Saturday, December 15, 2012

Dull Versus Mean, Punk Versus Pop, Blonde Versus Blonde, Yay! It's Another Lesson in Music and Girl Talk and Changing The Subject, by Allison

So in the car, I've got it on First Wave satellite station (which by the way, is very liberal in their inclusion into what does or does not make it into First Wave category to the point of unironically playing Sting, not The Police-era, but Tantric Sting "Love is the Seventh Wave," when, honestly, that is truly Seventh Wave not First Wave and I was going to do a rant about that but it was like serpent eating its tail and I could not be linear) and Blondie's "Rip Her To Shreds" comes on.
And I do not listen to that song enough, because it is awesome and I am huge fan of early Blondie, Debbie Harry is complete badass and known gritty-punk-glam-you want me and you don't want to mess with me-chic icon.

But then I realize, girls are in the car, can I remember the lyrics?
Do I have to do a thing on "artists can do extreme things in art or music creatively to express an emotion we feel but we do not say in words at school" talk, otherwise knows as How Allison Justifies Mumford and Sons "Little Lion Man" and qualifies Jay-Z's "99 Problems" as a love song?

As am pondering, and remembering lyrics and how much I loved the microphone Debbie Harry used back in the day of yore, uphill, in the snow, E goes "Oh. Well, she's not being nice about that other girl."
And I gather myself up for Lesson In Music, Girl Fight Edition, E solves it for me.  She's like, "It's like the Taylor Swift "Mean" song."


Saved by the kid!

Because she is totally right.

And honestly, it is war of the blondes here, because while Debbie Harry's "She's so dull, come on, rip her to shreds" is harsh and we are non-violent here, it is an expression, not a call to war, or so I think.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Dear John Taylor, A Thank You, Fan Letter, Book Review, and First Letter I Have Written To John Taylor That Is Not Purple With Hearts On It, by Allison

Dear John Taylor,

 (Note: Ha!!
 I have not started a letter with that opening in quite a few years, and this is not pink stationery with purple ink and i's dotted with hearts!
But I am sure you will remember me,
was probably only 14 year old girl with pastel papered,
twenty paged,
adjective-laden Odes To Your Awesomeness.)

Thank you for your lovely autobiography.
It was a very thoughtful birthday gift.

Having recently seen you and the other Durans in quite impressively maintained gloriousness in concert,
and then I waxed poetic about my longstanding fandom and your very important status as My First Pretend Boyfriend here:

It was totally obvious to me,
as I am both deranged and narcissist,
that you wrote your book and timed its release right for my birthday out of appreciation for the sheer quantity of posters,
illicit video collections that were confiscated in two seconds but still,
my self-proclaimed full time job as PR and Promotions Person for Duran Duran,
They Are British And Musicians And Awesome Have You Seen Their Hair PS John Taylor Is Mine
I am nothing if not devoted and loyal to my Pretend British Musician Boyfriends,
I most certainly can't quit you.

And in fact,
you kind of created a forevermore category of What Allison Thinks Is Awesome:
Tall, Floppy Hair,
British, Brooding,
Musician, Play Instrument,
Guitar Of Some Sort Preferred.

So kind of,
it is your fault I am this irrational,
and possibly have not progressed emotionally since age fourteen.

It was the least you could do, to write a book for me for my birthday.

I was totally freaked out by the title, In The Pleasure Groove,
 and very concerned I would be reading many chapters on exploits with groupies who were not middle school girls who wrote you letters on pink paper with purple pen.

I kind of lingered in the early chapters,
 in which you were charming nerdy music geek named Nigel

(Which?  I already knew, because I am Best Fan Ever,
and used that in the duel at dawn type showdowns I had with foolish,
uninformed persons thinking they were Better Fan.
I also used the bar you all started in,
Rum Runner, ha ha!!!!!! to the seven girls named Jen I trumped in Who Is Best Fan Ever And May Get To Marry John Taylor Contest,
but it was super fun to read all about it instead of memorizing details from creepy fan magazines from Japan that this music store would order for me,
and I would make notepads full of vital statistics in case of  possible duel at dawn coming up)

And loved reading about the art and fashion and music that influenced you,
because that is actually very interesting and cool to learn,
 and there was no giant whiff of
This Book Was Totally Written By Ghostwriter Otherwise Known As,
Person Who Wrote This Whole Book And Has Not Even Met John Taylor.

I realize I am biased,
 as you were my first Pretend Boyfriend,
and started a whole thing,
 that anyone who has known me then and since has to deal with,
which is probably very cumbersome for all of those people,
seeing as:

1. I did have a clipboard and would quiz fellow fans with inane trivia facts in seventh grade

2.  And I was relentless in forcing everyone I was friends with to become Giant Fans.

But guess what, that totally worked, and you are welcome.

You did return the favor you probably didn't quite realize you owed me -

By being Guardian Angel Pretend Boyfriend,
steering me eventually to my Actual Husband Matt,
who is tall, has righteously excellent hair,
plays bass guitar too!
(Note: He is not British,
very rarely broods,
which is probably good for the emotional climate of our home anyway,
since he is professional kind cancer doctor and handler of me,
and I think you need to have a calm demeanor for both of those jobs he has permanently,
full-time taken on.)

So, the (number of years redacted due to author's vanity, mine, not yours,  JT) of You Having Permanent Status As My First Pretend Boyfriend,
shaping my core value system on What Is Awesome,
and then you writing me the book and everything,
I really wanted the book to be fab and not squicky "pleasure groove" meaning stuff on vans and things I do not want to know about at all,
I was busy memorizing your favorite toothpaste back then.

I was kind of nervous to get past the "let's get a band together" part.

Why did I doubt you, First Pretend Boyfriend John Taylor?
You are not gross!

Instead, hurray!
I was right all along!

You are awesome!

I mean,
awesome in that you tactfully referenced but did not discuss in squick format anything squicky, talked about your drug use and how you overcame it without under or overplaying it, which is hard thing to do,
did not go into huge juicy detail over various breakups of the Durans and acknowledged that it was kind of lame not to tell all about it,
 but that you all had long-standing relationships with each other,
good save on that.

And tons and tons on the music!
Lyric Inspirations!
How My Most Favoritest Of Your Songs Came To Be!
Info on Hair!!!!!!

Honestly, it was quite a generous birthday gift, John Taylor.

And you are sweet about your wife and daughter,
 and not in a way in which I think that your wife actually wrote those chapters and handed them to you,
seemed genuine.
And also, pictures!
Some I haven't seen before!


I may have to source out some pink paper and purple ink pen and old-school Write a Document ,
an Ode of Thanks on such a lovely walk down your memory lane,
which was my yellow brick road,
except I am not Dorothy OR Elton John,
and you are not weird little dude behind a curtain wearing garish green ensemble.
You are wearing black,
or otherwise dark,
awesome rock star outfit,
I am sure. 

And I have learned a bit of sartorial knowledge since middle school,
and no longer wear Panama Hats in your honor
(But you wrote about that hat in the book!!!!!!!!!!!!
How the hat came to be!
I almost wept with nostalgia for a hat,
and reached for the phone that does not exist,
 because it is in a house in which I no longer live,
 and it plugs into a wall that probably doesn't have your face plastered all over it anymore)

So yay.
I am happy when Awesome remains Awesome.

And I find it not all that surprising that as I tote around your book,
my daughter E has got "One Direction, Our Story" earmarked on the pages about Harry.

He is tall, you know.
Best Hair.
He seems kind of smiley and not sure if he plays an instrument,
and I think their songs are written in a labratory by psychologists trained in the psyche of tween girls, but it is a start.

Your Bestest Fan Allison

Monday, November 26, 2012

So I Discovered An Accidental Time Capsule In My Attic? Or, Can My Day Be Any More Random, Perseveration by Allison

So this has been a weird day, if you can imagine a combination of:

Totally Unfun Dentist-type Stuff, Moths Got To My Favorite Sweater, Awesome Friends Being Fabulous, Randomly Finding Absurd Treasure Trove Of The Various Stages of Allison Past, including:

1. Duran Duran poster. I saved one??

 I had eight trillion. I can't figure out why this one was preserved, or what happened to the rest (Note: if someone who knew me back then has them, I want them back, I am totally making a new Wall of Awesome) but it is timely, in that I am reading one Mr. John Taylor's biography. Which is fab. So far. Because they aren't famous yet, and he does a good job with the leadup to World (or not entire world, maybe, but for sure Allison) Domination, and I haven't had to read any gross groupie stuff yet.

2. High School Diploma.

For real, that thing was in a dusty crate from a music store that does not exist anymore, just crammed in there, like, the Velveteen Rabbit? The Woody toy from Toy Story?
Except it was not beloved and cherished and loved, it was earned as necessary part of moving through life and shoved in a music store crate.
But otherwise, same.

3. Paper I wrote in college comparing Dante's The Inferno and T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland, focusing on self versus society, as that was the focus of the class.

I remember writing it, and remember being thrilled to get a good grade on it because
a) I am very much a seeker of proof I am not a total mess and

b) this professor vary rarely gave good grades, and in fact would throw the paper at you, and in German accent thunder "UN-acceptable!!" if he didn't like what you wrote.

But overall, I noticed this paper had a lack of FORMS or annotations such as:

Who is your pediatrician?

Please write down your medical insurance information one jillion times.

