… Wicked.
Wicked, of course, is a word whose meaning has evolved somewhat over the years. Traditionalists like me poo-poo modern definition flip flops of our vocabulary, where bad now means good and, well, wicked can mean awesome.
Wicked is synonymous with awesome in only one specifically defined way: when we're talking about the musical. The musical Wicked is simply one of the most wicked awesome things you'll see on stage and if you don't know what I'm talking about, I suggest you fly yourself to New York City this instant and prove me right.
I've seen Wicked far too many times to mention. I've fallen in love with Idina Menzel. I often wonder if tiny powerhouse Kristin Chenoweth shops in the children's section for her clothes. But mostly, I listen to the soundtrack, full of emotional gut wrenching songs that speak to the misfit in all of us.
So when I hear the word wicked. I think of Wicked. I think this is pretty wicked.
A song is truly great if it works outside the context it was written in. Don't doubt Defying Gravity for a nanosecond. Listen to Idina, singing at our own Koerner Hall, in November of 2011. It's okay if you cry. I always do.
I know, wicked.
W is for … Wicked.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
V is for ...
... Verklempt.
Verklempt is a Yiddish word that means "overcome with emotion". I love these old languages, full of singular words, rich with meaning that would take English 18 sentences to explain (because, really, 'overcome with emotion' doesn't really cut it). Greek is full of these, too, as I'm sure most languages born of a people who FEEL first are. We need more words to convey the intricacies of how we feel, don't we?
In any event, I spent the better part of my past weekend verklempt. I hate this time of year so much. I long for a time when I'll be marginally melancholy and properly nostalgic, wistful in my memories as I brush aside a lone tear from my face, whilst (as you can see, proper nostalgia calls for the use of 'whilst') smiling at a happy memory. Well, better luck next year. This year, we had some anger. And sadness. And a complete inability to actually speak. And some hopelessness. Good times.
I have some Class-A friends who try to take my mind off things and what better way, what better place, than the movies - I can transport myself to anyplace when I'm at the movies. I can be anyone when I'm at the movies. I don't want to be me right now. I want to be in a frilly romantic comedy right now. I want to see About Time.
You know this one, maybe? Richard Curtis - writer, screenwriter of some of the best RomComs in the history of mankind! Director AND Writer of THE best RomCom in the Galaxy! - wrote and directed it, Rachel McAdams, Big Brother Weasley & my old man crush Bill Nighy are all in it. This had confection of the highest order written all over it. Add an enormous chemical filled beverage, an obscene amount of popcorn & a Superfriend and we've got the makings of a most glorious in-denial afternoon. Or so you would think.
About Time isn't a RomCom people. Sure, there's a love story and it's cute & charming but the real love story here took me by complete surprise: you see, we have time travel and a Dad that dies and a son that has to choose about moving forward in his own real life or being able to go back in time to visit his Dad. I am leaving out many details but too bad, the details are not the point. The point is, this was by far THE WORST MOVIE CHOICE FOR ME ON SATURDAY NOVEMBER 9TH. So, there I was, centre / centre in the theatre sob crying like no tomorrow, overcome with emotion, completely and utterly verklempt. A mess, as they say. Poor CF. CF who NEVER cries at movies not only shed a ton of a few tears of her own but also had me to worry about.
After I composed myself and embarked on my ride home, where there was of course more crying, I realized quite quickly that this wasn't actually the worst movie choice ever. It was, by fluky misguided accident, actually the best. Is there anything more magically nostalgic than being able to travel back in time to moments that made you so happy and relive them, somehow, again? To say all those things you wanted to say but didn't have the guts to? To hug someone one last time? To share in a laugh or hear them shout? To just be with them? Where would I go? What would I do? Taking the awning down from our back deck, rope burned hands and all, for sure. Putting up the Christmas lights, holding steady that ridiculous ladder, absolutely. Pouring a cup of coffee and silently reading the paper, side glancing as we listened to my Mom and brother drone on and on on Sunday morning, hell yes. Maybe not the 2-3 days we went without talking to each other when we'd had a fight, we don't need to go back to our stubbornness, do we? No, but most definitely the marathon games of Gin Rummy, though, oh yes, please. Take me back to there.
