First annoying post of 2021

First annoying post of 2021!

After that big sigh of relief that we all just sighed..welcome to 2021!

I miss my friends and my game nights and the never ending snacks.

I miss listening to  snarky people make fun of Ryan Seacrest with me.

 I miss dressing up for an overpriced dinner, wearing a stupid party hat and trying to blow on a horn without accidentally swallowing the mouthpiece.

I miss hearing about resolutions we're breaking in the next day or two, and miss that Karen tradition where I make everyone name their top five highlights and low lights of the year.

That was 2020..the highlights were few.

So I'll just share what my last day was like..

Yes,we  snuck in another movie.  Two in fact.

We saw another wonderful documentary, "I am Greta" this afternoon.

Most docs are terrific and this one was no exception. I learned so much about teenage environmental activist Greta Thunberg--and mostly learned how awesome she is.

We had a terrific Italian  dinner and nightgowns were on by 7:00 PM.  (mine..not Jim's)

And then we started a new tradition.

Wanna hint??

We literally celebrated "Tradition!" with a wonderful musical from 1971..

The reindeer left the roof and the Fiddler took over.

Oh stop..The year is 19 minutes old, I'm allowed to be stupid and tired.

Here's to healing, health, and happiness..

Oh, and  2021??

  Can you please  pick on another name? 

 This Karen in particular has had enough..

Hope you had a Mary Christmas

I lied.

The dead Dick Johnson was not my last mini movie review of the year.

Jim was planning on watching basketball with Evan, who visited us last night, so I was on my own for a chick flick. After a brief--very brief--search on "Rotten Tomatoes" I chose a chick-flick based on the title.

Do you remember  in 2017, when the Best Picture was announced at the Oscars, where Faye Dunaway totally screwed it up?

(of course you do, but I'm ranting so bear with me)

It took over two minutes for "La La Land" producer Jordan Horowitz to thank the Academy, giving a shout out to his wife, Julia Hart, and then he  visibly mouthed the eff word when a stagehand frantically relayed to him that  it was "Moonlight" that had actually won the coveted top  prize!

Embarrassing as that was, that was not Jordan and Julia's most humiliating Hollywood moment.

Writing, producing, and directing(Julia only) "I'm Your Woman" might be up there with the gaffe.

I'm exaggerating, it wasn't that bad, and I chose this because it had "Woman" in the title, thus I anticipated a romcom with a Katherine Heigl type but  who could actually act, like Rachel Brosnahan, the star of this movie, can.

Rachel was MARVELOUS(there I go with the contrived humor again) but the movie was weird and disjointed.

But all mob movies are watchable to some degree, and 'though this wasn't exactly "Goodfellas" it wasn't THAT bad.

There was one laugh out loud moment but it was an inside joke.

Actually, I thought it WAS going to be a comedy, but Jim, who had stopped watching basketball and joined me at the time, snapped , during a particularly bloody scene, "does this LOOK like a comedy to you?"

"Um...kinda???"

But there was this inside joke:

First some background:

I'm not the only family member who makes fun of Jim and his midwestern accent, Evan does too.  

He's always saying things like, "Dad"..say:  "Mary had a Merry Christmas" and we both laugh as he pronounces both words the exact same way

"You don't eat an acai "BARE-Y"..it's "berry."

"Nobody rides the Staten Island Fairy"

(there's a joke in there but I'm not going to make it)

In fact, just the other day, while watching "American Pastoral" I asked Jim several questions about Dakota Fanning's character, Mary, during potty breaks.

The entire cast called her Mary--co-stars Ewan McGregor and Jennifer Connolly called her Mary, clear as day.

In one scene, the character was referred to by her given name, Meredith,  and I thought "Mary" is a weird nickname for that, but Meryl Streep is really a Mary, (Mary Louise Streep) so ..maybe..??

Anyway, the movie ends and I'm reading the credits, and I read that Dakota Fanning played a character named MERRY, not MARY.

I asked Jim why he didn't correct me, that I asked questions about her throughout the movie, and he shrugged it off, saying, "You asked me something about Merry."

"I asked you Something About MARY!" I screamed.

It was Yanni/Laurel all over again.

Anyway, this rant is longer than usual, I know, but in last night's "I'm Your Woman", we see that Rachel's mob wife character, Jean, is on the lam and is forbidden to talk with anyone in her new digs.

She uses an alias when she (stupidly!) answers the door and meets a kindly elderly neighbor.

