Sometimes the Christmas Season comes around and it is a blustery evening and you have only one impulse, desire and wish: to watch a Cheesy Christmas Movie. And not just any Cheesy Christmas Movie, but one of the Hallmark/Lifetime variety. They're a special blend of mediocre (at best) writing, luke warm acting, costuming that inevitably looks like it came from the 2003 December issue of What People Who Dislike Themselves Wear magazine and heart-warming fake snow with a mistletoe kiss or two.

You find yourself craving that certain sort of holiday comfort found in the predictability of the three possible plot lines and the jazz flute remixes of Christmas carol classics ranging from Silent Night to Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

And sometimes you seek to satisfy that craving. So you log on to Netflix from your Mac Jacobs and peruse the assortment of Christmas fudge and cheese balls in the form of Recipe for a Perfect Christmas and Mrs. Miracle. After you've made your selection you watch with the rational half of yourself (which at any time of the year would probably be considered reasonable and worth listening to, but at this time and season sounds more like Scrooge in his miserly hay day) screams at you that what you are watching is manipulative, stupid and poorly done. But the other half of you (where sugar plums dance, everyone wears blackwatch plaid fancy dress with red shoes and lives on carmalitas, poppy seed bread and mint brownies) stuffs a sock in your rational self's mouth and activates your tear ducts.

Yes. You. Cry.

You cry because the two love interests just don't know how to communicate yet but they've got to before Christmas Eve or the pageant will be ruined and the children will become fully dysfunctional instead of just charmingly high spirited and mischievous. And then your throat starts to close up when, finally, just before midnight on Christmas Eve, the whole thing turns out all right. The new family made up of the love interest protagonists and charmingly high spirited children spend time with the old family that consists of a newly forgiven sister, her husband and their strange animatronic baby (only Lifetime still uses animatronics, guess a real baby just isn't in the budget). The tear slides down your cheek, the same shine as silver tinsel on the perfect Christmas tree on the film set.

And so help you, you're almost surprised that it all worked out so well. That is, until the credits start rolling and you come off your Hallmark high and remember that what you just watched was #1 in the three plot choices for those movies. But despite that, you are Christmas contented and everything looks like you've drunk the milk of human kindness offered to you by the Ghost of Christmas Present in Lifetime's sixth version of A Christmas Carol.

Sometimes that happens. Only sometimes.

It's that time of year when the world fills with love and when I confess my Christmas Music Before Thanksgiving infraction. I had held personally pretty strong until it came upon this mid-morning clear, when I just reached the snapping point. I needed a little Christmas right that very moment. I was writing my dramatic lit. paper (checking it twice), where I deconstruct the performances of the contestant designers and judges on Project Runway using postmodern practices(yes, yes, I know you're jealous, you wish you're final paper could be half as intriguing and current as mine is). When almost without knowing it, my mouse walked in a winter wonderland over to the iTunes icon. Clicked, and then rockin round the playlist tree to the Ks . . .and what does that naughty (or nice?) curser do? It clicks on Kurt Bestor's Noel. The first album of Christmas. So help me, I listened as I tried to cook my ideas for the paper like so many chestnuts roasting on an open fire. It was holly. It was jolly. And I don't regret a single note of it.

I guess there's only one thing left to say, although it's been said many times, many ways:

Let the Most Wonderful Time of the Year begin!!

Now don't keel over from the shock of hearing from me twice in one day after such an absence. But what I'm about to tell you warrants a two-post day.

It's no secret that I love theatre. And by love I also mean I am incredibly passionate about this particular art form. I go to see as much theatre as my wallet and planner allow. There are times when I am re-reminded the reasons theatre has survived for two thousand years and why I have fallen in love with it. There are also times that my pride in being a part of the BYU theatre program grows. Last night was such a time on all three accounts. Because of this:

I wept like a child and wanted to create into infinity because of this. I'm not sure what to say exactly because anything I say would probably guild the lily or cheapen the moment. One thing I will say: grow some culture and go see it. But save one ticket for me because I plan on being there once more.