I realize that on any given day, if you asked me would I rather
(Note: OOH! I hate that game, Would You Rather, with Death Is Not An Option caveat. You do not want to play that game with me, because I make up my own thing, refuse to answer the two horrible options in front of me and create a whole different scenario. Because it is a stupid game, and I do not have any fun learning if my friends would rather eat eyeballs or take a bath in cat brains)

Anyway, would I rather fill out FORMS or write a paper on Dante's The Inferno for a very scary professor, I would opt for the FORMS. But here is why: I get double bonus points, because FORMS are one of the rings of Hell in The Inferno.
I am fairly sure of that.

4. Pictures of me from about ninth grade, when my friend C got her first good camera and needed to practice, and I had not learned yet that I should require formal editoral approval on all photos taken of me, ever, even on yet-to-be-invented phones that take pictures (Especially those. Man, I realize iPhones are miracles, but the camera is hit or miss, just saying)
or by doofus paid cheesy photographer roaming around college sorority or fraternity events and then luring drunken idiot formal attendees to sign over their life savings for pictures, always with faces mashed together and "WOOO HOOOO" vibe, that arrive six weeks later and helpfully give you the time and date of your stupid choice to buy this bad picture.

The pictures C took were good on her part, she is very talented artistically, and that used to annoy me because she was also very great at math, and I was idiot who thought you could be one or the other, and had not yet read eighty majillion parenting books and How To Raise Girls Who Are Not Nightmares books in which I learned you can do several things well, it does not break any laws, rules, or treaties.

The only issue I have with the pictures is that I want (again, I am always finding reasons to want this) to zap myself back in time
(Note: I am the worst, I cannot be satisfied with bossing around the current or future, I must boss around the past too?)
and tell Ninth Grade Allison:

a) Stop with the bangs.
I swear. I know everyone has them.
Trust me, let the bangs go. Also, when acid wash denim appears, run.
I promise you will thank me.

b) Save that bracelet you have on. It's pretty and I want it.
Current Allison has no clue where it is.
Although I did not know any of the aforementioned things existed until today, so maybe I will find the bracelet tomorrow.
That would be fab.

5. Certificate, with SEAL and golden font, so is valid, inducting me on the sixteenth day of April (year redacted due to author's vanity) into the Eta Rho Chapter of Pi Sigma Alpha, which is allegedly a national Political Science Honor Society.

I have never in my life seen this piece of paper.

It has my name on it, and various things in Greek or Latin to make it seem very Studious, and even signatures under the hysterical pledge "In Testimony Whereof We Have Hereunto Set Our Hands And The Official Seal of The Society."

Hereunto? Impressive use of completely underused because nobody is sure how to spell it weird smarty pants word.

Set Our Hands Onto It?
 I have never seen this thing or heard of the people who have signed it, all three of them, cleverly signing in scribble scrabble I can't read so I can't track them down and ask them when did they induct me into a cult I was not aware of, and also, is there a business of making up fake societies?
Because I totally want in.

That would be awesome.

And in conclusion to this weird day, in which I had planned to do a lot of things that did not involve Dredging Into Random Bits Of My Past Dusty From Non-Existent Music Store Crate, I shall share one of my favorite covers of a Ramones song, for no reason, remember, today is Random Day, and this song is awesome and Karen O. of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs is badass and I am fan.
And I can't think of anything more random, so here you go, is awesome, you're welcome:

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Need A Get Rich Quick Scheme? Take Your Kid's Teacher To Vegas!! Financial Planning, by Allison.

So I never know what will emerge from the backpack/messenger bag/sparkly purses of my children when I routinely clean them out to make sure there is nothing living, rotting, needing to be signed, or otherwise dangerous in them.
Recently I got an autographed photo of the actor who plays Carlisle in the Twilight series, and I am all, "Um V? Wha?"
And she said "Oh yeah, this was passing around school and it is for you."

1. That is very cool, anonymous donor of Twilight memorabilia. Thank you, and also for future reference, anything passed along to me via Matt or V will be completely forgotten about by them, randomly found by me, and never explained in any way by either of them. If you want credit, go to E. Or M, she will add glitter glue, though.

2. Sears is taking way better pictures than the ones I recall. Those were involving fur blankets and rocking chairs as props.  Because this actor looks decent in anonymous benevolent donor's photo, and in the movie he looks not his best, which may be karma due to him breaking heart of 90210's Kelly Taylor, just a theory.

But that was like, best backpack scrounging ever. I cannot even describe some of the things I have pulled out or gotten stuck on me or been completely embarrassed by, like form from August needed back and it is December.

Yet there are treasures to be had!

And those are often in the pre-school and younger elementary grades, before your (Note: I am not saying this happened for real, but sadly it totally did) third grader writes a sixteen-page typed single spaced story involving the protagonist, who is a teenager wearing sparkly purple top, and her mother, who cooks really badly.

And this particular third grader is fast with the typing and good (So in this case, stinging? scorching? harsh? genetically predisposed?) with the adjectives so there is lots of discussion on the faulty cooking of the mom, mostly stream-of-consciousness as if James Joyce were inhabited by the brain of a Disney Channel tween star and Dorothy Parker at the same time?

But I digress, back to the treasures!

It is Thanksgiving, right?

We are supposed to list our thanks and things we are thankful for and such.

Turkeys made out of hands.

M the seven year old stylist is dressed as a pilgrim today, because it is MIRACLE otherwise known as, I found the pilgrim costume I bought for V 5 years ago and managed to save for E, lend it out to a friend, got it back, and put it in a hiding place so no dressup game murder would happen and then I remembered where I put it.

That IS a miracle, really, but miracles are one holiday away.
Giving thanks now.
And here is what I am giving thanks for (to?):

Teachers of young children, and your poker faces.

That is what I choose to be thankful for in this season of thanks.

Because you know what? If I had your job:

1. I would be in jail, there are so many reasons (Note: not bad ones, I would not hurt anyone, I would like, glue us all to the wall or lock the goldfish in the supplies closet and get tied up with string or have to leave due to complete inability to deal with .0000001 percent of what teachers of young kids deal with every day.)

2. I could not, at ALL, keep a straight face.

So aside from the forced sentiment of thanks that I actually really DO feel,  but hate to be made to color it orange and say it at this one time of year instead of randomly saying it when major props are due to whatever amazing thing happened that you made happen, what I am really saying is this:

Elementary Teachers, go to Vegas.

Friday, November 16, 2012

I Shall Not Go Gently Into This Twilight Girls' Night, Or, A Requiem for the Undead, by Allison

So seeing as I have had little sleep, much gym, trip to school for special snack for M the seven year old stylist who is Star of the Week at school,

(Note: Any and all teachers of M, she does not need you to tell her she is Star.
She already is aware, has designated that role to herself permanently, and good luck taking down her pictures and moving her special toys and doll and hair brush to brush the doll's hair out of the Special Star chair come next week,
I see a coup d'etat in the making)

So cornbread and blueberries snack
(Note: M wanted salmon and blueberries, which are her favorite foods because I am Awesome Mom, otherwise known as blind luck but I sound like a very health conscious parent when she tells people that, and it is true, she does love those foods, but I was fearful of somehow poisoning a room of first graders with rancid fish at 9:40 in the morning so cornbread was substituted)

And fun with M and friends, followed by deranged Target spree,
unloading of said spree,
and now copious emailing or texting or messaging or smoke signaling with friends regarding Girls Night Out, Last Vampire Standing Edition.

I think I am being frantic today because:

1. I get slightly manic when running on very little sleep, which I am currently on fumes due to Twilight Movie Marathon yesterday, in which all of the movies were shown in a row, culminating in Breaking Dawn Part Two: Or, You Came Back After That Birth Scene?,
which is (Spoiler!) the last movie in the Saga,
Allison's Irrational Teenage Regression Issue,
whatever you want to call it.

2. I get slightly to very giddy plotting Fun Girls' Nights, especially with the crew I have assembled for tonight, involving lots of different women from various parts of my life with common denominator of AWESOMENESS,
plus they aren't embarrassed that I carry a life-sized cardboard cutout of a movie vampire around with me on said girls nights.

(Note: It was a GIFT. And people act insane and take pictures with him as if he is real.
 I realize I am carrying around a cardboard cutout, but I do not pet him and feed him and call him George, duh, his name is Edward, and I know he is not real although he does scare away the bad guys and M likes to put hats and tutus on him.)

3. I do not want this to be the last Twilight movie so I am even doing chores I hate like laundry and dog maintenance to distract myself from fact that it is in fact, last movie.

 (Note: Alleged future spin-offs involving werewolves, characters with stupid names, or any character that is not currently in cardboard fashion in my home, played by actor of required Britishness, tallness, moodiness, floppy haired-ness, and remember the music part, does not count.
Not the same.
Is New Coke.

So instead of distracting myself further, because I am really totally not interested in any more chores, I shall wallow.

I choose to wallow.

Here is why.

Allison's Reasons For Being Totally Sad Cheesy Vampire Series Is Approaching Its Pop Cultural Shelf Life And Now We Are Supposed To Like Zombies?:

1. It is not my fault.

 I was lured into a seemingly innocuous book by my friend B who also babysits the girls and knows the good dog and the bad dog and that I read books all the time.

She is all, "So there's a book series? I don't know if you read Young Adult books, but I think you might like it."

Note to universe:
This is how they lure young Midwesterners into becoming prostitutes when they get off the bus in the Big City.
Just saying.

Three days later, books absorbed, when's the next one coming out, oh they are casting a movie? Let's obsess on that.

And new book coming out the day I leave at 6 am for family vacation flight?

Kind YA fiction drug pusher B goes to midnight book release and delivers one to me for my flight, a flight in which I sit separately from my family and have a read-off with a lady who also had procured the familiar black and red covered book.
(Spoiler! It got ugly. The read-off, not the book. Except the werewolf parts.)