She says, "I'm Mary, and this is my infant son, Harry"

And the neighbor remarks:  (and by this time, I'm surmising it "might" be her undoing--no spoilers here!) "Oh..how cute..Mary and Harry!"

OMG!!

It wasn't cute!!

They don't RHYME!!

C'mon you  Rust Belt hayseeds, you know better!

Enough ranting, unless I see another bizarre movie today, which I probably will.

I should go shave my "herry" legs. They are "vairy" unkempt.

Maybe you all ring in a joyous New Year, and bid adieu to this disastrous one.

Which was made even worse if you share my name.

Which my Ohio-born husband has always pronounced "KEIR-in" so maybe the "Year of the KAREN" was never about my moniker in the first place .

Harold, Maude and Dick Johnson

It's documentary Wednesday!

I love my docs!

This one is directed by Kirsten Johnson(not be confused with the actress with the same name, if you're dyslexic--you know who I mean--from "3rd Rock From the Sun" and "Mom") and  is very watchable.

It's called "Dick Johnson is Dead"  and the entertainment value goes beyond the double phallic name in the title.

It's odd and quirky, but not in an annoying, pretentious way.  The subjects are really likable--after Covid's over, I want to have lunch with them.

One might guess that  the filmmaker got her inspiration from "Harold and Maude" so if you liked that, you'll like this too.

Want proof that I'm the four year old I claimed to be the other day?

Dick Johnson has a double phallic name.

So does Peter O'Toole.

I am planning on spending the next fifteen minutes thinking of  others.

Ooh..got one.!!

If Vera Wang adopted Rod Serling as a child and he took on her name, he'd be Rod Wang.

...(and being a dead celebrity would be the least of his problems now.)

I may try to grab another movie or two before bidding adieu to the dreadful year.

Who is bringing the popcorn?

Kajillion.. I need some air..

I take it all back:

The movie I criticized so heavily last night, "The Assistant," is "Citizen Kane" compared to the disaster we devoted our time to tonight.

I am an avid reader of "Entertainment Weekly" (still!--even though the graphics make reading impossible if you're not high and you're not in your 20's) and when they put a movie on their Ten Best  List, I find a way to watch it.

I am a big fan of Debra Winger's and I can tell you every single line of dialogue.. off the top of my head!!.. from "Terms of Endearment"--and I'm not just talking about the "GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE SHOT!" line that EVERYONE quotes, I'm talking every single scripted word, more or less.

So when EW tells me to see DW in a plot-driven movie called "Kajillionaire", you can bet I listened.

I now have to  refer to one of my favorite actresses as DEBacle Winger.

It was,  by far, one of the worst movies I have ever seen.

And I LIKE weird, artsy, pretentious,nutsy.. so even 'though it was all of that...

..I think I should have sat through "CATS" again.

Smart Rotten Tomato critics, who gave this movie high ratings,  are like people who support candidates that boggle the mind:  One simply cannot under their collective thought processes.

I thought, "maybe I'm sleeping?" but I heard myself breathe.

I thought, "maybe I'm dead?" but..see above.

I thought. "maybe this needs subtitles?" but I understood every  ridiculous word.

I saw one other film by the director, Miranda July,  called "You and Me and Everyone We Know" and 'though it was crazy weird, it was enjoyable..I think.

The earthquake scene in this movie didn't even shake things up.

It was..it was..there are no words to describe it.  It was something you'd find on the bottom of your shoe, but less exciting.

Today's matinee selection  was a certainly better.  We saw a movie from 2016, based on a novel by the always provocative Phillip Roth, called "American Pastoral."

It was strange and disturbing too, but it had a plot.  And you didn't want to stab yourself in the eyeball while watching it.

I think maybe I need a break from all this movie madness, but I'll stick with it for now.

There are so many things yet to binge on Netflix--longer series that require commitment--and maybe they'd be a nice change from these disaster films that have no idea they're in the disaster genre.

I have to make some good New Year's Resolutions., ones I can actually keep.

No more horror movies..real life is covering that all too well.

I need to be entertained at the movies, even if it's in my own living room

Nothingness

Today's review on the "big" screen:

(technically, a 35" Samsung, but bear with me) is what Siskel and Ebert would call the "Stinker of the Week"(when they'd haul a skunk onto the set of "At the Movies") or the "Dog of the Week" when it was a canine whose name I'm forgetting.

I thought "The Assistant" was going to be something for the  #MeToo generation, a Harvey Weinstein-esque expose.

