Notes from the Shallow End

 

Dear Cheer Mom,

Hi! How is your day going?  When the week started, I’ll bet you never imagined you would be soon be plastered across all of the news media outlets as the latest example of Snowplow Parenting, but here we are.

While people on the interwebs are losing their collective shit in disbelief at the lengths you went to in order to ensure your daughter a place on the cheer squad, I have to tell you one thing: I get it. That’s not to say I agree with your decision. I mean, let’s face it, to force the school to change its policy just to make your daughter happy is crazypants.* What I’m saying is that, as a mom, I understand your feelings. I’ve been where you are, and it’s hard to not go full-on Beverly Goldberg when your kid wants something.

*Not as crazypants as the Texas Cheer Mom, though, right? I mean, congrats on stopping short of hiring a hitman. Although they might revoke your New Jersey residence card for that, I don’t know).**

**My sincerest apologies to the people of New Jersey. I didn’t mean to offend or stereotype).***

***I may have watched  The Sopranos a bit too much.****

****Also please don’t kill me.

But back to my story. See, other than first grade soccer, in which most kids have the athletic prowess of pudding cups, my daughter hadn’t really played sports. But going into high school, she decided that she wanted to try out for one of the teams. That summer she threw herself into conditioning and attended every single camp, captains’ practice, and training session to learn the skills. The coach noticed and commented on her dedication. She didn’t complain about running the required five miles in 90 degree heat, and was the one who cheered on and encouraged other team members when they did something well or felt like giving up.

After the tryout she came home to wait for the email announcing who made the team. And guess what? Her name wasn’t on it.

My daughter was devastated – I was devastated for her – and also I wanted to rip someone’s head off. How could that coach cut a dedicated player like my daughter? How could she overlook my kid in favor of girls who never showed up for anything all summer, complained endlessly about how much they hated practice, and said they were only there because their parents made them try out? I fumed. I was going to write a strongly worded email, or better yet, I was going to march down to that school and tell that incompetent coach what I thought of her.

But then I didn’t. Because you know what? I took a beat (really, you should try it some time), calmed down,  and saw the value in failure. Because the truth is sometimes life just isn’t fair. Sometimes you aren’t going to get what you want. You’re going to be knocked down, beat up, and disappointed. Oh, and also? Sometimes no matter how hard you work, great attitude or not, you’re just not as good as the other kids who tried out. And you have to learn how to handle it with grace and acceptance. No life lessons are learned by Mommy and Daddy smoothing the path for you and making sure you never fall. So, in my case, instead of me marching down to the school and going all Real Housewives on some poor unsuspecting coach,  my daughter and I talked about it. Talked about lessons learned, what she might have done differently, and some positives to not making the team.

I don’t know your daughter. Maybe she worked just as hard as the other girls. Maybe not.  What I do know is that she damn sure won’t learn anything through your efforts to shield her from failure and disappointment. Spoiler alert: You also won’t be able to force someone to date your daughter or charge into some company like a goddamn Lululemon-clad Zamboni and force them to hire everyone who applies. Just so we’re clear. (Or maybe you will… seriously, how scary are you?)

So, congratulations to you. Through sheer force of will and determination that your daughter should never ever be sad, you have single handedly bulldozed a high school’s traditions and spit in the face of those who worked hard to make the cheer squad.  But hey, your daughter is in! By the way, let me know how that goes for her. Because we all know how kind and forgiving high school girls can be.

All the best,

Lisa

 

Happy Thursday, everyone!

How is your winter going? We’re enjoying spring-like temperatures of 78 degrees and sunny here in Ohio. Just kidding. It’s 18 degrees and until today we haven’t seen the sun in like two weeks. Not that anyone was actually concerned.  

Actual conversation overheard at NASA:

Scientist 1: Hmm. that’s weird.

Scientist 2: What’s weird?

Scientist 1: It’s just that, I haven’t seen the sun in a while. You?

Scientist 2: Come to think of it, I haven’t seen it around lately either.

Scientist 1: That seems bad.

Scientist 2: Right? We kind of need it. For, like, planetary survival and whatnot.

Scientist 1: I think… it might have finally fizzled out. I mean, is that a thing?  

