Coming Home

Our house is a very, very, very nice house…life used to be so hard, now everything is easy ‘cause of you. ~Graham Nash

You probably think that I haven’t written lately because I was so busy recuperating from my fantasy birthday party. As exhausting as entertaining people in my mind was, I didn’t really understand exhaustion until we moved into our new house last month.

My husband and I had always had some vague plans to move into a new house, one that we picked out together, “someday.” All we really knew is that we wanted something that provided one-story living. We were also pretty sure that we wanted to stay in the North Hills of Pittsburgh. Occasionally we would window shop online – looking at condos and other suitable properties in the North Hills in our price range, even though we were in no position to buy.

We thought we found THE place when we fell for this funky little modern condo in a converted schoolhouse, but the financing didn’t work out – it turned out to be a little too avant garde for a conventional mortgage. We were crestfallen, and thought that we would never find a place we liked as well. Ah, but you know how infatuations can be. You think you found the perfect one and when it doesn’t work out, you think you’ll never find another one quite as good, but there is invariably something so much more special and perfect for you out there.

Pat, our friend and real estate agent, realized this. She took the liberty of sending us the listings for some properties that fit our admittedly short “wish list.” One of the properties was a duplex condo unit very close to where our choir rehearses. It looked more like a house than a condo in the pictures but the living area was all on one floor, and it was well within our budget, so we thought we would take a look at it.

When we walked in, we found ourselves in an expansive living room with a cathedral ceiling and a beautiful wood-burning fireplace. With a second-story loft off the living room that provided some unique and interesting architectural detail to the room without actually revealing the loft itself, the total effect was, well, kind of breathtaking.

As we went from room to room, we got more and more excited. The kitchen was a decent size with a very functional layout, a pantry, and was open to the dining room. And the dining room opened onto a large wooden deck. For people who didn’t care at all about outdoor space, we got pretty jazzed about that deck. The two bedrooms were large with lots of closet space.

And- are you ready?- there were two full bathrooms AND a coat closet in the little foyer when you walk into the house AND an attached one-car garage large enough that we could actually park the car in it. None of this might excite you, but, trust me, after living in a house with the coat rack in the living room, a garage that was too small for the car, and just one bathroom, I was practically teary-eyed at the thought of these features. Heck, the last time I lived in a house that had a powder room was in 1988, and I don’t ever remember living anywhere with two full bathrooms.

Before we left that day, we were starting to decorate the house in our minds. We’d have to buy a grill for the deck. We chose bathrooms and which side of the closet we would each have, and my husband thought that the spare bedroom would be a great place for the piano.

Anyway, we bought the house. If anything, it has turned out to be more perfect than we ever imagined it would be. The house and we belong together. What has been most amazing is how all our stuff- an eclectic mix of things that my husband and/or I have purchased or inherited along the way- all just have found their places in this new house. Sometimes I just look around and can’t believe it’s ours.

Of course, home isn’t a place or a building. It’s people. It’s family. I am at home whenever I am with my husband, or my son, or our families. But we are grateful to have such a beautiful house in which to make our home together.

The Great March 25 Birthday Dinner Party

They say it's your birthday
It's my birthday too, yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
-Lennon and McCartney

I have always been intrigued by the famous (and sometimes infamous) people who share my birthday of March 25th. Sir Elton John, rock royalty. Gloria Steinem, feminist icon. Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul. Anita Bryant, right winger and anti-gay activist. Howard Cosell, legendary sportscaster. Sarah Jessica Parker, Sex in the City. Marcia Cross and Brenda Strong, Desperate Housewives.

An eclectic bunch, to be sure, but they’re not as dissimilar as they might initially seem. They are all people with strong personalities who like to express themselves. They march to the beat of a different drummer. They are originals who do things that millions of others have done- e.g. singing and acting- in a completely unique way. They are extreme and loud, and often controversial. They evoke strong, and not always positive, reactions. But, like them or not, it is hard not to notice them.

I am unspeakably proud to share a birthday with this gang, but I often wonder what might happen if they were all together in one room. It’s a long-time fantasy of mine to invite them all over for a nice birthday dinner. The Great March 25th Birthday Dinner Party.