Actual conversation between me and Lady Next To Me With Same Book On Long Flight:

Me:  "It seems you are ahead of me in your book. Please do not make any sounds, say any names, or react in any way to this book until I catch up to you. Which I will, I am a fast reader. And I will not reveal plot points once I pass you. Deal?"

Lady: "Fine. But I am a fast reader too. Good luck." (This is said with look of disdain.)

Me: (internally gleeful for not only long flight with book I want to read and no toddler biting me (that is not a spoiler. E bit on flights at that age), but now also get to have a read-off,
and I always win at those, due to total obsessive reading habits, choosing subjects to study in which I had to read a lot to get good grades and I am clearly goal oriented person when ranking is involved, continued obsessive reading, and also smelling a whiff of Smug from Lady, which does not sit well with me.
She does not have to do the "oh, no, I am sure you read way faster than me, I just learned to read yesterday" fake insulting of herself thing I hate we all do to ourselves, but really, Lady, I am sure you can beat me in most things in life unless it involves reading books, typing really fast, or discussing who did or did not get beheaded in Tudor England. But on this? You are going DOWN.)

"Good luck to you, too."

An hour later, minus the distraction of biting toddlers or finding the correct special colored marker that won't stain stuff or distributing wet wipes, plus motivated by read-off with Smug Lady, I am ahead. Since I am only 99 percent brat, I do not call attention to this.
But get this: She DOES.

Lady: "You are skipping pages."

Me: "What? No I am not. I am a fast reader. You can ask those people over there I am ignoring right now, since I am reading fast instead of parenting."

Lady: "I went to law school. I read very fast, and you are now ahead of me."

Me: "Um, before I became mom to those people I am ignoring, I also went to law school, and before that a college where I read a lot, and before that was a person who read both Jane Austen and Sweet Valley High compulsively. I type fast too."
(I do not tell her that those things are basically my skill set in its entirety, and if the book were not a Zap Me Back To Being Fourteen book but instead the dishwasher manual, I would be on page 1.)

Lady: "Harrumph."

Me: "You can quiz me if you want. I love quizzes. Only essay, though. No word limitations."

Good grief, now I have totally forgotten my trajectory in sadness over series conclusion due to remembered fury at Smug Lady.

Long story longer, I won, did not rub it in her face as did not need to, plus she was boring and I had to start re-reading it again, since my rule was four times through and then I had to read something that won a Booker Prize, or at least was in the grown up section of the bookstore. 

But retroactively, Ha ha, lady, plus Matt, total thanks for dealing with the kids so I could read my book and have irrational read-off with that lady.

2. Ok, back to Why I Am Wallowing.

I theorize the introduction of this book series came upon me at a time in which I was reading a lot of little kid books to my little kids, so a Young Adult series seemed like Nietzsche. 

This is of course complete nonsense, but I don't care. 

The Venn Diagram of People Who Like Twilight Books, Flaws And All is a large one.
There are many cross-sections of circles going on.
And I am too sleepy to do math to figure out how many I fit in.

But I do know that friends from all parts of my life either secretly or not so secretly Have a Thing for it too, and I am not secret, as I am self-proclaimed PR person for Things I Like. 

So when movies come out, I throw a party!!!

First party was for the DVD release of the first movie, since it was not totally a huge thing with people in tents weeping and Team this and that yet.

 (Note: No need for teams. Is obvious. Please.
I do not even engage in discussion with people on that issue, because, it is not an issue, I do not have a cardboard cutout of a wolf in jorts in my house, gift or not.
No brooding, no tall, no Britishness even though American accent is used, TOTALLY NO FLOPPY HAIR, only bad wig and then crew cut?
No music whatsoever?
Carved wooden gifts? Bleh. )

I get all excited for my party, and get apples and ribbons and fake diamond decorations and make up a whole trivia contest, and because I am still in the phase in life in which I have ballerinas and indoor ponies at my children's birthday parties,
I decide the prize for winning the trivia contest,
questions written by me, requiring essay answers of course,
should be exact replicas of the gray mittens Bella was wearing in the movie when she almost gets hit by the van.

And because as I mentioned earlier, people were not trademarking everything attached to Twilight yet,
I muster enough Nancy Drew to find the lady in WALES who knitted the mittens,
email her daughter, they are starting up a website for her knitting but haven't done it yet so we chit chat, and the lady, who now has a whole site and is completely lovely and her work is wonderful, mails me the mittens
(I ordered two pairs, one for me, I am not a dummy) all Euro-wrapped with a personal note saying "Allison, I hope your party is a smash. Love, Ruth Cross." 

That was totally awesome.
And my trivia quiz was like 30 pages long, and my sister edited it a bit, by reading it and saying "Ok, the question, Which of the Cullens is wearing a wig, extra credit which wigs are of the actor's existing hair color and which are of a different hair color, extra extra credit which wig does Allison hate the most (Spoiler! It is always Jasper's. He looks like an evil clown)
is ridiculous."

And of course because I have decorated, coerced a bakery into making red velvet cupcakes with sparkles that I then added extra sparkles to because they were not sparkly enough,
got mittens knitted in WALES, did I mention?

And collected assembly of fun friends and ordered other prizes for the non-winner of the mittens, such as Rosalie's necklace, which my cool friend KR wears to every premiere since she won it for coming in fourth place,
and was super excited for my crazy party,
OF COURSE my appendix bursts the day of the party.


Totally not cool.

Matt had to email people from the hospital, and he was all witty like "Allison was so excited for the Twilight party her appendix ruptured" or other doctor gallows humor.

Note: appendixes hurt when they decide to get rotten, FYI.

And there is no call button in the ER,
because I guess all sorts of people for various reasons would push it 24/7,
so I had to literally beg for mercy,
and the nurse who had me on morphine and was like, really, it still hurts?

And she pokes me and I jump off the table, I then am given dilaudid.

Which is like, chloroform on a rag, or knocking you in the head with a hammer old school medicine.

Which works, by the way, but made my eyes shut but I was still awake, and may have made me paranoid too because I was convinced they were going to take me into surgery and think I was unconscious and operate on me even though I was awake, which is a horror movie, and NOT a vampire movie with sparkly nice vampires with good hair.

Bad horror movie.

So I kept announcing, with eyes shut "I am awake!" every two seconds until they actually made me un-awake.

And party was rescheduled, fun was had by all (I hope), next movie coming soon, now midnight releases!
Whole nother level of fun.

Otherwise known as, Allison and Hardcore Friends go to Midnight Show, and then Allison Has Girls' Night Party For Her Semi-Normal Friends The Next Day.

Rinse, repeat, times 3, tonight makes 4.

So I am wallowing.
Because they are fun!
Fun is fun!

I like using my Ph.D in Extreme People Watching to assess the crowds, assign myself and them on the Bell Curve of Crazy
(Note: I am fully aware I am on that curve, but I do not make scrapbooks, t-shirts, put fake bite marks on me, or think they are real),
love the fun evening with friends, am entertained by people trying to maul my cutout vampire,
and the general fizz and whee of fun.

So now I have to go get the cutout vampire ready for the party,
 and also myself, and since the stupid stripper movie girls' night had to be broken up into 3 blog posts, this movie marathon and girls' night will probably do the same,
especially since yesterday's marathon involved tea smuggling, car keys,
deranged ushers,
me remembering how much I loved the music in all the movies

(Seriously, I have an Ode just to the soundtracks. They introduced me to The Black Keys! Best Florence and the Machine song! Fave Radiohead! Learned about Band of Skulls! Lykke Li! I will stop now),

and finding out that car keys plus tea smuggling sometimes turns into a ridiculous situation nobody would believe but I have witnesses.

I shall begin getting sparkly now.
(Just clothing. There was a girl there yesterday though who was all over sparkly, it was impressive).

 But not too sparkly, as am in mourning.

Would be tacky to go over the top.
And would wear all black similar to Civil War widows except everybody already does that at Twilight movies, and I have to stand out somewhat, in case they come to life and jump off the screen?


Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Early Bird Catches The Car Dancing Mom, Otherwise Known As, I Cannot Win, by Allison

So today was Giant Adventure, otherwise known as Allison Braves Carpool To Take E To Orthodontist.
This may not seem like any sort of noteworthy thing at all, but let me tell you, the carpool deal at the girls' school is like, labyrinth of cars and lanes and you go here if your kid is this age but if siblings are younger go over there and there is pointing and overall, is like conducting orchestra, but of SUVs and backpacks instead of instruments.

Well, some instruments. E had her violin.

But I am always like bumbling idiot, "Wha? I go where?" and just follow the people in authority pointing me this way or that.
(Note: This is one of the reasons the girls ride the bus in the morning. The primary reason is, there are only so many times you can get pulled for speeding and "I like this song" is not good defense (Subnote: Tip from me: If A Tribe Called Quest's "Scenario" comes on the radio, pull over, it makes you drive fast) and "We are totally late for school" is not a valid defense, and it is super stressful and the girls are so not on my team on the getting themselves clothed and shod and in the car in time.)

But if the bus driver is there, they shoot out of the house right away.
Little traitors.
But, get this: I am proud parent of three girls who have NEVER been tardy. They keep track of that at school.
Another reason the bus is awesome.
Plus I am not sure if you can blog from jail, and I would not remain on the loose if nonstop shuttling of screeching feral cat children was a daily thing for me.

Anyway, the girls mostly have after school orchestra or drama or chess or such and hardcore afterschool pickup can be avoided, to the delight of me and all of the known world. 

But on various days, the totally intricate, mysterious carpool must be confronted, and today was one of those days.
And it was with E, known clock watcher, time observer, "you are late, where are your keys, did you lose your purse, are we lost, can I wear shorts, I need my umbrella" kid.