It was literally a movie about..nothing.

George Costanza would have been inspired by its nothingness.

Julia Garner played an overworked, underpaid, underappreciated, abused assistant to some jerk.  

At first, I was thinking, "I can relate!  I've HAD jobs like this!  EVERY job I had was like this!"

But the entire movie was just Julia, shuffling papers, or clipping papers together(my techie husband was particularly bothered by this--all the freaking paper--he justifiably  feels we need to go green and only communicate electronically) but Julia just did menial task after menial task after menial task after menial task after menial task..wait..I'm not done!!!..after menial task after menial task after..

OK, I'll stop.

But I cannot hear one more coffee pot percolating: hear one more one sided conversation when we know what Julia is saying(barely) but we have no idea who she's talking with or what they're saying.

It really was like watching a ninety two  minute documentary about paint drying, except ninety-two percent of critics saw something beautiful and artistic in this stinker, as I imagine they would if they witnessed actual paint drying.

The one scene that held our interest, the one involving Julia wasting her time with Human Resources, was a little bit interesting, but then we'd be bombarded with random shots of NY streets, or horny co-workers making jokes we couldn't understand.

You should see this movie if you're seeing it with someone sarcastic, like I did, because  Jim's commentary was way more entertaining than the movie.

Most of the time, Jim and I look for holes in the plot of the movie we're seeing, tonight, we were looking for plot in the holes.

That's my review of what was on the "big" screen today.

On the "small" screen(a laptop) I saw my doctor for a boring Telemed visit, so she could "examine" my thyroid(!!) so I could get a prescription for blood work so I can THEN go for the blood work, leaving the house for the first time in months, and get the Synthoid prescription renewed, a drug I care absolutely nothing about and have no idea why I take it.

It does NOT cure my nasty disposition or my unruly cowlick, so I have no idea why I'm taking it, or how she could "see" my thyroid on the PHONE, but I guess it could have been worse, like if she had to give me a rectal.

Please let me know if this is border-line small talk and I'll stop.

I HATE small talk.

I may nod my head and plaster on a smile and say things like "oh yeah?" or "is that so..wow!"  or.."I had no idea!" but INSIDE I'm saying, "you're lucky I'm taxing my brain right now by trying to remember who won Best Supporting Actress in 2006, because if I had to actually LISTEN to what you were saying, one of us might be the victim of a nasty  sucker punch."

Please..please..PLEASE tell me if this post is like the time I had to listen to someone talking about the ordeal of returning tea towels to Target.

That was IT..and I've talked about this before.

She returned tea towels to Target!!

Brad Pitt was not behind her in line.

The Target clerk did not say, "way to go!  Yours is the 100th return today so you won a great prize..a year's supply of tea towels!"

She did NOT stop a mad bomber in the parking lot.

She... just... returned... tea.. towels... to.. Target.

Again, I am ALWAYS civil, but please don't tell me that Easter of 2019 was a disaster, because your" Mom didn't have enough place mats and some people had to sit in the kitchen nook."

Easter dinner was long over when you shared that story--there was NOTHING I could do about it, so why were you bothering me with this nonsense?

If you haven't seen me in over a year, don't start the conversation by telling me about a problem with your transmission.  I am not a mechanic and even if I were, I don't 'effin care!! 

 You don't even know where I went to college or if my parents are still living, why the hell do I care about what happened at Jiffy Lube?"

Don't tell me about taking your grandmother to the rheumatologist unless there is a human interest angle, like she beat the guy up because she remembered him from third grade and  the time he stuck her ponytail into his inkwell.

I have now worked myself into such a tizzy that I don't think I can sleep, but I'll TRY, as long as you all promise me to not discuss the peaches you bought at Stop n Shop unless I BRING IT UP.

I should have a movie review of something good tomorrow. 

I'll give you something to talk about.

(But not..I repeat..NOT..SMALL talk about)

When I’m four years old..

Today, Jim and Evan watched the NY Jets win a National Football League while I indulged myself in ANOTHER kind of  fairy tale, a Disney movie called "Godmothered."

I turned into a four year old and I know, I know, everyone who has read my blogs or Facebook posts  and are familiar with my sense of humor and my maturity level are thinking, "was that much of a stretch?"

It was not.

It's a  predictable silly, loopy, goofy movie, and like every movie fan on the planet, I had to wait 'til the closing credits to realize that Amy Adams and Isla Fisher are two different people.

