SATURDAY MORNING BEDROOM DISPATCH

Yesterday was fun. No, I really mean it. The kids had no school, and despite the fact that my teenage son played drums ALL DAY, it was nice to be off as well and have everybody home, at least for most of the day.

(Did you just say something to me? You'll have to speak A LITTLE LOUDER please.)

My teenage daughter spent some of her time at her girlfriend's house, where they built a snowman. Yes, that's right. A snowman. Though, really, without a male appendage, he could have just as easily been a cross-dressing snowwoman. All I know is, whew! Thank goodness it didn't fall into the river and force local news teams to scramble for a gender-identification stratagem.

Later in the evening, my son built an igloo with his friend. (Nervous mothers, I am indeed aware of the stories about collapsing snow igloos. Frankly, I was more concerned with my house collapsing, though, after all that drumming.)

I watched the movie 12 Angry Men this weekend and said to my green-eyed comrade that they need to remake the movie and call it 6 Angry Women and 6 Angry Men. I was, of course, joking, but I'm sure some overly-sensitive, radical masculinist could have, quite understandably, completely taken it the wrong way.

(I can hear my grandmother calling me a "prevaricator" right now. That's something I'll never have any trouble hearing. It means liar, but she has a way of taking a word and making it her own. So it also has a host of other meanings, determined by her assorted variations on a lilting cadence, but has been most often been employed by her in reference to me as the following, obvious, term of endearment: "you goddamn troublemaker." She turns 91 on March 10. I can't wait to hear her verve-acious, crackling voice again when I visit next week and get her going on Clinton and Obama.)

Meantime, a colleague of mine to whom I often give a lift finally knows me well enough not to even ask why I have rollerskates (the four-wheeled kind, not the blades) in my hatchback. When people know me well enough not to ask, it's an indication that a new friendship has been forged. I'm not going to tell you the reason, either -- there are actually two of them (yes, they are my skates, not my kids'), but it got me thinking back to one of the most awful '80s movies ever.

Xanadu.

Anyway, for your viewing hysterics, here is the opening to Xanadu. Olivia Newton-John makes a pretty shitty muse. The girl just can't get her freak on. I imagine the other eight muses of Mount Olympus were probably all, "Who did she blow to get this gig?"

Yeah, Terpsichore is supposed to be muse of dance. I imagine with this amount of suckitude, she could very well be the modern-day muse of most blogs.

And that concludes this Saturday morning bedroom dispatch. Be good to your mothers, your fathers, your sons and your daughters.