A Christmas Carol

It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.
Charles Dickens
A Christmas Carol

Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol is one of my very favorite stories. Not the movie starring Mickey Mouse, not A Muppet Christmas Carol, but the actual book. We tend to think of A Christmas Carol as a gloomy story about a cranky old man, or as a creepy story about ghosts, where Ebenezer sees the date of his own death and we are freaked out by the mere idea.

But the Victorians had a more intimate knowledge of death than we do. Scrooge is not upset over the fact that he will die - after all, the musings about Marley being "dead as a doornail" in the beginning of the story lead us to understand that Scrooge accepts death as a fact of life. What chills him to the bone is seeing that there is no sorrow at his passing; instead, those around him either see it as an opportunity for personal gain - and have no problem robbing him of his bedclothes and curtains while he lays dead - or they are not touched by the death at all.

What makes A Christmas Carol such an inspiring story is that as Ebenezer travels with the ghosts, he lays to rest the sorrows of the past (and we see that behind the bitterness is the sorrow of loss and regret), and he comes to understand that the future is what we make it with our actions and attitudes in the present. What we are left with, in the end, is a feeling of joy and hope. We believe that it's never too late to change, to grow, to become a better person and create a better life for ourselves.

The story is on my mind as I move through the second holiday season after walking away from my family's celebrations. Last year I was like Scrooge: sitting in an empty apartment, chewing on the lumpy gruel of my anger, resentment, and regret over what never was and never would be no matter how much I wished for it. I wanted to close the curtains around myself and wait for the whole thing to be over. I couldn't see all that I have because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself over what I believed was missing.

This year, something is different. I no longer see my future as carved in stone, as something that has already been determined by my past. I see it as something dynamic, something I can change with my actions today. I think, as I have shifted from the belief that life is work - work for pay, housework, working to stay fit, working to keep everything running smoothly - I have begun to play more, to enjoy the childhood I never really had, and I am becoming happier in general. It was bound to spill over into my feelings about the holidays.

Like Ebenezer, I am stepping into a new way of being in the world with no idea how it is all going to work out, and I am at peace with that. I'm making today the best it can be and trusting that the future will take care of itself. I am enjoying the process and leaving the rest to... whatever it is that takes care of those things.

And I am grateful that while there are regrets from the past and things are not perfect in the present, there is always the opportunity for laughter, good humor - and yes, even joy.

New Computer = Insanity

I bought a new computer and aircard last weekend, and you would not believe the drama I made out of it. To hear my anxiety-riddled mind tell it, I was taking food from the mouths of my starving children or that I had no idea where I'd plug in the power strip in my cardboard box near the overpass. Never mind that I live in a nice apartment, and that I have plenty of food, clothes, heat, and Hello Kitty pajamas. I was sure that by spending a few hundred bucks, I was headed to rack and ruin.

My previous computer was six years old, and for the last three, due to circumstances in the building, I have not had reliable internet access. This was not an extravagant purchase. And yet, I was awake in the night, wondering if I'd made a huge mistake and was steering straight toward financial disaster. Or that I'd simply irritated The Universe beyond all reason with my selfish desire for a new computer - and in response, The Universe was going to send me plagues of boils, fire, and locusts.

Now I'm anxious because I just learned, inadvertently, that if you sit down at a computer with a touch screen and you lean forward to tuck your bathrobe underneath you, settings can be changed by your head. The screen suddenly looks different, but I have no idea what I did.

I really ought to be committed.

Mamma Mia! That's A Really Bad Movie!

I watched Mamma Mia! this past weekend, expecting to love it. I’d heard good things about it. The show took Broadway and the country by storm. I have been known, in the privacy of my car, to crank up “Dancing Queen” and car dance.

With a movie musical, I expect the plot to be simple and secondary to the singing and dancing. I expect a happy ending. In terms of cuteness of plot, Mamma Mia! did not disappoint. But I don’t think I’ve seen so much bad singing and dancing in one place in my whole life.

It was painful to watch, like a high school talent show when the fat kid with pimples who is a sweetheart but his mom irons his jeans with a crease – which, even without pimples and extra weight is social suicide – gets up on the stage to play “Lady of Spain” on the accordion. I mean, you may have been friendly toward him before because he is actually a very nice person, but now you find yourself desperately hoping that nobody remembers you sat with him at lunch a couple of weeks ago. Because you have enough to deal with without the stink of accordion music on your person.