Yes, I know some of them are dead, but that won’t matter. This is a fantasy, folks, and it is MY fantasy. In it, I drop them all a nice little handwritten note, explaining that we all share a birthday and I think it might be nice if we got together to celebrate. And they all come, some returning from the dead to do so. This won’t seem so unusual to Brenda, who plays Mary Alice on Desperate Housewives. Mary Alice died in the pilot but now narrates the happenings of Wisteria Lane from the Great Beyond.

Naturally everything has to be just perfect for this soiree. The woman who plays Bree Van de Kamp will be attendance. Marcia may not be anything like Bree in real life, but they sure do look a lot alike.

“An Aries born on March 25 is naturally shy, even though they possess the ability to shine at any gathering,” according to Jill M. Phillips, astrologer. (http://entertainment.howstuffworks.com/march-25-birthday-astrology.htm ) Well, I fully expect this get-together to be so shiny with personality that one will barely be able to stand the brightness. I am guessing that there will be lively and spirited conversation. It may even get a little too lively and spirited. Maybe we could just kick off the evening with Aretha singing about “R-E-S-P-E-C-T" to set the tone.

I'll make up a seating chart. Frankly, I’m worried about Anita. Will she annoy the rest of the guests? Will anyone want to sit next to her? Should I seat Elton and her at opposite ends of the table, or near one another to keep things interesting? Howard always seemed like an amenable guy, maybe if I put him between them he could mediate. I know that I can put Sarah Jessica anywhere – she seems to have pretty good social skills.

That brings us to the menu. Of course, Gloria is a vegetarian. I’ve got it! Lasagna. My one and only culinary specialty. I have a great recipe for white vegetarian lasagna made with broccoli, spinach and zucchini, or we could offer traditional meatless lasagna. Add a nice salad, and some fresh Italian bread, and you can’t go wrong. I’ll ask Bree, I mean Marcia, to bring the wine- I wouldn’t want to make a misstep there.

I don’t suppose I have to worry about what to wear and I can be as colorful and outlandish as I want. This group is known for their interesting, bold fashion choices. Think about Sarah Jessica’s outfit at the Oscars, or Aretha’s hat at Obama’s inauguration, or everything and anything that Elton wore in the 70’s.

We could wrap up the evening with a nice sing-a-long at my husband’s upright piano. I just hope that everyone isn’t intimidated by Elton and Aretha. I, for one, would love to hear Howard’s version of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” or hear Gloria belt out “I Am Woman.”

At the end of the evening, everyone will reluctantly leave, but not before we all embrace, exchange contact information, and agree to become Facebook Friends so that we can keep in touch and like each other’s statuses.

The Story of Zero

As you know if you read my last blog my son was born one snowy February day, but he wasn’t the first treasured family member to come to us in the dead of winter.

One bitterly cold January night, friends of ours saw a black object ahead of them on the country road they were driving. After watching a van drive over it, they stopped and discovered that the object was actually a small black dog, frozen solid and unable to move. They took him home. As he started to thaw, he went into convulsions, but with the advice of one caring local vet who took their call at 11 p.m., they were able to help him to survive until morning. Because it was 17 below zero that night, they named him Zero. When he thawed, they realized that he also had a broken leg.

Zero came to live with us about a week and a half later. He was still very traumatized and withdrawn when we took him in. He never barked and walked with difficulty. We had to carry him up and down the back steps when we took him out, because he couldn’t manage steps with his broken leg. Mostly he just liked to be on the couch with us, either on a lap, or snuggled next to us.

When we took him to the vet, we found out that he was a Terrier “mutt” and that he was probably about 7 months old, still a puppy. The doctor said that his broken leg was partially healed and the only way to fix it would be to re-break it and set it again. He said that this wouldn’t be necessary unless we wanted to show him. Show him? Where, we wondered. At the Terrier Mutt Show?

In a month or so, Zero was fully healed, with a vengeance. In fact, he blossomed into one of the most tenacious, incorrigible little terrier mutts you’ll ever know. Not only was he walking, he was running - he was, in fact, a perpetual ball of energy. His favorite toy was a bandanna with a knot tied in it, and when he held it in his mouth he was so strong that you could hold him in the air by the bandanna. It was his best and only trick. And barking? He had one of those shrill yippy barks that terriers have and he could bark without a break for hours, if he was so inclined.

Zero wasn’t exactly what most would consider a handsome dog. One friend said that he looked like a Brillo Pad with legs. He was covered in wiry, black hair and he was about 12 pounds, sopping wet. The vet was concerned that he was underweight, but actually he was the only one in the family with a high metabolism. At the vet’s recommendation, we tried putting fatty acid supplement on his dog food, but then he wouldn’t touch the stuff at all, defeating the purpose entirely. He was the only dog I ever knew who ate and loved broccoli.

