Also, I re-read my entire blog piece about DIG (on USA!) from yesterday. I should never, ever attempt to live blog again. I clearly haven't got a clue what I'm doing. Were you confused? I'm so sorry if I confused you. I was excited and drinking wine. Two things that work better for me in person than online. If you'd been in my bedroom with me, I promise: we'd have had THE best time. But watching from your computer may have given you an entirely wrong impression of me. Or, I don't know, probably the right one in terms of me, online.
....I would like to note, though, that according to my blog statistics, I have garnered DIG (on USA!) about 360 pairs of eyeballs (if those eyeballs all followed my directions correctly). Add that with my Facebook (180) and Pinterest (1800) eyeball pairs, multiplied by all the tweets I geeked out all night about DIG (on USA), that's about 3,180,180,017 viewers for them last night. From ME alone! (This is why I don't do my own taxes.) (And you're welcome, USA Network.)
Tomorrow, I will go into further detail as I de-brief you about the show. If you haven't watched it yet (and if you haven't: are you effing KIDDING me?! What the. Listen, don't even give me that look--you are THISCLOSE to my Shit List. Jesus Christ). If you didn't DVR or TIVO it and/or you simply don't have USA Network, go -->HERE<-- to watch the pilot episode. BEFORE SUNDAY. I'm not kidding: I have this much time to play catch up with you: 0. Zero minutes.
Miss M has begun her football (soccer) season. This is her first real team sport, and it is being coached by a real football team player. FROM ENGLAND. ....Oh, Internet. Do you have any idea what this did to me when I showed up and M's coach spoke his first words to me? You don't. Internet, you don't even know. Had it not been so cold, I'd have melted into a gooey puddle of bluthering anglophilia. Seriously, her first game is tomorrow and I've already planned my outfit and coordinated my hair and make up. If I'd only KNOWN before I came to practice tonight--I'd have at least refreshed my lipstick. I mean, for the love of all, it was freezing tonight at soccer practice and I needed a thicker coat, but if I got up to get it from my car, that meant I'd miss drinking up some of handsome Coach Mark's exotic football player talk. And as I was utterly opposed to missing out on exotic British football player talk, I sat in enthralled, raptured, frozen misery. My issues for this accent run far, and deep. (I don't know why. I'm sure I'm a psychiatric researcher's wet dream, though.)
Besides which, he was directing and interacting with little girls, and he was sweet and silly and patient and they were sweet and silly and impatient, and nobody--NOBODY--was focusing on the ball. They were just interested in holding hands and jumping around in circles, and he was kind and sweet and patient with all of them. Tomorrow's game is going to be just one 60 minute fiasco of freaking ridiculous little girl cuteness, I can tell, with a patient, kind Englishman gently reminding rambunctious little girls how to run around a pitch, reminding them for the 10,000th time: ONLY USE YOUR FEET. (And: which is your goal? which is the goal you're stopping the ball? And: No, no, ducks--go the other way, the OTHER way. And: Come on now, Let's have a go, darlings. You can DO it!)
Just thinking about this is making my heart melt all over again. There is nothing like watching a gentleman use a hot accent to coach little squirrely girls who are running amok and not even listening to him a single bit. Meanwhile, one of the mums in the audience is in her purse looking for her smelling salts.
Whole. Night. MADE.
At any rate, Miss M kept running over to give us high fives. She made some goals (I have no idea how she accomplished this, other than maybe the other little girl she was playing against was even less coordinated and/or aware of her surroundings). So we cheered--yay! YOU DID IT! GOOOOO M! And then somebody else made a goal and we cheered the same for them, except we said GOOOOO J! And thus began the drama queenery: I am NOT to cheer for other children, even ones on Eagles United (the name of M's team).
I saw the face. I know it. I know that Oh HELL no! look that Miss M gets whenever she feels certain she's been slighted. (That's from my DNA. The hypersensitive, did-you-just-IGNORE-ME?!? mitochondria--that's all me.) And maybe the fact she's got Only Child Syndrome. That may be a lot of it, too. Which is why I say she just wants all the attention.
A future television reality star, is what I'm saying. I'm not raising a future Meryl Streep; I'm most likely raising the next Kim Kardashian. Which is fine! I'm totally fine with this; Kim K is rich beyond her wildest dreams. I just don't want any Kanye Wests brought into the family, or that strange--what was he? a basketball player? The one who had no couth or IQ and was being led around by all the Kardashian women like broken puppy. No sports people. No. And nobody who dresses like THIS:
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| I can't even. I mean, can he BREATHE? |
I'm being very judgmental, aren't I? I think that was a New Year's goal of mine, to stop doing that to fellow human beings. But I mean, honestly, who comes up with stuff like this? (Although...most Monday mornings, I guess I'd actually kind of like to have a face cover. It would shave 25 minutes off my prep time and I could make all kinds of faces at people I don't like very much and no one would be the wiser.)