That's why I'm going to watch About Time every year on November 9th, and I'm going to let Big Brother Weasley & my old man crush Bill Nighy do all the things I wish I could do, if my life was a Richard Curtis movie. And, hopefully, I'll calmly brush aside a few tears as I laugh to myself thinking about all these magical moments that I wish I could have back, just for one sweet second. Hey, wait. I'm doing that right now. And I am verklempt once again - with a heart full of love. Thank you, Richard Curtis. Thank you, CF. Thank you, Dad.
V is for ... Verklempt.
Verklempt is a Yiddish word that means "overcome with emotion". I love these old languages, full of singular words, rich with meaning that would take English 18 sentences to explain (because, really, 'overcome with emotion' doesn't really cut it). Greek is full of these, too, as I'm sure most languages born of a people who FEEL first are. We need more words to convey the intricacies of how we feel, don't we?
In any event, I spent the better part of my past weekend verklempt. I hate this time of year so much. I long for a time when I'll be marginally melancholy and properly nostalgic, wistful in my memories as I brush aside a lone tear from my face, whilst (as you can see, proper nostalgia calls for the use of 'whilst') smiling at a happy memory. Well, better luck next year. This year, we had some anger. And sadness. And a complete inability to actually speak. And some hopelessness. Good times.
I have some Class-A friends who try to take my mind off things and what better way, what better place, than the movies - I can transport myself to anyplace when I'm at the movies. I can be anyone when I'm at the movies. I don't want to be me right now. I want to be in a frilly romantic comedy right now. I want to see About Time.
You know this one, maybe? Richard Curtis - writer, screenwriter of some of the best RomComs in the history of mankind! Director AND Writer of THE best RomCom in the Galaxy! - wrote and directed it, Rachel McAdams, Big Brother Weasley & my old man crush Bill Nighy are all in it. This had confection of the highest order written all over it. Add an enormous chemical filled beverage, an obscene amount of popcorn & a Superfriend and we've got the makings of a most glorious in-denial afternoon. Or so you would think.
About Time isn't a RomCom people. Sure, there's a love story and it's cute & charming but the real love story here took me by complete surprise: you see, we have time travel and a Dad that dies and a son that has to choose about moving forward in his own real life or being able to go back in time to visit his Dad. I am leaving out many details but too bad, the details are not the point. The point is, this was by far THE WORST MOVIE CHOICE FOR ME ON SATURDAY NOVEMBER 9TH. So, there I was, centre / centre in the theatre sob crying like no tomorrow, overcome with emotion, completely and utterly verklempt. A mess, as they say. Poor CF. CF who NEVER cries at movies not only shed a ton of a few tears of her own but also had me to worry about.
After I composed myself and embarked on my ride home, where there was of course more crying, I realized quite quickly that this wasn't actually the worst movie choice ever. It was, by fluky misguided accident, actually the best. Is there anything more magically nostalgic than being able to travel back in time to moments that made you so happy and relive them, somehow, again? To say all those things you wanted to say but didn't have the guts to? To hug someone one last time? To share in a laugh or hear them shout? To just be with them? Where would I go? What would I do? Taking the awning down from our back deck, rope burned hands and all, for sure. Putting up the Christmas lights, holding steady that ridiculous ladder, absolutely. Pouring a cup of coffee and silently reading the paper, side glancing as we listened to my Mom and brother drone on and on on Sunday morning, hell yes. Maybe not the 2-3 days we went without talking to each other when we'd had a fight, we don't need to go back to our stubbornness, do we? No, but most definitely the marathon games of Gin Rummy, though, oh yes, please. Take me back to there.