So I was all, ha. I will show her. I will be early.

(I realize this is not me winning a battle so much as it is me doing the thing I am supposed to do as the mother of E, but she and I are in constant chess game of sorts, rules change a lot, scenarios can be altered, but we are on our toes, pens and paper in hand, Extreme Communicating will be on the agenda)

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Financial Advice from Allison! Buy Stock In Kleenex. Les Miserables Movie Coming Soon, Otherwise Known As, You Do Not Want To Be Anywhere Near Me, by Allison

So in case any neighbors heard sobbing and wailing coming from my house, or anyone has to see me before the cucumbers and tea bags on my eyes help restore my pre-sob fest state: 

Blame it on Les Miserables.
 (And also Entertainment Weekly, it contains WAY too many photos of sad, tragic, bereft, suffering French people, and with cherry on sundae of me in hysterics, doomed Anne Hathaway without her lovely hair.)

Victor Hugo and his sad, sad, tragic book kills me to start with (Note: is sad book, you know bad things are coming, and it is also long.  But remember, I am glass house throwing no stones on writing many many words, and he is famous writer, he gets to spin tragic tales that are crusted in grim and despair all he wants).
I am toast over tragic books. I mean, I still read and love them, but you don't want to be around me when the sad goes down, is all. (Note: fried via tears Kindle et al.)

So tragic, French, starving, cold protagonists  (Listen, I could not even deal with Little House On The Prairie because the pioneering stressed me out and I was sure a blizzard would come and they would starve or die or go blind some more) with added torture of beautiful, emphatic, mood stirring musical score? (Note: that mood would be SAD)

Throw in 14 year old Allison seeing the musical when it was first on Broadway?

Not a pretty scene.

Clad in my beloved blue velvet dropped waist Jessica McClintock dress with satin bib and tie at neck (Note: THAT was a tragedy, no need for starving French prostitutes dying of consumption, the dress alone is bona fide tragedy) my family and I saw the musical on a trip to New York, and in retrospect, there were some warning signs that maybe this was not a good idea.

Taking teenage Allison, known Extreme Crier over sad things, to a musical that anyone who read the book or even the title (Miserables? Do not need AP level French 5 to figure that one out) or poster (starving waif!!) could gather that it was not going to have a happy ending with a kickline of jaunty sailors or ladies in petticoats.

No sailors.

No petticoats.

But lots and lots of tragic, desperate things happening to singing people, plus  LOTS of crying.

Mostly by me.

And given my history of histrionics (Note: brief history. Remember, I am very, very young and was way younger then), detailed succinctly (Spoiler! not really) below, it should have been clear that I needed to go watch the roller skating whatever it was called Andrew Lloyd Webber musical instead. 

Why You Should NOT Go See Anything Sad, Or Kind of Sad, Or Melancholy with Allison:

Monday, October 29, 2012

Anyone Up For Hosting Halloween Party For 65 Sixth Graders? Boys and Girls? In Costume Disguises? With Candy And Possible Meteor Shower? I Can Help, Because I Just Did That, Otherwise Known As, Do Not Hand Thirty Middle School Boys Rolls Of Toilet Paper, Party Planning! by Allison

So when V and  her friend CC want to host a Halloween Party for the entire sixth grade?

At CC's house, not mine, her mom TC is way cooler and braver than me, and two more girls sign on for co-hosting?

And allowance is spent on Halloween decorations, and every kid seems to be coming, and there will be candy?  

And also, chaperoning this many kids (65!!!!!), some in costumes so maybe I won’t recognize them (Note: That totally happened, some were wearing bodysuits hiding their faces and entire selves, I eventually figured out who was who but it is hard, those wily tweens)

I get a bit nervous?
Maybe that is understatement.
Slightly more than a bit.
 Maybe a lot more.
Like, is it possible to both be vigilant chaperone but not ruiner of party fun? 
And not embarrass V but still relish seeing the kids having a good time?
Is that possible?
What if a meteor lands? That could happen, you know.
 So fine, maybe no meteor, but I have only daughters, sixth grade boys are as much a mystery to me now as they were when I was in sixth grade
(Note: but my extreme people watching skills pegs the overall traits at "labrador retriever" plus "huh?" plus "pizza?" plus "why are the girls so tall?"  plus "gibberish about video games I do not know what" plus still having fun doing kid stuff when no one is looking, and having a good time, and also not blowing stuff up, I have no idea, I have (three very different but still have that one thing in common) girls).
 I have a steep learning curve ahead of me, middle school boys, they are mystery creatures. Whose style choices confound me.  Specifically sock choice.
The guys all wear those totally weird mid-calf Nike socks now, like black socks with their sneakers, and I do not understand it at all, but I do not want to be all "What in tarnation are you youngsters up to? Back in the day, only the strange neighbor mowing his lawn wearing a hat and undershirt wore black socks with his lounge shoes, uphill, in the snow."
Evil genius Nike marketers have pulled off major victory in whatever in the  world they have done to make these unflattering, weird socks the total cool thing.
And I did ridiculous trend type style choices in middle school (Note: Shut up, and no pictures) and am glass house not throwing stone (Subnote: But not wearing vests anymore) am pot, not pointing out any colors kettle might be.
But seriously, I have eyeballs.

I am just saying, do not stand in the front row for pictures in those socks or you will regret it when the world remembers mid calf black socks are bad all around, and not to show but to be worn under pants, and black socks with white tennis shoes is horrible, and you will be the boy version of me with the "What was it about the Dirty Dancing style long jean shorts and my sweater worn backwards that made me think I didn't look like I got dressed in the dark in the closet of a giant with bad shorts selection?"
 SOCK TANGENT OVER. Back to nerves over 65 boys and girls, middle school aged, some in disguise, also lots of candy plus so many random variables my head hurts?
That is a reasonable reaction, right? I can veer (wildly, or not, I'm not saying) off course on the "reasonable way to react to (fill in blank, no flipping the paper over to continue list)."
 But wait!
Must factor in: TC  throws a party like nobody’s business, somehow with no giant panic of "my house is going to totally get wrecked in ways in which I cannot fathom but will be very sad about later."   
And TC can ward off possible mischief making by unknown number of party guests crowding into playhouse, she just walked over to it, said "Hey, who is hanging out in the love shack?" and the boys burst out of that house so fast you would think they had superhero costumes on.

Problem solved, in one second, in a way that was super funny and no harm, no foul. Brilliant.

 And the girls have decorated the house in amazingly cool ways (Note: coffins! caution tape! luminaria! creepy things! everywhere!) , there is a super talented DJ who also break dances, and most importantly, the kids are fantastic kids.
And party is a blast, and nobody lost an eye, or anything other than a mustache that was fake and would not willingly cooperate.
(And telling the former moustache wearer, "Go find V, she can fix it if she still has the duct tape she used on the hatchet headband" is a weird sentence out of context) and everyone, including chaperones, had fun, and again, 65 kids!!!!
 I'm maybe even missing a few. There were lots of them.
Behaving and having fun and being awesome!

At fun party at amazing house with great music and food and candy and the kids are rejecting the food as they were having too much fun to eat pizza and candy!  (I was pushing pizza and candy on the kids until I realized that was crazy. I was actually walking around waitress-style (Note: Not that I ever got to be a waitress, I was always stuck with being hostess,  otherwise known as air traffic controller who the waiters all hate because you sat a baby with mashed carrots or a mean man with water issues in their section) ).
It was miraculously free of any natural or man-made disaster.

Or even a girl crying in the bathroom.

I was ready for that, that was one of my jobs in my sorority in college one year, kind of patrol person for the criers and the dudes pulling light fixtures off the walls at spring formal for reasons that I do not know.

But no crying!

Or even frowns!

Or even less than full on smiles and dancing and zip lining (TC has cool backyard) and frolicking in manner I was afraid would not exist anymore, they'd be too worried about being cool and disengaged by fun.
 Yay to these kids, kids that it has been a privilege to see growing up before my eyes. 
I actually had to stop myself (This is probably not a surprise to anyone who has to deal with me watching swim meet or violin concert or anything involving kids doing something wow and growing up and then I cry) from turning Great Aunt Hattie "I remember when you were THIS big."

But I refrained, because V would kill me and I really did not have any quarters to hand out after the "THIS big," and I think is the law for Great Aunts, the quarter must be distributed after the awkward, embarrasing for all total super obvious observation.

If the worst thing that happens is me realizing I have just handed 30 sixth grade boys full rolls of toilet tissue for mummy contest, and maybe they might TP something other than mummy?
(Which, note: I totally handed sixth graders rolls of toilet paper, forgetting they are no longer Kindergarteners who will kind of follow the rules, and seriously, what is wrong with me not to trouble shoot that possible - otherwise known as for sure going to happen - TP extravaganza?
Totally me being idiot.)

But cool kids throw me a bone, and help clean up all of it!  For real. 
They cleaned up and continued with the fun?
That is an excellent party.

And you would think, maybe I'd get like a day or so of a grace period with V, like I am protected class person for a bit due to extreme coolness of being up for helping host and chaperone giant party full of costumed MIDDLE SCHOOLERS?

Not so much.
I mean, she's V, so she's not throwing things at me, but she is participating and perpetuating the Apparent Endlessly Fun Game For Others Known As Terrorize Allison With Images Of The Object Of Her Totally Valid Phobia.