Speaking of England (keep up, I'm off Kanye and back to soccer now): I showed my class PETER PAN (2003 version) today. We'd watched the Disney version, then read the chapter book...actually, I read the chapter book, doing my very bad posh British accent for the dialogue parts. (Two things about this: -1-switching between American and British is hard on the tongue, and -2-I have two accents I'm halfway good at: posh British and Lucky Charms Irish [The Irish hate Americans like me, every March 17: "ach! bless me loocky chARms!" "Top o' the marnin' to ye!" All. Day. Long.]. And I have one accent I absolutely excel at: twang Southern.) (I don't think I actually sound that Southern, though I do say "y'all," and "bless his heart." If I start talking fast, I also drop all my g's from my -ing words turn the pronoun I into AH. And then there's the slurring of my words....okay. Okay, fine. I'm a damn Yankee Southerner. Whatever.)
So after reading the book (by the way, PETER PAN by JM Barrie is in my Top 5 most favorite children's books...it's all about bravery and loyalty, friendship and imagination, conquering fears and going forth into the dark vast of the unknown; ultimately, it's about staying true to yourself...and, of course, staying forever young no matter what), and after completing numerous compare/contrast, writing, character analysis, and other very very academic activities, we watch the 2003 movie. Which is just magical. It has some plot issues (for instance, what's up with the weird Aunt Vanessa Redgrave character? I mean, I liked her character, I just didn't get why they put her in), but little kids don't know about any of that, and frankly they don't care. They just come to be entertained. And if a little kid isn't entertained, they'll let you know. In ways Mark Kermode couldn't even begin to try to rival. (Do you know who Mark Kermode is? He's smart: go here.)
So I read this book and show this movie to my classes every year. And every year, I have to, at some point, stop the movie and say things like the following:
"Hey. This isn't a football game. We aren't cheering for teams. Just WATCH THE MOVIE."
"Hey. Stop with the running commentary. Peter can't hear you."
"Hey. You guys are a HORRIBLE movie audience. If this were a real theater, I'd be glaring hard at you in the dark and shushing you. And then I'd call a manager over to have you forcibly removed."
"Hey. Pencils are NOT popcorn. Stop that."
Every year! Every year I have to stop the movie periodically to say things like that. But not this year--this year, they were enthralled and captivated. And you know that part when Tinkerbell drinks the poison? They immediately started clapping so she'd live again. And when they realized this movie doesn't do the clapping, they started immediately chanting "I DO believe in fairies, I DO I DO!" I tried to capture that moment on Instagram--no faces being shown, that could land me on the 5 o'clock news, y'all--you'd have just seen my lesson plan book and heard a bunch of upset children begging a fairy to live, live again! But my phone mucked up. (Typical.)
Anyway, at the end of the movie, I took a quick straw poll. Usually, my classes are all about the pirates. All the little boys want to know where they, too, can purchase themselves a Capt. Hook hook after seeing this film. Not this year--this year, they all wanted to be Lost Boys, and the girls wanted to be Wendy or Tinkerbell or Tiger Lily. I think I had one little girl who secretly aspires to piracy. But more eye widening? One of my toughest little boys came up to me at the end of the day and whispered, "Ms. S, I really DO believe in fairies."
Oh my god. Internet, OH MY GOD. I'm tearing up again just remembering. I mean, seriously. This is the little boy who gets yanked out into the hallway at least once a week and told, "I am very disappointed in your choice. This isn't funny! Look at my face: this is my I am NOT HAPPY with you teacher face and I do NOT like having to wear my I am NOT HAPPY with you teacher face." And also back in December he tried to ruin Santa Claus for a little girl in our class. Freakin' kid.
But now he really does believe in fairies. He does. He DOES! You guys! This is when Movies can truly bring us Magic.
(Don't get starry eyed; I promise by Monday afternoon that kid'll be back in the hallway and I'll be crouched down in front of him going, "WHEN. When? When do you think you'll make a better choice? Go move your clip down and figure out how you'll fix your problem. Let me know when you have a solution. And this is NOT funny.")
British league soccer coaches with soft hearts for little girls. Tough little boys who secretly believe in magic. ......And then there's Kanye West's idea of fashionable.
Going to stick with soft-hearted Brits and tough little boys who secretly believe in magic.
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