It was true love, the moment I saw it.  I was bathed in light and heard angels singing (no, really, that wasn't just the glow for the screen and the background music for the ad).  There it was: The Beatles Rock Band, a video game that lets you be John, Paul, George and Ringo as you sing and play instrument shaped controllers in time with the music.  Breathtaking.  Magic.

I saw that game and I thought about the stash of money that I keep, just in case.  It's like the few bucks I always try to keep in the back of my purse, just in case I get mugged, only it's in my underwear drawer, in case my world gets mugged.  I thought about what an exceptionally bad time it would be to splurge with the economy still weak and my husband's job (our major source of income) on shaky ground. I thought about the huge plastic controllers that will probably end up in a landfill someday and about how I was going to make four families that much richer when so many people have so little.  And I then thought, "Whatever.  It's the Beatles!  In a totally fun video game!  They're bigger than Jesus!  And all those homeless people and the environment needs is love anyway.  Plus, digitally animated Paul McCartney is still so dreamy. How can I not do it?"

So, I did.  I took my stash and spent it, and I stroked my plastic replica of Paul's bass and Ringo's drums lovingly as I removed them from the packaging and set them up with hands trembling with excitement.  I popped the disk into our Wii and heard it whir to life, and sat entranced, with goosebumps prickling on my arms as I watched the intro animation. And oh, it was every bit as good as I thought it would be.

I try to get the kids to let me play at every opportunity.  "Come on, kids!  Let's play a video game.  Please please please please please!"  My daughter Janie doesn't actually like to play -- the instruments are a little too big for her six year old body and the rhythms of the game require a little more dexterity and coordination than she has yet -- but she likes to watch and sing along.  A few days ago, I got her brother on the bus and said, "How about if I play some Beatles Rock Band while you finish your breakfast."  We had about five minutes before I had to get her out the door for school too, but I figured this was enough for one song.

So, I sang one of her favorites: "Yellow Submarine."  When that was over, she said, "Yay!  Do 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,' Mama!"  Well, who am I to resist an encore?  So I did "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds."  Then Mark came downstairs and said, "Oo, Beatles Rock Band!  Do 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds!'"  "Well," I said, "I did just do that one, buuut...  if you insist!"  So I did "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" again.  Eventually, I paused and when I did, I looked at the clock.  Uh oh.  Janie's school started three minutes ago, and because I (inconveniently) lack the ability to travel at the speed of light or reverse time, we were so going to be late.

I thought about telling the truth to the staff at the school, "I got caught up in playing Beatles Rock Band."  Maybe they'd understand.  It's the Beatles!  I couldn't help it!  So I gauged the secretary as I walked Janie to the office.  She refused to look at me for several minutes: a bad sign.  Eventually, she heaved a huge sigh, got up from her desk and walked over to me, glaring.  "Reason for lateness?" she snapped.  "Um, I..." I chickened out. "I lost track of time."  She checked the box for "unexcused" and wrote "mother" on the line for reason.

With Janie safely in school, I headed home giggling at the lesson I'd instilled: "Your education and moral development are important, young lady, but what's more important is rock music and video games."  I told this story to a friend who said, "No, don't you see?  You taught her that special time with her mama is most important."  Ok, that's another way to look at it.  But it's not as funny.

Heads bent like flowers,
a giggling daisy chain,
girls walk with arms linked.

"Hey, it's your birthday!
I'll request a song for you!
Do you like Footloose?"

Like popcorn we bounce,
squealing as one breaks away,
rushing the DJ.

Twenty five years pass.
My daughter's hand rests in mine
like a rose petal.

Heads cocked birdlike hear
strains of "Footloose" and laughter
drift over schoolyard.

"What's that funny sound?"
I say, "An old song," but think,
"It's me. I'm fifteen."

I was one of only five people on the planet who didn't own a copy of Thriller, largely because I like to be contrary; it allows me to feel superior and rebel against alcoholic absolutism by being absolute in a different direction. But because I grew up in the 80's, I couldn't escape knowing every song on the album whether I owned it or not. (And then secretly singing them to myself when there was no one around to see me being anything less than contemptuous of their choices.)

When Michael Jackson's skin whitened and his nose became skeletal, when he was accused of child molestation and and sued for debt, when there were reports that he bought the Elephant Man's bones, when he nicknamed his son Blanket and built an amusement park in his back yard, when the tabloids dubbed him Wacko Jacko, I liked to tell people "I told you so. I always thought there was something wrong with him." As if that were really the reason I pretended to disdain him when he was at the height of his popularity and continued to mock him as his untreated mental illness* played out on a global stage.

