Too Young to Party: The Blog of an Over-enthuse Jaded Something Something

Hello Girls,

Dad and I are watching Two Weeks, wherein Sally Field is dying and her family has gathered around her. Neighbors and friends are bringing casseroles. At one point, one of the sons opens the refrigerator and says, "There is no food in this house that was invented after 1967." (There have been numerous casseroles involving cream of mushroom soup.) Despite the death theme of the movie, there are very funny portions!

[There is more but it's ommitted for relevance. I'm the editor and publisher I get to do that.]

Winifred's "vice," unabashed media anchor, are films and books wherein people are dying. Sally Field is also a big draw, living or dead: The Flying Nun, Brothers and Sisters, ER. She really brings the emotional pain with her viewing choices (still haven't forgiven you for Backstreet, Mom) and the irony, the irony is that she is watching this on her date night with The King after vowing to watch happy movies. Blood Diamond and The Last King of Scotland pushed her over the edge this summer and she dove headfirst into Cary Grant land. After she'd seen several romantic comedies I begged them to watch North by Northwest "because even if it's suspenseful and frustrating it has a good end!" (It bombed. Their interest in seeing it at The Charles this spring has waned. Baltimoreans, you can come with me instead.) Anyway, this woman. She hates blood lust but she loves the sadness. Bring it on, she subconsciously cheers as she settles into a TNT marathon of Beaches, Terms of Endearment and her all-time favorite Steel Magnolias. Even my cold heart can't handle that. Actually, I tried watching Beaches a few weeks ago and I couldn't do that because I knew how it was going to end, and despite 50 previous viewings, started to tear. I found comfort in Tim Gunn elsewhere. Yet...



This is Shanna. She won't wake up. Shanna, Shanna, wake up!
I am my mother's daughter (but with 50% more panache and a higher serving of flippancy!): I have this "problem" wherein I'll see any number of teen actresses on television and yell out the plot of a horribly depressing Lifetime movie the subject was in before hitting the bigtime. It's horrifying for anyone that is indirectly involved. Growing Pains on PAX? I'll conjure the scene where a skeletal Tracey Gold is giving a hoarse monologue on the family couch where she is almost-dying. (There is some respect here, given Tracy's personal history, and you know, eating disorders are not a laughing matter.) Sleepover airing on ABC Family while channel surfing? Not only will I repeat the entire plot of The Party Never Stops: Diary of a Teenage Binge Drinker (misleading: she's a college freshman, not a high school sophomore bummer) but I'll renact 56% of the movie, starting with one of the last scenes where Jesse Tanner desperately shakes the cold dead body of her freshman roommate, Shanna, and work my way back through the interesting parts of the middle. (I want to go on record that I did not make a character page for Jesse Tanner. But only because I don't have an IMDB account.) I gloss over some of the verbal content with the frat ladies and gentlemen, but only because I was so flabbergasted; I saw the last twenty minutes before I saw the beginning.
Except Winifred is more respectful. She thinks these movies are "touching portrayals" of people's lives. She won't play a role in a dramatic re-telling of Odd Girl Out and is probably ashamed at my lengthy diatribe sharing my intimate Lifetime secrets. (She has a point.)

There's a little of this plot ruinage in The Sisters. Emily loves a good one; Charlotte and Fitzwilliam suffering residual angst and suffering from She's Too Young. But the never rise their voices to falsetto. Yet they seem slightly less involved in the tears than Winifred. Charlotte will take a good noir any day but is less impressed with the Italian male weepies post WWII (I sobbed my way through the one about the suicidal man and his dog, leave me alone). Emily is neither embarassed or 'shamed. This is a part of life, a love for surface entertainment, and she does it with grace and poise. What, this is normal, she says, and then she flips to Martha for the monologue before making her own brown sugar from scratch. And there I am, playing the role of Shanna's dead body on my living room floor while her mixer whirs in my phone.

The thing about Winifred is that she doesn't cry. Death is a part of life. Beaches will easily ruin the rest of my sunny afternoon, but Winifred is probably in bed watching late night television right now still giggling about the mushroom soup based casseroles and their inevitable servingware of white ceramic bowls and colorful Tupperware.

On the other hand these families always end up with dogs in the end. Where is MY dog?