That's why I'm going to watch About Time every year on November 9th, and I'm going to let Big Brother Weasley & my old man crush Bill Nighy do all the things I wish I could do, if my life was a Richard Curtis movie. And, hopefully, I'll calmly brush aside a few tears as I laugh to myself thinking about all these magical moments that I wish I could have back, just for one sweet second. Hey, wait. I'm doing that right now. And I am verklempt once again - with a heart full of love. Thank you, Richard Curtis. Thank you, CF. Thank you, Dad.
V is for ... Verklempt.
Monday, November 4, 2013
U is for ...
…. UGG.
A shame, really, that a word, or rather a sound, which many associate with defeat and resignation makes me so utterly happy.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
What must be about 20 years ago I broke a bank I didn't have and bought a pair of Ugg slippers. A dumb, frivolous purchase that I regretted for as long as it took UPS to deliver them to my door and put them on my feet.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
It's not normal, really. The sheer comfort I get from these, now some 20 year old, slippers. This says about as much about these slippers as you need to know. For a person who throws or gives away most of everything, I will not let these slippers go. They are tattered. Torn. Ripped. Wrecked. They are perfect.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
I open my door, literally kick off my shoes and slide my tortured souls into these babies. And, just like that, I am wrapped in a cozy blanket drinking hot chocolate being serenaded by Bono. I have, on more than one occasion, left my house with them on, only noticing that something was amiss when I reached my lobby. At least I noticed.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
Sometimes I think I should just get a new pair - I mean, these guys are ratty and now, after all these years, about 2 sizes too big. They're rather embarrassing. And I'm sure full of weirdo germs. ? But how can I? What would I do with these ones? The garbage is no place for my slippers. I'd donate them, but who would be worthy of them (and, more realistically - that would be gross)? So, they stay. On my feet. Waiting for me every night. Like reliable slippers should.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
Maybe it's strange, to have such a connection to a pair of slippers. I'm not 90. Perhaps it's weird, to be so comforted by something so warm & fuzzy. I'm not 5. But I'm definitely somewhere in between. Somewhere in between being young and silly and completely fancy - free and old and crotchety and somewhat out to lunch. So, take comfort in my slippers I will. Get new ones, I won't. Stop talking like Yoda, oh, fine.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
U is for …. Ugg.
A shame, really, that a word, or rather a sound, which many associate with defeat and resignation makes me so utterly happy.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
What must be about 20 years ago I broke a bank I didn't have and bought a pair of Ugg slippers. A dumb, frivolous purchase that I regretted for as long as it took UPS to deliver them to my door and put them on my feet.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
It's not normal, really. The sheer comfort I get from these, now some 20 year old, slippers. This says about as much about these slippers as you need to know. For a person who throws or gives away most of everything, I will not let these slippers go. They are tattered. Torn. Ripped. Wrecked. They are perfect.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
I open my door, literally kick off my shoes and slide my tortured souls into these babies. And, just like that, I am wrapped in a cozy blanket drinking hot chocolate being serenaded by Bono. I have, on more than one occasion, left my house with them on, only noticing that something was amiss when I reached my lobby. At least I noticed.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
Sometimes I think I should just get a new pair - I mean, these guys are ratty and now, after all these years, about 2 sizes too big. They're rather embarrassing. And I'm sure full of weirdo germs. ? But how can I? What would I do with these ones? The garbage is no place for my slippers. I'd donate them, but who would be worthy of them (and, more realistically - that would be gross)? So, they stay. On my feet. Waiting for me every night. Like reliable slippers should.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
Maybe it's strange, to have such a connection to a pair of slippers. I'm not 90. Perhaps it's weird, to be so comforted by something so warm & fuzzy. I'm not 5. But I'm definitely somewhere in between. Somewhere in between being young and silly and completely fancy - free and old and crotchety and somewhat out to lunch. So, take comfort in my slippers I will. Get new ones, I won't. Stop talking like Yoda, oh, fine.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
U is for …. Ugg.
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