So, since my back launched its jihad against the rest of my body (remember those war cries I mentioned…yeah, they came) and I can’t do a damn thing but sit here and watch my house disintegrate around my ears, I thought hey, I might as well blog something! So here it is.
What is the proper response to a three-year-old who comes to you with a q-tip and says “Mommy, there’s green stuff in me” ?
a) turn it into a learning experience by breaking out the microscope
b) take a picture of the proud moment and save the q-tip for the scrap book
c) turn your wave-sound-machine to maximum and return to bed
In the interest of obeying My Beloved, who gave instructions that I was to “take it easy,” I watched The Pirate Movie this morning. Aren’t I a good, obedient wife?? I found it at Target only weeks ago and was eager to share it with my kids.
Don’t let the scandelous cover art fool you. There’s no hanky panky in this movie (not to mention they gave KM actual boobs in that painting when in fact she has none). It is inane. It is goofy. It is the quintessential 80s kiss-fest, complete with pop music and plenty of winking and waving at the camera. It is in no way quality movie-making, by any stretch of the imagination. And I ((heart)) it with all my strength.
The movie stars teen heartthrobs in all their blond, permed glory, and I saw it for the first time whilst flying across the Atlantic in the middle of the night on my way to Stavanger, Norway. I was in ninth grade and my father had been transferred forthwith by Conoco to help them find black gold in the North Sea. I barely knew where Norway was until I looked it up on the globe at the time, and was full of all the anxiety that any midwest-bred hickette could contain. As the stars sang the final song through my little plastic headphones “Give me a happy ending…every time…don’t be unhappy…everything will work out fine…” it might as well have been the voice of God Himself speaking to me from above the roar of the jet engines and the stewardesses offering me hot washcloths and caviar (yeah, we got to fly first class…just once…and yeah, it’s All That. Caviar, notsomuch). Watching Kristy and Christopher dance around so reassuringly whilst singing those words ensured that the movie would lodge securely in the rift of my burgeoning heart, holding back the surge of overwhelming fear and dread before it consumed me.
Give me a happy ending…It’s a cute song in a cute movie full of cute people saying cute things. It could not have been a portent, a sign, or a prophecy. However, I did go on to have the time of my life in Norway. I climbed fiercely jagged mountains and stood here (okay, okay, so I crawled to the edge and peeked over. My brothers probably stood):
I broadened my horizons. I took trips to Europe. I saw the Mona Lisa (the Mona Lisa!) at the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, and floated down the Seine river on a boat. I rode on The Tube in London and toured Shakespeare’s birthplace. I went to Denmark and prowled through castles. I got involved in high school drama productions and discovered that I could be a ham when I wanted to. I decided that I wanted to write, forever. I ate the best chocolate, bread, and ice cream I think I’ve ever had (and yes, I gained 30 lbs, but luckily some of it went to the proper places). I fell in love. Yes! Just like the movie. Our eyes met, and then we got married. Okay, so there was some other stuff in between, but those are the highlights.