I tried to make brownies Friday night to see if it really does taste better when you add a little vanilla in the batter. My college years have subsisted on spaghetti os (Batman shaped with meatballs, please) and hot pockets despite my ability to make spring rolls and French macaroons from scratch. I can accomplish series things with a whisk but by and large, I’m happy with frozen food and a microwave. Which is where the curious void concerning boxed brownie mix with vanilla comes in: I needed to know and I needed to know now. I whipped up the mix while watching Countdown with Keith Olberman and basked in the scent of baked goods. I basked in that scent for thirty minutes instead of eighteen and ended up with twelve heart shaped hockey pucks that smelled like brownies but tasted like rocks. I threw them out this morning.
I turned on the television this morning and the first real words I hear were, “WELL YAAAAAA’LLLLLLLL,” a loud boister “Ya’ll” that jarred me awake in her Southern hospitality. Good Lord, it was Paul Deen and with the help of her Neanderthal son, she was making brownies. She made brownies last weekend, and some kind of chocolate dessert this week that wasn’t brownie, and wasn’t pie, and wasn’t cake or pudding, but something between. All three dishes ended with ice cream plus whipped topping. This was a sign that my apartment was meant to have brownies, and later that night I was hunched over the stove melting chocolate and banging a block of brown sugar against the counter in effort to have a passable form of brown sugar.
It didn’t work. Ultimately I had an edible brownie batter, for which I set a timer. Around 10 p.m. Winifred called to check in on my progress as she did chores around the house. She says she has to go soon; a new movie will air on the Hallmark Channel. She then begins to describe the plot, as seen on the commercial in depth. Something disturbingly similar to P.S. I Love You plus old people with hearts of gold, and a girl who has to carefully notate the details of her days. As soon as I heard that Some Old Guy handed Young and Cranky Youth with an assignment to Better Her Life Through Virtue, I wasn’t interested. “Oh barf,” I say at a pause in Winifred’s detailed synopsis of one commercial.

Winifred sighs. “I guess we won’t be watching together she says,” slightly irritated.

“Nope.” I consider lying and telling her I don’t know where Hallmark is (channel 73 and mysteriously, a repeat of the same broadcast one 140-something) but bite my tongue lest I hurt her feelings.

Winifred says outright that her synopsis was meant to get me involved, “But I guess we can’t get roped in together,” she says.

“Nope.” Hallmark aired several poorly constructed holiday movies in which Single Dads looked for the Love of a Good Woman; usually with a career, no kids, loads of money, and happiness without housewifery. Or, Women Who Yearned for Domesticity found Cranky Ol’ Men who Hated Christmas. In the end families became nuclear, women gave up their professions and took care of kids and had dinner on the table at 5. I’m still mad at Giatta’s slight insinuation life is still that way after watching an episode of Everyday Italian this week; it’s probably not good for my mental health to settle into Hallmark tonight.

I called Winifred later for help with something else. She didn’t tell me if the movie ends happily or not.

If everyone didn’t end up alright in the end I’m going to be very upset.

From an e-mail titled "And one more annoying thing...."

Hi Girls,

Have you noticed Suckabee's walk?? I don't care for that type of walk. The only person with a similar walk that I DO like, is Leonard Slatkin, conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra. He has a very good reason for his walk/posture, having held the baton for so long. Did you know Mrs. Suckabee has jumped out of planes? I will leave that comment and my successive thoughts on the subject to your imagination.

Dad is UP IN ARMS at the possibility of the reflecting pool being removed/covered up/ or in any way changed to accommodate attractive grass during public protests. ...

You know, I'm not sure what she means about the Mrs. I'm too hung up on Mrs. Romney's creepy past. Ew.