Observe the pumpkin V carved, in secret, for our house for Halloween:




Sunday, October 21, 2012

Whooooo Is Trying To Kill Me? Or, What Is Worse, Evil Wicked Creatures or Evil Wicked Friends? A Toss Up, by Allison

So I am bedraggled and half-frozen from girl scout camping trip, which was rescued from being officially declared (by me) as a form of torture by the cool kids and moms, excellent time with E, and getting to save a girl's ponytail through the use of makeup wipes and my moisturizer removing huge blob of dried marshmallow.

Shall probably have more to discuss in rambling fashion re:  the camping trip, including shanty freezing cold Deliverance shack, but for now, am harkening back in time to Friday night, in which my lovely and wicked friends had fun continuing Allison Birthday celebration, and I am thinking my birthday is now going to last for the entire season of Autumn.
I think that is a fab idea and I am totally going to make that a thing.

Because parties are awesome! And evenings with friends are awesome! Plus presents! Also awesome!

But guess what is NOT awesome?

Owl attacks.

Not an actual live, loose owl plucking out my eyeballs, although I am pretty sure that is going to happen any moment.  I am instead referring to perpetual onslaught of owl items, photos, and other forms of owl terrorism.

And it is all Mark Zuckerberg's fault. 

I was innocently checking Facebook a while ago, making sure I was up on wishing people happy birthdays and reading ten zillion political rants and those cards people post, either inspirational or "Mommy needs a Xanax" in theme. And what to my wondering eyes should appear?

(Spoiler! Was not Santa and tiny reindeer. Was EVIL.)

The ad stream on the side of my FB page felt that I would be interested in "whimsical owl buckets." Um, FB? You need to rework your spying on me and deciding what I like program, because it is a known fact that I hate both whimsy and owls.

RANT ALERT!!!  There are words that cannot be said aloud or used to describe oneself or others or a thing without immediately invalidating the self or thing that you are labeling with the word.

Whimsy is totally one of those words.
I am a fan of things whimsical.   But only if it is not labeled as "whimsical." You cannot call something whimsical. That automatically invalidates the whimsy. Whimsy has to be an on-the-spot, internal determination of the sheer fun and fluff and whee of a thing.
If you say, "Please observe this whimsy, we are being whimsical over here!" You are promptly, totally not whimsical.

You are the opposite of whimsical.

You cannot plan for, or label something whimsical.
It is like calling yourself classy. You know what is immediately, forever not classy?

Calling yourself classy.

Calling anything classy, really. Classy is the same kind of word as whimsy.
You can totally know it when you see it, you can think it, but if you label it, it invalidates the whimsy, or the classy, and turns it into some other thing, something faux and contrived and wrong.

Rant on advertising the whimsy over. On to rant about owls!!!

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Ridiculously Sick Good, Killer Awesomeness, Cool Retro But Not Stale, Instead Gritty And Chic, I Know, Is Miracle!, An Ode To The Neighbourhood, by Allison

So, in between trying to de-mud/rain/sun/hay/etc my clothes from Most Excellentest Music Festival trip, organize the girls' various things and such, I am getting totally distracted listening to The Neighbourhood, again, on repeat, is impossible not to stop and dance around and oops, an hour has gone by.

Is not my fault.

Totally not my fault.

 I realize I have waxed poetic about this fab band, and their song "Female Robbery" (am obsessed with that song, like, is hypnotically awesome) here:

And also waxed more poetically (? Is that a phrase? A thing? If not, I am saying it is anyway) about seeing them live a few weeks ago and then getting into duel at dawn type situation with some of their fans who objected to me discussing The Neighbourhood's awesomeness out loud, for fear of other people hearing about them?
Because then they'd get all popular and it would not be a special secret anymore and the world would end?
Which?  Is nonsense, and I said so, not very succinctly as that is not in my skill set, here:

So you may think I would have exhausted my (Granted, humongous) pile of adjectives, adverbs, exclamation points, all the tools in my arsenal re: The Neighbourhood is awesome.

But you would be wrong!!!!

First, I have never ending arsenal of word and word-type things. Is true, you can ask Matt. Or anyone who had to read my papers in school from first grade on. Or has received an email from me on a very simple topic that turns into a wall of text that NO one will read even if they lie and say they did.

But also, I have NEW information!!!

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Dude, Where's My Car, Phone, Friend, and Brain?, or Doofus, A Case Study, by Allison

So I am freshly
(Note: I am using that term figuratively, right now I am back from gym so gross,
and pretty much the entire time of festival I was covered in rain, mud, or sunburn.
Which?  Subnote: Really not fair, to have both downpour and sunburn)
returned from Most Excellentest Music Festival,
in which I had super fun and exhausting and amazing time,
and total fab fun with K the Best Music Friend Ever.

And there was so much good music and great performances
(Jack White! Avett Brothers! Shins! Metric! I Can't Stop With The Exclamation Points!)
it was ridiculously, overwhelmingly good.

Except for the doofuses.

(Note: For the most part, the gigantic crowd of 70,000 or more people,
all in one park roaming around hearing bands and trying to get good spot to hear sets, l
oving the day, everyone was chill, happy, glad to be there.
How could you not be, with so many good things going on?)

Seriously, was fab.

Except for the doofuses.

And since I am TOTALLY avoiding what I am supposed to be doing apres giant traveling trip to music festival and now must pay the piper,
I shall categorize the doofuses.

Allison's Music Festival Doofus Analysis
(Note: If this becomes a thing I am totally taking credit):

1. Crowd Surfing Doofus Subtype A: Clueless and Dangerous.
This doofus
(Note: I am sad to say that it was not sole doofus, it was plural, like, by a lot) does not know what he is doing
(Note: I am not gender-stereotyping. I am saying it was only guys doing this. Don't blame me, non-doofus guys. Blame the doofuses for besmirching your gender)
and/or thinks he is going to score front row spot by crowd surfing in straight line,
back to front.


Get this: We can't see you coming.

Your mom was lying.

She does NOT have eyes in the back of her head.

Nor do we.

If my first alert as to your presence is your steel toed boot hitting the back of my head three times in your attempt to surf your way up front in your pitiful ploy to fully experience the show/go wild, s
core closer spot, whatever,
you are not winning me over.

I am not inclined to shake off the concussion you just gave me and lift you over my head to the next person in front of me,
 who also does not know you are coming,
 because you are doofus,
 and you are launching yourself at people who can't see you before you land on them.

Know what is going to happen to you, Crowd Surfing Doofus Subtype A?

Either person you just kicked in head or landed on is going to move over and let you fall straight onto the ground -
OR -
You will make it as far as the security guy who will grab your ankle and launch you over the barrier into oblivion.
Because you can't crowd surf back to front,
it is cheating to get closer, or if you are not being strategic and just extra doofy,
you are kicking people and landing on them and that is POOR FORM.

Party foul.


The average age of this doofus is young,
and I am not sure there is a crowd surfing pamphlet or such
(Note: I should totally do that),
but it does not take a whole lot of brain power to realize people who can't see you
(or hear you, it is concert, they are loud)
don't know you are there until you kick them and that is not nice,
nor will it make friends or influence people.

I am sad to say that there were many plurals to this type of doofus,
and bands with lots of fanboys (i.e. The Black Keys) draw them out in full force.

Silver lining: You can make friends with concert attendees near you who also agree that the crowd surfer is a doofus, and friends are great!

2. Crowd Surfing Doofus, Subtype B: Hand-Wringing Nervous Nellie

This subtype of doofus is thankfully not launching himself in straight line from back headed forwards,
and maybe because he sees people trying that and getting dumped on their doofus heads,
he is a little wary.

To surf, or not to surf?
That is his Shakespearean dilemma.

So he interviews surrounding would-be surf assistants,
to make sure they will in fact help him crowd surf.
He gets an affirmative,
yes, fine, we'll launch you up or whatever,
but he's still vacillating.

He asks again if help will be provided.
He asks to see my biceps.
(Note: I am not making this up. I wish I had that kind of an imagination)

He visibly psychs himself up for the attempt at crowd surfing,
bouncing up on the balls of his feet,
eyes wide, checking the scene.

Still can't pull the trigger.

And then, after saying "okay, okay, okay" forty million times,
he is aloft.

But he is also a DOOFUS,
and the song has about fifteen seconds left in it and anyone who has ever heard the music this band is playing knows that,
so while he successfully crowd surfs for those fifteen seconds,
he goes down like a lead balloon once song is over.
About four rows back from where he started.

Silver lining: And he is never seen again.

Doofuses of the world hear this:
You crowd surf diagonally.
Like in the old Connect Four commercial you are too young to have seen unless it is now part of faux nostalgia for the 1980's and is making a comeback.
Never mind.
Diagonally. Laterally. Whatever.
So we know you are headed our way.
And start before the song is over, or momentum will be lost,
while band is switching up instruments or whatever,
you are on ground getting stomped on.

It also helps if you are not a guy but instead are a girl.
That is the way it is.
Most girls don't attempt it, but if they do, they are normally successful and the doofuses who assist her high five afterwards,
because they got to touch a girl or something.
I do not know.
I am a Ph.D in many Ology's, but Doofus Mindset is not one of them.
(Nor do I want it to be, FYI.)

3. Chatty Afflicted Extreme Doofus

This type of doofus strikes up conversations in thick crowd trying to leave park at night and limp their way to their hotel or place of rest by saying such clever things as "Hey, girl! Hey! Girl!"

(Note: If this approach has ever ended in true love or even one girl thinking the doofus is not a doofus, I would like to know about it,
because I am convinced that has never worked in the history of ever)
"Did you just tell your friend you are hungry? I am hungry too! We have so much in common!"

I am pretty much content to chat to anyone that is not throwing things at me,
spewing hate talk, or drooling (unless they are baby and that is cute).
But doofus, we are tired, long walk ahead,

Of course, my friend K the Best Music Friend Ever has speedy way to eliminate doofus annoyances, she just gives death look and keeps walking.

