The Tanya Roberts Boobly Retrospective

SO last night we wanted to watch a family movie. My birthday is approaching, and I have asked for some sort of ROKU or BLUE RAY that can pipe Netflix directly into my brain from space, but as of yet I have no such technology. Alas.

Digression: Last night I was burning up with this FURNACE of a dog on one side and a roaring inferno of a husband on the other and not one but two fatty lumps of hot feline coal on my feet, and I whined until Scott went and turned the thermostat down to some ridiculous low number that Polar Bears might like, and two hours later I woke up freezing and stomped around layering on pajamas and finding quilts, and then two hours later was hurling all the layers and blankets onto the floor.

Scott kinda cracked an eye at me and sat up and said, "Really?" I wrestled him down and sat on him (he may have let me, some, but I do not know. I am pretty mighty when I am irascible and my dial seems turned to PERMA irascible recently) and I made up a little night time song and I sang it to him and it went like this:

It's so fun, to be forty-one.
I'm hot, then I'm cold,
It's because I'm super old.
But It's so fun, to be forty one,
That I refoooooose
to become Forty-twos.

I sang it til he went and put the thermostat down more, so it is a good and effective song. I have not copyrighted it. You may use it for free if you like. You have to say the OOOOOOO in refoooooose really LONG though. /digression.

SO with no immediate Netflix and no desire to put on actual pants (I was wearing Fantasy Pants, remember them? If you do you are SO old school here on FTK!) and go to Blockbuster. We went down in the basement, where DVDs go to die, and dug aroud until we found a five million year old copy of BEASTMASTER that I think we got (along with several other CLASSIC films like CLASH OF THE TITANS and NIGHT OF THE WOLF) by trading a nice pizza stone and cutter from Crate and Barrel at this Christmas party in MAJOR white elephant skunk-out. And yes, we were and are geeky enough to think we won that trade.

BEASTMASTER stars Marc Singer as a man in fringed leather panties who makes friends with a hawk, some marmotty weasels, and a tiger who has been inexplicably dyed black, I suppose because the script called for someone to play the role of "Panther who is shaped just like a tiger and whose stripes keep showing through the cheap dye."

Scott: Hey I bet the kids would LOVE this.

Me: Better keep looking. I think Tanya Roberts shows her boobs.

Scott: Oh, no, I am sure I would remember that. She has very nice boobs.

Me: How sure? Because I do not want to be in a room with my adolescent male son and the boobs of Tanya Roberts. I mean, I get that Sam would probably enjoy seeing them, sometime, on his OWN, but maybe not with his MOTHER In the room. So. Not. Comfortable.

Him: *flips over box* No, honey, look it is rated PG.

Me: Oh! Hrm. I must be thinking of another movie where Tanya Roberts shows her boobs.

Scott: *dryly* Yes. I suspect it is not a small genre.

SO we all gathered around and got various bowls of popcorn and whatnot, settled the dog, and maybe FIVE SCENES into the movie a raaaaather shapely young lady came GALLOPING along like a Charlie’s Angel and a passing horseman ripped her top right off . She bounded endlessly toward the camera while this kind of horrified MY MOM IS IN THE ROOM AND THERE ARE BOOBS hush fell upon my children. Later on, a blonde with no lines (neither spoken nor tan) decided to take a bath in a stream while wearing her pants. JUST her pants. Tanya Roberts seemed to think this was a great idea, to take a bath in pants. Together they toplessly frolicked about having a bouncy little water fight.

Not. Comfortable. I made it through the two boobs of running girl, but four boobs was a boob too many. I said to Scott FAST FORWARD. NOW. And he did while Maisy protested mightily saying, MOM I AM A GIRL I CAN SEE NAKED GIRLS JUST MAKE DADDY AND SAM CLOSE THEIR EYES IT IS STILL MODEST IF ONLY GIRLS LOOK. Everyone over 10 years of age died a little inside.