I was transported back to 1960 in my own living room today, to enjoy a Disney movie,  but it could have been a lot worse.

I could have found a time machine and gone back to 1960, when I WAS actually a four year old.

My actual four year old self wanted to marry Dick Van Dyke or my father.

Or my dog.

My actual four year old self wanted to know why I got in trouble for sprinkling my body with a can of Comet cleanser(that my mother kept next to the toilet--it was 1960 and nobody knew how dangerous that was) after a bath, when she did not get into trouble as she did the exact same thing with a container of Johnson and Johnson Baby Powder.  (again, it was 1960 and nobody knew how dangerous it was)

My four year old self wanted nothing but cake and ice cream for dinner--right--like sixty years later, I'd turn that down???

My four year old self wore tutus and couldn't dance, but could pull apart worms on a hiking trip with my brothers and father, because  beheading  insects didn't require rhythm or coordination.

My four year old self wanted to be adopted by The Flintstones, because it was cool to have  an elephant's trunk as a faucet.

(Sixty years later, my cousin   shared a Facebook meme that wondered why the PREHISTORIC Flintstones has a CHRISTMAS special, and it was the first time I really thought about that very excellent question!)

But even in 1960, I wondered why one could walk into the Bedrock house, an ordinary house of normal size  with a dinosaur dog and adults who constantly smoked, but when EXITING the exact same house, it became the length of three football fields and you needed to be Usain Bolt to reach the mailman in time before your husband opened that letter with a hammer and chisel.

My four year old self would tell everyone my middle name was "Ann" because my given one, Randi, was a "boy's name."

Sixty years later, I'm thinking Randi trumps Karen, and it's a gender neutral name to boot.

My four year old self had an imaginary boyfriend named Glenn. 

 I'd make my Dad shave for him and make my Mom set a place at the dinner table.  Nobody  could every figure out who the hell it was--we didn't know anyone with that name--but because I obviously have a crackerjack memory, I think it was supposed to be astronaut John Glenn, as I heard his name mentioned a lot on the old RCA black and white television set.

Now..the imaginary boyfriend I invented in my twenties??  That one can't be explained.

My four year old self was very blond and very skinny, and something told my four year old self that if I didn't stay that way, I could never become a princess.

Well I didn't and they were wrong.  

Skinny blonds get Rudy Giuliani.

I got a prince who leaves shoes all over the house.

Watch "Godmothered" if you have access to a little girl, or even if you don't,  but don't confuse it with "The Godfather."

Your great-niece is going to have a lot of questions about a horse's head if you do.

The life ahead after fantasy football season

Of course we do other things besides stream movies on Netflix, OF COURSE we do!

But I'm having trouble remembering exactly what those other things are.

Breathing, bathing, sleeping, sneezing(sounds like alternative names for Snow White's Dwarves, doesn't it?)

Or a Nyquil commercial??

 We do  MARITAL stuff, like arguing about leaving shoes scattered all over the house and/or not turning off lights when exiting a room. etc, etc, ETC...

But we haven't yet been vaccinated, so going out is..out.

That leaves Netflix and other streaming sources to fill our days, plus Jim venturing out for essentials like grocery shopping and cardio workouts.

Tonight's offering was pure gold, and it's  the first film we've seen with subtitles.

Don't miss "The Life Ahead" with Sophia Loren as a Holocaust survivor and former prostitute who spends her golden years as the caretaker for children of other  ladies of the night.

I'm making it sound like a melodramatic soap, and it's not.

It's a wonderful movie and one shouldn't be put off by subtitles.

They're a good thing because it means you HAVE to pay attention to the big screen and not obsess about your inevitable loss in the family fantasy football league, or check photos of what your HS friend, whom you haven't seen in over forty five years, made for dinner tonight, on your phone.(s)

I know I recommend a LOT of movies(and forget every single title and streaming source  when asked about it  two-three days later) but "The Life Ahead" is one you won't want to miss.

And it's a metaphor for 2021:  "The Life Ahead"

Now if I only had a different name...

It’s 2039 and...

Episode #976:

 " Karen and Jim:  At The Movies!"

(or as we affectionately refer to ourselves, "the thin one" and the "not-so-thin one")

Let me start with last night, and a quick review of "The Happiest Season." 

 Jim watched bits and pieces, and even 'though every fan of "Schitt'$ Creek"(the precious  Dan Levy is in both) saw this weeks ago, I finally tuned in and was pleasantly surprised.