(I'd also like to give a side note shout out to the BYU arts production for going back to using illustrations for the publicity posters for the shows . . .I feel as if my dissatisfaction was heard and the world was made better).

This semester (which I realize is almost over and I've neglected this little note so long that now it's probably forgotten in the back of your desk drawer) I'm taking a puppetry class. Yes, I'm learning the craft of Jim Henson, Adrian and Basil as well as the Tanglewood Marionettes.

You don't have to tell me because I'll beat you to it:

Ladies and gentleman I am a part of the world's coolest field of study.

One of our recent projects was to create a parade puppet that advocated for some kind of social cause. I was in a group of three. And for some reason I'm still trying to tease out, we, as bright, young women, who are advocates for the arts and generally socially aware, chose to create a puppet to raise awareness about not throwing your gum on the ground where birds can eat it. Once the birds eat the old gum, it expands in their stomachs and they die, or so swears one of the girls in my group. . . whether or not I actually believe it expands in the bird's stomach and doesn't just sit there like a flavorless zebra striped rock, is beside the point. The fact is, we (where we is used in a rather loose sense) chose to be advocates for little gum ingesting birdies everywhere. The validity of the cause aside, we made a pretty kick kidney puppet. Behold:

Feel free to be impressed. That loveable blue bird is probably about 500 times the size of an actual blue bird and is made of hot glue, blue felt, hot glue, styrofoam, hot glue, wire, hot glue and plastic tubing. Oh and 6 fake feathers. Bet you just want to cuddle him. Well, I'm here to tell you, he doesn't cuddle . . .but he does dance.

The musical accompaniment and artistic cinematography as well as the really cool video quality are all complimentary bits of the experience. If you're not a hip enough film consumer to appreciate the artistic choices of this little documentary, then look at content. Isn't he utterly charming when he dances? Of course he is. He's made of hot glue magic.

Y'all, y'all, y'all. My mama and I had a girls' date on Wednesday and we got ourselves to the nearest movie theater, bought us some popcorn and sat down to the best two hour book turned film I've seen in a long time The Help. Do you remember me talking to y'all about the novel. First of all, get off your hiney and get your sad self to the library and borrow a copy if you've not read it. Second, read it and then get your less sad self to a cinema and watch this movie. I mean it.

Aibileen. Oh mercy. I'm not even really sure what to say, other than: spot on. Gorgeously done.

And Skeeter. At first I wasn't sure (before I saw the movie) I mean I adore Emma Stone (I have since House Bunny and The Rocker. What ya looking at? You don't know my life) but I had my doubts. But child, I'm a believer now. Look at her. And the thing is, it's not just her, everyone was perfectly cast. The acting was honest and sensitively done. And the chemistry between the cast as a whole was enough to make you believe in movies again. Hallelujah! I believe.

Just do yourself a favor, go see it. Love the costuming. Love the accents. Love the storytelling and the acting. And I'm not going to tell you to be moved and learn something but I'm telling you you're made of something less like jello and more like stone if you don't.

And so it comes to an end, mes amis. SYTYCD Season 8. And I'm not sure I could be any happier with the results. Because guess who won?

Melanie. Fat sack of a dancing force in a pixie body with a dash of acting finesse and adorableness. I mean come on. Do you see her hair cut? The girl has naturally curly hair and she still rocks a boy/pixie cut. How on earth. It makes a person (and I bet you can't guess who) feel almost tempted to go out and tempt the curly haired fate and chop all the cheveux straight off. But I digress. Melanie won and she deserved it. I think in all the seasons I've been watch SYTYCD I've not been as satisfied with the winner as I am this year. Usually the naming of the winner on the season finale sees me a nervous wreck, who has to fast forward through Cat's whole speech and then feeling a bit let down by who was crowned. And although the first part of that equation was entirely true (the dilapidated state of our den's love seat is a testament to that), the second most definitely was not. After a wonderful finale showing us highlights of this truly inspiring (when they have good dancers and good choreography I find the show to be so creatively inspiring I just have to talk to the computer or tv screen) dancing watching Melanie cry her eyes out and saying "thank you" after being named winner, was equivocal and perfect. I guess the ending of Season 8 means summer is ending, fall is coming and school is starting. But it was such a good season I suppose I can't be any kind of sad (especially since I have a whole new set of dances to use as homework breaks in the dead of winter).

