After a long winter of piano lessons, violin lessons, guitar lessons, karate lessons, three different basketball teams, cub scouts, Young Womens, and various cleaning and decorating projects, I found myself, this afternoon, with two hours of free time.

Two whole hours.

Oh, the things I could do with two free hours!  The kids were gone, the house was clean, and dinner was simmering beautifully in the crockpot.  The laundry was done and the carpool was a blessed 120 minutes away.  I had nothing to do and nowhere to be.  The only thing I had to do was decide how to spend my two free hours.  What in the world would I do?

Well, I’ll tell you what I did:  I panicked.  Why?  Because I didn’t know how to handle the free time.  Shoot, I didn’t even recognize it.

Who has free time these days?  Children and homeless people, that’s who.  Everyone else is busybusybusy!  And if you’re not, you should be.  Because busy equals productivity.  Busy equals ambition.  Busy equals importance–as in, the busier you are, the more important you must be.  Right?

I am not immune to this sordid train of thought; in fact, I wear the Busy Badge whenever I can.  Just ask my sister.  I call her every day ranting about how, even though the kids are in school, I’m “still soo busy!”  Her four young children scream in the background as she clucks sympathetically, graciously validating my busyness when she can’t even get five seconds alone for a phone call.  But validate me she does, because she knows how important Being Busy is to my self-esteem.  I mean, I’m a stay-at-home mother of three children.  If the Busy Badge doesn’t convince people I’m important, what will?

And therein lies our society’s obsession with who’s-busier-than who.  We are all, to some degree, constantly trying to prove our importance—to others, to ourselves.  We may not be spectacular at everything (or anything), but if we’re “busy!” we are at least relevant.  We are contributing, we are needed, we are important.  This may be why stay-at-home moms seem to cry “busy!” so often; they are scared of seeming irrelevant in a season of life that is often dismissed by others.  I’m not saying that stay-at-home moms aren’t busy, because they are.  I’m just saying that they seem to have a special need to prove it.  Busy gets respect.

And I respect Busy, too—to a point.  I respect motivation and hard work and the whole sucking-the-marrow-out-of-life thing.  But I wonder:  could we respect Not Busy a just little bit more?  Could we, instead of anxiously skimming online articles and self-help books about how important “downtime” is, just actually, um, have some?  On purpose and with no apologies?  Could we wear the Not Busy badge with as much pride as we do the Busy one?

I have a new kind of favorite person:  the person unafraid to say “I’m not busy.”  I once had a young mother say to me, “You know, I’m really not that busy,” and I was awestruck.  It just showed such a rare confidence.  She knew her life’s value didn’t hang on how full her calendar was, and she didn’t need to convince others that her schedule warranted approval.  She was one of the few people content to stand still while Busy whipped itself into a frenzy all around her.  I think the word for such people is gracious.  Because they can ignore Busy long enough to ask about you.

Most of us can’t escape Busy; we are adults, and much is expected of us.  But we can knock Busy off it’s twenty-first century pedestal and put it back where it belongs:  as something to be tolerated instead of something to be worshipped.  Then maybe we’ll stop trying frantically to be busy even when we’re not.  Then, when we do get two whole hours of free time, we’ll allow ourselves to use it simply to think.  And surmise.  And remember.  And find meaning.  And feel sorry.  And feel grateful.  And feel, and feel, and slowly, privately, genuinely feel.

And then, having calmed the choppy waters, having paid this kind attention to ourselves, when someone asks us how we are, we won’t need to respond by screaming about all the things we have to do.  Instead, we can draw a breath and say, “I’m good.  But what I really want to know is:  how are you?”  And, no longer ruled by Busy, we can actually listen to the answer.

Tonight I went to bed at ten o’clock with full and virtuous intentions of waking up at five o’clock the next morning.  Instead and inexplicably, I woke up at two o’clock (a.m–ugh), eyes wide open and mind ablaze with some pretty hefty internal dialogue.  Such as:

1.  How my dumb dog downstairs knows, with some weird canine intuition, that I’m awake up here, and is now barking from his kennel, soon to wake up the whole family.

