo into his doggy scruff, when it happened: my happy, relaxed, disgusting old dog had a poopsplosion of his own. In the tub. And it went everywhere.
Suddenly the bathtub was three-fourths filled with warm soupy dog poop and I was doing my best not to add vomit to the mix as I screamed “HE DIARRHEAD ON MY ARMS!” I tried not to breathe at all as I lifted the old man out of his poo stew and carried him cradled against my chest, my poopy swamp monster, into the backyard and dropped him in a kiddie pool, where I hosed him down to get rid of the worst of it. And then I got to go back inside to plunge my arm through the sewage water, pull the drain plug, and begin one of the most repugnant cleaning jobs of my life.

A half hour later, I refilled the tub with lovely warm, clean water, and gave Zeke another bath.

Non-dog people, I hear you screaming WHY? WHAT IF HE POOPED ON YOUR ARMS AGAIN?

Yes, I was facing a risk of enormous magnitude. I might not survive another bath. But I put my dog in the tub anyway, because somewhere between lifting him out of the brown ooze and making the long journey from bathtub to backyard, across the endless kitchen, through the screen door, with brown slime dripping down my arms and legs and my happy dirty dog resting in my arms, I realized: I still love this dog. This is what unconditional love feels like. He just subjected me to the most nauseating moment of my entire life, and I still love him as much as I did before that fateful bath. Maybe even more. In fact, his poop is currently drenching the front of my shirt, and I actually feel empathy for him, poor old guy! He could poop on me again, and I would STILL love him!

And any experience that allows you to feel, with sudden, extraordinary clarity, the incredible depth and potential of your humble little human heart? When you suddenly realize you're capable of much greater and purer love than you have even previously dared to imagine?

Well, it's a moment of grace.

Even if it does smell like crap.

Good Dogs Review in the Chicago Sun-Times

Squee!



(click to see full size)

Donating to Greyhounds Only

Dear friends, family, and supporters,

I finished!!

I am so exhausted I can hardly see, and I'm so sick of my own voice that I can't compel myself to add even a single word more to my NaNoWriMo novel, not even to round it up to a nice even number. Final wordcount, according to the Official NaNoWriMo Wordcount Validator, is 50,261! Could I write just 39 words more, just to get my wordcount up to a tidy 50,300?

Nope!

I'm going to hit CTRL+S one more time and close this document forever. Or.... until a few months from now, when I have fresh eyes & a big red pen.

When I started this project six weeks ago, I had no idea the timing would be so perfect. A few weeks (and thousands of words into my NaNo novel) we got this message from Greyhounds Only:
11-18-09: Dairyland Track To Close
The Dairyland Greyhound Track in Kenosha, Wisconsin will be closing its gates forever on December 31, 2009. As a result, about 300 dogs will be in need of homes, and soon. For Greyhounds Only, the closure will bring significant financial and logistical challenges, but it also promises a unique opportunity to bring new people into our organization's fold, and raise awareness about this extraordinary breed.

Many of you have expressed interest in helping us meet our goal of ensuring that as many dogs as possible find homes. There are many ways that you can make a difference. First and foremost, have you or someone you know been considering adopting a greyhound? Now is a great time to take the next step, or encourage your friends to do so. Another great way to help is to provide a temporary foster home. Even if you’ve never fostered before, we can give you the necessary information and support to take a dog into your home until it finds its own. Financial donations are also deeply appreciated. The extra dogs we take in will require extra expenditures for medications, vet work, boarding and so on. Please check with your employer about matching gifts -- your contribution might be doubled or tripled.

How exciting was it to know that I was already raising money for greyhounds, at that very moment? (Or at least I was when I stopped procrastinating by checking my email and went back to writing my novel....!)

Thanks to the wonderful Grinnellians who inspired (aka "challenged" or "bullied") me to take up this ridiculous project, and huge, incredible, amazing thanks to each and every one of you who has pledged me!!

With your help, I've raised well over $1,500 for greyhounds this month!! A full list of pledges (in case you've forgotten) can be found on my blog: http://mollybackes.blogspot.com/2002/11/2009-nanowrimo-for-greyhounds.html
There are three ways to donate money to Greyhounds Only.

1) By check. All checks should be made out to Greyhounds Only, and sent to:

Greyhounds Only
335 E. Geneva Rd. #173
Carol Stream, IL 60188

**Donating by check means that Greyhounds Only gets the full percentage of your donation.**

2) Through paypal. You'll find a link to GO's secure Paypal site on their website, www.greyhoundsonly.com

Again, thank you all SO much for supporting me, my writing, and the gorgeous greyhounds!

