Gleeks Unite!

Good golly gee do I love the show "Glee" - more than just about anything else on television right now...except for the precious few last episodes of "LOST" and the fabulous programming on HBO and Showtime. But even those wonderful shows (like "Treme" and "Nurse Jackie" and "The United States of Tara") don't combine random showtunes into their repetoires, which makes "Glee" top of the tops. Plus, Kristen Chenoweth shows up on occasion and she is my big-time singing girl crush, so there you have it and thank you very much.

After all these years of toiling in obscurity, Gleeks like me have a forum in which to unite once weekly. Fans of belting along with Broadway soundtracks, recreating elaborate dance numbers in front of bedroom mirrors, and collecting live production showbills - our time is now! Not only is this show incredibly well done and classy and filled with all kinds of modern gems and obscure classics, it's popular! Go figure. This is not something with which average Gleeks are especially familiar. (If my fellow Gleeks are anything like me, we are more alligned with, say those kids Puck was throwing into the dumpster last week...)

But no more! Even Ol' Scotty P. is a fan, although he limits his showtunes to the one-hour time slot for the show and doesn't feel the need to make it a part of his daily routine. He does not, for example, sing otherwise normal statements, like I might. (Though that could make for a very interesting addition in his line of work!) No matter. It's an awesome pop culture moment for those who love lively bursts into song, witty banter, talented performers, and top-notch writing.

I wish I could attend William McKinley High and join New Directions, too. I wish this show had been around when I attended my own dismal high school, so that my strange fascination with singing and dancing may have seemed less eccentric. (This is still a long shot. I would probably still have been the wierdo outcast - a skill which, though painful at that time has served me extraordinarily well in my adult life. Dare I say it, people may actually like me better for my differences? So, take that high school memories!) These kids are just super great and I love, love, love them as if they were really real. Is that a clear enough statement to express my obsession?

If only there were more outlets to burst into song to express ourselves - in real life, I mean. I bet communication would improve and we would all feel better. Maybe I'm onto something here. Maybe that's why I feel so happy some days, because I have sung my way through life for a while. Maybe we could all take a cue from "Glee" and break into song here and there. It would be fun and captivating to our audiences.

And if that doesn't catch on, that's okay too. I'll still be doing my little solo act here, you can count on it! And, I bet there are other Gleeks out there who can totally relate...

Laughter Is the Best Medicine

Here are some things that made me laugh in the past few days - and goodness knows I do love a good chuckle. Laughter, and finding funny things anywhere, anytime, is one thing at which I am pretty darn good - it is my best friend!

**Re-watching "The Hangover" tonight. This always makes me laugh, no matter what, and so it is no surprise, but I thought it appropriate to begin the list.

**Looking at my pajamas, which happen to be covered in bumble bees and flowers, and making "Buuuzzzziiiinnnnnggggg" sounds while watching "The Hangover." Ol' Scotty thought that was humorous too, in a childish, silly sort of way.

**About 700 things at the first Parkway Playhouse rehearsal of "Annie" last night, none of which would be funny to a normal, mature adult - or anyone other than me and perhaps one or two other choice people. This is just the first of about 700 more rehearsals throughout the summer, all of which will be filled with laughter and hysterics. And I can't wait for that! I don't think there is any better laughter than that which occurs at Parkway!

**The finale of "Survivor" last night. Specifically, Sandra calling out Russell as she wore that tiara. Hilarious. I also supremely loved when Boston Rob said if he could do it over, he'd beat Russell's ass. Priceless...

**A beagle and a chessie. They didn't do anything out of the ordinary, which means there were their naturally rambunctious, hysterical selves. I especially loved Gracie sliding herself under our bed to her "hidey hole" when she saw me put sneakers on to take a walk. (See, she thinks she might have to go on a walk, something which makes her extremely anxious and insane - because she is neurotic and generally "special needs." But, as many who have met her have said, as she belongs to me, she gets it honestly.)