This was the second love story I've seen in the past couple of weeks that featured women, but this was a lot better than  "Ammonite"  which a critic called "nothing but corsets and cunnilingus."

True dat, but I wouldn't think of something so apt and clever, because I'm not a witty  critic.

Today's feature was directed by George Clooney, who was also the star. 

 I usually hate sci-fi movies.

They evoke childhood memories when my parents forced us out of the house for Saturday matinees(ours, not theirs) and my brothers would pick a "boy flick" with robots and space adventures and crap, so I concentrated on concession stand loot while they watched.

Well, there was no candy in the house(any more!) so I HAD to pay attention to "The Midnight Sky" and..it was better than we thought it would be.

It is set twenty-nine years in the future but it could have taken place yesterday as in, as in all the cliched break downs with communication and faulty equipment that was not unlike the ZOOM call you had with your grandparents this week.

And this IS NOT A SPOILER but some people think even naming the movie by its TITLE is a SPOILER, so scroll down if you don't want to know it stars GEORGE CLOONEY as a scientist who urgently needs to warn a group of space explorers not to return to Earth.

That is not a SPOILER:  That is in the Netflix summary, and I will NOT, no matter how hard you BEG, tell you WHY Clooney's character had to get this message out, a message that describes what is wrong with the planet twenty-nine from now, but I'll let you have some fun with these guesses, as we did every time we hit the pause button for Jim's potty break:

1)  It's 2039!!  Barron Trump is President!

2) It's 2039!  They're  releasing the musical sequel to "Cats!"

3) It's 2039!  There is major unrest and rioting in cities such as Washington, DC, and Cleveland Ohio, because nobody  has EVER  come up with politically correct new names for their sports franchises and fans are stuck with t-shirts they can't sell on Craig's List.

Again, the movie held my interest.

Next ahead:  "The Life Ahead" with Sophia Loren

"til next time:  Save us the aisle seat

Smooth jazz on Christmas Eve

Doris Day lives!!

..In a technicolor movie with a 1950's feel... that was made in 2020 with an all Black cast.

Smooth jazz, flashy clothes, distinctive autos and Jackie O. hair..plus we never saw a character without a cigarette in hand.

The plot was silly, the acting: sillier.  The dialogue was something that you might see satirized in an SNL skit.

But damn, if we both didn't LOVE the thoroughly  entertaining romcom,  "Sylvie's Love."

It was a great way to spend Christmas Eve, just the two of us, worrying about Santa's night vision in all this terrible rain, enjoying the sound of it hitting our roof.

..or is that actually  RAIN, dear?

Go to bed, Karen..Nobody's listening to you anymore

Except maybe Comet.  Comet may be eavesdropping..from the eave..on Christmas Eve.

Wow..I had way too much egg nog..no wait, I didn't have a drop..way too much iced tea tonight.

Sweet dreams of sugarplums, people.

The sound of metal

Another day, another movie review.

Our matinee offering was the critically acclaimed "Sound of Metal", which told me all I needed to know about why I never liked the heavy metal music genre:

Because:

A) It can cause major hearing loss

B) it's heavy metal music

The Best Actor Oscar race is getting tighter with a tour de force performance by Riz Ahmed as Ruben Stone and by..oh.screw this.

I am boring myself with these cookie cutter reviews.  Time to mix it up a little with a parody that I am compelled to write, if not sing:

Our days stuck inside/are starting to be..a bore/can't take a short ride/like we used to do..before..

but we're not unnerved, stressed or screaming

we've both learned to cope and make do

there're so many great films we're streaming

so we're OK!

'cause every day

we stream one..or..two!

The den came alive!

With the "Sound of Metal"

a great little film

earning Oscar buzz

we watched..(3:00-5:00!)

as we both would settle

in nice cozy chairs..

that's how our..day..was!

This movie is great!

worth the wait!

it stars Riz Ahmed

as a metal..star

it's made many lists

it should not be missed!

the year's best..by far...

there's love and romance ..lotsa drama too

unexpected..twists..

as I said before..

This is one film that should not be missed!

We go to the den!

keeps our spirits risin'

we know we'll return

to a movie house

until that day comes..

we'll be compromisin'..

just me and..my spouse:)

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate!

Merry Christmas.. Charlie Brown

T'was the night before Christmas and all through the house/you'll find shoes everywhere that belong to my spouse/I'm sitting here braless with God-awful hair/and I don't give a hoot..we can't go anywhere!!/the poodle is nestled all snug in his wee little nook/with visions of humping sheets/damn it..tonight I MUST cook!/I don't own a kerchief/Jim won't wear a cap/but we're desperately craving a long..winter's nap..

