I realize that I come across as odd.  I totally get that.  And I'm pretty much ok with it.  I mean, there's the whole aforementioned left/right disorder.  And I do possess huge amounts of arcane and relatively useless trivia in my scary little head.  And maybe, ok, not maybe, I DO have a little bit of a fangirl issue with Bradley Whitford.  But all that pales when I tell you this one.  I think about things.  I think about dancing.  I danced.  And thus I hear a song and think about the dance I would choreograph thereto.  And this is kind of like that.  And I wnat to point out for the record, that I didn't start this.  I mean to say, it's not like I just sit around and conjure up weirdo things like this (Ok, I actually do.  But not this time.  There was an impetus to this particular madness).

See, summer before last Erin, the second oldest of the kids I nanny for, went on a service project trip to Thailand.  Where she saw a Thai snake show.  Where they played on repeat in the background as the snakes were shown (and we're talking cobras here, not garter snakes), the song "The FInal Countdown."  That may be the funniest thing of all time.  Not only because that's one hell of a funny song (can't explain it, it just is.  FUNNY!) but because there's a sort of truly delicious irony in someone handling a cobra while "The Final Countdown" plays in the background.  Anyway, I had my iPod on shuffle in the car the other day and that particular song came on and Erin started talking about the show she saw and she was saying how the snake show was really just a dirt pit with some bleachers around it (Safety first, obviously being the watchword of Thai snake shows) and so I started conjuring up this insanely elaborate snake show involving the song and dry ice machines and laser lights ('cause if ever a song demanded dry ice and lasers, that's the one).  And that long intro with the synthesizers and all, would have guys in ninja costumes doing some slow tai chi stuff in the fog and as it builds up to the first lyrics the main snake guy would come out of a trap door in the floor on a hydraulic lift with a snake held triuphantly over his head.  And then there would be all kinds of guys with snakes and the ninjas could do flips and shit and maybe throw some throwing stars.  And for an encore there would be a number to "Eye of the Tiger."

And that's what it's like inside my head.

When I called Molly after the matinee of Boeing-Boeing today, and she asked how it was, I started my story with the following, "You know how I can't tell my left from my right?"  Causing her to respond, "Dear God, what did you do?"

The left and right thing?  Sadly true.  When I started taking ballet at the age of three, something just didn't click.  Perhaps it was the mirrors.  Perhaps it was my fierce desire to watch myself rather than the teacher.  In any event, my problems were exacerbated when I started marching band where in opposition to dance where things tend to begin to the right, everything starts to the left.  I actually used to wear a rubber band on my wrist, like Judy Garland in Easter Parade, whenever I danced or marched, so I would turn the right way.  Is this the most pathetic story you've ever heard, or what?  Suffice it to say that unless I am in a car, or on a stage, I have this weird case of spatial dyslexia which inhibits my ability to follow simple directions like, "It's to the left."  or "Turn to your right."  And never has it reared its head so unfortunately and embarrassingly as this weekend.

For the record, I am not stalking Bradley Whitford.  I saw the show again.  For the third time.  I think I still qualify as giggly fangirl, rather than scary stalker fangirl.  Taylor called me Thursday and in the midst of our conversation, announced that Sunday was Bradley Whitford's last performance in the show.  I think I have made it clear from earlier posts that Boeing-Boeing is my favorite show I've ever seen.  And we all know that I have seen something in the neighborhood of a squillion shows (Note: That's a rough estimate.)  Anyway, Taylor and Allison and I decided that if we could get tickets we would go.  And we got them.  And we went.  And it was, per usual, awesomely awesome.  And they spilled the champagne again in the last scene which cracked me up.  Again.  And I lost it when Bradley Whitford literally climbed the wall.  Again.    And I decided that the curtain call is the greatest thing to ever happen in the history of the American theater.  Again.  (Although note to dillholes who left as soon as the curtain went down:  First of all, it is my biggest theatre etiquette breach pet peeve for people not to wait for the curtain call.  ASSHOLES.  And second, when your lumbering out over the people next to you in any way impedes my view of Bradley Whitford dancing (!), I cannot be held responsible for my actions, so if I beat you about the head with a rolled up Playbill, well, that's your sad misfortune).  So the show itself was wonderful.  Fabulous.  Marvelous.  All those things I've come to expect.  And Taylor and Allison and I head to the stage door.