But my relationship with Michael Jackson (as with so many people in and out of my life) has changed as my relationship to myself in recovery has changed. Instead of seeing him as someone to mock in order to feel clever and healthy, I started to see a someone who was aching enough inside to have visibly mutilated (or paid his plastic surgeons to mutilate) his body. I saw a talented man who lived imprisoned in his own deep pain, a man who self medicated through fantasy in many of the same ways I had myself. As I came to better understand my own love of Peter Pan and the fantasy of Disney and my own desire to escape into some fantasy childhood, I suspected I better understood his too. And I used to, in my own way, pray for him. I thought about how hard it must be for someone so insulated from the world by money and fame to finally reach a point low enough to break through denial and bring desperation for change, and I would hope that he would finally lose enough to get help.

When I learned of Michael Jackson's death, I felt the same sadness I felt at the death of my father-in-law: the grief that he died without ever finding relief, redemption or recovery (in its broadest sense) in this life. But I am grateful, as I see my own progress mirrored in my changing perceptions of him, that I can finally crank up "Thriller" and spin a bit in his honor.

I've seen these photo memes going around and thought they looked fun, but they all seemed to contain too much identifying information -- until I found this one that storyteller did at Small Reflections. Tag yourself if you're looking for something easy and fun today too. In the spirit of taking it easy, I did not resize any of the images, making this post look less than perfect! Alas!

This weekend I'll tell you what I thought of Narnia, and I'll be back to porn on Monday! Good times.

The rules:

1. Go to http://www.photobucket.com/
2. Type in your answer to the question in the “search” box
3. Use only the first page
4. Insert the picture into your Blog.

1. What is your current relationship stat?

Married to my best friend. (That's not us, but I liked the way they looked.)

2. What is your current mood?

My kids are at school! I'm doing an easy meme! The cat is even asleep! No one is climbing on me or asking me for anything! I'm relaxed.

3. What is your favorite band/singer?

Mm, James Taylor has that mellow addict sexiness I dig. Although not in a tank top and mustache, seriously.

4. What is your favorite Movie?

It's a Wonderful Life

5. Where do you live?

Wouldn't you like to know?

6. Where do you work?

Home. (And by the way, I really wish my home had that kind of view.)

7. What do you look like?

Myself. (Um, but that picture is not me.)

8. What do you drive?

A car.

9. What is your favorite TV show?

House, M.D.

10. Describe yourself?

Smart. (I tried really, really ridiculously smart, but for some reason it didn't yield any results. Should I have tried funny instead?)

11. What are you doing today?

Blogging.

12. What did you do last night?

Blogged. (Ok, I cheated. This is actually an image I found by searching "blogging" not "blogged," but I liked it better.)

13. What is your name?

MPJ. (Mary P Jones yielded no results, and I liked this picture better than any of the Mary Jones results.) And no, I wasn't going to search my real name.

That was fun. I hadn't explored Photobucket before, and my conclusion is that it seems to be used by a lot of kids for MySpace pages. I think I will stick to my Flickr image searches. I've been really amazed by the quality of the photos I've found on Flickr, just as I've been amazed at the quality of writing I've found in blogs. There are a lot of talented people in the world.

And an additional note on the artist: lead singer George Michael is much beloved by me, not only for being one of my favorite pop stars, but for being one of my favorite celebrity sex addicts. Lest we forget, my rule of thumb is that if you have been arrested and made the news for your sexual behavior, you are an addict. George Michal's 1998 arrest in the restroom of a Beverley Hills park for soliciting a blow job from an undercover police officer certainly qualifies. And he's reinforced that addict label since by being found slumped over the wheel of his car, in possession of drugs and reportedly (although this didn't garner as much attention) a stash of porn and sex toys too. Ah, George! SAA (and NA) meetings await you!

Oh, and the lyrics, for those of you stuck in places where you can't access the video. Just sing along to yourself!

Every day I hear a different story
People saying that you're no good for me
Saw your lover with another and
She's making a fool of you
Oh
If you loved me baby
You'd deny it
But you laugh and tell me I should try it
Tell me I'm a baby and I don't understand

But you know that I'll forgive you
Just this once, twice, forever
'Cause baby
You could drag me to hell and back
Just as long as we're together
And you do

I don't want your freedom
I don't want to play around
I don't want nobody, baby,
Part-time love just brings me down
I don't need your freedom
Girl all I want right now is you

Like a prisoner who has his own key
But I can't escape until you love me
I just go from day to day
Knowing all about the other boys
You take my hand and tell me I'm a fool
To give you all I do
I bet you someday baby
Someone says the same to you

But you know that I'll forgive you
Just this once, twice, forever
'Cause baby
You could drag to hell and back
Just as long as we're together
And you do

Oh

I don't want your freedom
I don't want to play around
I don't want nobody baby
Part-time love just brings me down
I don't want your freedom
Girl all I want right now is you

Hurting me, baby.
Hurting me, baby.
Hurting me, baby.
Hurting me, baby.