Scientist 2: I’m trying to remember if they covered that in training.

Scientist 1: Huh.

Scientist 2: Huh.

Scientist 1: Welp, good thing I bought that new goose down parka! Ha ha ha!

Scientist 2: Ha ha ha!  

But our trusty furnace kept chugging along, trying to stay one step ahead of the cold, and keeping us toasty while we performed important tasks*. Until it didn’t.

(*“important tasks”  include binge watching Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee because we’re too lazy to reach for the remote and hit “exit”.)  

Saturday morning found the VP and me checking the thermostat and frantically waving our hands in front of the vents as if we could summon the heat back to life through the skillful use of jazz hands. Because there was air coming out, but no heat, I made an educated guess.

“I think the pilot light is out,” I said. To which the VP,  an educated man and experienced homeowner, responded with the following question:

“We have a pilot light?”

FYI, when you have to figure out how to re-light a pilot light, it’s best when you have at least one person who knows what they are doing so you don’t get blown sky high like Wile E. Coyote.  

So, our efforts to re-light the pilot light went something like this:

“It says to switch off the thingy. Did we switch off the thingy?”

“Do you smell gas? Make sure we don’t smell any gas.”

“Are you sure you switched off the thingy?

“Maybe we need a flashlight.”

“Wait, is that gas?”

“Yeah. I’m just gonna let you take care of this. You’ve lived a full life.”

In the end,we had to call an HVAC guy and explained that the pilot light on or furnace was out.  And the HVAC guy,  being an expert in these matters, asked the following question:

“You have a pilot light?”

Bottom line, it turns out we needed a part. A part we couldn’t get until Monday. So we were looking at 48 hours of no heat in our house. Which didn’t start out too bad, as it was still (relatively) warm outside (well, for Ohio in February, anyhow).  But then the temperature outside started to drop. And then we had a snowstorm. And then I started Googling “how to make a trash barrel fire”, searching the house for furniture I could burn, and praying for the sweet, sweet release of death.

Thank goodness for a Superbowl party, which allowed us to huddle around our friends’ heat vents for about 8 hours and ingest unholy amounts of seven layer dip while we pretended to care who won. And on Monday morning, my kids skipped out the door for school, happy to be going to a place where they wouldn’t resemble Jack’s last scene in Titanic by lunchtime.

Shortly after that, the HVAC guy, aka my new hero, showed up, popped the new part in the furnace, and had our heat running again within 10 minutes. I thought about how not having heat made me really appreciate having heat. And when the kids got from home from school, they immediately let me know their feelings on the matter.

“Ugh, it’s too warm in here, can we turn the heat down?” they said in unison as they stripped off  their coats and dropped them on the floor.

If you need me, I’ll be huddled around a trash barrel fire.    

 

  

 

 

Writing used to be easier.

Once upon a time, my children were small. So very small. Any parent who says parenting tiny humans doesn’t come with a side of stress is lying like a politician caught at a Motel 6. But you find ways to cope. Some do yoga. Some knit. Some go on multi-state crime sprees. Anyway, my point is that you get through it. I got through it by rediscovering my love for humor writers, reading  memoirs and stumbling across amazing talent online. And then I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I had something to say as well.

I started this blog the day my youngest went to kindergarten. Never one to  fit in with the PTA moms (honestly, Jane, did you have to scrunch up your nose like you smelled poop when I suggested that the committee meetings might be improved with the addition of margaritas?) I chronicled my own misadventures in parenting and life. I threw myself into “finding the funny”, and through my writing found a community to which I felt I belonged. Incredible people, those humor writers. But little did I know the best was yet to come.

I stumbled across a blog post that  mentioned a writing workshop in Dayton Ohio. I remember my heart thumping, my breath quickening. How could I have not known about it? Better still, it was the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, dedicated to one of my humor-writing idols. But my heart sank as I realized I had just missed the workshop by a couple of weeks… and the next one was two long years away.

Yet I persisted. I submitted to humor contests, with successful results. I kept writing, finding my voice along the way. And I waited. With trembling hands, I signed up for the 2014 Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. And readers? In Dayton I not only found a community, I found a tribe. A tribe of people who understood. Understood the desire to make people laugh. To find the humor in everyday life. The 2014 workshop was such an amazing experience that I signed up again for the 2016 workshop. After a lifetime of being the odd puzzle piece that just didn’t fit, I had finally found where I belonged.  

