24: Jack in the Saddle

January 17. Circle the date on your calendar. Highlight it with yellow. Put blue stars all around the edges. And then, right in the middle of the little square, with a thick black marker, write "24."

Because you don't want to miss the season eight premiere of 24. Even if the season sucks, which we pretty much expect it to after seasons five through seven, I'm confident that the first four episodes will NOT disappoint.

Remember the beginning of, what was it, S6?--when Jack went all Lost Boy on that dude, killing him by biting him in the neck? Remember the assassination of David Palmer in S5? The train wreck that opened up S4, with the giant ball of fire exploding up into the night sky? We are guaranteed that the first four hours will be exciting, dramatic, intense, and fraught with peril and explosions.

Here's what we know that makes us excited about the Season Eight kick-off:

1. Katie Sackoff. That's right: Starbuck has joined the CTU team as Dana Walsh, a data analyst with a past. (Weirdly, the Fox/24 website lists her character as "Renee Walsh"--but there's already a Renee, our friendly and conflicted Agent Freckles.) Anyway, we at the Green Room are happy to see Starbuck reincarnated and hooking up with Freddy Prinz, Jr. Although, I'm not sure, but she might be too much woman for him.

2. Drones. What could be more current in the world of cyber warfare, espionage and international intrigue than drones? And what do you bet that the CTU drone gets hacked and redirected sometime during the first four hours of 24? By a guy using a $26 software package?

3. Explosions.

4. My favorite 24 Leader of the Free World so far: President Allison Taylor, played by Cherry Jones. I just hope they don't ruin her character by making her morally ambiguous, like they did with every other president. And I also hope they keep her weaselly daughter in prison. That whole storyline at the end of S7 was a giant snoozefest.

5. Jack.

7. The fact that Elisha Cuthbert is not listed among the regular cast members for S8. She certainly is visible in the promos--but maybe a burning helicopter falls on her head or something, or she gets caught in the crossfire during the assassination attempt, or Freddie Prinz, Jr. accidentally runs over her with a sponsor-brand SVU. It's not that we don't like the actress--but the character and her story-lines could not be more annoying. And not in a good way.

8. Chloe, the queen of snark. And from the photo (above), she looks to be in full snark mode. Yay!

I got tickets to see a special screening of the Season 8 premiere TONIGHT. In NEW YORK. When I asked Mr. Peevie if I could zip on out there, he just looked at me. My heart, she is broken.

But I will survive. Just like Jack.

Things My Daddy Said, Part I

My daddy used to say, "You're never too old to be spanked!" He was wrong.

But he was right about so many other things that I'm going to let that one go. For example:

"I'd just as soon hear crying as laughing."

This always came on the drive home from Ocean City after one of our family beach day trips. We'd spend the day body surfing in the Atlantic, making gigantic sand turtles with a garden shovel, eating peanut-butter-and-sand-and-jelly sandwiches and drinking sweet tea poured from a metal thermos into nested thermos cups, each a different color. My strawberry blond sister would get so burned that her skin would blister and peel; and I'd rub Noxema onto her hot, lobster-red shoulders.

We'd rent showers and changing rooms at a local beachhouse at the end of the day, sliding fresh cotton t-shirts and shorts over tan lines and sunburn. Then we'd head over to the board walk for dinner--usually a slice of New York style pizza, or a Taylor's pork roll sandwich, or a Philadelphia cheesesteak, washed down with a birch beer and followed with funnel cake and salt water taffy. We'd ride the bumper cars, play some skee-ball, and walk the boards from one end to the other, until we reached near catatonica.

But then, in the car on the way home, we'd get our second wind. We'd be so tired that everything made us laugh, and we'd giggle and hoot and snort until snot came out of our noses, and then we'd giggle and hoot and snort some more, until my dad would reach back as far into the rear of the station wagon as he could while still driving between the yellow lines--it was like an early version of WiiFit!--and smack one of us.

"I'd just as soon hear crying as laughing," he'd say grimly. "Now you kids knock it off. I want some peace and quiet for the ride home!" The smacked one would cry, and the others would pinch their noses to keep the snorts from coming out.