That’s how I felt about Mamma Mia! I love movie musicals. But the whole point of the musical is the MUSIC. The plots are supposed to be thin and the viewer is supposed to willingly believe the premise that whenever you’re feeling blue, a rousing tap number will make you feel better. (I actually do believe this, whether I’m watching a movie or not.)

I theorize that on Broadway, and in the road show, the stars were chosen for actual singing and dancing ability. From what I can tell, the producers of Mamma Mia! the movie chose stars with a big box office draw and forgot to check if they could actually sing or dance. Whoops.

I think Colin Firth may have ruined Mr. Darcy for me forever. And as much as I love Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan, I’ve got enough to deal with without having to hear them sing.

Diana The Huntress

I was awakened in the wee hours this morning by my cat batting something around on the bedroom floor. It's a fairly normal thing. Some mornings I wake up with her toys actually on me, and I think no wonder I had such a lousy night's sleep. But this morning, whatever she was batting was squeaking. She does not have squeaky toys for this very reason. Jingle balls, yes; squeaky toys, no. I do not want to wake up in the middle of the night thinking she's killing a mouse, and in any case, she can't carry the jingle balls up the stairs due to a lack of opposable thumbs.

I listened for a couple of minutes, hoping I wasn't hearing squeaking. I was. I remembered that I'd heard scritching up in the eaves a couple of weeks ago. Apprehensively, I sat up and turned on the light.

The cat's area of operations was at the center of the bedroom floor, a couple of feet from the end of my bed. She had a field mouse under her paw and she was looking at me like "What? It's a mouse, sworn enemy of the cat. I had no choice but to vanquish it."

A bunch of questions went racing through my mind all at once: Should I take it from her? What if she's still in predator mode and she gets pissed? What if it's still alive and runs away? What if it's dead and yucky? Why, oh, why didn't I marry like my parents wanted me to? It would be really handy to have a husband right now - after all what are they for if not handling little wildlife crises? All the while I sat on my bed, whimpering like a schoolgirl.

The cat's next actions ended my ruminations. She began crunching the little beastie's bones (which makes a very disconcerting noise, let me tell you) and swallowed the thing whole. Then she stood up, licked her chops, and went downstairs. Calm as you please, as if killing mice and eating them is an everyday thing for an indoor cat.

I got out of bed to examine the floor. Not a whisker, not a bit of fur, not a drop of blood. She'd killed and eaten the mouse with a grim efficiency. It was creepy.

I got back in bed, mentally debating whether or not I should bother trying to get any more sleep. Then I remembered: she'd been batting something around near my pillow earlier. I'd picked it up in a half-asleep state and chucked it to the foot of the bed. I distinctly remembered the feeling of wet fur.

I started ransacking my pillows, feeling rather ill, looking for mouse bits. Nothing. Then I very slowly picked up the comforter I had turned back when I sat up. There it was, with fur plastered down by cat spit, its pink felt ears looking perky and its blue felt eyes looking at me - mocking me, it seemed. A toy mouse. I picked it up and threw it on the floor. Then I got up and washed my hands, just because.

Oddly enough, my cat - who is on a prescription food because she has a delicate digestion - has shown no ill effects from her unusual midnight snack. Thank God. I can't think of anyone who'd be willing to elope with me before I'd have to clean up after that.

What Do You Want On Your Tombstone?

Is it me? Does no one else wonder about these things?

It started like this: I was walking in a graveyard (you know, as you do) and I came across a hilarious tombstone. I'm guessing that it wasn't meant to be hilarious. It was a his-and-hers stone, with the dates of birth and death and whatnot. He died 20 years before she did. His part of the stone said "beloved father" or whatever. Hers said "happy in the last," which yeah, I get it, means that she bucked up and was brave in the face of whatever carried her off. But if you just looked at the stone, it said "She had a fan-freaking-tastic time after the old buzzard dropped dead."

So it got me thinking. Someday, someone might see my tombstone and find it entertaining. I would like that.

Here are the options:

1. "I've had all the fun here I can stand."

2. "Gas, grass or ass. Nobody dies for free."

My brother Aaron really liked the second one; my friend Peter, not so much.