The first part of the story is that Kathryn Hahn AND Mark Rylance told me they liked my dress.  It's this cute orange and black polka dot one from Anthropologie and I am quite fond of it, but I have decided that I may have to wear it every day from now on.  Bradley Whitford came out last and Allison and I were already giggling by the time he got to us in the line, 'cause I'm pretty sure he was dressed as a lumberjack.  Or something.  He was wearing a red flannel shirt which the two of us found hilarious.  Ok, adorably hilarious.  And we were a little punchy, 'cause he was about an hour after the show ended coming out, so we had been standing there forever.  So he gets to us and he signs my program and was terribly nice and I ask if he'll take a picture and he says of course and Taylor tells me to turn to the left.  And here's where I look like a fool.  'Cause yelling turn to the left at me might as well be the same as yelling at me in a language I don't speak.  So of course, I turn to the right and Bradley Whitford is kind of smirking and laughing and HE HAD TO TAKE MY SHOULDERS AND MOVE ME.  So I would be in my own picture.  And then as Taylor was taking the picture I was like, "Taylor, you KNOW I can't tell left from right."  And Bradley Whitford pats my shoulder and says, "It happens. (Beat).  But I'm an actor, so I always find the camera."  Oh. My. God. COULD HE BE ANY MORE ADORABLE?  He's also making an adorably goofy face in the picture.  Because, again...ADORABLE.

So now that he's left the show, I'm gonna have to find someone else to be my Broadway stalkee.  Suggestions are always welcome.

Since I spend a vast majority of my free time engaged with pointless television, I feel, that on the occasions when I do engage in something bordering on the useful, I should bestow my newfound knowledge and discovery on all and sundry. To wit: I have two books that you simply must read if you have not done so yet.

The first is Salvation on Sand Mountain by Dennis Covington, which I heard about when it came out about an eon ago and which I finally picked up on a whim, from the B&N in Brick, NJ.  Ya'll, this book is amazing.  Enthralling.  It's not particularly long, so I can truly tell you that I didn't put it down.  It's about snake-handling.  In church.  People who handle snakes and drink strychnine.  As part of a religious service.  The author is from B'ham, AL and became involved with writing about the church (or actually several churches) when he covered the trial of a preacher who attempted to murder his wife by forcing her to put her hand into a box where he kept a canebrake rattler.  At the conclusion of the trial, he becomes increasingly drawn into his research on the followers of the practice, and again, the only thing I can say: ENTHRALLING.  For the record, 3/4 of my grandparents were born on Sand Mountain.  In fact, if you are from my little corner of the world, I'm pretty sure that you are contractually obligated to have forebears from somewhere on the mountain and the odd thrill you get when it mentions all kinds of places, not that you've heard of, but that you KNOW, is somewhat disquieting.  It is, I think, the knowledge of this subculture occurring practically next door.

The other book I just read is also older, but another that I just got around to, since the original publication was when I was in law school.  it's Rick Bragg's All Over But the Shoutin'.  Which is Bragg's autobiographical account of growing up in what can only be described as abject poverty, in northeast Alabama in the 1960s and 70s.  So grinding, so pervasive was the poverty, that as you read, you have to constantly remind yourself that he was a child in the 60s and 70s and not the 20s and 30s.  Again, this book struck a personal cord, as the one grandparent who WASN'T from Sand Mountain, was my father's father who grew up in and around Jacksonville, AL., where the bulk of the author's childhood was set.  And for whatever scrapes and kerfluffles Bragg became involved in after this book, he is truly an amazing storyteller.  And each sentence rings heartbreakingly authentic for those of us raised in the Deep South.

I really can't recommend these two books highly enough.  Go. Get to readin'.

Perhaps the most useful of all twin-isms is thus...