All good Americans go to Paris when they die. Thomas Appleton, a 19th century American rich-boy, artist/writer/arts lover, said that.

It may be because I'm reading David McCullough's new book The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris or that I'm watching Julie/Julia right now or just my general neuroses but I've been nostalgic for ma belle ville more than usual lately. Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic, but Paris is always a dull ache in a small corner of my heart. Something always pulls me back to that city. And I'm not the only one. According to McCullough's book, thousands and thousands of Americans crossed the Atlantic to see and learn in the City of Lights in the 19th century. Many went back again and again, while other just staid.

More than anything I want Appleton to be right, or I guess not quite that far but I think if my version of heaven could have a slightly cleaner Paris, where the metro always runs on time because the workers never are on strike and I'm never without someone's hand to hold whilst strolling in Parc Monceau and I could live in the Musee Rodin . . .well I think I'd be vachement contented. But I suppose more than that I want to go be the good American who goes there again while she's still living. I've never been in a city that I felt more immediately at home in. I was comfortable as soon as the jet lag wore off. Is it possible to fall in love with a city? I never thought much of Paris as a teenager or really at all until I applied to study there. I thought it was the city that people pretended was wonderful and put into bad teen movies about vespas and twins and fashion. Which of course, it absolutely is not. But in some ways, it was like it was meant to be. Now that I've put enough vaseline on the lens of the camera filming this post, so everything is misty and glowing, I suppose I only have one thought: read Mr. McCullough's book. Eat it up like chevre and chocolat. And then go get a private French tutor . . .I know I probably should.

Here's something I love: rompers. Some people call them jumpsuits, but I find that name to be a bit off-putting in a mechanic or state penitentiary way. And if you're my sister, you find it to be one of the more distasteful or at least desirable pieces of clothing for an adult woman to wear. But I can't help it. I am a sucker for a semi-artsy, sort of funky and somehow vintage romper. 1.It's one-piece and you can't tell me that's not all kinds of convenient. Like your favorite dress you can just slip on and go. 2. Well, I'm not sure what the second thing is, except I have an inexplicable draw to this sartorial bit. But don't worry, like nearly everything in my life I'm rather discerning. I don't like every shiny rayon poly-blend teeny-bopper 1972 throw back jumpsuit I come in contact with. I prefer the Anthro vibe. I seem to be in pursuit of the perfect romper in a strange sort of way. It was this pursuit (and I've achieved it with these 1930s feeling overalls I made a few years back) to complete a rather hair brained scheme of making a romper out of men's dress shirts.

This story begins with me researching pictures of overalls for a costume viz for the scene I directed for a class final and Google images brought up this little gem:

It's a men's romper . . .a strangely terrifying, albeit fascinating idea. Mostly just icky. This picture then lead to a styling idea picture, which showed this jumpsuit with this sad blazer and mule sandals. Tragic and not any kind of ok in my book. But it did get me thinking. What about that? What about using oxford material to make a romper (a girl's romper)? A good idea, right? So that's what I did. I went to Saver's and by some sifting miracle, I found two sizes of the same Ralph Lauren shirt. And I used the bigger one for the legs and the smaller one of the top of the romper.