**Ol' Scotty making fun of my black Converse sneakers I wore yesterday. We both had a good guffaw after he pointed out that if I want to ever look older than 12, I might try not wearing those ridiculous shoes. (For the record, I love those shoes and will wear them to death. Plus, my wearing or not wearing them has no bearing on how old others think I am. It's still 12.)

Here's to another fun-filled day of snickers! Hope there are some in it for you, too!

Meandering Day of Loveliness

Today has been just about perfect. I will herein attempt to explain why.

**When I woke up, Ol' Scotty P. had already turned on the television, which is both unheard of (since he claims to not enable my TV addiction) and terrific (precisely because of my TV addiction - which I, like any good addict, vehemently deny.) "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" was on, and I love that movie, so I cuddled up under the covers with my coffee and reveled in its delight. It occurred to me that these are the moments I could not enjoy if I were a parent, but being as I am currently only a mom to dogs, I decided to stop thinking about that and not feel guilty for things which are not my life. I knew it would be a good day right off the bat...

**It was super warm outside - perfect for a sundress and brand new brown, flowery flip-flops. I spent some time at Burnsville's Farmer's Market, buying homemade jams, farm fresh local eggs, and yummy goat cheese. I visited a produce stand for beans and potatotes and peaches, all raised right here in Yancey County. I thought of my old Saturday morning routines in Morgantown, when I would drink a big latte from Starbucks, get a manicure, and then go shopping for things I didn't need. Both are good, though different, and both are, strangely enough, totally me, and I really feel at peace doing both. Surprising and odd how that happens sometimes...

**Seeing how Ol' Scotty P. is feeling a bit under the weather, we took it easy and spent the afternoon in Asheville with my favorite Aussie Russell Crowe on the big screen in "Robin Hood." We adored it. It had just the right combination of bloody action and intriguing story, and the promise of a sequel which I desperately hope comes true. I skipped breakfast to starve myself on purpose, so I got to eat a huge bucket of delicious popcorn, too, which is always a movie bonus. (I have on numerous occasions eaten a huge bucket of popcorn on a stuffed full stomach, because I love popcorn that much. It is much more enjoyable, however, to do it when you are truly hungry. There is your free tip for the day. You're welcome.)

**After the film, we walked across the street to Cold Stone Creamery for a sweet treat. We were both briefly distracted by a case full of chocolate delights, from which we picked a good number for later tonight. Then we each ate the biggest size (Gotta Have It) of heavenly ice cream goodness on the face of the planet. (I recently had such a craving for Cold Stone that I ate a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich for lunch a few days ago. It was not a suitable substitute for Cold Stone, that's for sure. It reminded me of my Morgantown cravings and how I would drive to Cold Stone in any weather, at any time of day or night, to fetch it. I am glad I dreamt up today's plan to get my fix!) We sat outside together and had a delicious time, Scotty with his choclatey chocolate and me with my vanilla and cookie dough concoction of bliss. Nothing is a better lunch than movie theater popcorn and Cold Stone ice cream. (What am I saying? Better lunch? Hell, there is no better meal, period!!) I sure am lucky to have enjoyed that...

**Once we got home, Ol' Scotty went downstairs to wail on his guitar and find his "perfect tone" - which I guess is only slightly harder to track down than the truth about large-scale disasters. (This will make sense in a minute.) I decided it was the perfect time to engage in one of my favorite obsessions: watching 9/11 conspiracy documentaries. While I have long loved to do this, a few days ago I hit the mother load: an entire online site dedicated to top documentaries on every subject imaginable. Thankfully, a large number of these are about the 9/11 Truth Movement. Over the past two days, I have watched approximately ten of them. (Though I understand I am prone to exaggeration, this is an honest number. And I'm not even half-way through the list! Blessed, glorious internet!)

Scotty P. queried whether I had discovered the truth yet. I informed him as I will inform you: Not yet, but I think I am getting closer, and I will die trying, if necessary. He then added that, if the Powers That Be get wind of my obsession, I may very well die trying. If that is the case, then all my cynical, conspiracist musings will likely be proven true, won't they? And that will only serve to further my goal! (I do not, however, want to become a martyr for this - or any - cause. So, let's hope I don't fall to such a fate.)