Fork You

Yesterday I learned to drive the forklift. It was TOTALLY FUN! I wish my car had that kind of maneuverability. It would make parking in my small New England town so much easier.

I moved a pallet with empty bait barrels on it around the shop, so I got to use the forks and everything. Only toward the end did I realize the forklift had a rearview mirror. I'd been turning around and taking advantage of my yoga-trained flexibility. So I decided to use the mirror to fluff my hair and apply lipgloss. The Port Captain found that kind of funny. I'm not sure why.

At the end, I backed it into a corner, right up next to some lobster traps. I kept saying I was a Worker's Comp claim waiting to happen, but there were no casualties.

Now I'm wondering what else is totally fun that the mens have been keeping from me. The vote, peeing standing up, changing the oil in my car... the mind boggles.

It's Official: I Have A Crush On A Dead Man

And by "dead man," I don't mean someone who is lousy in bed, or incredibly dumb, or even on death row (although, at my age I suppose I can't be too fussy about any of those characteristics - except, of course, the first one). I mean a person who died in 1996.

That man is Gene Kelly. Okay, so the old-school pictures don't necessarily translate well into pixels, but that is a dreamy-looking guy. He was an accomplished singer, dancer, actor, director, choreographer, and producer. I'd be willing to bet that he was kind to his mother and never missed an opportunity to help widows and orphans. He just seems like that kind of guy on the silver screen - and movies never lie to us, do they?

How this infatuation came about is that I recently saw The Drowsy Chaperone at the Providence Performing Arts Center, and not only was the show awesome but it also reminded me how much I have always loved musicals.

A few weeks and one NetFlix subscription later, I watched Singin' In The Rain and I was in love. Gene did the choreography as well as some very fine singing, dancing, and acting in that movie, which led me to watch An American In Paris - a film he also choreographed. Now I've got On The Town and Gene Kelly: Anatomy of a Dancer waiting for me at home. Oh, and I'm also reading a biography of the man.

Clearly, I am obssessed.

Someone recently asked me what I find so attractive about him (okay, fine, it was my therapist, but it might be a question a friend would ask). Aside from his - excuse the cliche - movie star good looks, he was also incredibly talented in so many areas. He seems to have been one of those people who set a goal for himself and didn't rest until he reached it - someone who strove for excellence all the time. I admire that, even though (or maybe because) I am someone who is so much more easily defeated.

Then there's the dancing. Great day in the morning, the dancing! His style was athletic, energetic, and definitely masculine. He was incredibly strong, and yet graceful. Watching him, I am always amazed at how easy he makes it look.

I took ballet for twelve years. I know that most, if not all, of what Gene Kelly did was not easy at all. I also took tap for one year, but at age 30 and after all those years of ballet, it turns out that my hips were too turned out and I was the worst tap-dancer ever. I could perform the steps, but I could never get the noises right, which is sort of the whole point of tapdancing, don't you think?

On one hand, it proved that my mother may have known what she was doing when she refused to let me take tap when I was a kid because she didn't want to listen to the noise. On the other hand, I believe that the only time to take tap along with ballet is when you're a kid and building neural pathways like nobody's business. Which, I learned in the first chapter of Gene Kelly's biography, is exactly what he did and look where it got him.

Gene Kelly wasn't perfect. I've read enough on IMDb to know that he was a perfectionist and he could be a tyrant on a movie set. Apparently, he was the sort of man people either loved or loathed. He made Debbie Reynolds cry, for pete's sake! But somehow, amidst all the movie-musical glamour, that makes him more human. He worked hard and expected the same from the people who worked with him. I think most of us can relate to that far more than we can to many of the spoiled and self-indulgent movie stars of today.

Like the narrator in The Drowsy Chaperone, I've always thought that life would be infinitely nicer if, when I'm having a bad day, some friends would rally around and sing me a song about cheering up because tomorrow will certainly be better. Or if, instead of negotiating traffic after a long day at work, I could join my fellow Newporters in a rousing production number designed to leave us all feeling happy and refreshed.

So maybe a lot of my love for Gene Kelly has to do with the characters he played, and the fact that musicals always had a happy ending - which, as we know, is often not the case in real life.

Then again, it could be this simple: all that dancing gave the man a really fine ass.