Monthly Archives: May 2009
On Memorial Day I was chatting with my pal Hammy about the serious issues our country is facing during these hard economic times. That’s a lie. We were singing songs from The Little Mermaid and drinking Bud Light out of can in the rain (again, thank you service men and women). She said that her favorite song from the movie was sung by Ursula and it’s #2 on my scale after Les Poissons (foppish fat Frenchy beats sarcastic husky voiced villain everytime in my book). As I tried to recall all the lyrics I was flooded with fond memories of my awkward prepubescent years… which are not much different than today except for the fact that I’m not currently wearing Panama Jack boxers underneath an itchy plaid jumper while writing furiously in my journal… I’m wearing itchy lady businesswoman office clothes and typing into my “space computer diary”.
Every Friday for about a year my BFF and I would sing along with the movie while making brownie batter (it never made it to the oven) and setting each other’s hair in hot rollers. We’d crack jokes about Ursula’s ridiculous cleavage and Prince Eric’s shockingly obvious bulge. We’d try to outdo each other’s French accent during Les Poissons and wonder aloud about the kind of boys we’d date once we matured and were given metaphorical legs of our own.
I just looked up the lyrics to Ursula’s song. Upon reading them I was hit with two thoughts:
1. As a rule, the lyrics sung by the villain are supposed to be shocking, ridiculous, skewed or just plain false.
2. The lyrics depict exactly how Ariel gets her man.
…[C]ome on, they’re not all that impressed with conversation
True gentlemen avoid it when they can
But they dote and swoon and fawn
On a lady who’s withdrawn
It’s she who holds her tongue who gets her man!
Thankfully my BFF and I were dense enough (full of brownie batter) for none of that nonsense to seep into our subconscious. We not only got our legs but voices as well. And yes, perchance there may have been times when our yaps have gotten us in trouble and taken us down a notch on the “elegant and demure scale” but we never really saw being quiet and mousy as desirable. Why not just say the funny thing? Why not laugh as hard as you can when you can? Why not share embarrassing moments about which others can identify?
I don’t really know what my point is here and perhaps a mousy girl might provide a more delicate description for what I am about to conclude but the best summation I, me, Tara, can give right now is “everybody poops”. We all may as well laugh about it.
My parochial school separated my first grade reading class into two sections; Action Pack and Blastoffs (A group and B group). You see when a bunch of hard hittin’ Bronx nuns get together to handle the delicate psychological states of six year olds you get the subtlety of a Judge Judy beer belch.
Eventhough I had a vocabulary that was grades ahead of others due to having much older siblings and European parents that said things like, “Tara, you’re being disobedient” or “Tara, take pride in your appearance by having finely pressed garments”, I was put in B group because I lacked focus. Some notes I came across in old report cards recently:
- Tara is a day dreamer.
- Tara looks out the window during class. It’s as if she’s in another world.
- Tara talks to everyone.
And once the Sorting Hat put you in your house of reading shame there was no chance of upward mobility. You became a B group lifer until high school. It wasn’t until around 4th grade that I realized that all the Blastoffs around me were not just the nose pickers and paste eaters but the majority were the first generation kids of immigrants like myself. Moynihan, Slattery, Tucci, DeGregorio… Maher. Depending on our ethnicity, we were the kids that didn’t say letters of the alphabet correctly; H was “haich” for the Micks and M “emma” for the Itals. We were the kids that would spend a whole summer with relatives in Europe and come back with speech patterns that needed correcting.
Tara: “Am I not meant to have this pudding snack?”
Random A Group kid: “You sound like an alien!”
When I was five my Italian neighborhood playmate went to Italy for the summer. I remember when she returned her mother brought her over to my house and had a quick chat with my mom in the kitchen while I played on my swing set. I just remember my mom opening the back door holding Maria’s hand leading her out to me and saying, “Tara, Maria doesn’t speak English anymore. You need to play with her everyday until she starts making sense.”
**Names have been changed to protect B groupers.
The annual Washington Improv Theater fundraiser is being held tomorrow night at 8pm. I know that it will be difficult for most of the prison population that patrons this blog to make it but if you’re in a DC area pen maybe you could tell your favorite guard to come and support them artsy fartsy types who throw away their tax dollars on music and drama programs.
On the real, friends in DC that are not of WIT, if you can make it please come. WIT is a non-profit and relies mostly on grants and donations for funding. WIT is made up of a small office staff, teachers, players and die hard volunteers. I can tell you that the amount of unpaid work I’ve done for this joint would give Jack Donaghy a stroke but it has made me so happy and fulfilled that I am my own Oprah special.
It’s a communist themed barn burner so please come dressed as your favorite or least favorite revolutionary. I am probably going to look like something between Patty Hearst and one of them tough lesbian Bond villians… or I will just be in a black turtleneck because they are my woobie.
I hope to see you there.