He loved to run free, and lived to sneak out of the house. This wasn’t too much of a challenge, as he was much faster than the sluggish people he lived with, and could slip through the tiniest open crack in a door. Attempts to catch him were futile. He would terrorize the neighborhood- ripping up flower beds and bothering other neighborhood pets, returning when he was good and ready. The full extent of his infamy became apparent when I was voting one day, and one of the poll workers asked where I lived on Fern Street. When I described the house, her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Wait a minute! Do you have a little black dog?” I didn’t think quickly enough to deny it.

He was a ferocious little watchdog- territorial and absolutely loyal to and protective of us. He didn’t seem to know that he was very small. He would attack visitors unless we held him until they were in and seated, but would run after them, biting their ankles, if they presumed to move around the house.

This fierce protectiveness led four well-meaning doting grandparents-to-be to practically stage an intervention with my husband and me when I was pregnant. We were having a baby now, they explained, and they were very concerned that Zero might try to hurt the baby. While we couldn’t positively guarantee that Zero would not try to harm the baby, we couldn’t possibly think of getting rid of him, either. He was a member of the family, and we loved him. Besides, who in their right mind would take him? After a few frantic days of circling and sniffing when the baby was born, Zero decided that the baby could stay and became just as protective and territorial of him as he was of us. He actually put up with more from the kid than he did from anyone else.

Well, Zero did bite the child once, but it was only because my son, who was three at the time, playfully and happily jumped onto the dog when he was sound asleep. Yes, that’s right; he did not let a sleeping dog lie (that’s a proverb for a reason). Zero woke up and bit – and it just so happened that my son’s lip was there. It was a superficial bite, and my son was initially upset but essentially unharmed. Zero on the other hand was despondent. He slunk around after me the rest of the day, dejected and apologetic, which was impressive mostly because it was unlike Zero to show remorse of any kind for his misdeeds.

The night he was found by our friends was not the last time that Zero would defy death. He ran free on busy streets, and he once ate more than half of a chocolate Sarris candy bar without incident, despite the fact that chocolate can be dangerous for dogs. We would joke that he was part cat, because in addition to having nine lives, he could walk along the back of the couch, and whine like a cat if unhappy.

As Zero aged, he also mellowed. He played less and slept more and even let people enter the house without much of a fuss. One night when he got loose he didn’t come back, which was not like him. We found him a few streets away. While we couldn’t know for sure, we think he passed away from natural causes. He was 18 years old. We buried him in the backyard, and mourned him. We really did love that cantankerous little dog.

I understand that at least one author has written a best-selling book about his bad dog that was made into a hit movie starring Jennifer Aniston. There was never a better bad dog than Zero – the least I could do was pay tribute to him in this blog.

On This Day My Child Was Born

It was February 13th. I was about 8 ½ months pregnant and I was returning to work after my weekly appointment at my gynecologist.

According to my doctor, everything looked fine. He also thought I may come a little earlier than my due date of February 28. That would be okay with me, I told him. I had had enough of the whole pregnancy thing- the tremendous weight gain, the sharp pain in my abdomen they called “heartburn;” the inability to sit, stand or sleep comfortably. I really did Ache All Over. I was more than ready to have my baby.

The snow was beginning to fall as I headed back to work, but I wasn’t worried. The roads weren’t bad yet, and my workplace was just four miles from my house. Nonetheless, I was pretty happy when I got to work without incident, just in time for lunch with my co-worker and friend Joan.

When I stood up after lunch to return to my work area, I felt an unfamiliar sensation. I realized with a shock that my water was beginning to break. I calmly called the doctor’s office, and they advised me to return to the hospital immediately. I wasn’t able to reach my husband, who was making deliveries for his family’s business in a time before cell phones. I left the message with his mother that I would go home and pack my bag and he could just meet me at the house.

I let my boss and Joan know what was going on and left. I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start. It seems that I had turned the headlights on when I was on my way back to work in the snowstorm and left them on. My car battery was dead.

Okay, so now I was beginning to panic.