Right now, I am eating a big, fat, piece of red meat (raised free range, of course) and organic broccoli, questioning the federal government's version of September 11, and watching a peaceful Chessie sleep at my feet as a curious Beagle scours the kitchen for wayward crumbs. We are all content as can be here on a rainy Saturday night, the end to a glorious day.

Life is good.

Wonder Why?

Sometimes I just wonder about things in this world. Ol' Scotty P. doesn't seem too interested in my wonderings, so I just have to get those things out in this blog post...

**When I watch "48 Hours" or "Dateline" or "American Justice" or any of the many, many true-crime stories over which I obsess, I wonder why they feel the need to say "in a hushed courtroom, the defendant took the stand..." or some such thing. What other kind of courtroom is there? Have you ever seen the inside of a courtroom whilst a trial takes place that is raucous or otherwise so engaged? Are there jugglers or clowns or vendors wandering the aisles hawking popcorn and COLD Bud Light? Unfortunately, no. (But, that would be all right by me if there were, seeing how much time I spend in courtrooms.)

By definition - and order - the courtroom is typically hushed. Or the bailiff takes offending parties out. (I've seen several drunks escorted from the courtroom before. At 9:00am. In Avery County. Enough said, if you know anything about Avery County...) And, on top of that, most people inside said courtroom are bored to tears, which tends to lead to silence. So, in the interest of efficiency, I think they can leave that part out of the description. Thank you.

**Why do people think a sticker on the back windshield of their vehicle is an appropriate tribute to a dead person? I can't tell you how many decal crosses and birth-and-death dates I've seen driving down the highway, right next to a Dale Earnhart sticker or "My Kid is an Honor Student" decoration. Seriously, if I died and someone put a decal on their car next to the Pittsburgh Steelers decal, I would be pissed. Because I am anti-tacky. (This also goes for those roadside crosses/memorials. I argue that is littering and should be illegal. I better not see any of this nonsense from the other side or I will haunt you. Consider yourself warned.)

**Why do Facebook users need to update their statuses with things like, "I am REEEAAAALLLLY MAD RIGHT NOW AND DON'T EVEN ASK ME ABOUT IT BECAUSE I WILL NEVER EVER TELL YOU EXCEPT TO SAY I AM REEEEAAAAAALLLLY MAAAAAAAD!!!!!!!!!!" (Excessive exclamation points and capitilization intended to copy their over-dramatic emphasis.) These statuses are, naturally, followed by loads of comments like, "OMG - Are you okay?"

Of course the person is okay. They updated their Facebook status, didn't they? So they are clearly not incarcerated, in a coma, paralyzed under a semi-truck, or similarly incapacitated, which would impede their Facebook updates. They are, however, in my humble opinion, attention-seekers who need nothing less than a slew of "OMG - HOW CAN I HELP YOU?!?!?!?!?!?!" comments. What they might need is to be ignored so they might realize their pitiful, childish cries for attention are, um, retarded. There, I said it. This type of behavior is retarded and should result in a lifetime ban from Facebook, thereby eliminating at least one avenue from which these histrionic souls can derive attention.

Okay, for today, these are the most pressing issues I can think about. Until later, then, let the questions continue!

Dream On

Being rather lazy, it's no surprise I like to sleep. And, as one who likes to sleep, it's no shocker that I love to dream. I don't, however, always love my dreams because they are bizarre and extraordinarily crazy. I do, though, love to dissect my dreams and, just the other day, Ol' Scotty P. told me to "never" tell him about my dreams again because "it scares him."

I tried to find out what specifically terrified him about my most recent tale of flying a small scooter-type airplane through the Parkway Playhouse's director's home (a place which was most definitely not real due to its labyrinth style of secret rooms and layered hallways.) Did he not like my inablility to land the device, which I repeatedly crashed into the hardwood floors? Was he bothered that dream Scotty P. shut down his office suddenly to become a file clerk and tried to move us to a million-dollar home? Did he get jealous because I got invited to Dollywood and he didn't want to come with?