If you have any questions, please ask them in the comments section.

And now I am going to go catch up on my sleep!!

Love,
Molly

November 30, 2009

And I am tired.

National Novel Writing [To Raise Money For Charity] Month

In high school, we used to play this game called the Stick Game, which went like this: So, I'm holding this stick, see, and I'm thinking of a word. And you have to guess the word I'm thinking, and if you guess wrong, I get to hit you with the stick. Now, I know what you're thinking: that's just TOO easy, right? So to shake things up a bit, I can change the word at any time....

In retrospect, it's amazing that we played this game as much as we did.

I started thinking about this game again when I decided to do National Novel Writing Month this year. I've done it a few times before, once - and most notably - with a bunch of middle schoolers, and I know exactly how hard it is to write 50,000 words in a month.

But I decided to do it anyway. Why not, I thought. I need a break from my current work in progress, and I could use a few weeks of crazy intense marathon writing.

Now, I know what you're thinking: 50K in 30 days? That's just TOO easy, right?

So a week or so ago, a good friend of mine offered to pledge $2/thousand words to a charity of my choice.

Shoot, I thought. That means I actually have to take myself seriously.

About five minutes later, another friend jumped on the wagon. And then another. Suddenly I was up to $5/thousand words, and I hadn't even chosen a charity yet.

So, okay. I guess I was doing it. For real. I was going to write a NaNo novel for charity.

Even though it would probably be more thematically appropriate to use NaNoWriMo to raise money and awareness for a writing and/or literacy charity (for example, the excellent Open Books), I decided instead -- for this year at least -- to write for the greyhounds.

Greyhounds Only is the organization through which we adopted Zia. For each dog that goes through the Greyhounds Only adoption program, GO pays an average cost of $761. Every contribution helps a greyhound on his or her journey from the racetrack or farm to a forever home. Part of their mission is to deliver medical care to as many greyhounds as possible so that they will not be put to sleep and can be placed in permanent homes. GO pays for medical costs for all dogs that go to the kennel prior to their permanent placements. Most of the dogs only require routine care; however, they also receive dogs with racing injuries (like Zia), for which they absorb the cost.

$1,000 = repair of compound or multiple fracture
$200-$400 = repair of a simple fracture (Zia had a hairline fracture in her back leg)
$139 = spay/neuter/dental of one dog
$35 = shots and heartworm treatments

More information about greyhound racing & treatment (not for the faint of heart)

If you'd like to pledge me for the month, drop me an email & I'll add you to the list.

I'll be writing for the whole month of November, so you can pledge anytime!

Wish me luck... and if you see me between now and December, tell me to get back to writing!

Fame 2009 or Fame 1980? A Quiz

Last weekend we went to see Fame (the 2009 remake) in the theater. I was really excited about it, because the 1980 movie (and even moreso, the TV show) were so influential in the world of Young Molly Backes. A school where you get to be a total diva, wear legwarmers, and dance on top of taxis? Sign me up!

Woo, leg warmers!

So, first of all, I have no idea what I was thinking. Remakes are never as good as the original. You heard me, Lindsay Lohan Parent Trap. Never. Secondly, I somehow thought I wouldn’t really need a plot if there was enough singing and dancing. Right? Who needs a plot when you have jazz hands? The original movie didn’t really have a plot, and it was still awesome. Third, I apparently forgot to factor in the differences between teens in 1980 and teens today: the strange, dangerous, secretive, and usually about to knife you teens of yore vs. the sparkly, witty, talented, and injecting much needed cash into America’s limping economy teens of today.

Fame 2009: Cleaner. Brighter. Airbrushed.

It’s not that the remake of Fame was that terrible, really, if you consider “whitewashed, sterilized, and PG” to be “not terrible.” It’s just that the remake represents an entirely different America than the 1980 version did. There’s a place for each, I suppose. And to help you figure out which version of Fame is the place for you, I’ve created this handy quiz.


Do You Belong in Fame 1980 or Fame 2009? A Quiz

1. New York is:
a) exciting! Bright lights, big city, the Great White Way! I know I’m going to make it!
b) dirty. Full of junkies and prostitutes.

2. Your performing arts high school is:
a) a great opportunity to achieve my dreams!
b) kind of junky.

3. The weird kid likes you because:
a) he can see your true talent shining through.
b) you supply him with drugs.

4. When you get offered the gig your friend wanted, you:
a) refuse the gig. Friends come before career, guys.
b) shrug. Sucks to be her! You’re going to be a dancer!