It turned better than I anticipated (aka really well) and it's pretty darn adorable. The cuffs of the bigger shirt's cuffs are now the cuffs of the legs. I mean, come on that's a pretty good idea. Right? Anyway, it's drop-waisted, oxford cuteness and I love it.

But I finished it about three and a half weeks ago and I haven't worn it yet (hence no picture). Why? I think I'm still trying to figure out the right time and to be quite honest, the right styling. Valid question. Red flats? Most likely. But what about the hair? Should my luscious locks be up or down, braided or head banded? So many things for me to wonder.

It is an important day, y'all. An important day. I went to the movies. And guess what I saw?

That's right. And it was a fat sack of expecto patronum fantasticness! I mean, holy Hogwarts!

I'll spare you the whole "it's the end of an era" stuff. Even though, I'm feeling the same way I felt after finishing the seventh book . . .like the story I had personally discovered (and what 11 year old that picked up The Sorcerer's Stone at their school's book fair the year it hit the US of A doesn't feel like they discovered Harry and consequently grew up with him?) had ended and I wasn't sure what everyone was supposed to do without a midnight showing or reading about the world we all wished we were a part of. I also felt some things were rather perfect, giving me the satisfied feeling I was longing for in this 2 hour 40 minute goodbye.Neville standing up to Voldemort in a fair isle sweater, was a highlight. Although the standing up was rather wonderful, I'd have to say it was the sweater that did me in. Boys, are you listening? Do like the Britts, wear knits of the fair isle variety.
Ooops! Not exactly a high light of the film per say but it doesn't bear ignoring. Why hello Neville, I would love to go out with you in your three piece suit, felt flower boutonniere and darling self. Just let me slip into something a little less like yoga pants and arts institute tshirt and I'll be right with you. Who'd a thunk? And I know you can't tell in this picture, but he has a really nice smile, which includes good teeth. Sweet mercy. The dark horse of attractiveness in the Harry Potter race.

Other highlights include the protecting of Hogwarts (I literally felt tears begin to well up in my eyes as those beloved fictional people got ready for battle) and Sanpe's unrequited love and a few kisses (one more satisfying than the other). Not to mention the bit that made me cry in the book and the movie (spoiler alert: it has to do with a convo between Harry and his mama). Part of me says the whole dream-realizing thing was a highlight (I know, right? I must have it pretty bad)

Maybe it's the ownership I feel from the first time I randomly chose the first book out of a line up that makes me all misty-eyed for the bravery, friendship and triumph after a struggle that's in this movie.
Even more than that, I rather lamely ask myself "would I be brave enough for that?" I fancy I would be. I fancy I'd be clever and brave enough to be part of their gang, kicking Death Eater butt and taking names. But what kid who grew up with Harry, Ron and Hermione doesn't?(Can you see me? I'm running just behind Ron . . .too much? ok, ok, maybe. I guess there's really only room for one Ginger in the posse, I'll just have to accept that.)

I seem to always hear people talk about summer reading lists. You know, almost every magazine has some variation of the "summer reading: what's hot" or "beach reads" etc. Well the past little while, about 4 days actually, I've been pondering over my recent summer reading selection. And I've found myself in Siberia. Sentenced to eight years hard labour along with Ivan Somethingorothervitch.

Yes, I'm reading a Russian novel. Don't worry it's not Crime and Punishment or War and Peace or something else, long, vodka-soaked and generally beautiful in a cold, once-glorious way. It's A Day in the Life of Ivan D . . .well, I've forgotten his last name. And goodness me. I am lost in the literary wilderness and have no foreseeable way of getting out of it except finishing that day with Ivan in the "special" or hard labour camp.(can you believe it's called "special" camp? If it wasn't so puke-inducing sad, it'd be funny). It's 130 pages of one day. One day. Chew on that for a while. And I can't read it at night, or I end up having dreams about bed bugs, frost bite and grey oatmeal. There are few things worse than reading a lengthy description about grey oatmeal and how it's made. Grey oatmeal. Grey oatmeal!