2.  How I now have to heave my sleepy self off this chair and go down to silence dumb dog.  (i.e., whisperyell:  Shut up, Maude!)

3.  What an astonishing mess my house is.  And how I’ve been lying to myself all these years, thinking I was a “good” housekeeper with an occasional setback.  The setbacks are no longer occasional, and they are winning.  The exception is becoming the rule, the Servant becoming the Master.

4.  How disgusted I was to see, at the grocery store today, People magazine’s latest “Special Collector’s Edition” dedicated to–who else?–Miley Cyrus.  They called her a “beautiful rebel” and spent the entire glossy volume singing praises about her fabulous haircut (really?), her fabulous wardrobe, and her fabulous “new attitude!”  Funny, I thought that New Attitude was just the Old Attitude, wrapped up in a new, barenaked booty.  (A new, barenaked booty comes arrives on the female music scene about every five years.  It doesn’t take much talent, just a booty, and some barenakedness.)  And don’t you just love the media whitewashes the booty-barers and their booty-baring when appeal to a mass audience is suddenly deemed necessary?  Here is the girl who’s brought soft porn to the small screen, but People, as far as I could tell, paid little attention to that.  Instead, “Mad for Miley!” was splashed across a wholesome looking, fully clothed Cyrus, with captions like “Every outrageous, tongue wagging moment!” beneath.  And don’t you just also love how degrading behaviors are now euphemized with words like “outrageous!” “irreverent!” and (my fave) “naughty!” ?  As if being described with such words is something to be proud of in the first place.  Though many decry Cyrus as a bad role model for young girls, I believe this assessment is too complimentary.  Why lend her the credence of a “role model?”  I don’t dislike Miley Cyrus because she’s a bad role model for young girls; that’s too limited.  Were there no young girls around anywhere, I’d dislike her because she’s a bad, dumb person putting bad, dumb things into our good, smart(ish) world.  Desperate and mediocre, she should be labeled and pitied as such, not given her own “Special Collector’s Edition” of People.  (Not that that’s much of a distinction.  People’s about a half-step above the celebrities they cover.)  But whatev; I’ve spent way too much of my snooze time talking about Miley Cyrus.  She got my goat and took up space on my blog, so I guess the joke’s on me.

5.  How excited I am about the kitchen chairs my mom helped me re-cover today.  It only took me three years to get this ninety-minute project completed.  Somehow, I blame the dog.  (Or Miley Cyrus.)

6.  How updating my chairs has inspired me to update a few more things around the house for spring:  lighter curtains and pillows in my bedroom, flowers on the porch, perhaps even–dare I wish it–a new welcome mat?  I feel a trip to Target coming on soon (I have a sense for these things you know) and truth be told, the anticipation of that is what may be keeping me up tonight.

7.  How I am supposed to meet my running partner at the track in three short hours, after having slept only four short hours.  And how, though she’s wonderfully nice, it would be poor form bail on her.

8.  How, no matter what I eat or how much I run, I am still, always and forever, going to look like me.  And what a damning and liberating revelation that is.

9.  How good Jhumpa Lahiri’s new book, The Lowland, is turning out be.  And how reading Jhumpa Lahiri must be like taking a long draw of heroin, it’s so calming and addictive.  (Do you “draw” heroine?  That was a guess.  Ask Miley.)

10.  How I refuse to put an image of Miley Cyrus in this post, although it would be on-topic, and will instead insert an image of Jhumpa Lahiri.  It won’t get as much traffic, but at least I’ll be able to sleep at night.  (At some point, I hope.)

Isn’t she beautiful?  And so talented.  No, gifted.  (Unlike somebody else we know.)

 10.  How Miley Cyrus, when those two knots are twisted atop her head and her tongue is “wagged” out, looks eerily like the devil.  Like, for real.  Is it on purpose?