My snarky attempt at parody is  healthier than the original version. where the guy in the cap is anticipating a visit from St. Nick instead of the exterminator to deal with the mouse that isn't stirring anymore, which means he's got a dead mouse on Christmas Eve. That should take priority over sugar plums, whatever THEY are.

Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!

I got a rock

Some more random thoughts:

When you have the maturity level of a seven year old, you should not be watching period pieces, even in the comfort  of your own home.

"Ammonite" is beautifully shot and beautifully produced with wonderful acting from Kate Winslet and Saoirse Ronan, a story  about forbidden love in the 1800's between a repressed wife and a rock (aka "ammonite") expert, but we mostly found it a little dull..like a bagful of ...rocks.

We could never get away with this level of immaturity in an actual theater, but we were  in the living room, dubbing "Titanic" dialogue because we've(I've) seen the film about 97 times, and the love story basically is the same as that movie's, with Kate playing Leo and Saoirse playing Kate, and if that spelling is wrong, so be it because nobody on Earth can spell that wonderful Irish actress's name.

Kate would draw: we'd dub in Leo's dialogue as he held the charcoal and Rose wore nothing but the blue diamond.

Saoirse would wade into the ocean for a therapeutic  dip  and we'd be looking for that floating door.

Oh..and speaking of a bagful of rocks, as I just did in a few paragraphs above, now is as good a time as any to ruin the Charlie Brown specials for everyone.

The controversy has already started with "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving" when the one and only minority character, Franklin, is forced to eat alone on his side of the table.

But now I'm starting my own controversy with "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown"

What kind of a sick, demented  neighborhood did our lovable loser live in anyway? 

 Is there a reason we seldom see adults, except verbally, with the teachers who answers every question as 'though it were:  "Where do you buy your morning coffee?"  

(WaWa)

Look, I know CB was only trying to comfort Linus, who had missed trick-or-treating by sitting in a pumpkin patch all night, but how did he wind up with a bag of NOTHING but rocks?

OK..maybe..and I mean MAYBE..one blind old lady accidentally put a single stone in a deep communal  candy bowl that contained wrapped candy bars and gum and lemon drops, thinking maybe she forgot to toss a pebble or two into her aquarium,  but this happened at EVERY SINGLE house on that blockhead's block.

Did the neighbors conspire?  Did they think, perhaps diabetes ran in the Brown family and they were just trying to be" helpful?"

  But if that were so, why did his sister  Sally get candy?  (at least, belatedly)

Did they think the trademark  horizontal zigzag strip of his shirt made him look fat, and they were worried about "his health?"

Maybe..but he was in a Halloween costume--a sheet filled with as many holes as this plot.

Sorry..I'm not buying that every responsible adult in that neighborhood" accidentally" gave him rocks.

Just like I'm not buying that someone would sell a dead Christmas tree to that same   stupid child just a few months later.

Speaking of stupid children..

I'm sorry for being one, and ruining period pieces and Charles Schulz's imagination for you.

Tonight it's "Ma Rainey's Black Bottom" and so help me, if it turns out to be about S&M and fetishes....

I'm NOT  going to hand out rocks, I promise you that.

But I'll do something, I guarantee it

Bug juice and gravy..

My random thought for today, where it's ninety degrees below zero and we're iced in, like we've been since March, is about summer camp, because..

..because of COURSE it is. 

 Just because I haven't been to one since 1977, and just because they may never open again, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about camps, particularly the one of my girlhood in Phoenixville Pa(a suburb of Philadelphia) where I attended as a camper from 1963-1964 and again from 1966-1967.  

Don't try to figure out the logic of why my parents didn't send me in 1965--these were the same people who'd talk to someone who accidentally dialed the wrong number like a stand up comic would talk to a heckler(my Dad) or talk to a pervert because she thought it was my brother, crying and drunk. (My Mom) and... spoiler alert:  It was not my brother calling but it's a true story and a  random thought for another day.

The alumnae of Camp Council, my home away from home, have been chatting a lot lately, consoling one another after we lost one of our own a few days ago to Covid,  and just sharing happy memories in general.

