Grow Up, Already!

The end of the year always leads to the inevitable self reflection and introspection that I am able to take to unprecedented extremes. I don't have to do much soul-searching, though, to conclude that I am immature. I am in my thirties, am married and am a mother, which, of course, essentially means that I am entirely responsible for the life of another person. I graduated from college, work a full time job and pay a mortgage. But I don't feel like an adult. I don't have a clue what would make me feel like an adult, either.
Maybe it is my indecisiveness. Indecision may or may not be my problem (okay, I cribbed that line from a Jimmy Buffett song, but it is still a good line, and it fits). Sometimes I think the only reason I make decisions is so I will have something to regret later. It isn't character assassination to say that I make bad decisions (when I do make decision), phenomenally bad decisions that could land me the cover of What Was She Thinking? magazine. I always attributed my bad decision making to being a part of my personality like my wicked sense of humor or my extreme emotional overreaction to any perceived slight -- real or imaginary. But I am working on that, trying to make decisions I can live with, decisions that are more intelligent, more . . . adult.
Then again, maybe the key to adulthood isn't as abstract as the concept of good decisions. Maybe it is something simple and concrete. And maybe this will be the year when I finally feel a bit more like a grown up.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some playing to do.

Bah, Humbug

This holiday season, as I cram myself full to the brim of Christmas entertainment, it is likely I will see a version of A Christmas Carol, as I do every year. One year, Mr. Barefoot and I set about watching every version of Carol committed to video and/or DVD. I think we succeeded: we watched all forms, from the 1938 version to the horrible 50's version with the too-effeminate Scrooge and Christmas Past, up through Scrooged. We hungrily consumed all matter of Scrooge and Marley and Ghosts Past, Present and Future. And Mr. Barefoot always has to endure my saying the lines along with the movies. Through the various versions, there are some constants, lines that remain from version to version and I love that and cannot resist saying them. (I actually do this with all movies I love; it is as though I physically cannot restrain myself. Maybe it is genetic; my dad cannot resist telling people what is about to happen in a movie that he has already seen. And watching a movie with my mom is just as impossible, as she will ask questions about what is happening, though we have all seen just as much of the movie as she has.)
Alas, there is one version close to my heart that Mr. Barefoot will never get to see. Nearly a decade ago, yours truly got a role in a community presentation of A Chrsitmas Carol. I remember it very fondly and it was a great experience. It was fun to stretch my thespian tendancies. I became good friends with Christmas Past and dated Jacob Marley for a few months. Rich misers aren't my type, though, and things didn't work out. Plus, he had all those chains and never once did he get kinky with them . . .
Unfortunately, I moved away from that community to take a job with satan's attorneys, so that was my last experience with community theater. No Christopher Guest level experience, to be sure, but fun none-the-less. And, I managed to memorize the whole play, not just the few paltry lines that I had. It is inevitable, I think, rehearsing and spending so much time around the lines that they fall into your brain and you end up learning everyone's parts. Some of the lines are still stuck in my heart, as, I am sure, they are stuck into the heads of anyone who has seen the play or movies. So, I will end this with my favorite quote, an uplifting reminder of the spirit of the season: "Any fool who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled in his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."

Emo-ting

This particular blog began as a list of favorites (Christmas edition) as I sought to narrow my selection down to one favorite Christmas movie. In order to do so, however, I wanted to do some research, re watch old favorites. After doing so, I read some posts on a certain Internet movie site about one of the contenders: The Nightmare Before Christmas. Many of the posts discussed the fact that the movie is a favorite of emo kids. And I first thought "That's great!" This movie is still popular and now kids are enjoying it as well. Then, I thought to myself "What is an emo kid?" Further research was required. Since I am rather lazy by nature, I decided that research would consist of reading a few more posts. It seems (based on my rather limited knowledge) the emo kids are the dark, sullen, brooding sort, the depressed cousin of the goth kids of my youth so many years ago. Then, I began really thinking about the topic. What if I am an emo kid? Wait, hear me out. Black clothing? Well, most of what I wear to work every day is black or gray. Black hair? Yes, admittedly I chose a bottle of hair dye that said "dark brown" but didn't I secretly know that would place my hair in the black family for the first couple of weeks? Pale complexion? Oh, please. I make Conan O'Brien and Jim Gaffigan look like George Hamilton. Sullen? Yep, sometimes. Brooding? Yep, sometimes (I have always prefer to call it "artistic temperament") Plus, I keep a blog, which is practically an online journal. Yes, it seems I have an accidental affiliation with this group. Oh, maybe I am not what anyone would consider cool or -- what is the word? -- interesting, but it is nice to know that I could belong to a group if I so chose. The oldest living emo girl -- whatever that means.