I didn't ever ask my dad to explain himself--that would have been grounds for further smackage--but it never made sense to me that it wasn't better for him to hear laughing than crying. It never made sense to me--until now.

Now? I get it. Sometimes, you just need quiet. Sometimes you just want to be able to hear yourself think. Especially in the car, when my eardrums and my brain and my SANITY are at the mercy of everyone else's decibels.

And if these Peevies are good at one thing, they are good at being LOUD.

Sometimes, I think to myself, I just as soon hear crying as laughing.

But my first choice would be QUIET.

Three is Apparently NOT a Charm

Because our life isn't complicated enough; because I covet a friendly visit from the local child protection agency; because bad luck apparently does NOT come in threes--because of all of this, C. Peevie decided to break his arm on Friday night.

I am not even kidding.

This is the fourth broken bone among the Peevies in eight months. After nearly 13 years of parenting with zero visits to the orthopedic surgeon, we now have Dr. Todd Simmons on speed dial. We see him so often that he recently friended me on FB and we decided to start a book club together. Our first title is The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold.

OK, none of that is true. Except the broken bone part. THAT part is true. C. Peevie was ice skating with his buddies Harmonica and G-Man, plus HarDad. They started playing hockey with a couple of younger girls who, C. Peevie said, totally schooled them. (I love the idea of little girls who are really good at ice hockey.)

Anyway, C. Peevie fell on the ice, stopping his fall with his hands. He came home favoring his left arm, and we wrapped and iced it, hoping for the best. The next morning it was still tender and sore, so we headed over to the pediatrician, and then to the hospital for an x-ray. No surprise: the x-ray showed a hairline fracture just above the wrist. We've been keeping it wrapped, and C. Peevie is attempting to make the most of it.

"Mom!" he hollered from another room. "Can you bring me the laptop?"

I walked into the living room and confronted him. "Honey, your leg is not broken," I said. "Get up and get it yourself."

"But my arm. Is broken," he said piteously. "I can't carry it."

"You have another arm," I said unsympathetically. And just to be clear: By this time, his pain was well under control.

"But Mom!" he said, "I can't carry the laptop AND the cord AND the charger! Please!"

"Seriously, C. Peevie," I said, unmoved. "The last thing I need is you acting all helpless. If you want the laptop, you can get up and get it yourself."

"Humph," he grumbled, and then he stomped off up the stairs, picked up the laptop, and brought it down to his apartment, I mean, to his usual divot on the couch.

I can dish out the empathy and concern when pain is involved. But when the meds have kicked in, I have a zero tolerance policy for helplessness. I HATE helplessness. It makes me INSANE.

Fortunately, C. Peevie already had an appointment scheduled for follow-up on his healing tibial fracture for today. Nurse Gail said, no problem, we'll piggy-back the arm and the leg on the same appointment. By day's end we'll be a two-cast family.

I figure, things could be worse. Way worse. Like, if we had no health insurance. Or if C. Peevie had cracked his head open instead of hurting his arm.

I'm thinking I should either invest in a truck full of bubble wrap, or I should buy stock in cast supplies.

UPDATE: It's not broken. Doc says hospital radiologist hedged his bets by calling it a "possible" hairline fracture;" but in reality? Not so much. So C. Peevie is officially off the orthopedic hook.

Yeah!

Toothless

My tooth fell out when I was chomping a piece of Red Vines licorice. I was all, chomp chomp, and then something hard was rolling around in my mouth, and then I was like, hey! what's this? and then I tongued it away from the masticated Red Vines and pulled it out, and it was a tooth! Weird. I felt like an Appalachian.

So I called my dentist, Dr. Frank (the one I love because she is very understanding about my complete lack of tolerance for even minor discomfort) and left a message.

"Should I put it under my pillow?" I asked her. "Maybe the tooth fairy will bring me the thousand bucks it's probably going to cost to fix it!"

"Where is it?" she asked, when she called me back.

"Well, that's kind of a weird question," I thought to myself, but out loud I answered, "Upstairs on my dresser."

"No," she said patiently, "where in your mouth did the tooth come from?"

Aha. That made a lot more sense. From my description she was medium confident that the tooth was actually an old crown which could be re-cemented without too much trouble.