It is a very good strategy.
Sadly for K, she is walking with me,
and I am intrigued,
or at least will humor, an Extreme Doofus, for research purposes.

The best example of this subtype of doofus is this one doofus who materialized next to us on our long long trek back to our hotel the first night.

He was not scary or creepy, just a total idiot doofus.

He was wearing what looked like three jester hats piled up on each other.
He had a friendly demeanor,
and the glassy eyed look of someone under hypnosis.
He was super, duper cheerful for a fellow who:

1. Lost his phone at the show
(His story on that, and I am quoting verbatim: "So I was like taking pictures or calling or something and I thought, am I thirsty? And I went to get a drink, but that was stupid I should have gotten water because I lost my phone.") ????

2. Drove to show from Houston,
so parked his car somewhere he does not know,
except it is 45 minutes from the festival and "thirty minutes from here,"
which makes no sense, as we are AT festival.

Note: At this point, K is looking at me like,
Whyyyy are you talking to this clown?
And I say, I am totally dying to hear what other stupid stuff he says.

(Spoiler: He says way more stupid stuff!!!)

3. Asks us where we are from.
We do not provide details on that as K is totally ignoring him as he is doofus, and I am using extreme people watching skills but am not going to facilitate this doofus following me home like lost dog.
Upon not getting a specific answer,
he switches topics to, he wants to visit New York.
But alas, he does not have a place to stay there.
He thinks that if he goes on Facebook and posts that he needs somewhere to crash in NY someone will give him somewhere to stay.
He also then says that he is not sure what he would do if he visits New York, because there is nothing to do there.

And then he says that he did used to have one friend who lived there,
but he doesn't live there anymore because he got a DUI.
Curious, as I do not know many people who live in New York and drive around, as parking and driving are hard in that city, I ask, a DUI in New York?

He says no, the friend got the DUI in Nevada.
Of course, that makes total sense.

At this point, this doofus needs to be ditched,
but he is walking in the direction we are walking,
apparently to meet his buddy at a certain corner.
Luckily, the corner arrives soon so we can rid ourselves of the doofus.
And in true doofus form, he asks us which bar we think his friend is more likely to be in,
as there are several.
I point at one, so he will go away.

Silver lining: I was thoroughly entertained the rest of the weekend thinking of where that doofus wound up and how in the world he functions in society with the faculties he possesses.

4.Dedicated Umbrella Doofus

I was fairly astonished to see umbrellas being employed at big music festival,
in both rain and shine.

Almost exclusively by guys, and not guys hired by P. Diddy or whatever his name is now to shield him from elements,
or guys protecting their delicate girlfriends or anything.

No, intstead, the umbrellas were opened and held over the heads of DOOFUSES.

In a crowded, sardine situation in the pouring rain,
waiting for great band to come on stage,
these doofuses have open umbrellas and are huddling under it as if acid rain is falling.
For real.

Doofuses? I
 am as prissy as they come.
Prefer my hair and makeup not get messed up,
do not want to be stuck in wet jeans for 10 hours.
And if I know better than to open an umbrella and block the view of the stage for everybody behind me, remember,
at a giant music festival with tens of thousands of people behind me who can't see now because I am so precious?
If I know better, and you do not,
you are a doofus.

And you are a total, complete doofus if,
when asked by those directly behind you to lower your umbrella since we are all totally soaking wet anyway and get over it,
you do not lower your umbrella, but instead,
continue using it to shield yourself from the rain.

You realize what is going to happen when you and your polka dot (not kidding, there were many kinds but this one stuck out to me) umbrella remain an obstruction to people who have not eaten,
sat, or had any creature comforts during downpour for hours?
Well, here is a tip, doofus.
It is not going to go well for you.

And umbrella doofuses trot those things out in the sun, too!

Like we are in Merchant and Ivory film strolling by a lake.

Umbrellas as shade, in giant open field festival.
Whatever, twirl your parasol and tap dance for all I care,
unless you are in the crowd of a band performing,
blocking yourself from the sun with umbrella.

Second verse, same as the first,
not going to go well for you when your sun shield is also vision shield for others.

Silver lining: Not sure if there is one there, the umbrella doofuses were super annoying.

To conclude, as I cannot procrastinate any longer or lack of ballet shoe purchasing will result in my death, festival was awesome,
except for the doofuses.

Lesson for Today:
Do not be a doofus, or marry one,
or hang out with one unless for research purposes,
and do not let your baby eat lead paint or drink turpentine,
and maybe the doofus to regular person ratio will improve.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

A Little Afternoon Musical Awesomeness To Brighten Your Day, Otherwise Known As Me Super Happy And Obnoxiously Bragging About Going To Their Show Tonight, MuteMath's "Spotlight," whee yay, by Allison

So, whee, yay, tra la la, in between assorted Girl Scouting and Important Planning for upcoming AWESOME music festival fun trip extravaganza,

(Which?  Note: The "essential" guidelines for said festival are totally cribbed from the Y2K preparations for Armageddon websites. I am not toting giant backpack full of garbage bags and bacterial spray and toilet paper. I am totally good with Tide to Go and Neutrogena Makeup Wipes.
My friend and I decided that we've had to wing it at both music shows and kid wrangling in various locales long enough that we can make do with less than humongous piles of stuff, and this may be total folly on our parts and we will be wishing for garbage bags and Neosporin, but I stand by the makeup wipes as cure-all)

I am actually going to MORE music tonight!!!

(Note: This is because other than birthday parties for my kids or my fab friends and husband, the only thing I can organize is long lists of shows I want to see.)

Tonight, we are roadtripping to see Civil Twilight and MuteMath in cool, old movie theater venue, and I am super excited.

Why, you may ask?

And I may say, Do you remember me and the liking of the vampire movies?

And you may say, Of course, you are irrational about them and have a cardboard vampire in your home.
(NOTE: IT WAS A GIFT, and he scares away bad guys and the girls like to dress him up)

And I may say, True, but also: Those movies have really good soundtracks. Like, good, mixtape of various great stuff, from cool bands, I heart them.

And I am willing to go out on a limb, not willing to jump off the limb, nor do I want to do that, or ever jump off limb, just for clarification  --  But I will say, I have not heard such coolness overall in soundtracks since my beloved John Hughes soundtrack years, in which I wore out many a Pretty In Pink and Some Kind of Wonderful and Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller tape.

I mean sure, other soundtracks are cool: your Dazed and Confused has a vibe, Moulin Rouge if you are feeling campy and theatrical and FAB, all good.

And no one can top the John Hughes ones, which he selected himself and Narcissist Allison Then and Now believes were specially made just for me, thanks for Psychedelic Furs, The Smiths, Echo and The Bunnymen, etc, John Hughes, RIP! You were badass.

But it is true, the Twilight soundtracks are good.
My favorite Florence and the Machine song ("Heavy" it is sooo good), Thom Yorke, Band of Skulls, Dead Weather, my first exposure to the righteous glory of The Black Keys, is treasure trove.

And song that first grabbed me, and made me buy soundtrack and then make playlists and annoy the world with my amazing thoughts on this subject, was MuteMath's "Spotlight."
Which, having done my research like any good deranged fan, they merged several of their songs together, to create tapestry of AWESOME.

And I have been dying to see them live, as like their other stuff too, especially "Blood Pressure."

And yay, whee, only a few more hours of grocery and plotting for various things and child management stands in between me and MuteMath, live, hurray!!!!

So as a little happy bon mot before hunting and gathering for the residents of my household continues, here is MuteMath with "Spotlight." No sparkly vampires in the video, sorry (or, if you are not a fan, you are welcome)

Monday, October 8, 2012

Ditch the Sugarplum Fairy and the Pony, But Bring The Butcher Knife, or Tips On How To Throw A Successful Kid Birthday Party Without Losing Your Mind, by Allison

So recently M the six year old stylist became M the seven year old stylist, and her birthday party was the most lovely, peaceful, non-horror-show event, Matt and I were looking at each other like, when does the bloodshed start? (Spoiler!! No blood! Not even a scratch! Or an evil clown! Or animals! Or other mayhem!)
Just a few little girls getting their nails painted and then cupcakes.

I am guessing this is not earth-shattering news to the rest of the world, because normal people do not go off the rails with kids parties like I used to, before I was soundly defeated by my own idiocy.

But just in case I am not the only one who is LUNATIC child birthday party planner before I learned my lesson (Note: It took me approximately fifteen of my various daughters' various birthday parties before this lesson sunk in, you'd think I'd figure out after the INDOOR PONY and the BAD CLOWN and the BALLERINA SHOW and all, but I am getting ahead of myself)
I am generously sharing the following advice:

Allison's Tips On How To Celebrate Your Child's Birthday Without Being Crazy Person:

1. When organizing your first child's first birthday, pay attention to what season it is. For example, if it is still winter, an outdoor petting zoo might not work out very well. Especially if it is sleeting.

2. If it is sleeting during the supposed outdoor petting zoo for your one year old who does not know a thing about what is going on as she is one year old
(Note: No parent ever ever will believe you if you tell them this information, that their one year old has no clue whatall is going on. I certainly ignored sage advice from just about everyone because V was genius savant miracle child who surely would appreciate and remember the petting zoo and all details of this giant party),
do NOT bring the petting zoo inside.