"WHY DO YOU HATE ME?!?!?!'--interrogatory; query regarding another's apparent dislike of yourself.  Source: Connor.  When I moved to New Jersey, Connor was 7 and I would call him that fall before I came home for Christmas.  I would talk to everyone else and then Connor would get on the phone and I would try to ask him how school or soccer was and he would say, "When are you coming home?" and I would tell him that I would be there in December and he would shriek, "WHY DO YOU HATE ME?" and hang up on me.  We now use it to melodramatically comment when someone does something we are pretending to find horrible.  For example, Me: "Hey I'm gonna be about 15 minutes late meeting you."  My sister: "WHY DO YOU HATE ME?!?!?!?!?!?" 

The other day, I told my friend, Taylor, that for the first time in quite a long time, I feel the urge to write.  Not about American Idol or the time I went to a Poison concert and saw two guys with mullets almost get in a fistfight over a snarl in the exit traffic in the parking lot.  I mean really write.  Write like I wrote in writing classes in college.  REALLY write.  Taylor’s been doing quite a lot of writing himself lately and that’s part of it.  I’ve been doing quite a lot of reading lately, which is also part of it.  But beyond that, I’ve actually, for the first time in a long time, felt like I actually could write.  It’s like the ghosts of these ideas are flitting through the far corners of my mind.  And in many ways, they are as elusive as the ghosts in stories—I think they’re there-- I can see them out of the corner of my eye, sense them just behind me--but when I turn to grasp them, to get some tangible proof they exist , they flitter away.  And maybe like ghosts in reality, they are just the product of my longing.  We go ghost hunting because there’s a part of us that wants them to be real, so maybe I try to write because I want to be a writer.  And since ghost hunters never find their spirits, or at least never find a way to bring back proof when they do, then perhaps I will write and write and write and it will never be more than words on a page.  But maybe, just maybe, there really is a story inside me and somehow I will be able to unlock it. 

To these ends, I have now bought a book—an idea book—to help me write.  Not help me I guess, but to motivate me.  To give me ideas.  To inspire me.  So in addition to the frivolosity that usually inhabits these parts, you will see, from time to time, something that at least purports to be of merit.

As Molly pointed out in her replies, Carson and Connor are not above giving orders.

STOP YOUR SING!--declarative interjection; indicative that the user has found the sounds emanating from your vocal cords to be in some way unpleasant or disturbing to the general aesthetic.  Source: Connor.  When the twins were in kindergarten, I was cast a Liesl in The Sound of Music.  Connor found the whole situation rather odd, until I started singing "Sixteen Going on Seventeen" at which point the whole thing was too much for him and he started screaming and crying and yelling, "STOP YOUR SING!" until his dad hauled him out to the lobby and told him he had to shut the hell up.

I swear, I have no clue what is with me lately.  I am like a celebrity magnet these days.  And it's the MOST random celebrities of all time.  And the thing about seeing celebrities in the wild, as it were, is that sometimes you just see them, and then there are times like tonight when you inadvertently make eye contact and you know.  And they know you know.  And you know they know you know.  And it's...odd.

I had made it through an entire day in the city and had seen no one.  And then we got to the Lunt-Fontanne to see The Little Mermaid (about which I will have scads to say tomorrow when I have more time).  And nothing.  Until intermission when I stand up to stretch and realize that Christine Taylor and the little Mini Stiller are sitting behind me and I totally made eye-contact and didn't mean to and felt all weird like I was staring, which I hadn't been.  And the truth is, I DO kinda love her.  I mean, her breakout performance as Marcia in The Brady Bunch movie is stunningly pitch perfect and hilarious to boot.  She also brings the funny in The Wedding Singer and Friends and has my favorite line in all of Dodgeball ("I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.").  And if all this wasn't enough, you just remind yourself that she was on Hey Dude, the awesome of which cannot possibly be quantified.

I don't care who you are or where you came from, it is never acceptable to wear any underwear color other than nude if one is wearing white pants, skirt or dress.  I may be willing to make an exception if the pants are of the ski variety or attached to an astronaut suit.  But I'm still gonna go with an across the board ban just to be on the safe side.

