Day 24: In the abstract

Lots of things are a good idea in the abstract.   Like a rugged, individualistic woman and mother former governor from Alaska being nominated as the vice presidential candidate by one of major political parties.  Or "we the people" rising up and participating in government, finally, at last, modeling its movement against America's first burst for freedom.   Or like Amber in Clueless, who Cher described as a "full-on Monet" and explained: "It's like a painting, see? From far away, it's OK, but up close, it's a big old mess."


In the abstract, I thought it would be a treat to have the afternoon and evening to myself.  On Mother's Day.  My own personal sunshine going with her dad, on my weekend and Mother's Day, to his family's Mother's Day BBQ.  At my sunshine's favourite cousins' house where she was going to get to stay the night.  My plans included taking a nap, folding the mountain of clean laundry on the chair in my bedroom, catching a movie, stopping at Kroger, baking a cake, and taking a long, hot bath.   


Well, I caught a movie.  Prom.  Because even though this is my 40th year, I am in reality 12.   I planned to see Something Borrowed because I liked the book but made the mistake of reading the review, which I should know better to follow when it comes to romantic comedies.  But even controlling for the film critic snob factor when it comes to romantic comedies, the reviewer said it sucked.  Big time.  But more snobbishly.   Okay and I have a secret affinity for the coming-of-age-teen-flicks, even contemporary ones, which are almost never as good as the ones that I came of age on.   (Except for Mean Girls and Easy A but I am a cautious optimist, meaning that I like to hedge my bets in case it's the next Sixteen Candles or Ferris Bueller's Day Off).   


Prom was good, not 80s caliber required viewing, but good (except for the Winnie the Pooh coming attractions preview that made me teary--come on Winnie the Pooh and Somewhere only we know).  Prom had a great soundtrack, reminiscent of the 80s' guru's films.   A bunch of groups that I never heard of but liked on initial hearing. Which is how I became a fan of the Smiths. It was the standard plot--good girl falls for the bad-boy rebel who really is just misunderstood and looking for the one woman who "gets" (*gets*) him.   (Oh boy, did that plot construct fuck with me in my late teens and early twenties, and again in my early thirties).

Oh, I believe that Prom also played subtle homage to the 80s guru and other defining films of my generation.  First, good girl and bad boy are sitting outside the Principal's office on a bench, and it was totally reminiscent of Jeannie and Charlie Sheen in Ferris Bueller.  Second, the quirky, adorable outsider trying to fit in and make his move at the end of high school, named Lloyd, had to be a thinly veiled reference to Lloyd Dobbler in Say Anything.  John Cusack with blue eyes, a cross between John Cusack and Cameron Frye (Ferris Bueller).  Third, two homages to Pretty in Pink, the scorned but heads-up former girlfriend of the golden boy (who was African American) dumps his ass (why are these teen girls and my younger colleagues so much more savvy than my wise ass) and goes to Prom anyway; her head held up high.  Just like Andie in Pretty in Pink.  And the good girl has to go because she headed the prom committee and is the class president and all, and of course, the bad boy, shows up.  Is there just when she has given up hope.  And she turns around and he's there.   Also like Jake for Samantha in Sixteen Candles (maybe I need to become a redhead).  Sorry, should have mentioned that crucial plot points would be revealed (Not really.  It was a formula movie and if you could not have told me the ending at the beginning well then you prolly voted for that former Governor of Alaska in 2008).    


And yes, I do have a tendency to read into things but I think that I must be right on about these signs of respect in Prom.


But I digress and regress; where, oh where, is my progress.  (Yes, am a bit drunk).   At the end of Prom when the bad boy shows up, I cried.  Fortunately, I was the only person in the theater at this juncture as the dad with four kids had left already.   And fortunately, only tears on my cheeks and not the wracking, embarrassing Walrus cry of Annabeth Gish in Mystic Pizza when she realizes that the older, married dude was a douche and that even though she was a very smart girl who get accepted to Yale, she had been duped (And oh boy, have I sang that song).   I saved the Walrus breakdown for my driveway (a bit of progress).   Spurred along by a Rascal Flats song that just happened to be on the radio, not that I listen to the contemporary country station usually but was flipping through the channels as I turned down "my" (*my*) street.  And listened to him sing about never letting her go, drying her eyes, fighting her fight.  No doubt showing up at her Prom or outside her sister's wedding or at a New Years' Eve party or at the airport to say that I cannot bear to be without you, no matter what the cost, that I will fight for you, that I will show up, that I will choose you.   


(Be right back.  I need another drink).  



Digressing, regressing again.  


Oh yes.   Things that seem like a good idea in the abstract (wow, totally sounds like a category on the $100,000 Pyramid which my parent used to watch, one of them would go into the other room so they could not see the answers being revealed.  My aunt Peggy also played sometimes).   Sarah Palin, the Tea Party Redux, Mother's Day without your 4-year old Sunshine, and being in a relationship with me.   All the way "home" (*home*)*, I thought about why not me.   And blah blah blah, I know that I have to love me first and perhaps I don't (except sometimes on the floor with soft core porn on the TV).   But why not show up for me, fight for me, choose me?   In the abstract, I seem like a good idea.  Like a Monet but up close I am just a big, old mess?   I don't expect flowers or poetry or jewelry or material things (except books and liquid crack).  But I do (or in the future since I am off men for a bit) demand passion and someone who will fight for me, show up for me, choose me.  I give all that in return and more (not that I am perfect.  So not perfect) but I do fight and defend and am always passionate.


I am stuck. Spinning my wheels. Obviously past the coming of age films of my youth but stuck but not yet at the Nancy Myers movie stage.  It's rather purgatory.   But as my younger colleague aptly expressed, you just have to go through it, feel it, and hope to hell that you come out stronger.   Now, I have to go bake a fucking cake.  Drunk.  I have baked tipsy a lot but never quite drunk.  But at least, I am feeling it. Wish me luck....


*Jesse explained what it means when a word is enclosed by * * and I have been trying to use it correctly but believe that I have just failed.  Or maybe it is just does not work when it was very much my *home* but is no my *home* and is very much my "home" except for the fact that my daughter lives here and she is always,  unquestionably, beyond a shadow of a doubt my *home*.