11.  How I am ready, now that I’ve vented, to stop talking about Miley Cyrus altogether.  Promise.

12.  How beautiful the movie In America was.  Have you seen it? It’s older (2002) but for some reason it’s beautiful-ness popped into my head as I was lying awake tonight.  Maybe because the female lead in it has super short hair like Miley Cyrus.  (oops–did it again.)  But she’s pretty and nice, and doesn’t have a tattooed kitty on the inside of her lower lip (as far as I can tell), so don’t worry.  At any rate, see this movie if you haven’t.  Outstanding.

13.  How I spent two hours today sitting in my daughters first Drivers Ed class, wondering how life ever got us here.  And how my mother, through a fake smile and forced giggle, suggested that I don’t take my daughter out on any of her drives.  Apparently, my mom thinks the roads should be spared another driver like me.  She claims that in a few years I won’t get off with so many warnings for my speed, um, issues, but I say that as long as there’s Botox and hair dye, bring it on.

14.  How I need to start writing more, and how I should try to do an e-book or something because really, aren’t I getting a little old for this blogging shtick?  And how this will require me to give up some other things in my life, like doing housework and talking about Miley Cyrus.  But see #3:  I’ve already given up housework, and see #4, #5, #8, #9, #10, #11, #12–ain’t no way I can stop talking about Miley Cyrus.  So I guess that instead of writing a real book, I’ll just keep blogging about Miley Cyrus.  It’ll work out.

15.  How, now that it’s 3 am and I’m still awake, I am most definitely going to bail on my running partner in two short hours.  And how, no matter how many times she might ask, I will never, ever be running partners with Miley Cyrus.  Just ’cause.

I’ve missed you guys!  A nasty bug left me grumpy and groggy this week and, because I am undisciplined, I couldn’t bring myself to the keyboard.  (I also feared what drivel would spill out as a result of my brain fog.  I mean, my last post was about a poorly made bed; I have a reputation to uphold.)   I am slowly coming to, but still find that discussing The 5 Worst Remakes of All Time is the only viable topic option for today.  Anything deeper or longer than this would be irresponsible writing, considering the state of mind I am in.  Even coming up with ten bad remakes proved too taxing on my recent mind ‘o mush (though they’re out there.  oh, they’re out there.)  I am determined by next week to be waxing eloquent about life, love, and the pursuit of the Ross clearance rack (as if all of Ross isn’t a clearance rack?) but in the meantime, here is my offering should you choose to partake.  Happy St. Patty’s!

1.  Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Need I even comment on how dark, creepy, and un-fun this horrific remake was?  It’s like the producers said, “Let’s take all the whimsy and and childlike wonder out of the original film and replace it with irritating music and unlikeable characters.”  Funny, I thought whimsy and wonder was what made Road Dahl’s book famous in the first place.  And don’t even get me started on how terrible Johnny Depp was in it.  “Disturbing” is too complimentary, because it implies some complexity and intrigue.  Depp was just dark and dumb and utterly un-entertaining.

2.  Parent Trap  Was there ever a better movie for tween girls of yore than Parent Trap?  Sunny, wealthy twins in sunny, wealthy 1950’s California struggling delightfully to bring their fumbling and loveable parents back together again.  This movie captured the summertime of youth–figuratively and literally—like no other, and the dialogue was just cheeky enough to make the whole fairy tale believable.  Maureen O’Hara was the bomb with her vixen eyes and sophisticated, subtle wit.  I watched the remake a few years ago and Dennis Quaid and Natasha Richardson were so polite to each other, you wondered why they ever split up to begin with.  There was no arguing–and thus, no chemistry–between the two of them.  The whole thing was a watered down version of the original; it’s like the writers feared the audience wouldn’t understand that tension between star-crossed lovers is a good thing.  And Lindsey Lohan?  Puh-shaw.  Take me back to Hayley Mills-ville.