But you know that I'll forgive you
Just this once, twice, forever
'Cause baby
You could drag me to hell and back
Just as long as we're together
And you do

I don't want your freedom
I don't need to play around
I don't want nobody baby
Part-time love just brings me down

I don't want your freedom
I don't need to play around
I don't want nobody baby
Part-time love just brings me down

(I don't want your)
I don't want your
(I don't want your)
I don't want your
(I don't want your)
I don't want your
(I don't want your)
Oh...

Mark and I were in our early 20s when we moved in together. Our first apartment was like first apartments generally are: small, old, furnished with whatever came to us cheap or free. The apartment exists now only in photos and memories; the actual building was torn down years ago to make way for more luxurious accommodations.

The apartment consisted of one main room that served as both living room and dining room, a kitchen so small you could not stand with arms outstretched without hitting a wall, a bedroom and one bathroom. The floors were battered olive green vinyl tile throughout. The apartment came furnished with a burgundy vinyl sofa and mustard yellow vinyl chair that would stick to your flesh when you sat on them. (We immediately stowed both in the storage unit, which was (oddly) several times larger than the kitchen and replaced them with a futon.) There was also a dark wood laminate dining table, which we kept, although we rarely ate at it.

On our first night in the apartment, we ordered Chinese fast food and set the cartons up on the table: a feast for the friends who helped us move in. We ate off of paper plates, sitting on the tile floors because there weren't enough chairs to go around. We later created the illusion of a dining room for this table by erecting a Japanese shoji screen between it and the rest of the room.

I wouldn't have thought, given all the memories we created in that apartment, that the laminate table would play such a role. But it was sitting at that table that I realized that Mark was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. It was one summer, I think. I had just been on a visit home, back to the room I occupied as a teenager, and I'd come back to our apartment with old cassette tapes I'd recorded in high school by holding a tape recorder up to my clock radio. (Old school, people. Long before the days of downloading music from the Internet.) The songs were filled with static and snippets of commercials and D.J.'s voices; sometimes they started well into the song if it had taken me too long to recognize that this was indeed one I liked.

We were sitting at the dining room table listening to song after song on the poor quality cassettes and laughing. Then "Easy Lover" came on, by Phil Collins and that other guy named Phil. (At least that's how I've always referred to it.) "I loved this song!" we shouted together, and started singing it in crazy laughing duet across the table to each other. I felt so comfortable, so free to be myself, however ridiculous myself might be, and I was so happy and crazy in love that in the middle of that song, I looked across the table at Mark's shining eyes and smiling face and thought, "This moment, with this man, is where I want to be forever."

We bought a computer together sometime after that, and it made its home on the laminate table. Our friends told me later that the purchase of the computer was when they knew we were going to get married. It was a Apple Quadra, and we gave it a name, like a baby. That's geek love for you.

And indeed, it wasn't too long before Mark asked me to marry him. With "our song" (not "Easy Lover") playing on the stereo, he knelt in front of me as I sat on the futon in our living room. I don't remember what he said, because I fell down on my knees next to him before I think he was fully done. And we laughed and cried together, kneeling on the cheap area rug we'd gotten to cover the battered olive tile floor.

The blessing started with Ukok and we are each to bless three people:

The idea… it’s a game of tag with a difference, rather than looking inwardly, we look outside ourselves and bless, praise and pray for one blog friend. By participating in this endeavour we not only make the recipient of the blessing feel valued and appreciated, but we are having some fun too. We’re going to see how far the bloggin’ blessings can travel around the world and how many people can be blessed! Recipients of a bloggin’ blessing may upload the above image to their sidebar if they choose to. If you receive a bloggin’ blessin’ please leave a comment on this thread here so that we can rejoice in just how many blessings have been sent around the world!

I've decided that I want to take this opportunity to bless three newer readers I've been enjoying making a connection with and getting to know. So, storyteller, Moanna and Melissa, this blessing is for you.

I wanted to bless you all with one of my favorite poems, but I couldn't find one that fit. Apparently, the poetry I like is either depressing or love poetry (I love you all, but I'm not in love with you) or both. So, I will bless you with one of my favorite songs. Here's Cat Stevens with "If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out" courtesy of Radio Blog Club. (Hope this works!)