I need my eyes, people.  Please don't make me gouge them out because you can't dress yourself.

If you are not so fortunate to know the Butler twins, let me sum them up...They are made of awesome.  They are now eleven and in their last year of elementary school, but in their first eleven years, they have successfully created quite a personal lexicon which most of my family has acquired and which we now end up passing on to others around the world.  And since I think the bulk of things they come up with are wildly hilarious, I think everyone on the planet should use their words, phrases and observations all the time.

Old and mean. And possibly a robot-adv.; descriptor which indicates a state of unpleasantness in the person to whom it is applied.  It is a general assumption that to the majority of the population none of the qualities implied are actually possessed by the person being spoken of.  Source material:  Carson.  Carson, unhappy with a certain situation which would necessitate his interaction with a certain person, told my mother, who was insisting that said person was quite lovely, that the person was old and mean.  And possibly a robot.    "The Olympic gymnastics judges are old and mean.  And possibly a robot." (Although that may be a poor sentence, because I am not entirely convinced that the judges aren't at least two of those things.)

There are few things at the Olympics which I enjoy more than the women's gymnastics all around.  I mean, at this point, I am so over swimming.  I can sum up the swimming as such--Swimmy, swimmy, swimmy.  Michael Phelps gets the gold medal and breaks the world record.  At this point, I wouldn't have been surprised if Michael Phelps had won the all around.  In women's gymnastics. And possibly the mixed doubles badminton.  In any event, the AA was made of awesome.  Made. Of. Awesome.

Why?  Well for several reasons, the important ones I will enumerate here...

1.  Bela Karolyi.  Look, I don't give a shit if he's a total rat bastard as a coach.  He's the most hilarious commentator of all time.  He should commentate on everything.  Ever.  Track and field.  Women's basketball.  In fact, I think that 19E should boot Randy Jackson and make him the third judge on AI.  Would that not be the most awesome thing in the history of all time?  Not that any of us would be able to understand a word he said. (Although come to think of it, how much of what Rand says can we understand?)  The man has been in the States for something approaching 30 years and yet everything he says is a combination of Romanian, English and what might be Navajo code.  When he grabbed Bob Costas and shook him like a rag doll, I actually laid my head over on a pillow and laughed till tears were coming out.  He's so damned excitable.  I want him to have a reality show like The Best Week Ever where he talks about all things that have happened in the world for the week.

2.  It's odd the amount of gleeful excitement I got out of the three second camera pan to Svetlana Khorkina.  I freaking LOVE her.  She has the most awesome bitch face to ever manifest itself anywhere on the planet.  Remember when the other Russian girl biffed her routine in the team final and she slapped her when she came off the floor?  That ROCKS.  She had attitude and ego for about twelve Russian gymnasts all crammed into her 75 pound body.  When I become a billionaire, I want to hire her to follow me around and at any given time, when someone displeases me greatly with their stupidity, I will point at her and she will cock her brow at them and say, "Bitch, PLEASE!"

3.  I have previously expressed my extreme distaste with Al Trautwig and Tim Daggett.  And I pretty much hate Elfi Schlegel too.   When they were laughingly talking about the Russian and Romanian girls who thought they had a chance to win a medal, I wanted to reach through the screen and throttle them.  Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  Yeah, 'cause Russians and Romanians NEVER win medals in gymnastics.  Those bitches must have been crazy to think it would happen.

4.  Nastia Liukin's dad.  He's kinda hot, ya'll.

5.  Nastia Liukin is awesome herself.  She has a forehead the size of Montana.  And she's rocking shades of that Russian Svetlana bitchiness.  But then she breaks into this sunny American smile.  I love her.

6.  I love Shawn Johnson, too.  Especially when she nailed the floor routine and turned and pointed to someone in the crowd and the camera panned around and it was Mary Lou Retton.  Awesome.

7.  I'm pretty sure that the Chinese girls in the AA were actually 16. 

8.  I can enjoy some American dominance with the best of 'em.