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.