"Put the tooth in a zip-lock bag and bring it in," she instructed. "We'll take care of it." I made an appointment for the next day, and obediently put my tooth in my purse.

The next day I got ready to head out, checked my purse one last time to make sure the crown was in there--and suddenly, I couldn't find the damn thing. Gone! My tooth was gone! I checked every pocket of my shiny green purse. Then I checked every pocket one more time. Then I turned the shiny green purse upside down and dumped everything out.

Still no tooth.

OK, ok, ok. Calm down. Think. I put in in my purse, right? I know I did. I checked the lost purse again, but it was still empty.

Aha! I know! When my tooth fell out, M. Peevie asked me, "Mom, can I put your tooth under my pillow tonight, and see if the Tooth Fairy gives me money for it?" I'll bet that little stinker took it out of my purse and put it under her pillow! I raced upstairs and checked her bed. Nothing. I checked under A. Peevie's pillow for good measure. Nothing.

Think. Think. Aha! I remember! I took it out and showed it to C. Peevie when I was in the kitchen! I ran downstairs and rifled through the three-foot pile of crap on the kitchen counter. Nothing! I checked in the office: Nothing. The bathroom: Nothing.

I called the dentist and cancelled my appointment, and then I started looking again. I called Mr. Peevie, who said he saw the zip-lock bag on the bed the night before--so I ran upstairs and started tearing apart the bed. Nothing. Under the bed? Nothing. (Well, nothing, if by "nothing" you mean two-and-a-half pairs of shoes, three socks, lots of used dryer sheets, and a coffee-table-size book of Bruegel prints and commentary in German, published in 1932. But no tooth.)

Frustrated to point of Resorting to Colorful Language, I jammed my hands into my pockets. Lo and behold--there was my tooth! Right in the zip-lock baggie and stuffed down into the linty bottom of my pocket where I had put it THAT VERY MORNING.

I'm an idiot.

So then I called the dentist back, and she still had time to re-attach my crown.

"At least you didn't swallow it," she said.

"What then?" I asked, joking, "I'd have to wait until I pooped it out?"

"Yes," she said--and she WAS NOT JOKING. Apparently this is a not-uncommon occurrence in the disgusting world of dentistry.

But now my tooth is back where she belongs, and all is well again with the world.

Resolutions 2010

It's hard for me to come up with a bunch of resolutions with a half-empty pitcher of white Russians sitting on the window sill next to me. But I realize that my loyal Green Room readers are waiting with bated breath for a New Year's post, so here goes.

My resolutions for 2010:

1. Listen to new music. One really great way to stay in touch with my kids is through music--but probably not through Dan Fogelberg and Boz Scaggs. I'm just sayin'. My kids have already introduced me to some enjoyable music that I would otherwise never have encountered, like Human, by The Killers.

2. Work out on Wii Fit two or three times per week. That might sound lame to you marathoners and extreme fitness freaks--but for those of use who enjoy the sedentary lifestyle, it's huge. I may alternate with a bit of drumming on Rock Band II, however. I'm sure that'll burn the calories just as much as a lunging lemur or whatever the heck the yoga pose is called.

I've already created my Mii, and the stupid game has informed me that I am obese. I prefer to think of myself as Rubenesque, or pulchritudinous, or zaftig. However, I do realize that my bones and muscles and internal organs could stand for me to be a wii bit more active. (See how I did that with the "wii"?)

3. Write my book. I don't know if I'm a writer--a real writer--or not. But I have to give it a shot. I'm heading up to Grand Rapids for a writers' conference (maybe I'll see you there?), at which I hope to find inspiration and a publisher.

Here's the thing. I'm terrified. I know I can tell a story with a modicum of appeal. I know I can sustain interest for 800 words or so. But 40,000 words? For a wanna-be-writer with undiagnosed ADD, mood swings, mild depression, and a teensy case of OCD (I swear this is true, even though my therapist insists that you can't actually have a "teensy case of OCD"), it's like a guy with no arms and no legs looking up at Mt. Everest with the summit in his heart.