I found Paul, my co-worker with jumper cables. Paul was flabbergasted, as he did not think that a woman in labor should be driving herself anywhere especially in the snow. He initially refused to jump my car. I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and I probably wasn’t even technically in labor. Paul didn’t care. He offered to drive me anywhere I needed to go. I explained to him that this was my only car, and I could not leave it, dead, in the parking lot at work, especially if I actually had the baby. Paul was adamant. We argued for several minutes. I was getting desperate. I begged. I cajoled. I cannot swear that I didn’t at one point grab Paul by the lapels and yell “Jump the damn car, Paul!” Finally, Joan, who was pretty skilled at the power of persuasion, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.

I drove home and packed my suitcase but my husband was not yet back from making his deliveries. I called the doctor’s office. “WHAT??!!!,” the nurse said, “You mean you haven’t even LEFT yet?” The last professional I saw get this excited was the whitewater rafting guide after I fell into the Youghigheny River. I decided against sharing the story of the dead car battery. She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital. It was about 30 minutes when it wasn’t snowing, I told her. “Oh honey,” she said, “You need to get here RIGHT NOW!”

I called my mother-in-law back to tell her that I was leaving for the hospital and to tell my husband to meet me there. She offered to come pick me up, but after my conversation with the nurse, I didn’t think I should wait.

My mother also offered to come to pick me up, which was very sweet but not really feasible. My mother was terrified of driving in the snow, and lived in Swissvale, which was just about an hour away from my home in Washington, PA. I estimated that it would take my Mom 2 hours or more to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the snow, and I was certain that Mom would not want to drive in the snow and deliver her grandchild herself, at least not on the same day.

It was snowing a lot harder when I was driving to the hospital. When I finally arrived, I told the doctor that aside from the fact that my water had broken and I had just driven about 30 miles in the snow, I was feeling fine. He examined me and informed me that I was having contractions and I was “officially” in labor. Perhaps I was in shock as I drove to the hospital in the snow, and therefore numb to the contractions, or perhaps I had instinctively, unknowingly been employing those breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class.

Meanwhile my husband had arrived back at the shop, and was so upset at the news, that his parents did not trust him to drive himself to the hospital. His family accompanied him, and his father drove. He burst into the birthing room about an hour after I got there, in quite a state, I might add.

I will not share with you with all the minute details of the labor and delivery, because I hate when women do that. However, I will tell you that I had to have a Caesarian section because the baby was large, and my birth canal was small. I only mention this because I want everyone to know that there is actually a body part of mine that is too small, ironically located inside my body where nobody can see it.

At 10:15 p.m. on February 13, 1985, my beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed baby boy was born, 8 pounds and 9 ounces despite coming 15 days early. When they put him into my arms, I was smitten- crazy about the kid from the start. Every bit of the pregnancy and that day had been worth it.

That baby turns 25 today. One word always comes to mind when I think of him- proud. I am so very proud of the fine young man he has grown up to be. Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday, and hoping that the weather today is better than on the day he was born.

If the Glove Fits, Buy It

I love those little knit “magic gloves” that you can buy two for $1.50 at the local CVS. They are warm enough when I am driving and walking the two blocks to my office in almost any temperature, and fit nicely into the pocket of any coat. The gloves fit on either hand. My purse is large enough that I have actually misplaced a pair in there. If you misplace one pair or it begins to unravel (which often happens – hey, for 75 cents, what do you expect?) you always have a spare.

Unfortunately we’re having a Bad Winter. On one bitterly cold day during the 10 consecutive days of snowfall we had last month my husband and I were trying to shovel snow off the front steps and sidewalk. It turns out that my seemingly ideal little gloves are completely insufficient when shoveling snow when it is 2 degrees and windy outside.

I grudgingly decided that I would break down and buy myself a new pair of heavy, water-proof gloves. I headed up to Macy’s on my lunch hour the next day to buy a pair of “real” gloves. That should have been simple enough, right?

The first obstacle I faced was the Hat Department, which was positioned directly between the entrance and the Glove Department. Wow, there were so many really dashing, fashionable, cute winter hats there, all on displays with huge SALE signs on them. I’m not really a hat person, and I wasn’t in the market for a hat, but I am a serious fan of SALE signs. Well, I thought, it might be fun to try a few on… and so like a moth to the flame I headed for the shiny, red SALE signs.