What is in a name?

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Okay, sorry. Just had to get that out of the way. There was no way for me to borrow my title from Romeo and Juliet without finishing. (So Romeo would . . . blah, blah, blah. Not exactly my favorite Shakespeare, but thanks to my education, large chunks of it remain lodged in my brain). So, the post about language (and the subsequent comment about the post -- thank you, faithful reader!) made me think about the names of those in my household. We have a cat. She was named Winnie, but she is only called Winnie when she runs at my feet and nearly trips me. Then, she is screamed at: "Winnie!" and she will go hide for six minutes before coming out to run at my feet again. It is a game, I guess, but I am not sure of the rules. I am fairly certain that she wins every time, too, because she never fails to miss my feet. Anyway, she is most often called Winners or just Win. When she is very serious, she becomes Winnie Mandela, which she doesn't seem to find as funny as I do. Since we became parents, my husband and I rarely if ever refer to one another by name. At first it was only in front of our baby: "Mommy, I'll watch the baby if you would like to take a nap." (A sentence that uses not only the nickname, Mommy, but is the absolute sweetest sentiment one can home for when one becomes a new parent -- trust me!) or "Daddy, does the baby need a change?" Yep, we named the baby, but for the first few months, he was simply "the baby." I don't think that is so uncommon. Then, it happened more and more. "Mommy, do you want the last piece of pizza?" "Daddy, did you want to watch a movie?" I imagine that perhaps we'll devolve into one of those creepy old couples on tv who refer to one another as Mother and Father, even when their kids have long since grown up and moved away. "Well, Mother," I imagine them saying. "How about I bend you over the dinner table?" "Okay, Father." That is just wrong.
My son has it the worst. We gave him a name, a good name, even, one that we both really liked and that we now use only to introduce him to people: "This is our son, Jude." His grandparents call him Jude. His aunts and uncles call him Jude. We rarely call him Jude. He has various nicknames, depending on the occasion. For example: (said with a stern voice) "Buddy, I know you were just playing, but you can't kick Daddy there." Or (eyeing a floor full of mangled, disassembled toys) "Buddy, you have to be more careful with your toys." Then, there is "Honey." This one is used when Jude runs into something he couldn't possibly see (like a wall) or trips over something he couldn't possibly see (like a gigantic Weebles treehouse set) and he falls, broken-heartedly crying. "Honey, come here and show Mommy." He points to the boo- boo, which Mommy kisses. He then runs off, heart mended and boo-boo all fixed. (It is an amazing system, really. And it works.) Then, there is the invocation of his full name, reserved for the most dastardly deeds (and now that he is two, he hears this one a lot more than either of us would like, I'm sure). For example, when a box of white minute rice gets spilled all over the kitchen floor, that is a moment where "Jude Forrest, what have you done!" feels appropriate. There are many, many times, though, when "Sweetie" is appropriate. "Come here, Sweetie. Mommy missed you," I often say after a long day. Or "Sweetie, Mommy will read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to you (for the hundredth time). The nicknames, though, are affectionate (mostly). Sometimes, he becomes Juders, which looks really odd in print, but somehow seems to fit in here. My husband generally calls me Kimbers and I generally call him Jefffffffffffff (f). Other nicknames cannot be discussed, as they are not appropriate for the family-oriented place known as the internet.
Outside the home, though, nicknames also abound. For instance, my husband and his brother have nicknames for one another that call into question the sexual preferences of each other. My own brothers and sisters all call me Kim, though I have been using my full name, Kimberly, since I was about 13. My own parents don't call me Kimberly, either. And they gave me the name. As a kid, I was called Grace a lot (because I lack Grace, get it?) and often am called Kim or (occasionally Miss Kimberly) by my mother and Kimmie or Kim by my dad. Jeff is often called JM by his mother (usually when he says something she doesn't like and by now, cannot take the time to say "Jeffrey Michael").
Now, if you'll excuse me, Sweetie has bumped his knee and needs a kiss from Mommy.