5. When your friend gets offered the gig you wanted, you:
a) leave in a huff, trusting your friend to follow. Friends first, guys!
b) yell: “Well f*ck you, Leroy, this was my audition, remember? You’re not into high school, this was my audition. We were rehearsing to get me into this school, not you, you f*cker! It’s just not fair! I didn’t want to come here anyway. This school sucks! You done me a favor, shithead! You saving me four f*cking years from this ass licking school! You looking at one happy lady. Who wants to go to a f*cking school to learn how to dance anyway?”

6. At lunch, you:
a) perform a highly choreographed interdisciplinary routine, giving ample time for each student to shine.
b) jam. About the lunch ladies.

7. This teacher keeps hassling you because:
a) he just believes in you so much, and you’re not willing to let him in.
b) you can’t read. And you DON’T WANT TO LEARN.

8. When things get rough in class, you:
a) run away to the auditorium, where you discover that the cute shy girl has an amazing hidden talent.
b) go smash a bunch of shit.

9. The problem with your analyst is:
a) um, what’s an analyst?
b) you’re in love with him, thus exposing your latent homosexuality.

10. The problem with your mother is:
a) she told you you were talented! She believed in you!
b) you haven’t seen her in months and she neglected to furnish the apartment in which you live, alone, with your one mattress, Indian print blanket, and guitar.

11. But seriously, the real problem with your mother is:
a) she won’t stop taking pictures of you! She’s just so proud of you!
b) she refused to take your little sister to the doctor after she got raped. Church? She needs to go to a doctor, ma!

12. The problem with your father is:
a) he just wants you to be a classical cellist!
b) he attaches speakers to the roof of his cab and drives around the city blasting your music.

13. When you take to the streets:
a) um, we don’t do that. But we did have a very nicely choreographed and expensively decorated circus-themed Halloween dance!
b) it’s because YOU HAVE TO DANCE! There’s a dark, violent edge to your dancing, not to mention a general societal mistrust of teenagers leftover from when all the teens went wild in the sixties and seventies – only a few years ago! – not to mention the fact that half the kids are on drugs these days and who knows what else! Get the police in here to stop this riot!!

14. You decide you’re just too boring and vanilla to be a real actress, so you:
a) unbraid your hair and start curling it instead.
b) change your name to Monique, start sleeping with your boyfriend, smoke pot, go to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, take off your shirt, and dance in front of an auditorium of strangers.

15. Potential failure and inability to achieve your dreams is symbolized by:
a) your super hot teacher, Megan Mullally, who’s still really pretty and has an amazing voice. But she’s old, so it’s not too upsetting. Plus, now she’s a teacher, and she gets to go to clubs and do karaoke with us!
b) the most promising young actor from PA who was a senior when you were a freshman. Now he’s a sad waiter. Look into your future, kid.

16. When an older dude tried to use your naiveté and desire for fame to seduce you, you:
a) pushed him off with chaste outrage and ran out of the trailer.
b) took your shirt off for the camera and cried.

17. After you got kicked out of PA because you’re not talented enough to make it, you:
a) stuck around and supported your friends anyway!
b) disappeared from the movie.

18. The only thing standing between you and your career as a professional dancer is:
a) your pesky boyfriend. God, did he SERIOUSLY think you would choose him over your career?
b) your pesky unborn baby.

19. When things get rough, you:
a) cut to a dance sequence!
b) drink too much, do too many drugs and try to sever all ties with the people who love you.

20. Your music teacher tells you:
a) that you’re so talented, he’d like to hire you.
b) to stop holding your violin like a dick.

21. By the end of high school, your chances at success are:
a) hello, awesome! You already HAVE a job as a professional actress/singer/dancer!
b) uncertain, but probably pretty slim.


ANSWER KEY:

If you answered mostly a):
Fame 2009! What up, Millennial? You’ve been told since before birth that you are more special than every special special special kid around you, and that has instilled a deep sense of entitlement in you! If you have a dream, you will probably achieve it! Like, in the next half hour! And if one person tells you that you’re not good enough, well, you can always go home to Iowa and take over your mother’s dance studio as the Number One Dancer in Cedar Falls!

We respect personal space in 2009!