No, it turns out, as he explained, my dreams "scare the s**t out of him" because what goes on inside my head is "f'ing insane." (He is nothing if not eloquent, I always say.) I can see his point, but countered that if he's scared by secondhand versions of my nightmares, he should try spending a day living with what's going on inside my head. Seriously.

Regardless, I decided to continue telling him despite his wishes to the contrary. It's good for a couple to share things between them. If I had never told him about my dreams, he would never know about the time dream Steph was having a dream baby and dream Scott insisted it be named Wilhemina, if a girl, or Danny Todd, if a boy. (We had a girl, by the way, and I stuck the newborn in a cardboard box and forgot about her. We did name her Wilhemina. It all turned out because it was only a plastic baby doll anyhow. Dream Steph was glad it was a girl because as bad a name as Wilhemina might be, Danny Todd is, um, atrocious.) He also would have missed out on all my tales of dating Peyton and Eli Manning and how they fight over me in my sleep.

Okay, so I see why he would prefer I just keep a dream journal or something. But what fun would that be? A few nights ago I dreamt that the Penguins won this series against the Canadiens, a scenario which looks right now as likely as my dating a Manning brother.

But, it's fun to share these things with him - clearly more fun for me than him. It's okay, though. I think he secretly likes my creativity and wit.

At least, he does in my dreams.

They Said, "Athlete!"

Last week, Ol' Scotty P. and I went on a swanky dinner date with two other couples who are good friends we don't see often enough, even though we all live within miles of one another. It was fabulous. I got to wear a new dress I had just found for a steal and some fancy shoes, so already, even before the wonderful food and enlightening conversation, the night was successful in my mind.

But the food was absolutely, memorably delicious and the easy, breezy conversation filled with laughter. It was joyous. For a bunch of grown-ups, we had a way better time than I ever had at the beer bashes of my twenties - even if you could not have convinced me of that back then. This fact never ceases to baffle me, as I am just so darned resistant to classifying myself an "adult" sometimes, until I'm reminded of how awesome it is to finally be one!

Lest you think it was all stuffy talk of gardening and parenting tips, I'll just tell you those things did come up, between asking classic questions like, "Which athlete would you most like to sleep with?" Now, this is one of my favorite games to play, made all the better after a few cocktails. (Another difference between being a pseudo-adult and a full-fledged grown-up: You can afford the good liquor. And mixers. And you can order these concoctions at the bar, instead of having to stick to the beer special in a pitcher. I never thought I would see the day. Life really does get good.)

Of course, this is a good question because it limits you as to choices - versus, say, "actors" or similarly vast categories. I chose Sidney Crosby because he is a stand-up guy, lives with Mario, is sweet as can be, talented, cute, has a gold medal AND a Stanley Cup ring, and is Canadian. (I like the accent.) Plus, we are smack in the middle of hockey playoffs, so he graces my screen (hopefully) every other day or so. (And, on a side note, though my campaign to bring Big Ben retribution continues diligently and he did apologize to the city of Pittsburgh, we are not quite ready to throw his name into a conversation like this. Yet. Give it time.)

A few days ago, long after this little back-and-forth took place, Ol' Scott and I were watching the Pens lose a miserable game in the Eastern Conference Semifinals and he remarked, "I can't believe you chose Sidney Crosby over everyone."

I jolted upright from my sad, prone, Pens-are-losing-a-real-stinker position, "Yeah, but they said athlete! Not just anyone! Who would you rather I have chosen?"

He did not respond right away, but then said, "Yeah, you're right. They did say athlete. I guess that's a good choice." And we resumed cussing at the ridiculous play on the ice while willing the Pens to do better in Game 3. (Which they sure did, by the way, making it a 2-1 game lead heading into tonight's showdown!)

The point is this: We have grown up. Like it or not. Tank tops and pitchers of Bud Light in a smoke-filled bar have given way to fancy martinis and multi-course meals. (Most of the time. I won't pretend that you'll never see me in a tank top with a glass of Bud Light, but it is way less frequent now.)