SO to spare you such moments, I have some information for you. PG in 1982 did not mean what PG means NOW. In 1982 they had not invented PG-13, and you could show boobs and get a PG rating as long as no one was TOUCHING the boobs or engaging in any sexualish behavior near them. Free range boobs were perfectly okay, apparently, whole herds of them.

You are welcome. Right about now, someone topless should come out and sing the NBC public service song thing...THE MORE YOU KNOW....

Go Red on February Fifth

I am off to California to talk with some folks about BACKSEAT SAINTS. Did I ever tell you the original title was TEXAS ROSE RED? Sad, I know, but that is as close to a segue as I can get at butt-thirty in the black morning while hurling myself full tilt toward the airport to catch an early flight. See, it KINDA works, because the book used to have the word RED in the title, and now I am telling you why I want tosupport the AHA’s campaign to raise awareness that heart disease is the #1 killer of women. You can, too, by wearing red on Friday.

Best reason? Girls who go red get more play. Because we live longer.

More Bad Ideas

1) A local day spa wanted to name itself “Therapy Salon,” but alas, they found that name was already in use. So. They decided to replace the Y on the end of the first word with an E. Gah. I just saw their bumper sticker and it says... Therape Salon. Really? No one caught this?

2) I have a photo shoot today for a magazine article, and I realized this morning I haven’t cut, colored, or even really LOOKED at my hair since September of 2009. I may have brushed it a couple-three times. But looking at the bushy animal squatting dankly on my head, I kind of doubt even that got done. I think I put it into a ponytail in October and then kinda forgot I was a mammal. Nothing good is happening up there. Nothing.

3) This black-n-white stripey Oreo of a kitty has decided to live on my front porch. He is sleek and collared---clearly a pet---and he goes home to somewhere at night, but most daylight hours are spent basking unconcernedly on my porch. Meanwhile, this side of the door, right outside my office, are the dulcet, feline sounds of a one-eyed pirate and a yellow droplet of serial-killer level evil trying to hammer their way through the walls and rend him in twain. I think black-n-white cookie cat KNOWS this. I think he LIKES the sound of great furry bodies hurling themselves repeatedly into glass while releasing gut-wrenching Dante-esque yowlings of the damned. Makes him feel powerful.

These noises are NOT conducive to reworking the HUGE pile of raw, messy material I generated on this retreat. These noises are not conducive to ANYTHING actually, except generating my OWN fantasies of cat-rending, as I am close to rising up and smiting all three of them. AND YET...

4) ...and here we come to the MOTHER of bad ideas, instead of revising, I am surfing ADOPTABLE ANIMAL pR0n. Yes. While ACTIVELY wanting to murder my current cats and a stranger cat, I am skating around looking for YET ANOTHER BOX-POOPING DEMONSEED who needs a good home. Because my cats are so CLEARLY amenable to making new friends. I can tell by the way the windows by the door are awash in nose prints and enraged spittle.

I am going to SHUT DOWN PETFINDER before I end up bringing this fellow home simply because I am charmed by the idea of naming a cat who looks like this “Mister Boogernose.” I shall head over to THERAPE SALON to see if they can do something that isn’t a violent felony to my hair.

In Which I am not Killed by Yetis

Hello! Did you miss me? I missed you. Let’s hug it out.

If you are wondering where I have been, no, I did not fall off the earth. OH WAIT, YES I DID! I drove up a mountain to an isolated cabin and literally fell right off the earth into a mountainous snowhole and couldn’t get the car out of it while an enormous blizzard swooped down from the Rockies and buried the house.

Upside: We brought liquor.
More upside: I got about 18,000 words of my new novel drafted.
More upside: We were not killed by yetis.

It is Tuesday, so even though not being killed by yetis is not actually about fitness, I blogged the retreat events inarticulately and in tandem with Lydia over at Five Full Plates. Lydia says the word “yoga.” I say the word, “roll.” (MMMM, ROLLS.) So that seems topical enough.