(Note: I realize this is the part where you say, Allison is a total liar and cannot even tell believable lies. But everything in this whole Tips For Parties list is true. I am not exaggerating, I wish I were, but alas, I was actually lunatic enough to do all the things I say I did, and more that I do not wish to recall)

3. If the petting zoo lady says, "No, it is sleeting, I am not bringing the pony and iguana and ducks and snake and such", do NOT beg and bribe her to bring them anyway as not to disappoint your one year old who has no idea any of this is happening.

4. If the petting zoo lady shows up with the animals you begged her to bring, DO NOT bring the animals in the house.

Who would do that?

A pony?
For real?

(Spoiler!!! I totally did that.)

Ducks in a barrel? An iguana on a leash?
All in my house, for the enjoyment of my daughter who is still a baby and her baby friends who have no idea what is happening? NOT a good idea.
But, Silver Lining: All adults in attendance got a laugh and/or a "Whew, thank the heavens I am not married to her" out of it. Well, all adults except for Matt.

Pony. I have pictures.

5. Learn your lesson after Ponygate 2002. Do NOT pretend none of that happened and throw another giant party for your next one year old, this time taking weather into account but not thinking about how it would totally be horrible if you hired a BAD CLOWN to come to your house and scare the babies AND the parents.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Oh, You've Heard of Them? Well, Then, I Don't Like Them Anymore, Otherwise Known As, Please, We Are Not In Third Grade, a Plea, by Allison

So today I am at the girls' school, having a healthy snack birthday fest for M the now seven year old stylist, and glory be, it is raining. Which is awesome because:
1. I love rain.  Is the best weather, forevermore.
2. I got to see the first graders in action inside instead of on playground, the playground otherwise known as I lose a kid or two if I am on lunch duty, which is why I no longer do lunch duty.

The inside play time is always fascinating to me, to see Who Does What When, as I am Sociologist and Anthropologist and other Ologists. And to my delight, the girls put on a show! Whee! A puppet show, no less.
And they furthered my longstanding belief that all puppet shows involve animals, dancing, and murder. This one was called "Oh My Goodness I Am Being Eaten Alive" starring M as a rabid rooster who dances and kills dolphins and tigers and goats (??).
It was fab.

Was fab.  So why I am I all worked up into such a state that I can't even peacefully read for a half hour before swimming/Junior Assembly/drum set arriving for M (gulp)/Birthday Dinner/more Junior Assembly?

Because I was listening to the radio, as I am wont to do, while hunting and gathering and driving to gym and school etc. And I had it on a cool satellite channel that plays a variety of alternative, indie, different, mixtape type stuff. And something I normally love, a segment called Blog Radio in which a blogger (Note: Sirius XM people, I do qualify, just saying.) is DJ and talks about music.
So like, my dream job.
But today, it got me so grumpy I had to vent in word form, as soon as I got home, leading the good dog to act like the bad dog, eating the salmon for M's special dinner.  Ug.
(Note: Am back from hunting and gathering more salmon. Did not see Angry Grocery Antagonist, whew)

Why am I still grumpy? Is rainy, fun party day.
But alas, the blogger on the radio was STUPID and IDIOT and I really, really wanted to throw something at him. The guy was playing a good song, I think from Wild Nothing? Can't remember, as my head caught on fire when dude was all, "Yeah, so, people ask me what I am listening to lately or if anything new is good, or to make them a playlist."
(Which, Note: That is my dream conversation. Nobody ever asks that, probably because I have already told them the answers to those questions and/or given them a playlist.)

But blogger Faux Hipster Music Genius and I apparently differ on sharing fab music with interested people, because he was all, "Yeah, but I'm not telling them what I like or what is good. They don't get music like I do. They don't feel it as much. I'm not telling them what is cool, they wouldn't get it."

So this is where my head explodes into flames.

Friday, September 28, 2012

An Open Letter To Target: Stop Selling Wines With Insulting and Patronizing Names Or We Won't Let You Come To Our Book Club, by Allison

Dear Target:
I am officially mad at you, and I hate to fight with you.

I am on your team, remember?

Always seem to need something that turns into giant cart of stuff and then I have to go back again for the party supplies, sometimes I have three girls who turn into savage feral cat vampire vulture children throwing everything they can find in the cart?


I normally totally approve of your choices in marketing, stocking the store, keeping things with the vague notion of aspirational items and things I probably need and things that are shiny and stuff for the house that is boring and all.

I always give you gold star for keeping the stores and carts non-gross,
turning stuff over fast so it does not looked picked through like bargain basement store,
getting designers to do capsule collections,
having ballet flats and flip flops in stock when I need them,
having cute holiday things that trick me into thinking I need them and that I don't already have this cute little tree thing for the mantel so better get it,
PLUS now milk and wine??

I realize you are working me over.

 I get that, and I respect the very good job you do with that.

I am aware that by making things a teensy bit nicer, you are wooing me, luring me into lifelong super shopper status.

I know that, am cool with it, is very very clever.

I know I am your demographic, as woman in house who buys stuff for everybody, we are your people.

We love getting all the socks and detergent and makeup wipes and Tide to Go along with digital camera thingys we lost and baby gifts and impulse purchases you have placed well for just that reason at Target, because there is a certain level of respect, or at least acknowledgement that you like us, you know what we need and stock it, the store won't be gross, surely you can grab a teacher gift while there too, so we load up our giant S.U.V's on a weekly basis and drive off to clog the air with inefficent giant kid-mobiles to get our Starbucks.

I am very on board with your strategy and have always admired it for its cleverness and effectiveness. Gold star, totally.

Except now.

You need to call the marketing people, wrangle yourself up some new focus groups. You can call me if you want some suggestions.

Because here is where you have made me grumpy, Target.

You are being offensive in your wine selection. 

Not the quality, not the variety, but the NAMES.

They are awful and insulting and I am now worked up into indignant froth.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Is it Possible To Have Too Much Fun? Must I Scale Back The Fun? I Vote NO, But Am Not Making A List About It, by Allison

So, is Monday (Ha!  Now it is Tuesday, that is how productive I was yesterday, or, I shall phrase it as, that's how very very busy I was doing super important things to benefit my family and also the universe) I am all, whew, I had a big week last week. I need to tone it down this week, have some me time or something.

And then I feel like idiot as my big week last week was (other than regular routine): Go to see bands in city 2 hours away (The Neighbourhood, Passion Pit, whee!), Go to Matt's office party that turns into HUMONGOUS DANCE RAGE FUN (more on that later), Go see a concert in my friend P's backyard that he has turned into backyard concert venue for actual awesome musicians, there is not one un-fun thing in that list of stuff.  That is a fab list of fab things.

I am doing nothing benefiting the overall world (Except music appreciation is a good thing and can earn a Girl Scout badge, I know this to be true), nothing taxing (Except dancing, that totally counts as cardio), what in the world am I bemoaning?

I am grumpy because I cannot rally as I used to. When I was eighteen or whatever. (Note: Am still very, very young.) After regular Wednesday of yuk gym and kid stuff and Matt's long day of doctoring, we drive off to see a show, because I wrote it on an envelope when I was supposed to be organizing the girls' activities and stuff.
I wrote it, on envelope, so it is so.

Friday, September 21, 2012

And When She Was Good, a Book Review and Poem Flashback Please I Hope I Am Not Horrid, by Allison

So when I was a little girl (Note: not that long ago, remember, I am very, very young) my mom used to recite this poem to me, and I am way too lazy to google but am pretty sure it is a real poem by a poet, and this is what I remember:

There once was a little girl, who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead,
And when she was good, she was very, very good,
But when she was bad she was horrid.

And I was both baffled and horrified, but also intrigued and curious about this poem. Apparently as a very young baby person I had a curl on the top of my head, which was, all the hair I had, tied with a ribbon or shaped into a curl. I have no curl to my hair, have always been envious of those who do.

So I remember thinking, is this about me (baby narcissist, surely)? What stuff is the good? Am I also horrid?

 Horrid is the worst word, in the best sense of the word, meaning it is so clearly, definitely, stingingly saying "awful, terrible, shameful, gross, wicked" in one tidy, Austenian word.
By the time I was old enough to process this poem (and am going to google it later as am now curious) I had not a curl to my head, nor an idea of what good and/or horrid things myself or poem girl were up to.

So this is long leadup (shock!!!) to a book I just read, by an author I usually like but do not LOVE LOVE, but do like and will read, book is And When She Was Good, by Laura Lippman.
And When She Was Good

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Violating Rules of Civilized Society By Being Super Awful And Scaring Children, Or, If You See Me Throwing Produce, I Have A Reason, by Allison

So I am not known for my skills in punctuality.  Not usually early, kind of schooch in at the last second. Am working on that, as one of my three girls is very time sensitive and I do not want to stress her out because I like the song on the radio.
But I do have a plot, a plan, a routine for my basic gym, violin, grocery, pickup, Starbucks, things that I do every day for the most part.
And for the grocery, I have timed it down to the exact minute (23 minutes, am not making this up, it is pretty much totally accurate unless sushi guy is busy and can't do V's carrot rolls right away) including possible delays involving slow choosers of prepared foods, long lines, etc. Have been doing this route for a while, and am pretty much solid on how it is going to go.

So the other day on this very routine routine, somehow several delays in a row slowed down my timetable.  My bad, people who are lingering at prepared foods or sushi guy or butcher have every right to do so, it is just not a normal thing for a string of delays to happen during the same grocery run.

Am not grumpy, do not think I have special entitlement to Go To Front Of Line, I swear. But I was getting nervous, as variety of delays made timetable kind of close and I was headed next to violin lesson for E the girl who observes clock.

So I did something I have NEVER done, although in reverse, I have done this a bunch over the years, meaning, if I have big old cart of stuff and someone behind me has little bitty basket, or person behind me is dealing with 2 squalling kids or having hard time standing or whatever, I offer for that person or group of screaming kids or such to go ahead of me. Not because I am Good Samaritan Give Me Gold Star, just seems like they need to go ahead more than I do, and that is fine by me.