But it's good to know that, even in adulthood, you can play a game like this one with your friends and you can stick to the rules of that game. And you can ponder over the answers with your spouse later because everyone is mature and happy to be that way. I hope that next time we see these dear friends, we can play another version of this game or one similar.

Because it's that sort of connection to the silliness of youth that lets me relish completely the joys of growing up, even if I sometimes don't really believe I have.

Yippee-Kay-Yay, Broadway Lover!

This is a Broadway musical kind of time of year! The Tony nominations were announced this week. I heard all about it from my gay radio boyfriend, "The Ahmaaazing" Seth Ruetetsky on Sirius XM Broadway channel which plays non-stop in my car. (Don't ask me again: Seth and I have a kind of a "thing" going on and I can't explain it right now. Trust me - it's showtune terrific and, yes, ahmaaazing.) On top of all that, the Parkway Playhouse is gloriously near to beginning rehearsals for "Annie" - the first of two musicals I will perform in this summer.

Needless to say, my life is one big, elaborate musical number in my mind right now. (And when I say "right now" it could translate to "all the time" - except seriously more right now.) I've been humming showtunes all day long and dwelling incessantly on the emotions of my favorite shows. I am, simultaneously, attempting to train for a 5K which is coming up this Saturday and, while it is slow, plodding, and not entirely likely to continue for the 3.1 miles, I do so enjoy picking a new Broadway soundtrack on my iPod each time I go out running. It's like a melding of the physical and emotional in the best possible way.

Some time ago, it was my current obsession, "Wicked." I have likely listened to this complete soundtrack no less than 1000 times in the past five months, and it never ceases to amaze me. When I saw it onstage during a freak February snowstorm in South Carolina, my already-perfect vision of it was etched forever in my mind as a fantastic memory. After it had ended, and while the tears were likely still fresh on my cheeks, Ol' Scotty P. and I slipped and slid our way over a magical snow-covered bridge to our cozy hotel room (me, of course, in ridiculously impractical Italian leather three-inch heels, holding Scotty P. with all my might so as not to tumble) and we ate take-out New York Carnegie Deli cheesecake while I wore my souvenir Wicked track jacket and remarked that it was almost as good as being in NYC. And it was, almost. Kind of like how listening to the soundtrack now is almost as good as that night in South Carolina. Almost.

Last week, for example, I chose "Miss Saigon." This is maybe not the most obvious option, but I do love it so. It reminds me of being a naive young adult who still believed in that kind of perfect, self-sacrificing love. I used to listen to my cassette tape copy of it in my freshman dorm room at WVU while I did my homework and tears would stream down my face at the tragic, sorrowful end - which I will not reveal, in case some dear readers are not familiar. (To which I say - get out there and listen! There is no greater joy than immersing oneself in a musical story from start to end, in one sitting, to discover a story told in glorious, delicious song...)

I remember the first time I saw it onstage in Pittsburgh, and how excited I was to finally put a visual to the songs I had memorized for so many years. I've seen it another time since, but somehow, it never had the same emotional kick that those cassette tapes held for an 18-year-old kid away from home, clumsily finding her way to adulthood. That is what that show really means for me, and thank goodness for it. It's a lovely memory to match a lovely show.

And then, a few days ago, in the steamy humidity of the afternoon, I could not help but pick "Oklahoma!" I so wanted to relish the memories of last summer's Parkway Playhouse production - to feel the stickiness of the backstage in the summer heat, to sense the butterflies of "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" when it begins so precious and sweet. As anyone who has ever talked to me in the past year knows, if I could bottle those nine or so performances from last year and relive them forever, I would in a heartbeat. It was therapy in the best sense of the word - I found myself on that old wooden stage in Burnsville, NC, and I vowed to hold onto that joy forever.

So, when I set out running to those terrific tunes, it was like coming full circle. I ran and I thought - about all the new memories of this summer coming up, of the changes on the horizon, of making my home here in the mountains of North Carolina.

That is the true story behind the Broadway love - what it means for me, the feelings and love that rise in my soul when I hear some showtunes and can't help but belt along. It is, as Seth would say, "Ahmaaazing!"

And I cherish it so.