My daughter's current favorite outfit is a red satin dress with a rhinestone belt and a little velvet jacket with white faux fur cuffs and collar; it's her "Santa outfit" and she always completes it with a Santa hat. She rarely wears clothes in the house, but this outfit remained on her all day; she even insisted on wearing it to preschool, where her giggling non-Christian classmates ran up to her and bemoaned not having worn their Halloween costumes too. And she danced in it tonight, eating Christmas cookies and twirling, bathed in the multi-colored lights of the tree.

Christmas used to be my favorite holiday: the music, the lights, the ornaments, the brightly wrapped presents, the Christmas movies and specials on TV, the parties, the time off school, the (one hoped) snow and Santa, oh boy, Santa. There was no work, just fun, and everything was glittering and shimmering and glowing, including me, to the very core.

Christmas started to take on tarnish when my parents told me there was no real Santa, that they were the ones putting presents under the tree and I now faced conscription into the ranks of the present wrappers. (But shh! Don't tell your brother.) Then it became more difficult to pick out all the obligatory presents for all the countless people I had to buy for, and the number of people I was obliged to buy presents for kept growing. And there was the tree to be purchased and decorated and then undecorated and disposed of. (And all those years of living in apartments, this was a very complicated thing. I'd cut the branches off and sneak them out to the trash dumpster -- which was not to be used for Christmas trees, although no alternative was ever presented -- in large plastic trash bags, like a murderer disposing of the body.)

I wasn't the child, wide eyed, face pressed to a frosty window looking for the glow of Rudolph's nose, I was slave labor in Santa's workshop. I was a cog in the grinding wheels of the enormous commercial juggernaut. How disappointing to find that magic doesn't just come raining down in fairy dust, it's a meticulously created illusion involving countless hours of preparation and planning.

That, you will say, is when one should focus on the true meaning of Christmas: celebrating the birth of Christ. But what Christian faith I ever possessed was gone from my life before even Santa's disappearance from reality. Christmas, for as long as I've celebrated it independently, has been a combination of cultural holiday and family obligation, leaving me in a perpetual state of existential yuletide crisis. Remove from Christmas both Christ and the magic of a man who can visit every Christian household on the globe in one night, add the expectation that the fantastic illusion of magic must be maintained, and what do you have left but perfectionist stress and soulless consumerism?

So, last year, on Christmas Eve, my husband and I were huddled in bed crying (yes, crying!). We were so stressed about the disappointment our children were sure to encounter in the morning. All that excitement, all that hype, all that promise from the culture at large that (in a booming announcer's voice) "ALL WISHES WILL BE FULFILLED ON CHRISTMAS!" We were sure to fail. And when that thought fully sunk in, "we were sure to fail," I felt better. The best I can ever hope to do on Christmas is, through tireless effort, to fall a little less short than usual of a wildly unrealistic set of expectations. Christmas is a fantasy, and like all fantasies, it ends in disappointment.

So, screw it. Screw the big fantasy. Screw mourning for what isn't. Screw the guilt over not being Christian. Why do I do Christmas? Because that tree looks pretty with lights on it. Because I have an ornament that my grandmother brought with her from Europe to her new life in America, and one my mom and I made together, and one my childhood best friend's grandmother handmade out of beads. Because I like Christmas music. Because that crazy ass Heat Miser/Snow Miser special rocks. Because it gives me an excuse to read David Sedaris's essay "Six to Eight Black Men." Because I get to watch my very favorite movie in the world, It's a Wonderful Life on the big screen in the local movie theater. Because my kids have fun ripping wrapping paper. Because I like reading Dickens aloud. Because my daughter likes dancing in her Santa outfit. Because it's fun to see things all glittery, including me, in the winter darkness. And that's all good enough this time around.

I picture myself with the oxygen mask on, and as the plane is going down, I am screaming, unheard, "Damn you, Alanis Morrissette! You have no idea what irony is! Thanks to you, millions of children have grown up mistakenly believing, as you do, that irony is rain on one's wedding day or a black fly in one's Chardonnay or the good advice that one just didn't take. And none of those things are, in and of themselves, ironic!!" What is ironic is Alanis Morrissette's failure to take my good advice and write a follow-up song about sarcasm.

Fortunately, I have a few more glorious days before me, in which to rid myself of this song before it starts playing on an endless loop again...

"Ironic"

An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day
It's a black fly in your Chardonnay
It's a death row pardon two minutes too late
And isn't it ironic...dontcha think

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought...it figures

Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
And as the plane crashed down he thought
"Well isn't this nice..."
And isn't it ironic...dontcha think

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought...it figures

Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything's okay and everything's going right
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face

A traffic jam when you're already late
A no-smoking sign on your cigarette break
It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife
And isn't it ironic...dontcha think
A little too ironic...and yeah I really do think...

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought...it figures

Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out
Helping you out