Looking  back, I realize that I was in the sweet spot of life when I started my blog. All of my children were small, and anyone who is on the other side of that period of time in life knows that parenting, and life, doesn’t necessarily get easier. You might not be changing diapers and tying shoes any more, but kids’ problems get more complex. Writing about poop, spit up, and your abiding love for yoga pants seems like low-hanging fruit once you have suffered through teaching a kid to drive, seen your aging parents through medical crises, and dealt with enough teen angst fill up three whole seasons of a CW show.  Life just wasn’t funny any more. Or at least, I couldn’t see it.

As I said, writing used to be easier.

So, cut to last December. The 2018 registration loomed. Did I deserve to attend this year’s workshop? I haven’t been able to write a funny word in two years. Financially, this isn’t the best time for us. I have nothing to offer, and nothing to show. I’ll have nothing to contribute to the conversation at cocktail hour. The excuses tumbled around in my head like a roomful of toddlers hopped up on Pixie Stix and Red Bull.

And then, perusing the workshop sessions, one in particular caught my eye. “It’s Okay to Laugh: How to Use Humor in the Dark Places”. And I realized that my inner funny person is still there, she just needs some coaxing out. Kind of like the raccoon under the porch, except not as likely to bite your face off.

So on December 5th, once again with trembling hands, I filled out the workshop registration and hit submit.

Dayton, here I come. Margaritas are on me.  

His voice is tense. His instructions decisive. He wants to make sure there is no misunderstanding regarding what needs to occur.

“Listen to me carefully. I want you to pack it in a cooler with ice. Be very careful not to jostle it around. Put the cooler in the car and drive straight here. Whatever you do, don’t stop anywhere else. We don’t have much time.”

Am I transporting an organ for transplant? Vital plasma needed for a transfusion? An accidently amputated finger? Nope. Just my hard drive. Which happens to be in the freezer at the time of this conversation.

Let me back up. A few months ago. My hard drive crashed. I’m not talking a regular crash, I’m talking a full on plummeting to earth from 20,000 feet without a parachute crash. One that took my laptop and its operating system with it. Now, I’m no dope. I had backed up my data to an external hard drive. Yay for me, right? Not so fast. It turns out that I did the backup wrong.

See, I plugged in the whatchamahoozit and it asked me whether I wanted to make a copy. So of course I said yes. Because that is what you are supposed to do, right? Make a copy? Nope again. It turns out I should have clicked “no”, because doing so would have brought forth a whole ‘nother hidden list of options that I should have selected from instead. But I never saw those because they were hidden behind the “no”, sort of like the new car is hidden door behind number three on Let’s Make a Deal. So instead I ended up with a mule and buggy and the “womp womp” sound.

So I have the data, but my old laptop is the only machine that will ever ever be able to read it. What does that mean? It means if I ever want to see my data again, I have to somehow give the old hard drive one last shock to the heart to get it going again. Even if it works for only the five minutes it would take to pull off one vital document, it would be worth it.

Not gonna lie, it feels like hauling the defibrillator out to give Grandpa one last jolt so he can wake up and sign the will. (“CLEAR! Oh, great. Anyone have a pen?”)

Which brings me to why my hard drive-sicle is currently nestled among the pot pies and bags of carrots in my GE Profile freezer drawer. Don’t laugh. See, I read on the internet… HEY! What did I say about not laughing?… that if you freeze a crashed hard drive there is a possibility that you could retrieve at least some of the data.

But..the IT guy doesn’t laugh, and anyone knows that if the IT guy doesn’t laugh at you then you have done something right. Because if given the opportunity, they will wield their revengy-smugness like a light saber. Of which they happen to have 14 at home.

I drive quickly to the computer repair place, and present my frozen hard drive to Randall, a hulk of a man with an Abe Lincoln beard and what appears to be a tenuous grasp of social skills. Despite his difficulty making eye contact, he accepts it gingerly and whisks it off to what I imagine is a waiting team of experts. I picture them standing around a table with tools poised, headlamps blazing, ready to perform the miracle for which they have been trained. For an hour, I pace. I check my e-mails, then pace some more. Why hasn’t anyone come out yet? What could be happening back there?