If you answered mostly b):
Fame 1980! You will do anything to achieve your dreams, no matter how much coke you have to snort, how many producers you have to sleep with, or how many abortions you have to put on your Master Charge. You’re going to make it, dammit, and if anyone tells you otherwise, you will go crazy in a way that may involve dancing, but will more likely involve a bunch of shattered glass.

Baby, Remember MY Name!

She-Ra Defeats the Evil Whores

God bless Hulu.

So it's Saturday afternoon and I'm doing laundry while N's at the theater. In a former life, I used to wait until Kate & Alley was on so I could fold my laundry to the comfortingly mild hijinks of Jane Curtin and Susan Saint-James, but lacking a TV, I have more control over what crappy TV I get to watch while I'm folding towels.

Okay Hulu, I say, gimme your best shot.
Yeah? Asks Hulu.
Yeah, I say.
And Hulu says, How about SHE-RA, PRINCESS OF POWER?

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR, HULU. You have to understand, in a childhood of very little TV -- I remember a lot of getting lost in cornfields, building bridges across cowponds with sticks, lining rocks up in order of prettiest to ugliest -- we chose to spend our allotted TV hour on two shows: He-Man and She-Ra. My favorite episodes, of course, were when He-Man and She-Ra COMBINED FORCES to save the universe from evil, similar to when Jamie and Paul Buchman would suddenly show up in Central Perk and mistake Phoebe for her evil twin Ursula. Oh, the hilarity!

So yes. I sat down with my clean, warm laundry to watch the pilot episode of She-Ra, Princess of Power. And it was awesome.


And so, so, so much gayer than I remembered.

The credits are like Electric Company plus GLITTER plus power 80s music. Along the lines of Star Wars, they tell some story about something something universe, evil guy... whatever.

And then She-Ra and all her friends stand under the rainbow, because only THEY can save the universe from the HORDES of EVIL. (Which, mind you, I was about halfway into the episode before I realized they were saying "Hordes" and not "Whores.") She-Ra's Rainbow Coalition to Fight the Evil Whores.

So once upon a time, in a Castle Greyskull far away....

a bird-woman was having a very bad dream. She dreamed that a snorting skeleton-pig-fish man was stealing a baby. "You may have won this time, Bird Lady, but you'll never see this BABY again!"

She woke up from her terrible dream, only to see a sword appear in the air and blast open a door that she'd NEVER THOUGHT TO OPEN HERSELF, revealing a magical portal to... somewhere!

Meanwhile, in a Jetsons-type colony, Prince Adam is stirring up a batch of his super special spiced bread, while his giant kitty looks on, Scooby-Doo-like, whining about how hungry he is. Adam explains patiently (sounding suspiciously like Casey Kasem, but apparently he's voiced by John Erwin, who incidentally also voiced Babe the Gallant Pig) that a work of art like his secret spiced bread requires patience.

No, I'm serious.

Suddenly, Adam hears a voice in his head, and utters my favorite line of the entire episode: "Shhh! The sorceress is speaking to me by telepathy!"

BY TELEPATHY

BY TELEPATHY. That means she is IN MY HEAD.

The birdlady in Adam's head tells him to rush to Castle Greyskull RIGHT AWAY. So despite all the nonsense he's just given his cat about how much time and patience his special bread takes, he drops everything, and runs to the castle, where the Bird Woman shows Adam the portal, gives him a sword that looks just like his, except for the gem. ("Hey! Except for this jewel, this sword looks EXACTLY LIKE MINE!") Bird Woman, that saucy minx, then demands Adam go through the portal to look for the person to whom the sword belongs, but she won't tell him WHO. "ADAM, ADAM, PLEASE STOP ASKING QUESTIONS," she whispers girlishly. "JUST GO THROUGH THE DAMN PORTAL AND FIND A MYSTERIOUS PERSON NO I CAN'T TELL YOU ANYTHING ELSE! I HAVE A HEADACHE!"

And she pushes him and his kitty through the portal into a Seussian wonderland. Luckily, Adam fits right in with his violet tights and purple Uggs.

Adam and his kitty do what any characters in a children's show would do upon entering a strange land: they go to a bar.

Where, as it happens, Tom Selleck is sitting with his Rainbow Owl, drinking alone. As usual.

Moments after Adam and the kitty burst in, shocking the locals with his Lilac Uggs ("So 2003!" they whisper), three robots burst into the bar and demand that the harpist "Play something good!"

When the bard fails to play the appropriate music, the robots go crazy, forcing Tom Selleck to unveil himself.