Don't ask what possessed me to choose this novel of all the thousands of years of literature. And please don't ask what compels me to keep reading. I don't even like Ivan all that much. He just makes me want to cry because he had scurvy. So tonight I think I'll take a break from the haunting, grey oatmeal world of special camp and go for something lighter. . .where's my copy of Jane Eyre?

Well, it's July and I've decided that perhaps it's high time to stop mooning over The Royal Wedding and move on to something new. Dance and summer. Dance is an interesting thing. It's one of those art forms I make believe I know something about and am good at. Spoiler alert #1: It's just make believe I don't and I'm not. Summer is also a wonderful season. I realized it's the time of year I tend to blog about tv. Spoiler alert #2: This season is no different.

No different because So You Think You Can Dance season 8 is going on right now. And thanks to the miracle of tv on the internet, I've been watching each show like it is a miracle. I can't tell you the five different kinds of happy and excited I get as I watch the dancers and choreographers do their thing whilst knitting like a mad person, talking to the screen. Tonight was no different. I had created my customary SYTYCD (guess what that means and you'll finally become a sytycd insider) nest on my bed, had the blinds closed and fan humming, when I was blindsided by this beauty:

Feel that little stirring near your heart? That's the fat sack of emotions being ding dong ditched on your proverbial door step by this routine. Excuse me, Cat Deeley (of whom I'm not overly fond) you must warn me before you decide to show a beautiful dance about the seven stages of grief performed by seven rather wonderful (and not so bad to look at) men. If you don't, I'm liable to pass out.

I woke up at 1:45 yesterday morning. Not a terribly interesting fact, although it may indicate insomnia related to stress or the consumption of

too much sugar, nothing to write home about. Unless it was my marimba alarm on my iPhone 4 that woke me up at that hour. But why? Why would I wake up before birdsand farmers, make my bed, pull on yoga pants, a hoodie and my wellies to slosh through the spring rainstorm outside to get to my friend's house? I've got two words for you folks who don't understand the significance of

April 29, 2011:

Royal. Wedding.

Yes, I was one of the crazies that woke up when most clubbers are just getting home from the discotheque in order to watch two strangers say I do (or technically "I will" "I do" was never part of the ceremony) because they are royalty and adorable and I'm a hopeless romantic and fancy life/fashion junky. It promised to be everything lovely and British and it did not disappoint. It was all about the love . . .and the fashion. Toss up which was more important to me. And who can actually blame me?

If this dress isn't sigh-worthy, I don't know what is. It's classy, elegant and as if Grace Kelly and Maria Von Trapp's wedding dresses got together and had the most perfect baby. The bodice. Don't worry that the bouquet is quite parfait as well or that the suitably elegant and sparkly but not too much tiara was the tiara Queen Elizabeth received on her 18th birthday. I have a rather far fetched fantasy of Princess Kate and the Queen having a little dress up party before the wedding.
I love that the little girls look like little girls (do you see the scalloped hems?) and the crowns of flowers were sweet but not overwhelming. And the maid of honor. What a classy, to die for dress. Sweet Mercy, if only all brides were confident (and nice) enough to let their maids of honor look as good as they do.
They look so well together don't they? A lesson to learn from a royal wedding all y'all that are planning to tie the knot: people in a wedding party ought to look like they're all going to the same wedding. The bride and groom need to give us a visual cue of being a couple. Done and done with this royal couple, as far as I'm concerned.

Here are the party clothes. I love that this reception dress and her actual ceremony gown aren't the same but again, they look like they belong in the same wedding. All of it in such good taste. Worth the 2am wake up call? Mais oui!