Finally, Randall appears from the mysterious netherworld of computer repair land to offer his expert diagnosis.

“It’s toast.”

Geez, Randall, try not to be so technical, will ya?

I’m familiar with the five stages of grief, and fortunately I have moved through all of them by the time I reach the parking lot. Since you don’t just throw a hard drive away, or at least I don’t, all that remains is to decide upon a final resting place.

And I know the perfect spot for it to spend eternity. I’ll just have to eat some of that ice cream to make room for it first.

 

Most of the time my visits to large stores end with me wandering the aisles in search of help, but encountering , well, no one. It’s like the zombie apocalypse happened and no one told me and now I’m the only one left in Target  the very large store full of awesome. When I do find help  it’s usually in the form of a  twenty-something who isn’t at all interested in helping, but has perfected the “shrug and point in the general direction and then go back to t-shirt folding” move. Let me be clear though: Help is good, but too much help makes me all squirmy.  You know that thing that happens where someone is just bound and determined to solve your problem, even if it means making ridiculous suggestions? It triggers my flight instinct every time.

Which brings me to this particular salesperson, on this particular day.  I’ve gone to a different store looking for uniform pants for my son. There’s bad weather coming, and the store is otherwise empty. She is maybe about 60, and elfin, with a gray pixie cut  and a flowy top. She doesn’t look like the typical employee of this particular store, but rather your eccentric aunt who disappears for long periods of time, and you could swear you heard whispers of what sounded suspiciously like “Malaysian prison”.  When she does reappear, a smudging ceremony is usually on the agenda at some point.  Also she has a common law husband named Grasshopper and has probably spent some measure of time in something called a yurt. It’s called character development, people. Go with me here.

Her: HI! WHAT CAN I HELP YOU WITH TODAY? (note: caps are intentional, as they imply volume. Very, very, perky volume.)       

Me: I’m looking for boys’ blue uniform pants,   size 7.  My son has gone through the knees of all of his. There aren’t any on the shelf, would you happen to have any in the back?

Her: I’D BE HAPPY TO HELP YOU WITH THAT!  (beelines for shelf, where no size 7 pants exist, which I have just told her. Shockingly, she also finds no pants.)

Her: OHHHH, NOOOOO! WE’RE ALL OUT OF THAT SIZE!

Me: Er, yes. I see that. Maybe in the back…?

Her, snapping fingers: I’VE GOT IT! HOW ABOUT SHORTS?

(I glance outside and see that snow is starting to fall. Also it’s 20 degrees. ) 

Me: Uh, it’s, a bit cold for that. Also they’re not allowed to wear shorts until April, sooo…

Her: LET ME CHECK THE IN SYSTEM TO SEE IF OTHER STORES HAVE ANY!

(Tappity taps on the computer)

Her: OH. WELL, THERE ARE TWO PAIRS IN COLUMBUS, AND THREE PAIRS IN, LETS SEE… KENTUCKY. I’D BE HAPPY TO GIVE YOU DIRECTIONS TO THOSE STORES!

(Note: those stores are both 1 to 2 hours away. I could have  a pair of pants faster if I fashioned a crude loom and wove the cloth myself.)

Me: Uh, those are a bit far. Well, thanks for your help, I’m just going to…

Her: WELL, WHAT ABOUT THE “SLIM SKINNY FIT?” WOULD THAT WORK?

(Note: No, that would not work, as he’s not currently auditioning for the role of Tony Manero in the remake of Saturday Night Fever.)

Me: No, he’s just a regular size. So, thanks, have a great…

Her: WELL, WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO PUT HIM IN GIRLS’ PANTS?

(Okay, either she has never met any second grade boys or all that time in the sweat lodge has loosened her grip on reality.) 

Me: I don’t think that’s a good idea…

Her, waving hands and nodding: OH, RIGHT.YEP, I TOTALLY GET THAT VIBE FROM YOU. SAY NO MORE.