And if anyone has ever asked me if they can get ahead of me in line, for whatever reason or no reason given, I am cool with that. Because in my life experience (Note: which, granted, I am still very, very young) most people wait in line in civilized fashion (Subnote: This does not apply to very odd people in line behind me and my friends at Universal Studios E.T. ride, those people had NO sense of personal space at ALL) and everything is cool, we move along, nobody loses an eye.

So the thing I did that I swear I have never done before is ask this couple in front of me in line if I could possibly go ahead (Note: I did not have ginormous cart full of eleventy billion things) due to unexpected time crunch leading me to be in hurry to get to daughter's violin lesson.
I ask nicely, and do not expect them to say yes or no, really, no idea, but hoping for yes.

Wicked, Twisty, Stormy Music, Am Obsessed, The Neigbhourhood's "Female Robbery" , Am Obsessed, by Allison

Well, I am not sure what kind of twisty, malevolent, strange wind is coming type of mood I am in right now, on this Saturday morning, post-gym.

I will say this, though, it is NOT a cheery skippy whee yay mood.
I am blaming it on the fact that it is still sunny and hot and I am getting deranged from the non-rain and non-gloom and have started divining out the rainy, stormy things in the world as soothing balm.

So on that note, I have been obsessing over this spooky, excellent, wicked song by The Neighbourhood, "Female Robbery." Is awesome, sneaky, dark, and not at all sunny or cheerful.
"Leave everything that is worth a single cent and just take me instead?" It is creepy and wicked and cool.

And I just watched the video and it is either excerpts from some 1940's film noir or styled that way, I can't tell and am too lazy to google, and it doesn't matter, because either way, it is totally, snakily fantastic.

And now am on constant repeat, my version of a rain dance.

But whether you are as desperate for a thunderstorm as I am or not, check out this song, this band, they are cool, and I am fixated on them right now.

The Neighbourhood's "Female Robbery" 
Ug, addendum: the video I posted is no longer viewable in US, not sure why, but here is the song, is so fabulously twisty cool and sneaky good:

And Update!

And Crazy Awesome Interview And Update!

Friday, September 14, 2012

Dear Weather, STOP with the Hot and Sunny. Am Grumpy. Want Rain. Please Cooperate, Am Asking Nicely, a Plea, by Allison

Ok, weather. We need to talk.
STOP with the hot and the sunny.

Is boring.

Is tedious.

Is not inventive, like, at ALL.

Poor showing for you. Also, it makes horrible boot camp class worse when I have to do yuk stuff in the hot and the sun, that is just not working for me anymore.

I am sure, Weather, that you have stuff to do and so the monotonous Hot and Sunny is easy and you don't really have to put much effort into it, and maybe you are procrastinating. I get that.

 I do that, too. Right now, actually, am totally avoiding other stuff to rant to Weather about Weather's Very Bad and Boring Choices.  I am not judging.

Wait, that is totally not true.
Am very much judging, am actually holding a Court of Law Judge Allison Now In Session, and it is not a jury trial, I am sole decider, and I find you guilty of Boring Stupid Hot Sunny Weather Stop It.

I would very much like to wear my fall wardrobe.
I am NICER when it is not hot and sunny.
If you have to push pause on your TiVo during a good part in The Bachelorette (See, I am going to disparage you and your television choices until you play along here, Weather), just make it rain at least.

Gloomy rain, please.
I am rereading Pride and Prejudice right now and I want some mist.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

At Least I Did Not Run Away Screaming, Or Middle School Technology Night, A Treatise On Why I Should Never Deal With Anything That Can Break, by Allison

So total miracle just occurred.  If you are a new reader to my TOTALLY IMPORTANT AND RELEVANT blog, you may ask, "Huh, what miracle? World peace? No hunger? Ozone now totally fine?"

However, if you have even spent two seconds dealing with me in word form or in person (and I am guessing also my future vengeful ghost will be this way too) ever, you probably realize No, nothing that is actual miracle occurred, is just Allison And Her Nonsense Not Causing Harm or Embarrassment To Herself Or Others.

This particular miracle (Note: I say it is miracle, so there. I know I need more evidence to send it to the Pope and get it officially miracle-ized, but consider it in this way, like, patent pending or such) just happened because I survived, without getting a poisonous rash, cutting off my hair in terrible and very unsuccessful attempt to look like famous Australian singer-actress, and most importantly, did NOT humiliate (Note: That I am aware of, I might find out I accidentally totally embarrassed V in some way later, but she did not do the immediate, "Ugggg, Mom" or "Really?" that I usually get from her when I go off the rails) my daughter V or Matt at Middle School Technology Night, which look, progress, I can even type the words Middle and School and not freak out!

But then, they have to go throw in the Technology thing. Seriously, is next week going to be Middle School Technology Plus Donate A Kidney And Fly To Mars And Also Do The Hard Math Stuff Night? Because I need to prepare, otherwise known as run far, far away. 

So Middle School Technology (See? I am getting better, right? A whole sentence without mentioning the trauma of my Poison Ivy Plus Bad Hair Add In The Being Taller Than Everyone Middle School beginnings) night happens because the new Middle Schoolers at V's most excellent middle school (which is attached to excellent lower school and I do not have direct evidence as I am VERY young, remember, but hear the upper school is awesome too) get laptops.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Best Funnest Music Night That Also Included Allison Getting To Talk To Allison Approved Band A Silent Film, plus sad sad country song that makes me sob every time as bonus, by Allison

So, I have totally declared myself  Decider Of What Is Awesome,
and take this pretend job very seriously.
And as am also benevolent benefactor of the awesome,
it is my solemn duty to share the following Royal Decree: 

The band A Silent Film is MOST EXCELLENTLY AWESOME. 
I know I have already written about their stuff
(Note: I am sure all have memorized everything I post,
but just in case,
I waxed poetic about A Silent Film and their fabulosity here:

But I have new information!
Otherwise known as whee yay tra la la, Matt and I went to see A Silent Film play a killer show, much  awesomeness last night.
And I can verify and add extra exclamation points,
capital letters THEY ARE SO GOOD.

We were lucky,
the venue was small so it was easier for me to snake my way up to very front,
as I am wont to do.
And so I got to see them playing their cool and thrashy and lovely and excellent music,
and also witness their dynamic, electric,
squee yay whee show.



Lead singer and pianist
(Note: Previously Established Allison Approves qualities of British,
Musician, Good Hair totally happening here,
plus piano playing and really engaging and owning the crowd)
and drummer

(Note: Managing the very challenging task of both drumming,
 and also being cool to watch perform,
does not blur into background of stage like sometimes drummers can do)
being Awesome.

And after the show,
got to chat with lovely drummer, Spencer Walker,
 and then, extremely delightful fun scenario,
involving me overhearing in the ladies' room
(My Intense People Watching Pretend Job in full force here)
these two girls, who were toting GINORMOUS cameras,
 that were kind of intense-looking cameras,
discussing their strategies for pursuing band members -
 for whatall I do not know?
 But I don't think it was Scrabble.

But alas, Camara-Ready Groupies!!!!
'Twas not meant to be.
For upon exiting ladies' room, lead singer, named Robert Stevenson,
who did I mention the British and the musician and the hair and the awesomeness?
If not, that was happening,
plus also he was chatting with Matt,
(who had very perfect floppy hair last night, gold star for him)
and I of course joined in, duh, and he is fantastic guy. 
Not egocentric lead singer guy,
or chemically altered to the point of wha? lead singer guy.
Is Awesome lead singer guy. 

I have PROOF:


See?  Granted, my phone camera is subpar, but still.
He does not have "get this crazy away from me" face on, because he is cool dude.

And since it is known (by me),
 that my Very Important Blog (determined by me),
 has established A Silent Film as Totally Allison Approved,
I was compelled to let him know.

And to also let him know that my post on "Danny and Dakota and the Wishing well,"
in which I detail my love for good story-songs,
which theirs is,
as opposed to sad story songs,
mostly of the country music genre,
involving lots of deaths and dyings and super sad things that I cannot process,
led to me getting into chats with people from a blog DEDICATED to sad country songs.

 Like, that is their thing.

And since I have blog dedicated to whatever it is I like and/or am doing/watching/listening to/avoiding/flash mobbing about?

I am glass house, no stone throwing,
am kettle, no calling pots black.

But it did make me laugh that referencing a song as being awesome because it was NOT a sad country story song,
 but in fact the opposite
(Note: People Of The World Hear This:
Go listen to A Silent Film's song.
Actually all their stuff.
Is good for you.
Is Awesome)
led to sad country song fans wanting to debate about the merits of sad country songs.

And let me say this,
listen to whatever floats your boat (but I have really good recommendations if you need any,
since I Have Best Taste In Music Ever, as decided by me)
but I cannot bear the heartache of "He Stopped Loving Her Today" by George Jones.
Is tragic.
Makes me cry every time.
So I discuss this with Robert Stevenson,
lead singer for A Silent Film whose awesome show I just saw,
 and am now totally talking to him about my nonsense.

 He has not heard of this song,
as he is British and I am not sure George Jones was as big over there as he was in South here.  
But he humors me, and I repeat,
A Silent Film is fantastic -
 you should listen to their music and go see them live as they are great live!!!!!

But as I promised, (and thanks very much,
had to cry through three versions of the song below to find a good video),
one of the best, saddest, gut-wrenching sad country songs EVER, George Jones' "He Stopped Loving Her Today."