Color Me . . . Different

So now I have gone and done it. I've decided to color my hair. It has always been this fussy shade of reddish-brown or brownish-red, so I decided to go dark for the winter, a deep luxurious shade. I was thinking Lauren Graham or Alexis Bledel, deep dark brown. Well, I got dark. Less Gilmore Girls, more Witches of Eastwick. I'm sure by next week it will have grown on me.
Speaking of dark hair, I have a beautiful new niece with beautiful and copious dark hair. She is nine days old as of this posting and is absolute perfection. My sister had a long labor, but she and baby are doing well.

Language

In my home, we speak English to one another. That's only natural, considering that we are all born and bred in the midwest and the extent of our foreign language skills don't extend beyond my limited high school and college Spanish (Donde esta el zappatoria?) and my husband's high school German. I am particularly focused on language right now, as my son, age two, is learning about language every day. He has shortcuts and hand signals that he uses in addition to the words he uses and most times, my husband and I can follow along with what he is saying. Watching him I realize that he isn't the only one who uses shortcuts or hand signals to get along his point. I have more carefully listened to the interactions between the adults in our household and realize that we have a language all our own, made up of in-jokes and pop culture references, memories that only exist within the walls of our home. I wonder how this will affect my son's language and I realize that he will have languages all of his own: language with family, language with friends, language at school or work. It isn't that we use different parts of ourselves in different situations; we even use different language, different words, different speech patterns consciously or unconsciously imitating those around us. And I feel confident that my son's speech will develop just fine. I look forward to hearing what he has to say next.

No One Mourns the Wicked

Last weekend was an exciting milestone in my grown-up life: an official trip to Chicago to see a professional performance of Wicked. To get to Chicago, we had to take a long car ride to the airport to get a train. Oh, and I'm pretty sure we rode a mule at some point to get to a car. No matter. We scurried out of our small town and made it to the big city, navigating our way to the theater without any mishaps. I simply couldn't wait. I knew that Wicked would eventually make its way to our town, though the performance would have to be scaled down to fit into one of our theaters. I had learned the music, did my internet research and I was determined that I would have a stellar Wicked experience. And I did. I was charmed and amused, not even deterred by the poor woman in the seat next to mine who evidently had contracted an unfortunate winter case of poison oak and who had to scratch her leg nearest me approximately once every three seconds. A pleasant trip to the merry ol' land of Oz is recommended for one and all, particularly if you can see it in one of those fancified big-city theaters.

'Tis the Season

I am a movie snob. I will be the first to admit that I would never deign to watch a movie created especially for Lifetime or for Hallmark. The very thought chills me down to my cynical bones. No trite stories of treacly sentimentality or women empowerment stories for me. I prefer my stories with a harder edge, with really good writing and interesting plots. Ah, but there is a loophole. Take any sappy, sentimental schmaltz and brush the slightest Christmas theme on it and I am hooked. Kleenex in hand, I become the weepiest coach potato at any Christmas movie. Any variation of the most redundant themes of angels and santas, of goodwill toward men and cynics-turned-believers and I am there, remote in hand, settling down for a long winter's film. So 11 months a year I may be the champion of indie filmmakers, the one watching every film by Kevin Smith and Quentin Tarantino and Paul Thomas Anderson and David Fincher, but come December, I am the one on the couch, quilt on my lap, tissue pressed to my eye and Christmas in my heart.