(What vibe exactly would that be? The unwillingness to humiliate my son and make him a laughingstock of his second grade class? Then yes, you are totally getting that vibe. And speaking of vibes, I am starting to get a whole “Annie Wilkes/Misery” vibe. I need to get out of here before I find myself lashed to an artfully folded display of Ultra Soft Cotton Boyfriend V-Neck Tees.)

Me, inching toward the door: Okay, it’s snowing pretty hard now, so I’m just going to…

Her: WELL, DO YOU HAVE A SEWING MACHINE ? YOU COULD ALWAYS SEW UP THE KNEES. YOU KNOW, JUST SORT OF BUNCH UP THE FABRIC AND, YA KNOW, SEW IT… (makes pinching motions)

Me, ignoring my instinct not to engage her any further:  The knees are  pretty shredded, so, no…

Her: HOW ABOUT TARGET? HAVE YOU TRIED THERE?

(I look outside again and it’s now verging on whiteout conditions. If I stay any longer I’m going to be trapped in the store with this lunatic and one of us isn’t going to make it out alive.  Glancing around for supplies,  I think I can MacGyver a weapon from a couple of name tag pins and that pole they use to reach the high shelves.)

Me: I really…

Her: WELL, YOU KNOW, IT’S JUST RIGHT DOWN AT THE END OF THE SHOPPING CENTER!

Me: Right. Maybe I’ll…

Her: IT WOULD BE A REALLY GREAT WALK! SO BRISK! YOU COULD GET SOME FRESH AIR!

(Whoa. Is Retail Annie Wilkes suggesting that I could use the exercise? That’s low.)

Me, about 5 feet from the door. My escape is imminent. : Yeah, uh, I’ll probably just order some online… French Toast  always has them in stock.

Her: OOOH, FRENCH TOAST! YOU KNOW WHAT’S GREAT? FRENCH TOAST WITH SAUSAGE… YUMMY! NOW I’M IN THE MOOD FOR FRENCH TOAST… OR PANCAKES! I LOVE PANCAKES. DID YOU KNOW YESTERDAY WAS INTERNATIONAL PANCAKE DAY? I HEARD THEY WERE GIVING AWAY FREE PANCAKES AT IHOP AND I REALLY SHOULD HAVE…

Now is my chance. While she’s lost in her fantasy breakfast reverie, I sprint through the door, muttering a hasty goodbye over my shoulder before I run to my car.  She will not be ignored, though, leaning out the door to shout after me one last time.

“DON’T FORGET, YOU CAN CUT THE OLD PANTS OFF AND TURN THEM INTO SHORTS!”

And then, while I can’t be sure, I can swear I hear her whisper, “I’m your biggest fan!” Probably just the wind, though.

 

 

 

Look who’s back! Me! And also Downton Abbey is back!  For the first time ever, I’m attempting a recap of last week’s episode.  Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s almost time for next week’s episode. But life gets in the way, and also holy hell did someone sign me up for a demolition derby  without my consent because why do people keep crashing into my car?  Seriously, this is getting ridiculous. Also I have holes in my car now. Not a great look for a car, but I digress.

But back to the guilty pleasure that is Downton Abbey. If anyone could use the distraction of those uptight Brits and their tepid but oddly pleasing drama, it’s me right now. I’ll be tuning in tomorrow night for Episode 3, but meanwhile if you missed it last week  and need to catch up? I’m here to help. If you haven’t seen last week’s episode, fair warning: stop reading now. Spoilers  are ahead.  Also, this is kind of long, so if you choose to continue on might I suggest you grab provisions first? Perhaps a beverage, or a protein bar. What? Okay fine then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. See you on the other side.

Also, I’ve decided to break it down by character. Less back and forth and hopping from the dinner table to downstairs and to the village and back that way.  I might not keep it this way. Or, I might.  Stop pressuring me!

Edith

We open at the scene of last week’s fire which was dramatic and scary. We know that because of all the coughing. So much coughing!  Anna and Mrs. Hughes are tasked with cleaning up Edith’s room after the fire and seeing what they can salvage and Hey Edith here’s a tip: Maybe if you’re trying to keep your love child a secret maybe don’t stick a picture of the baby under your pillow and then set fire to the room. Just saying.