3.  Footloose – Confession:  I have not seen the remake of Footloose, but that shouldn’t weaken my credibility here because I’ve avoided it purely on principle.  Remake my beloved Footloose?  Why not just remake Tootsie?  (The day that happens I’m banning the Oscars.)  (They will miss my vote.)  The original Footloose, as any respectable child of the eighties knows, is about a big city boy who moves to a small rural town and determines to get its public dancing ban lifted.  It is such a laughably unrealistic, melodramatic, kids vs. grownups plot that anyone under the age of eighteen was smitten by Frame One.  (I was in the fifth grade when it came out and yes, I fell hard.)  But there was a naivete to that film that could only work in the eighties; the so-dorky-they’re-cool-cowboy duds, the distortedly wicked Establishment, the cliched out-of-touch parents.  And Kevin Bacon’s dancing?  Let’s hear it for the boy. What I’m saying is: you don’t touch movies like Footloose.  It doesn’t matter that the movie was a silly teen flick; it is a national treasure.  (I mean, along with the Constitution and some other stuff.)  So you don’t bring in Ryan Seacrest’s curvy girlfriend to play Ariel—only Lori Singer is scrawny and scrappy enough to play Ariel!  And you can’t pull off the idealism-of-youth-turned-dance-movie today like you could back then; teens today are too savvy for Footloose.  (Unfortunately.  Or is it fortunately?)  In short, you can’t pluck Footloose out of 1984 and plop it down in 2011.  Please, Hollywood, leave us Gen Xers something to call our own.

Now on to a couple of songs that have me troubled:

The Boxer – originally by Simon and Garfunkel, remade by Mumford and Sons.  It pains me to dis on Mumford and Sons, because they have a big fan in me.  I love just about every one of their songs—except The Boxer They actually sing it well and I would probably like it if I hadn’t had some serious spiritual experiences with Simon and Garfunkel as a child.  They were my dad’s favorite duo and we’d listen to their “tapes” over and over again and dangit if by the time I was twelve I didn’t feel some ownership over their work.  I still remember the road trip wherein my dad explained to me what the difference between “the boxer” and “the fighter” was.  It was a revelation on I-84, and I am not kidding.  From that point on, Simon and Garfunkel were mine, and for Mumford and Sons to just kidnap The Boxer without consulting me is a blow from which I have yet to recover.  Being who they are, M & S does a decent job with it—but only if you haven’t heard the original first.  I don’t think anyone should be allowed to chant the “lie la lie” rant who wasn’t yet born in the sixties.

5.  Landslide – originally by Stevie Nicks, remade by the Dixie Chicks.  So grueling is the Dixie Chicks’ interpretation of this song that it pains me to describe it, but move truths forward on this blog I must.  Listening to Stevie Nicks sing Landslide—especially the live version—is like listening to the color silver.  Shimmering and transparent, her voice slides gently down that snow-covered hill.  The Dixie Chicks, on the other hand, hacked up this number with their signature harmonic twang, which may work well in their own music, but simply butchered the smooth flow of this masterpiece.  There’s also something insincere about the way they sing it; I feel like they don’t really understand the lyrics, or at least don’t mean them the way my girl Stevie does.  But perhaps I’m unfairly assigning my distaste for their collective persona onto their music.  (I know it was ages ago, but I saw them in an interview with Diane Sawyer once and I had to half-cover my eyes through the whole thing, I was so embarrassed for them.)  If you have enjoyed this song by the Dixie Chicks, please treat yourself to the original version.  You’ll never go back, promise.

Which brings us to our final point about remakes.  All of them are kindasorta okay (excepting Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which is a genuinely terrible movie in it’s own right) as long as you haven’t seen the originals.  So if you want to enjoy any of these modern makes, go for it–just don’t see (or hear) the original first.  The problem with that, of course, is that then you don’t see (or hear) the original first.

What remakes–of songs, movies, anything–fill your heart with angst?  It’s okay to rant; it’s a Monday, and the celebs can handle it.  Let’s work it out here, together.  Come Tuesday, we’ll be nice.