Without going into all the painful details, none of the hats I tried on fit me. It seems that hat manufacturers had suddenly decided that one size hat fits all heads, but those of us who have heads know this just isn’t true. And if the hat manufacturers used their heads, they’d know it, too. Well, don’t get me started. Admittedly, I have a freakishly large head. I didn’t want any of their damn hats anyway, and they probably wouldn’t even have kept my ears warm.

I finally reached the gloves, my actual destination. Did you know that they have now started making fitted gloves that are “one size fits all”, too? Come on, people! Get a grip! One size of non-knit fitted gloves does NOT and never will fit every hand. They are called “fitted” for a reason. Don’t they know that that is what makes the magic gloves magic? That they start out real small, but then stretch to fit most hands? Unlike REGULAR gloves! I do NOT have abnormally large hands, and yet I tried on dozens of fitted gloves without success. Rack after rack of gloves. Some I could barely fit on, some I couldn’t get on at all. In the gloves that came in sizes, the old fashioned way, they didn’t have the larger sizes in stock.

Finally, I found one single pair of “extra large” red micro-suede, water-resistant gloves that fit, that would not only be good for shoveling snow in single digit weather, but were presentable enough to wear in regular weather and which matched most of my other winter accessories. They were too expensive even with a 25% discount, but I grabbed them and bought them before they could get away. Of course, once I bought these gloves, the snow immediately stopped and it warmed up. I thought perhaps by purchasing these gloves I had single handedly guaranteed an end to the snow, and temperate weather for the rest of the winter. That really would have been worth the investment. No such luck. Although we did enjoy two weeks of snowless, comparatively warmer days, we are at the beginning of a "snow event" right now. Seems the power of these gloves to prevent snow and cold is limited, but they never claimed to be magic.

Mothers-in-Love

Mothers-in-law get a bad rap. Comedians make jokes about them. They are portrayed as meddlesome and interfering. I’ve never quite understood it. Why should the person who gave birth to and raised someone you love enough to marry automatically be a nemesis? Maybe it’s just that I have been twice blessed in that department.

Remember, I met my husband’s parents and family when I attended my very first Bar Mitzvah, but they went out of their way to make me feel welcome. And I did. They are family to me now, just as surely as the family into which I was born. My in-laws also “adopted” my son, and they treat him like another grandson. Each year, my mother-in-law and father-in-law host the entire extended family (sometimes as many as 23 people) for Thanksgiving. And every year I think of how appropriate it is, because I am so very thankful to be a part of their family.

My mother-in-law is a warm and caring woman who treats me like family – she is proud of my accomplishments and hurts when I hurt. She is honest and has a great sense of humor, traits she passed onto her son, who is the love of my life and best friend. Of course, we share one major interest – the happiness of her son- but it goes beyond that. I really like my mother-in-law. She is someone I would want as a friend, even if we were not tied by marriage.

I had also been very close to my ex-husband’s family. It’s a funny thing when a marriage ends – in a way you are breaking up with your soon-to-be ex’s family as well. These are the people who you shared life’s milestones with, in my case for 20 years. No matter how right it was for my ex and me to part ways I didn’t really want to lose his family. As it turns out this would not be necessary.

My former mother-in-law also was caring and loving person. She was someone who routinely cared for others- her family, the members of her church’s congregation, her friends, and all the stray dogs in the area. So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when she essentially refused to give me up after the divorce. As she put it, she didn’t divorce me. She stayed in touch, and was genuinely happy for me when I found such happiness with my husband. Despite being a devout born-again Christian, she also loved my husband, who is Jewish. She always remembered our anniversary. When my former sister-in-law got married in an intimate ceremony with just the most immediate family present, we were invited and we attended. So, for the past six years, I have been fortunate enough to have two wonderful mothers-in-law in my life.

On Thursday, my ex-husband called me to tell me that his mother had passed away. It was not unexpected – she had been battling cancer for the past few months. She was able to come home and spend the last few months of her life in her home with her family around her. My husband and I were able to visit her about a week before her death, and although she was very weak, she recognized us and was so very happy that we came. We had the chance to hold her hand and embrace her one more time. She had such a strong faith that I know that she is resting peacefully with the Lord right now.

Her memory will certainly live on in all our hearts.

"Nine" Lives (The Critics Must Be Crazy)

I won’t go to see just any movie on Christmas Day. Essentially, it has to be what I refer to as a feel-good movie: something upbeat or positive or happy or maybe even inspirational. My ideal is a big, splashy musical (like Dreamgirls) which actually opens on Christmas Day. I do not want to see anything that is too dark or depressing or disturbing.