At lunch, Lady Mary calls Edith an idiot. And so Edith makes this face:

But wait. Can we just pause a minute and look at Cora’s face in that screen grab? It’s somewhere between a scold and a smirk. It’s a scuh-mirk. Proper British manners of the time, of course, dictated that this is the face one must make when someone insults your least favorite daughter during the pudding course of your meal. Now, if it was the soup course, that would be an entirely different matter. It’s all quite complicated. Try to keep up.

Later, Edith pays a visit to the Drewe farm. Edith and Mr. Drewe have hatched a plot to get Edith involved in Marigold’s life, and it mostly involves the two of them talking and ignoring Mrs. Drewe whenever she tries to say something. Kind of like this:

Edith: Maybe I could take her up to the house with me!

Mrs. Drewe: If I could just…

Mr. Drewe, interrupting: What a great idea!

Mrs. Drewe: But I…

Mr. Drewe, interrupting: What a lucky girl she’ll be!

Mrs. Drewe: Can I just…

Edith, interrupting: I can be her Godmother!

Mrs. Drewe: She already has a…

Mr. Drewe, interrupting: Yes, let’s get started on that right away!

Mrs. Drewe is getting more pissed off by the day, and has had it with Edith sniffing around Marigold. She makes a lot of this face:

She seriously can’t even pretend to be polite any more.  In a later exchange, she snatches Marigold off of Edith’s lap all grumpy-like and says something like, “Don’t go filling her head with dreams! “ But it’s okay because no one is really listening to her anyway.

Later Edith presents her idea about being “involved” in Marigolds life to Cora and Robert, but it’s okay because no one is really listening to her anyway.

The War Memorial

Carson and Lord Grantham are accompanying a delegation to scout a location for the war memorial, and they propose using … gasp…the cricket field! There’s talk of honoring the dead and sanctity and such but Lord Grantham just keeps saying “But… what about the cricket?” And the rest of the people, even Carson, are thinking this is the perfect spot and he’s still all, “But…. The cricket?” and he wants the memorial in town instead because, you know, cricket.   Mrs. Wigan, who obviously is all, “You think you’re all fancy with your fish forks and your guy that helps you button your pants but Imma tell you something, Son!”  delivers a sucker punch of a line that makes Lord Grantham look like a gigantic horses’ ass.

Carson and Mrs. Hughes disagree on where to put the memorial. Carson is vexed, but Mrs. Hughes simply says, “Every relationship has its ups and downs,” and walks away and wait in the truck, Sissy! Are they in a relationship?  Welp, I guess you don’t just hold hands with just anyone and go frisking into the ocean like a common trollop, so maybe they are a couple after all.

But in the end everything works out and it is decided the memorial will be in town and even Carson seems to be happy but it’s hard to tell because he looks like Sam the Eagle from the Muppets and never ever smiles.  Ever.

Look at you, Carson, all starchy and full of grump. Tune in next season for the answer to the question, “Does Carson Have Teeth?”

Jimmy

Oh, Jimmy. Step into my office! You’re fired! Out the back door with you Jimmy, and even though it’s 1924 and cars are everywhere you get to be driven away in a kidney-rattling horse drawn cart because that’s what you get for doing the nasty with Lady Anstruther. Thomas sees him off and wait, is that a flash of emotion I see in Thomas? Right there. No? Anyone else want to see them bro-hug? No? Okay, just me then.

Daisy

Daisy is whining that school is hard and then straight out of  Foreshadowing 101  she says “What’s the answer, then?” and you can practically hear the ,”PING!” sound effect and all that’s missing is the lightbulb graphic over Mrs. Patmore’s head and we know what’s coming.  Oh no.  Mrs. Patmore, nooooo! Anything but that, please. But yep, she goes there, and asks Rose if Rabble Rouser Miss Bunting will take on Daisy as a student. Which means we’ll have to see more of Miss Bunting and her stupid floppy hats.

Of course Miss Bunting gives Daisy one math  lesson with nonsense about “clues” and “figures are your friends” and “just like a painting!” and suddenly Daisy’s all, “Oh! I get it!” like math is that just that easy. If I had a nickel for anytime someone said math was easy I’d have… well I don’t know how much I’d have because math is hard and Miss Bunting’s a lying liar mouth. But I’m not bitter. Sorry, where was I? Right. After Miss Bunting’s Miraculous Five Minute Math Lesson After Which Daisy is Totally Ready For Quantum Physics, she starts in on Daisy with her ominous ways. She plants Ideas in Daisy’s head, saying things like, “You’d like to have some choices in your life… and why shouldn’t you?” only the way she says it sounds like she’s trying to convince Daisy to just come to one teensy weensy Scientology meeting. (Careful Daisy. That’s how they get you!)