I have never been much of a makeup person. I didn't start wearing mascara until I was 16 (I'm not entirely sure as to the reason why, maybe I was willful or lazy or just had some mental block up against it . . .and believe me it was for no "free women from oppression" or other feministic reasons, the reasons were more personal, I'm sure. But who wants to delve into that right now? Not me). Anyway, and since then, I do wear it but I've basically found things that work and stuck with them. Not in a I'm still wearing the hot pink lipstick I wore at me high school graduation in 93 way, but in a "oh I woke up and I'm naturally gorgeous this way" way. Well Winter semester 2011 represented me shooting out of makeup comfort zone in TMA 267: aka Beginning Makeup Design (I kid you not. It's required. I know, I am in fact in the best program in the whole of BYU's campus). But believe you me, it was not all a frolic in a field of bouton d'or, no m'am. It was some rigorous stuff but along the way I discovered some things: 1.putting foundation on makes my freckles go away and I've decided I don't like that sensation. "Time to take my individuality away" I'd say as I got the foundation out (yes, I'm very charming sometimes, aren't I?) 2. I look good in red lipstick. Who'd a thunk. And I secretly loved wearing it. 3. My absolute favorite part of makeup design: grossies and gories or what I call ouchies and owies. I tell you what, there is nothing more gratifying in this whole wide makeup world than making a convincing cut or chemical burn. I was ruined to all other forms of makeup design after being introduced to the world of wounds. I imagined every other design being created out of a series of cuts or burns. I pined for the day I could once again show my mad icky skills. That day came when we received the final project. We had to choose a character and design the makeup for it. The grossest-faced character I could think of was the Phantom of the Opera, sans his mask. I really don't like that show, or the Phantom but I would sacrifice that if I could do something gross. Oh and it was gross. Take a look:
I mean come on! Pretty fantastic, yes? It's putty, liquid latex and toilet paper. All painted and vaselined. The more I look at it, the more delight I get from it. I know, right? Every once and a while I'd turn to my two friends int he class and ask: icky? Usually there was a slight yelp followed by a "good work." What can I say? We all have our special talents. I think one thing that draws me to the ouchies and owies is the fact it doesn't take tons of precision. It's all about playing around with the color and texture. In some odd maybe twisted way, it helped me get all in touch with my inner child.

I latexed over the whole design so my face basically came off in one chunky piece. Gross, but funny. I must admit that when I show these pictures and the viewers get the shivers, I feel gratified. I've done my grossies job.

Even I have to admit that this is pretty gag-reflex inducing. Especially the fact that on the side you can see where the latex pulled hairs out of my head. But this is the Phantom's skin post-mortem. I showed someone this picture and they said "Ahh! I thought it was a piece of bacon!" That's almost a nastier notion than what it really is. Can you imagine gluing bacon to your face. C'est berk ca!

At one point or another in a person's life their thoughts will be preoccupied with something that seems trivial or perhaps meaningless but actually is a big deal. These things may come up more often for those of us who think too much for our own good. But alas, such is my lot. And as I am ending winter semester and am luxuriating in the six days of no school before spring term begins, I have been thinking some on the subject of hair.

Or rather my hair. Maybe it's the change of seasons or weather or thinking about the fact that exactly a year ago in 5 days, I was on a plane to Paris and now I'm not (which is ok, and school is fun . . .it's just not Paris, ya know?) or the fact everyone around me is getting a new do whatever it is. But everytime I look in the mirror I think:

Dear Hair,

I take good care of you, right? I wash you and condition you and put mousse on the curl so it doesn't freak out in a negative way (we both know there are 2 kinds of curl freak out, enough said). And I love you; your color and curl. So why, dear hair do you seem to be angry with me at the present time?

Affectionately,

Caitlin

You don't write letters in your head to your hair? I find practicing friendly letter writing everyday to be a useful task, keeps you in touch with the past. Anyway. Although I know it's pretty much me and my Mama that read this thing I'm asking y'all: how do you fix this thing? I think ever since the haircutting post about 14 months ago I've been scared to do anything with my hair. All I know is I'm getting to the point where neither a braid nor a bun satisfies, so I half way French braid my hair and then put the rest of it in a bun. I don't know what this means for me exactly, but it feels like it may be a less than positive sign.