I have a few memories as a kid, one being that I was a huge fan of savory gravy, once  sticking a finger in a gravy boat to sample when I thought my counselors weren't looking(but you know who WAS looking??  A VIP BOARD MEMBER whose mouth said:  "Ha ha..this kid sure likes her  gravy!" while her eyes said, "this girl will grow up to be either a monster or an unpopular blogger."

My other food memory(and of course it's a food memory!) happened in 1976, when I returned to the camp as a counselor, and I overate on CAMP food, which shows how pathetic I am.

The new counselor was a quiet summer replacement who I didn't know at all--she was thin and taught athletics and I was chubby and taught acting(more on that later) but she escorted me to the infirmary, and as the anti nausea meds kicked in, we talked and got to know each other, and by  the time we got to really know each other by discussing all the popular campers and counselors  that we  both hated, we were both throwing up, and I'm proud to say that conversation led to a forty-five year friendship with my BFF, Rochelle.

This camp for underprivileged girls had a policy that the counselors who worked there would be called "Aunt." 

 "Miss Levson" would have been mispronounced, and they couldn't call me Karen, because they all had crystal balls and knew what the name was going to mean in 2020, so I was "Aunt Karen"--my very first label.

The camp had several departments, and it was hard to figure out just what staff I should be on.

I couldn't even be something general, like the camp secretary, because I could never figure out how to load carbon paper into a typewriter(oh..if anyone is reading this under the age of twenty-five, you're googling like crazy, aren't you?  But then again if you're under twenty-five, you have better things to do on your snow day than to figure out what carbon paper was, and why it left everyone with purple smudges everywhere)

I couldn't be on the Swim Staff, because my fellow instructors would say, "now watch Aunt Karen, girls..as she demonstrates how easily it is to drown just by going into the water"

I couldn't be on the Arts&Crafts Staff, because I'd make the girls make only ashtrays, because if my lungs were shot from second hand smoke, theirs were gonna be too.

I couldn't be on the Nature Staff, because the girls would huddle around the long wooden table in  log cabin("The Nature Lodge") with their dome-shaped microscopes and ask, "Aunt Karen..what kind of leaf is this?" and I'd inevitably respond, "one that came from a tree" or.."what kind of bug is this?" and I'd probably say "a buggy one" or.."I wouldn't eat that if I were you" to which a smart aleck would respond, "Oh Aunt Karen..I've seen you with that bug juice.  You got drunk on it and met Aunt Rochelle!"

I couldn't be on the Athletic Staff.

There is no need to attempt to be funny here.

If we've met, you'd just KNOW...

I couldn't be on the Athletic Staff.

So that left Fine Arts.

I had dancing skills that made Elaine Benes look like Cyd Charisse: I could sing a little, but not enough to teach it.

So that left acting.

  Yes, I taught little girly  kids how to project their little voices and breathe from their diaphragms.

I taught them how to make believe..how to act..how to fake an org..

Okay, I did NOT teach the last part, I just wanted to see if you were still listening.

I'd clip a large paper plate to a small paper plate, the inner plate bearing names of random characters I created, the outer, situations, so they could spin and wind up with something like:  "A Depressed Circus Clown" and "can't get the red velvet cake to rise in the oven."

I'd give them thirty seconds to create the perfect Improv and they usually did.  These girls had great imaginations and wonderful minds, and because the camp hadn't gone coed yet, they cared a lot more about their creative endeavors than they cared about mascara.

I also wrote a few original musicals with important themes like the environment in "Janet Granite From the Planet U-Pan-It" or.."Miss Etiquette From Connecticut" where the opening scene revolved around how you should NOT stick your fingers in a shared gravy bowl because you thought nobody was looking because they're ALWAYS looking.

I am hoping that kids like me get to go back to camp in 2021..

I hope that counselors like me get to go back as well, where they might meet someone as wonderful as my friend Terri, who we just lost to Covid:

Terri would like this post..she liked a lot of my posts, like the one I wrote when Jim and I went to Punta Cana in 2017 and the exchange went something like this:

Me:  Jim and I had a great lunch by the water today..succulent baby lamb

Terri:  HAH!  I at first read that as "successful" baby lamb.

Me:  If they were successful, wouldn't they have made it to adulthood?"

Terri:  (Spit-take)  SNORT!!

I miss you Terri...have some heavenly stolen gravy on me..

Mis-manners

Because some of you have asked..