4. Yesterday Reverend Moses Butcher reminded us that "Resolutions don't have the power to change you." This could be problematic in a post about resolutions -- except Rev. Moses Butcher was talking about sin, of course, not about things like using music to connect with your kids, using an insulting electronic toy to have a slightly healthier lifestyle, and putting words down on paper because some part of me believes that another part of me has something worthwhile to say.

Sin is something I know a little bit about. (If "sin" is not in your vocabulary, you can think of this as personal responsibility.) I often fall short, far short, of the person I want to be. I'm far too sarcastic with my children. I'm irritable, impatient, and self-centered, and self-righteous. I frequently put my own needs and desires ahead of the needs and desires of other people.

I don't want to be this way--but I see these behaviors in myself over and over again. So instead of resolving to behave better, to sin less, to be more Jesusy--which will only lead to failure and despair--I will instead resolve to take those sins and carry them, like Pilgrim in John Bunyan's beautiful allegory (a Christian classic, which, if you haven't read it, I recommend that you resolve to do so this year), to the cross, and dump them out there, over and over again.

This is the gospel; this is what has the power to change me.

What are your resolutions?

Book Review: Twilight

I love vampires and vampire stories. I love Dracula, by Bram Stoker. I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I love Angel even more. But I'm a little conflicted by these Stephenie Meyer vampire stories.

I'm conflicted because the writing is lame to the point of distraction; but I really wanted to like Twilight because many of my reader friends like it--"can't-put-it-down" like it; "read it again and again" like it.

The gist of the story is that this girl falls in love with a vegetarian vampire--a vampire that doesn't feed on humans. Ha ha. He reciprocates, even though she is a clumsy dork who has never kissed a boy. They engage in lots of adolescent sexual tension: shivers, cheek touches, hair smelling, meaningful glances across crowded rooms, and a couple of kisses. It's very chaste.

It's also repetetive and harlequin romance-esque, with eyes that brim with unshed tears and lips that quiver, hearts that pound, and innocent touches that send electricity coursing through lovers' veins. Yada yada yada. For example:

"Bella?" I turned and he was leaning toward me, his pale, glorious face just inches from mine. My heart stopped beating.

"Sleep well," he said. His breath blew in my face, stunning me. It was the same exquisite scent that clung to his jacket, but in a more concentrated form. I blinked, thoroughly dazed. He leaned away."

I was unable to move until my brain had somewhat unscrambled itself.

Meyer uses the word "glorious" to describe vampire Edward's beauty at least four times. In the first 80 pages. She also overdoes the beauty adjectives when describing the perfect features of her ancient blood-suckers, as though she has never heard the first rule of writing: show, don't tell. For example:

"devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful" p. 19
"dazzling face...flawless lips" p. 43
"his livid, glorious face" p. 65
"his stunning face" p. 65
"his too-perfect face" p. 74
"his eyes were gloriously intense" p. 84
"his deep gold eyes" p. 89
"his heavenly face" p. 107
"his burning gold eyes" p. 108
"his flawless features" p. 162

Edward also smiles crookedly about once per chapter, and don't even get me started on his muscular chest and his cold skin. Apparently I'm not the only one who likes to catalog literary flaws, and who noticed the insane amount of adjectivizing going on in this book. You will thank me if you click on that link, and especially if you scroll down and read the parody, entitled Duskiness.

Compare all of this with Stoker's subtle but compelling sexual subtext:

With a mocking smile he placed one hand upon my shoulder, and holding me tight, bared my throat with the other, saying as he did so, "First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as well be quiet. It is not the first time, or the second, that your veins have appeased my thirst." I was bewildered, and strangely enough, I did not want to hinder him. I suppose it is a part of the horrible curse that such is, when his touch is on his victim. And oh my God, my God, pity me! He placed his reeking lips upon my throat...how long this horrible thing lasted I know not; but it seemed that a long time must have passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. I saw it drip with the fresh blood.

It's no excuse to suggest that Meyer's writing is more simplistic because it's targeted to a juvenile audience. JK Rowling writes for the same audience without insulting them, and without pissing me off.

And maybe I'm just an incurable anti-romantic, but the intensely intoxicating effect that Edward has upon Bella is completely insipid and unbelievable; and not only that, but the relationship is characterized by an unhealthy dependence and a ridiculous lack of awareness. Bella gets all loopy when she doesn't see Edward for 24 hours. I hate being minus Mr. Peevie for very long--but does "desolation hit me with crippling strength"? No, it does not.