Last year, the musical opening on Christmas was Sweeney Todd, Tim Burton’s dark interpretation (as though the source material needed to be any darker) of the misadventures of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Although this was the movie adaptation of one of my husband’s favorite stage musicals of all time, it was unfortunately not Christmas movie material even though it was a musical. Another movie of interest in the theaters at the time was Doubt, a psychological drama about a fierce, unyielding nun who accuses a priest of misconduct. I’ve known a few fierce, unyielding nuns in my day, and I wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas with any of them.

We ended up seeing Bedtime Stories with Adam Sandler, a fun, lightweight fantasy good for the whole family. Mr. Sandler was as charming as usual, and the movie included a little of everything- clever fantasy premise, romance, adventure, special effects, cute kids, and even a computer-generated hamster sidekick. Perfectly sweet movie for Christmas, and one that probably never would have made it into our Netflix queue (as Sweeney Todd and Doubt both did).

This time it was easier. Nine, Rob Marshall’s movie version of the stage musical based on Fellini’s 8 ½ , was opening on Christmas Day. We had seen the Conservatory Theater Company of Point Park University’s very good stage production a few years ago, and the promos for the movie proclaimed, “if you liked Chicago, you’ll like Nine!” As a matter of fact, we did like Chicago- we liked Chicago a lot.

Nine turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable, visually interesting, superbly acted musical which completely lived up to the promo. Daniel Day-Lewis is believable and charismatic as the conflicted director, Guido Contini, who is weathering a creative slump by examining his relationships with the women in his life.

Guido’s women are played by some of the most fabulous women to ever grace the screen. Marion Cotillard is absolutely luminous and breathtakingly beautiful as Guido’s long suffering wife, while Penelope Cruz oozes messy sexuality as his mistress. Judi Dench competently plays his costumer and confidant, and shows her song-and-dance chops in her own production number. Kate Hudson plays an American journalist and was made up to look exactly like her mother, Goldie Hawn, did in her “Laugh-In” days. Fergie, the lead singer of the Black Eyed Peas, is amazing as an Italian prostitute in “Be Italian,” arguably the show’s best musical number. Sophia Loren plays his mother and Nicole Kidman is his actress muse.

Was it perfect? Not exactly, but then what is? In the stage version, the story took place entirely in Guido’s head, and I wished it would have stayed there in the movie. Instead, they decided to open it up, it took place in real time, and they introduced men into the story. Guido’s producer, the Judi Dench character on stage, was now a man, and there was one scene where Guido has a meaningful meeting with a Cardinal. Neither of these characters was necessary nor did they add anything to the story. But then I would rewrite or edit the books of many musicals that I basically enjoy. Nine’s fabulous musical numbers could carry the movie all by themselves without any pesky story at all, if need be.

Shockingly, many critics loathed Nine. In fact, only 28% of the critics listed on RottenTomatoes.com recommended it. To give it a qualified thumbs up, or to take issue with some parts of it I could understand, but to completely trash it? I was, simply, baffled.

The most puzzling critique I came across in my cursory review of the representative comments provided by Rotten Tomatoes came from Sean O’Connell of the South Charlotte Weekly, who wrote that Marshall “hires eye candy over proven entertainers” in the movie. Really? Well, I’m sure that Judi Dench is used to that criticism- she probably hears it all the time. Let’s see, Day-Lewis, Dench, Loren, Cruz, Cotillard, and Kidman are all Oscar winners in acting categories, and Hudson has been nominated for her work in the past. What do they have to do, exactly, to prove themselves as entertainers to Mr. O’Connell?

It’s not just the critics who get it wrong, though. Sometimes I stand by, incredulous, as “America” chooses the wrong Idol, or helplessly watch two favorite new TV shows, Pushing Daisies and Eli Stone, perish because they didn’t find an audience despite being a favorite of the critics.

Sometimes I just want my voice to be heard. I want to talk some sense into the critics or “America.” So let me shout it from the blogosphere! Nine was fine and dandy, just like a hard candy Christmas. Don’t listen to the crazy critics, people. Listen to me. If you like Daniel Day-Lewis or the type of big, beautiful musical production numbers that Rob Marshall does so well, you should like Nine. Actually, the promos were accurate in this case. If you liked Chicago, you most probably will like Nine.