Molesley/Baxter/Thomas

Molesley is still scrabbling for dignity after last week’s unfortunate attempt to join the Hair Club for Men and practically begs Carson to be declared First Footman. Carson’s all, “Dude, you’re like, the only footman! Congrats. Now take the damn tray upstairs ‘cause now you get to do the work of three people.” And Molesley’s all “Yay!” and off he trots with his pudding that smells like victory.

Thomas ramps up the evil and rats out Baxter to Molesley. Molesley tells Baxter that Thomas ratted her out. So Moseley knows, and now Baxter knows that he knows.

Mean Thomas! Bad Thomas! Picking on poor , sweet, bumbling Molesley.  Molesley is crushed. We are crushed for him. Sweet Jesus, can this guy not catch a break?

Cora is still leaving Baxter hanging about whether she’s going to fire her or not. Every night she’s letting Baxter tuck her in, then telling her in her angsty, mildly annoyed way that she’s just not sure what she’s going to do yet, and I all I can think of is ,“Good night, Wesley. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning!” And Baxter’s all, “Oh for God’s sake! Would you just fire me and get it over with?”

Tom

Dumb Rose wants to invite Miss Bunting for dinner, despite the train wreck that ensued the last time. Tom says no. Cora says go ahead. Tom says okay. Really Tom, if one of the women in the house told you to jump off of a bridge, would you?   Wait, don’t answer that.

This episode consists entirely of: Weak Tom being lead around by the nose by various women. Seriously, five minutes of yammering from Miss Bunting and suddenly Tom is ready to throw down with Lord Grantham at dinner. He keeps saying things to remind us that really, underneath the white tie and tails, he is a Rebellious Person because Miss Bunting said he was and don’t you forget it and by the way can you make my pillow extra fluffy tonight thanks very much oh wait! Communism! Revolution! Awkward dinner conversation!  Ergh.

Lady Mary

Isobel makes a comment about how baby George is growing up, and Lady Mary’s all, “Oh, yes. He is rather sweet, isn’t he?” (which is her version of warmth) and that’s enough of that because her mind is on the impending naughty business with Lord Gillingham. The naughty business that she’s trying to pretend is a “sketching trip” with a girlfriend.

Mary shoves a leather bound book at Anna (we know it is naughty because she keeps it in her bedside table!) asks Anna to buy her “one of these” for her upcoming tryst with Gillingham, to be sure there are no, ahem, “consequences”, and Anna is shocked.

Cue awkwardly placed conversation about reproductive choice.

After Charles Blake arrives with the very Tanned and Oily Simon Bricker, Ice Queen Mary apologizes to him in advance for probably, sorta, giving her, um, “heart” to Tony Gillingham. ‘Kay, first let’s establish that Mary has no heart. At least one not made of human parts. Her heart is made of, I don’t know, something akin to tungsten.  And even if she did have a living, breathing, feeling heart, that’s not exactly what she’s giving to him, know what I’m saying?

Later the awkwardness between Lady Mary and Charles Blake leads to an encounter in the library where they cast glances at each other and talk around the real issue until finally Mary is all, “Are we talking about sex… or love?” Leading Charles Blake to respond awesomely, “That is the question mankind has been wrestling with since the dawn of time. Good night!” (Drops mic, sprints from library) leaving Lady Mary making a gaspy, stammery face.

Mary can sense Anna judging her, but Anna just says, “Good luck!” when you know she really wants to add under her breath, “…Floozy McTrampypants!”  And how great would that be? But instead she just gives her this look:

That’s the face of someone who’s been an unwilling accomplice to shenanigans.