This is not to say that I don't think that Twilight could make a good movie. It's only getting 50% on the TomatoMeter, but I might give it a try.

You Have Got to be Kidding Me

Last Friday, C. Peevie removed his Velcro boot cast and put on two shoes for the first time since he spiral-fractured his tibia on September 2. Three days later, M. Peevie slipped on the stairs, smashed her foot into the wall, and fractured her tibia.

That's our story and I'm sticking to it.

I expect a visit from DCFS at any minute.

Apparently, this is the year of broken bones in the Peevie household. This is fracture number three. I had specifically forbidden any further bone breakage, but my disobedient daughter totally disregarded the prohibition. And not only that--she did it 12 hours before we were scheduled to depart for our Christmas Aught Nine: Philadelphia Edition road trip.

C. Peevie and I went running when we heard "Thump! Thump! Thump! Ow!" as M. Peevie catapulted down the stairs, crashed into the wall, and cried out.

"It hurts!" she cried. "My ankle! I felt the bone move up! Wah! Wah! Waaahhh!"

We carried her to the couch, elevated her leg, and gently laid a bag of frozen corn (nature's ice-pack) across the already-swelling and tender-to-the-touch area. M. Peevie continued to weep, and I called the pediatrician, who recommended that we take her for an x-ray since she was unwilling to even attempt to put weight on her leg. I dosed her with Children's Tylenol (t), splinted her leg with a St. Andrew's phone directory and an ace bandage, and headed off to the hospital.

I thought the splint was a nice touch. I sort of felt like an army medic applying a field dressing during combat--only without the field and the combat. I was hoping somebody at the hospital would notice and comment on my heads-up treatment protocol--but no.

We arrived at the ER about 40 minutes after the accident. M. Peevie sat patiently in her wheelchair in the uncrowded waiting room, her face bearing the strain of pain and fatigue.

"I'm going to have to unwrap your leg," Nurse Jane said kindly when we finally reached triage about a half hour later. Not one word about how great the make-shift splint was.

"OK," M. Peevie said in a small voice, with a tiny hiccup.

"What's your pain level, honey?" Nurse Jane asked, showing M. the sad face/happy face pain chart.

"Seven-and-a-half," M. Peevie said. "Maybe eight."

"Well, you're being very brave," Nurse Jane said, unwrapping the ace bandage. When she got the splint unwrapped, she held out the school directory. "I hope this isn't homework," she said, amused. "How did you hurt yourself?"

I liked how Nurse Jane talked to M. Peevie. She spoke calmly and directly to M., and gave her the opportunity to speak for herself like a big girl. It did cross my mind, however, that hospital personnel are trained to watch for signs of abuse when children come into the ER with injuries; and I arranged my face into a concerned and guilt-free expression.

"No," M. Peevie said. "It's my school directory. I fell on the stairs," she continued. "I slipped and went all the way down and crashed into the wall with my foot. I felt the bone move up." She was very believable.

The nurse looked at me meaningfully, and we both noticed that the swelling on M. Peevie's leg had an uneven indentation in it. I knew we were in for a long night, and even though I reassured M. Peevie that it might just be a sprain, I was confident that we were dealing with a fracture.

Three hours, an x-ray, and four or five re-tellings of the Fall Down the Stairs later, including two tellings to each of two maintenance personnel who stopped by the room, we headed home with a little girl in a temporary cast, discharge instructions, and a prescription for Tylenol plus codeine. Yay. Hope she has some left over.

Meanwhile, Mr. Peevie finished packing, wrapping presents, and organizing us for our trip to PA. He is the true hero of the story. Our original plan was to get out the door by 6 a.m., but we allowed ourselves a little more sleep in the morning, and delayed our departure by six hours.

Brave broken-tibia girl barely cried after the initial trauma. We managed her pain primarily with ibuprofen and occasional doses of T3.

After this auspicious beginning, Christmas Aught-Nine: Philadelphia Edition was a piece of cake, even with the crazy relatives and the too-close quarters for too much time.