Do you ever eat a piece of whole wheat toast with butter and homemade raspberry jam on it and think: "Wow. This is pretty much as good as it gets. Bread. Butter. Raspberries. I could eat ten more pieces just like it."

You don't? Oh. Well, come on over to chez-moi and I'll give you a bite of mine. Then you'll see.

I wouldn't call myself much of a You Tuber (and I guess not much of a blogger lately either). I don't spend hours on the you tube searching for remixes of remixes of remixes of a song made from a local news interview, like some of my generation do. Don't get me wrong, I find the You Tube just as useful as the next person to stalk and re-stalk a Tony or So You Think You Can Dance performance (which are the perfect amount of time for a quick homework break) and for finding videos for lesson plans or other multimedia whatnots. But I still consider myself to be a mild to moderate You Tube user.

Genrally.

There are a few exceptions. Yes, I am sad to say, exceptions. Even a mild-moderate You Tuber has them. These are the exceptions that have helped to keep the You Tube firmly planted in the bottom lefthand corner of my favorites sites page on Safari. On this rather snowy and blustery Spring day, let me share them with you. Help keep you warm, happy and You Tubing.

(**Note that these are not in any particular order as far as favored status goes**

SASSY GAY FRIEND - Hamlet

Video #1: Sassy Gay Friend: Hamlet

We'll definitely consider this my guilty pleasure of the You Tube. It was all the quoted rage in my acting class in the fall and I didn't understand, until I watched. I understood. Maybe it's just a stupid theatre thing but there's something so funny about inserting a modern stereotype in to a play chock full of Elizabethan stereotypes. And it really puts things into perspective. Did Ophelia actually have to die I mean die?

Thought of You - by Ryan Woodward.flv

Video #2: Thought of You (animated by Ryan Woodward)

Sweet mercy. We all know what a sucker I am for dance . . .especially modern dance . . .especially modern dance made up of a boy/girl duet with an ambiguous love story. Add gorgeous pencil animation, the Weepies and the fact that my most darling MM friend is the boy dancing (the first time I saw this I was with him and after, I looked at him maybe with a tiny almost tear and said "that was you. he looks just like you" and he laughed "that's because it is me!") and you've got me hook line and sinker as the saying goes. And that doesn't even take in to account the fact that this is the result of a collaboration between animation and dance faculty at BYU. Friends?! Creative friends?! I'm a gonner for sure.

Subtitled "How to speak with an irish accent"

Video #3: Potatoes

I was introduced to this little gem by a girl in my Adolescent Development and Multicultural Education classes last fall. Maybe I am so attached to this and giggle like a little school girl every time I watch it because it was the thing that counter balanced the monotony and eye-rolling blah of those two courses. Thank you 1996, I really appreciate it.

MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON

Video #4: Macel the Shell with Shoes On

Oh people. Come on. This is a fat sack of funny stuff. You may find yourself saying "come on, come on, I love you" next time you're trying to get a clog out of your vacuum hose, or you're stuck at an eternal red light. Listen for the interviewer, the existence of that character makes this even funnier.

The face of love. No?

(ok, ok, I'll stop daydreaming over the loves of my life and get back to writing about classroom management tools).

Here's the truth. I'm pretty much smitten. I'm in love with a four-year old, who adores The Sound of Music, wearing a blue cape while he does ABC puzzles

and telling stories while he paints.

I gonna paint a robot, Cait, blue cause that's my favorite.

You like em blue?

And they walked outside and it was rainin
There was a mud puddle and it make um em all dirty
It wasn't very nice when they put em dirty shoes on the clean floor.

(I could sit and listen to what comes out of this child's mouth every hour the sun shines and then the few it doesn't that he is actually awake and coherent. Do you believe in soul mates? Could it be your nephew?)