Tom's name, as it turns out, is BEAU. As in "Adam's Handsome New" Beau? Adam hopes so.

The rainbow owl, as it turns out, is as much of a coward as the kitty, and they become besties under a bar table.

Adam and (his) Beau fight the robots together until the bitter end, where they slam them headfirst into matching pink planter pots.

Meanwhile, at the Spider Castle, The Snorty Skeleton speaks to his Evil Whores. You can tell they're evil because they're so sexy. Well, the ladies are. And the dudes are all sea monsters.

I recognize Cat-Ra because we still have her action figure at my mother's house. In fact, N pulled it out of a drawer under the TV last weekend when we were looking for the remote.

Her friend the dementor is the only legitimately scary bad guy. I remember being scared of her when I was little, too. What I didn't realize then is that part of her threat is in her starting-to-sag evil boobs. LOOK INTO YOUR FUTURE, LITTLE GIRLS.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the Gayest Ride in Cartoon History is happening:

No comment.

So Adam and Beau and the kitty and the rainbow owl and the pink horse all go to the Whispering Woods, where they meet up with the "rebels" who are composed of like eight farmers with hoes and led by a pink-haired sweetie named Glimmer.

Glimmer.

Seriously.

Their meeting is interrupted by this Wacky Witch whose eyelids are part of her hat and Her Wacky Broomstick Sidekick who come to tell them that the Evil Whores are imprisoning all the townspeople and sending them off to the Slave Fields.

Glimmer takes a stand. "Golly gee, we can't let them get away with it!"

Now this next part is the only one I find remotely scary, and that's when the Evil Whores are rounding up the townspeople to work in the slave mines. What's interesting is that this was 1985, so all the bad guys should be Cold War Era types -- you know, trying to convert Glimmer to Marxism or whatever -- but instead, they seem to be taking a page from the Nazis. Maybe there's just a finite number of ways for Evil Whores to be Truly Evil, and no one did it better than the Nazis. I have to wonder, though, if my very first understanding of the Holocaust wasn't directly in relation to THIS EPISODE: "Ooohhh, I get it! It's like when the Evil Whores rounded up all the townspeople and sent them off to work in the slave mines!"

And that's what truly scares me.

Anyway, so there's a battle, and the real shocker is that PRINCESS AURORA is EVIL. She is! They keep calling her "Force Captain Aurora" or something, and she is SHOOTING A GUN AT HE-MAN, who we know -- but he doesn't know, and she doesn't know -- oh, delicious dramatic irony -- IS HER BROTHER!!

Also, she isn't wearing pants.

Meanwhile, (her secret brother) Adam runs away, calls on the power vested in him by Castle Greyskull, and turns into He-Man.

And then he shoots his sword at his pet tiger, and it FINALLY turns from being a trembly, hungry, foolish figure (with a voice eerily reminiscent of Brian Close) into the supremely awesome BATTLE CAT I remember from the action figures of my childhood. And yes, we played with He-Man figures along with She-Ra.

And then a battle ensues, in which He-Man tells a very butch-sounding Scorpion Lady to be more ladylike. Seriously, He-Man? With your Violet Tights and your Beau who wears his heart on his chest, and your pet kitty, YOU feel the need to instruct other people on appropriate gender behavior? The nerve.

Then Glimmer gets her ears sucked by a sea monster.

And then He-Man is knocked over by this other sea monster's "Balance Distorter Ray." I'm not making this up. The sea monster can knock you off your balance! Oooooh, how EEE-VIL!

Of course, the battle must finally come down to He-Man and Force Captain Aurora, who are actually brother and sister -- not that you'd guess by their extreme matching Minnesota Blond thing -- and they have a showdown which involves He-Man pulling out the sword (the one that's "except for this jewel, exactly like MY sword") from Bird Lady, only to see....

Aurora's face IN THE GEM!

WHAAAAAAAA??

But she doesn't care! A robot appears and knocks He-Man over, leaving Aurora to pick up the sword WITH HER OWN FACE and stare at it...

TO BE CONTINUED!!

Except I'm not going to continue to recount the entire second half of the episode to you. Not that I won't watch it. On the contrary friends; I still have laundry to fold. It's just that it's so hard to write with the closing themesong ringing in my ears: "For the honor of love... we have the power, so can you!"

How very Colbertian of them.

My Beautiful Pomeranian

Excessively genial insurance salesman: Hey, that's a beautiful dog you have!

Me: Thank you!

EGIS: So, she's some kind of mix, huh? What kind of mix?