..and you'll be sorry you did..

here is/are my random thought(s) this morning:

I remember reading a Miss Manners or perhaps an Ann Landers column back in the 70's, where a woman demanded to know what was wrong with modern mothers, boasting that HER daughters came to the dinner table every night, just after their piano lessons, wearing their "good" skirts--their" Sunday Best" blouses--high heels, and their grandmothers' pearls.

I remember thinking when I read this:

1)  What kind of abuser are you?

2) who pays your dry cleaning bills?

3) Why are "Sunday's" clothes better than Mondays?

4) You really think making your girls wear blouses to a dinner of kale and brown rice is going to keep them away from expensive psychiatric care thirty years from now?

Things were very different at my childhood dinner table.

I did not wear pearls.  I did not own pearls.  They were lucky I wore a bra. I did not wear high heels..I was barefoot.

We were not polite and conservative.  We passed gas along with passing mashed potatoes. My father would make ashtrays out of globs of ketchup that he squirted on his plate--not funny for me, the dishwasher(by hand!) with the chronic cough.

We let the dog eat off of the plates on the same table we ate at.

But we were happy..and well fed..and we LAUGHED. 

Oh, and GOD FORBID somebody accidentally called the wrong number during dinner time.

MY father would answer:  "Agnes??  Agnes??  Wait a minute..let me try again..AGNES?? !!! No, I don't think Agnes is here..I think I just heard the toilet flush..Agnes..was that you?"

Those poor schmucks who weren't smart enough to dial the right phone number got exactly what they deserved.

I remember someone called once to say "I heard a crazy man lives here so I just wanted to hear what he had to say."

No..we were not polite company, not at all.

I remember once my Mom tried to serve something different, a cornish hen, and my brother described what it looked like(a female body part) without a moment's hesitation.

I hope he doesn't get mad at me for airing dirty laundry...

..which I did inadvertently in an attempt to hand-wash  my delicates from time to time.

Nope..no pearls or piano lessons for me. 

But it made me what I am today.

The jury's still out on what that exactly is...

((

Coronacoaster

Another week comes to a close: another dizzying ride on the Coronacoaster.

I don't know if any of you go through this, but do you ever go on Facebook and see a friend's post that seems a little off to you but you can't pinpoint what's amiss? 

 Like they'll post a pic of their pet, or their friends that you don't know are sending beautiful memes and quotes, and you scan the quotes, and your eyes quickly read "RIP" and then it dawns on you, after maybe a full minute, that the person being talked about is actually your friend and not their pet or distant relative?

You gasp out loud..and see so many people posting a version of, "wait..WHAT???" and then, as the shock sets in, you realize you're not the only one who couldn't believe what they were reading.

I hadn't seen Terri in almost forty years, but I adored her back in our camp days.  She totally got me, in an environment where I often felt like an outcast, she got me. 

 And she was so popular and beloved!

I was just a nerdy word geek in bargain basement clothes, but she saw potential.

I got to know her and fall in love all over again with Terri via Facebook.  She absolutely LOVES my vacation journals, and I loved reading her reactions... that usually involved a spit-take or two.

I'd could always count on Terri for a "groan" after a heady pun I'd share, and I'll tell you, I'm going to miss those reactions.

I'm sad and I'm angry that we probably lost her to Covid.  She was healthy, only a year or two older than me, and she was vigilant about following protocol.

This is life, but it's not a fair life.

And then my depression worsened as I tried to keep up with the POTUS shenanigans, but tonight, I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that HIS appointees did the right thing.  They absolutely did the right thing and treated his frivolous claims as they should be treated.

So I'm mourning Terri(and getting comfort from everyone who loved her, which is everyone who knew her) and I'm desperate for a pick-me-up that was something other than the installation of  our new shower stall.  It is beautiful but it's for Jim--I use the hall bath. 

 Separate bathrooms are essential for a happy marriage.

So here it is, a Friday night, the end of a week when you can't use the TGIF acronym because you're still imprisoned in your home, when I see that Facebook is flooded with posts from people recommending "The Prom."

And this pick-me up did more for my soul than any medicine could in a million years.

It was colorful and splashy and feel good and think good, with brilliant lyrics and singable songs and stellar performances.

I know theater-goers raved about it when Broadway's lights were still neon and lit up, and I was so happy to see this in the comfort of my home, in a lounge chair, sitting adjacent to my husband who loved it as much as I did, and neither of us had to wear a bra.

Thanks to Ryan Murphy for ending my week on a very very VERY high note.

I'm going to dream about streamers and balloons and glitter and poufy dresses and..

vaccines.

Tonight I will dream about vaccines.