Later Mary arrives at a hotel. That’s right; nothing says “sexy time” like Liverpool, ladies and gentlemen.  Lord Gillingham surprises her by (gasp) getting adjoining rooms! Oh, Lord Gillingham, you devil you. He’s trying to be all seductive but then he goes and uses the word “scrumptious” and ruins the moment suddenly I cannot take him seriously.  There is a kiss, but really it’s not even worth talking about because it has all the passion and spice of flan. So it’s a flan-kiss. Yech. Thank God it’s over in about 2 seconds.

Miss Bunting

After Bunting teaches Daisy all there is to know about math in five minutes,  Rose invites Bunting to dinner. Ah-gain. (Seriously, Rose?) It’s as if she doesn’t remember that the last time she invited Bunting to dinner it was a complete train wreck. Lord Grantham is peeved that Miss Bunting has once again been invited to dinner, but fortunately she declines the offer. She does, however continue her pot-stirring ways all the way out the door and for the love of God Miss Bunting would you just shut up and get in the damn car!  I can’t be the only one hoping that Bunting is the next one Bates pushes under a bus.

Rose

This episode consists entirely of Rose making not so subtle ploys to get a wireless at Downton. And delighted expressions.  We get it. Rose is delighted about something. And also about as deep as a puddle. An aside: Anyone else think they should really replace Roses’ dialog with the same sound they use for Tinker Bell in Peter Pan? Just think of it: when she opened her mouth to speak and all you would hear would be a tiny bell:  ting-a-ling-a-ling. Aaaaand scene.

(Sound of bells tinkling.) Oops, sorry, Rose has decided to give clothing to Russian refugees. Something about shopping and going to parties. Have decided Rose is dumb as a box of hair.

(Sound of bells tinkling.) Oh, sorry, poor simple Rose is talking about that damn radio again. Box. Of. Hair.

Then surprise, they end up getting a wireless at Downton. Rose makes another delighted face, kind of like I did the year I got the Sunset Malibu PJ for Christmas. Carson is having none of it. Everyone gathers around to listen to the King’s voice come out of the Mysterious Magical Box of Sorcery.

Isobel Crawley/Dowager Countess

What’s up with these two? Are they joined at the hip? First they have lunch with Doctor Carson. Then they have lunch with Lord Merton. They are constantly together and bickering like two housecats.  My advice: Take some time apart, ladies.

To the writers of Downton abbey: More clever dialogue, fewer dagger stares, please.

Anna and Bates

Anna skulks to the village and buys “the thing” for Lady Mary, and I’ll bet I’m not the only one thinking Mr. Bates is going to come waltzing in the door of the pharmacy, see her purchase, and get all ominous and murder-ey. But he doesn’t. So we’ll have to wait for him to get murder-ey until another time. Prolly next week.

Later Bates is questioning Anna about Lady Mary’s mystery trip, and Anna  covers for her. Is it me or does something seem to have shifted in Anna and Mr. Bates’ relationship? Come on, Anna, give the guy a break! I mean, isn’t there something a bit attractive about a guy who’s willing to push another guy into traffic to defend your honor? Oh, er, wait. Okay I see it now. Moving on….

Simon Bricker.

Simon Bricker arrives. Ogles a painting. Ogles Cora. Hopefully he’s just a conduit to get Charles Blake back in the house, because if the direction this is going is some kind of an affair between Bricker and Cora then I’m out. Although the flirting and innuendo did lead to one of the best lines of the night, with clueless Lord Grantham shouting, “And tell your friend Bricker to stop flirting with Isis! There is nothing more ill bred than trying to steal the affections of someone else’s dog!”  And Cora gives this look:

Which is kind of like, “Seriously? The guy practically had his tongue down my throat and you’re worried about him flirting with the dog?”

In the end, there is a kind of adorable flirting moment between Carson and Mrs. Hughes, but the moment is interrupted by a policeman visiting with an inquiry into the death of Mr. Greene. Apparently a witness has turned up! Shocked look from Mrs. Hughes. Ominous music.  The end.  Stupid policeman.

In summary: Birth control! Freedom! Choices! Awkwardness! Education for the servants!  Wireless radios! Communism! We get it, Downton abbey. Changes are a-comin.  But  I’m with Lord Grantham; Let’s all stick our heads in the sand and pretend none of it is happening. ‘Cause as long we still have The Pudding, and a servant to lug it three floors, all is right with the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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