So we got this packet in the mail from Disney Home Videos, for whom I used to work, trying to sell us copious amounts of DVD’s because Disney will sell anything if they think they can get away with it.  And they can get away with selling a lot of things that defy reason and imagination because they slap a picture of a princess on it.  I am just as guilty of this as any other parent.  I put myself through things that would have been considered cruel and unusual twenty years ago because my daughter wants to watch it.

But among this list of movies that I can use to lower my already questionable level of sanity is a “free gift.”  About two dozen stickers that we can put on the Disney DVDs we already own to identify them as ours.  I will tell you that in the real world my last name is Anderson.  I don’t use it because everyone’s last name is Anderson.  So these little stickers say, “This Disney DVD’s owner is: THE ANDERSON FAMILY.”

This freaking sticker drives me insane.  My kids have insisted on placing them all over my house including in places which could, in no way, be classified as a DVD.  Or even DVD related.  Like the bathroom wall and all over the edge of the kitchen table.  This sticker is barely English!  It drives me nuts.  I can think of a million ways this could be written that would place it more fully in the realm of objects intended for those people for whom English is not a second language.

How about, “This Disney DVD belongs to the Anderson family.”  Oh, excuse me.  THE ANDERSON FAMILY.  Because we deserve to be capitalized.  We’re THE Anderson family.  The only one.  We’re like the Matrix.  Or how about, “This Disney DVD is owned by THE ANDERSON FAMILY.”  Is it just me or can you hear that echoing when you say it?

Or any number of ways that would have been more gramatically appropriate, not that this is entirely inappropriate grammatically, just incredibly annoying.  It makes me want to never buy another Disney DVD again.  But it probably doesn’t matter because even if I didn’t I will be finding these stickers forever, on the bottom of my shoes, the inside of the lid to the garbage can and in the box of granola bars.  This Oatmeal Raisin Chewy Granola Bar’s owner is:  THE ANDERSON FAMILY!

AJ

Isn’t love funny? I’m no expert on the stuff. My first love Mike (at fifteen) was unrequited and thought I was a total lunatic. He spent most of his time staring at me as though I had more than one head. Although with his hair, which resembled nothing more than a giant handle bar mustache perched atop his unnaturally large head, I’m not sure he had much room to talk about other people’s heads. Even those with more than one. Yet something in my pubescent brain sent me the message that this was a lethal Lothario before me.

Then there was Bill. I’m not sure I would have called that love. It was something, but I wouldn’t call it love. Demented. Obsessive dedication on my part and sad codependency on his. I don’t know but whatever it was he went and did the same thing to about a half a dozen other girls and still has not managed to really commit himself to a relationship at the age of 37. He was just the kind of guy that girl’s thought they could change but no one ever manages. I feel sorry for him.

Finally there’s my husband, also a Mike, although without goat hair. He’s a good one. I always tell my single girl friends who are convinced that there are no good ones left that there are. They just have to hold out and be happy with being single. It wasn’t until I was sick and tired of guys and so happy to be on my own that I finally met someone who was a perfect match for me. My soul mate if you believe in that kind of thing.

And yet with so little to recommend me I spend all my time talking about romance and death. Actually I’ve never died so I guess I do have a little more experience in the romance department. Actually I have a lot of experience in the dating department. I had the singular blessing of being thin and pretty in the years where it really mattered and had plenty of dates. (not so pretty and definitely not so thin anymore, but now it doesn’t really matter does it?) I would say literally in the thousands. With dozens and dozens of different men who looked different and acted different and treated me differently so if there’s anything I know it’s the quintessential date. Maybe that qualifies me to write romance.

Actually, you know I think the only thing that qualifies someone to write anything about romance is believing in love. That it exists, that thousands of lame dates aside there’s a someone out there for everyone. Could be anywhere. The grocery store. A choir. That’s where I met my husband, in a choir class at the University of New Mexico Institute of Religion. Maybe right in front of you. I believe in the conquering power of love and the healing power of trusting someone else and that qualifies me as much as anyone else willing to wax poetic about the big L. Gotta love the love.

Song of the day: That’s Where it Is, Carrie Underwood. I could search forever for what’s right before my eyes.

Quote of the day: I pay very little regard…to what any young person says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.
-Jane Austen

AJ