Me: No, she's actually a purebred.

EGIS: Oh yeah, a purebred! So she must be a... what, a pomeranian?

Pomeranian: Tiny. Fluffy.

Me:

EGIS: Pomeranian? Is that right?

Zia: Not tiny. Also not fluffy.

Me: Um, she's a greyhound.

EGIS: Oh yeah, of course! A greyhound!

Me: Yep.

EGIS: I've never seen a greyhound that looks like that before!

A bunch of brindle greyhounds: look exactly like Zia.

I wanted to say: Hmmm, well, that's what they look like.
or: So actually, you've never seen a greyhound before.
or: A pomeranian? A POMERANIAN?? HA HA HA HA HA!
or: Please stop talking.

I said: She doesn't like men very much.

Questions Zia Has Refused to Answer

Who's a dog?
Who's a good doggy?
Who's a good girl?
Who's a pretty girl?
Are you a dog?
Are you a doggy?
Are you a good dog?
Are you a good doggy?
Are you a nice dog?
Are you a nice girl?
Are you a good girl?
Are you a pretty girl?
Are you such a pretty girl?
Are you so pretty?
What's your name?
Why are you so pretty?
Why are you such a pretty girl?
Why are you such a good doggy?
How did you get to be such a good doggy?
Is that your friend?
Do you love your friend?
Is that your baby?
Do you love your baby?
Why don't I want to work on my novel?
What's your take on the Sotomayor thing?
Are you so excited about today's Friday Feature?
Can I come take a nap with you instead of working today?


Questions Zia Has Deigned to Answer:
Do you want to go outside?
Do you want to go for a walk?
Do you want some foodie?
Is it time for dinner?

Welcome Home, Zia!

Zia, Week One:

First of all, she is absolutely beautiful. She has gorgeous liquid brown eyes, deep amber in sunlight (just like Zeke's were, when I first met him), and lovely black lining around her eyes. Her fur is striped like a tiger, and she can camouflage into our living room rug pretty tidily. She folds her paws daintily when she rests, and has a very pretty prancing trot when she walks. At different times she looks like a fawn, a horse, a giraffe (it's the neck), a wolf, and some sort of swimming creature, possibly a mermaid. She has a sleek, waving way of moving through the air like it's made of sea. And of course, she always looks like a queen. Last night we had people over and Zia held court from our bed, letting people come in and admire her and pet her without deigning to join the sweaty masses.

She's not like any dog I've ever known. She prefers inside to outside, to the point that we sometimes have to fight her to get her in the backyard to go potty. Even stranger, she loves going for walks; she just hates going into the backyard without a leash on. She doesn't know how to play, doesn't have much of a prey drive, and spends most of her time snoozing. She sleeps a lot.

She's very shy but not really anxious; she won't approach you but she also won't pee in fear or bolt when approached by strangers. She's very patient when little kids hit her and when puppies jump on her. She stood absolutely still when I wanted to clean her ears with q-tips, but was not down with the tooth brushing. Her passive resistance rivals Gandhi's. She's very polite about it, but if she doesn't want to do something, she won't.

Her fur is soft like a bunny's. She likes to be scratched on the neck, right behind her ears. Sometimes when she's sleeping you can see her bottom teeth. She really likes hot dogs but in general is the least food-motivated dog I've ever met. I have a hunch that any time spent with Grandma will change this. She is careful to take every single step going down, but is very nervous to do stairs in the dark. She already feels completely at home at StoryStudio, where she has a big poufy bed to sleep on, right next to my desk.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, we'll wake up to find her lying on her back with all four legs in the air, completely dead to the world.

The end of her tail has a little tuft of black hair, like a lion's tail, or an elephant's. She has a matching pink collar and leash, but strangers still call her "he," probably because she weighs 65 pounds of pure muscle and her head comes nearly to my waist. She likes to look out the front window, especially when N leaves for work. We both go to the front window then, and watch until she's out of sight.

She's a tidy eater and a sloppy drinker. Her nose drips when she's nervous. She's not particularly interested in toys, but sometimes I come home from work to find her curled up with a stuffed bunny in her crate. She puts herself to bed between 8 and 9 pm, and if we're still up she'll come into the hallway every half hour or so as if to ask, "Um, are you guys coming to bed, or what? Because it's bedtime."

She's sleeping in my bed right now, stretched out with her head resting delicately on N's legs, waiting for me to stretch out alongside her and run my hand along her long, soft neck, until we both fall asleep.