Then she gave away the ending of The Road, which I am reading right now. Which is unfortunate, since it's a suspense novel about a dystopian world, and you know, maybe I don't want the end given away, even though I ended up stressed out near page 50 and had to flip near the end and see if this was like I Am Legend the novel (spoiler: HE DIES! Goodbye, modern civilization!) or I Am Legend the movie (spoiler: Will Smith finds the cure for AIDS, lives, and gives hope that in time, civilization will return to as it is now--but probably better). Also, I just want to say that Charlotte's copy is not emblazoned with stickers for Oprah's Book Club (HEY GIRLFRIEND!) and that Oprah's advice is not what has forced me into the nightmares I'll endure of looking for civilization with the help of my last boyfriend who is, by and large, fairly incompetent and lacking in common sense and survival skills. (And then I had a dream that Ted Leo was performing on Capitol Hill and after everyone left he was going to join my family and friends at the bar when a tiger the size of an elephant lay seige to the city, but as hard as I try I can't blame Cormac McCarthy for that. And, what's weirder? That Ted Leo is going to save us or that my subconscious thinks Winifred and the King totally want to hit some Hill aide watering hole and shoot the shiz with Ted?) She asks a lot of questions really, because Charlotte read it first, and I tend to skim past it. BUT NOT THIS TIME. When I finish I'll post her commentary since I can't rely on her to do it. I'm clearing my throat for emphasis. Faux emphasis, since I'm not that upset.

THE FINE PRINT

I meant to post this a very long time ago. I have three drafts on my computer! It was time to stop trying so hard and officialize What This Blog Is All About. Read and enjoy, suckers, I'm off to Paper Moon for nachos!

HOW WE GOT HERE

I was reading a post on Fussy to Winifred on Easter afternoon while she prepared dinner. The resulting discourse convinced me that Winifred’s opinions needs to join the millions of other voices online. But because what Winifred has to say is, you know, valid. Since joining Blogger, Winifred has clammed up under the pressure of an audience (which to our knowledge, is only Charlotte and Emily). We’re currently under a treaty in which I represent Winifred. She’s under pressure though, I have Charlotte on my side, and usually what Charlotte says, goes.

At Winifred's request, all named have been changed to protect those mentioned and uninvolved. If you know who I am/we are, please respect her request. It's all she asks, really, and it's not too much,

The title of this blog goes beyond forcing Winifred to discuss current events and issues with the public. Winifred has a way we, her daughters, think is worth sharing. So until then, I’ll happily share The Good Word of Winifred, Amen.

WHO I AM AND WE ARE

Winifred…is the inspiration and reason for this blogging project. She lives with her husband of 30+ years, outside of Washington, DC. She is an avid reader, passionate voter, and former Midwesterner. Unfortunately, she does not like to talk about passing gas and is deeply offended when I burp. This has not yet strained our relationship. I don’t know how Winifred chose her alias to be “Winifred,” and when questioned, she says she doesn’t either. But it works well for her, and so it will stay.

The King…Is my father. He’s a compassionate man with a strong work ethic. We like him a whole lot. I don’t know why I called him The King; he’s not the kind of man who is the “King of His Domain,” he doesn’t boss people around (in fact, he hates to do that), and he’s never been “King of the House.” In fact, he sometimes calls Winifred “Boss,” which is endearing and a little nauseating. He’s a private man though, and I want it kept that way.

Charlotte…Is the oldest of the three Quimby daughters. We think she’s pretty swell. I think her name is somewhat obvious, no? She’s married to a fella named Fitzwilliam. Obviously that isn’t his real name, either.

Emily…Is the second oldest of the daughters. She got married to some dude and left me. I don’t know what he has that I don’t, but I suspect my unabashed for teen soap driven by angst puts at least one more point in my corner? Actually, we’ll all fond of Emily, even though she left us, and her husband Charmont. Her alias is not a tribute to a European lifestyle, artist, poem, or author, but a name that we know she treasures. It's the name of one of her Cabbage Patch kids. But, hey! It's also one of her favorite poets and a Bronte sister. SCORE!

Captain…I’m a twentysomething soon-to-graduate college student. I live outside of Baltimore, Maryland and I’m very happy here. I like everything but fuzzy lint, warm mayo, and commercials for internet dating. I'm especially fond of sugary treats like cupcakes. I’m considered the publisher/editor for The Gospel. My name is suspiciously similar to my alias here but with slightly more letters. When I was 17 I thought it would be a good idea to work at Hot Topic as a means to spite Winifred. "Ironically," the summer employment resulted in several good things for me as my co-workers proved to be incredibly friendly, loyal, and sweet people as compared to my sinister high school friends. At this store everyone had a special nickname. Mine resulted from one co-worker with subpar hearing misunderstanding our boss, who was a fast speaker. As the store's youngest and least managerial employee the name stuck, as did references to Uncle Walt. Now that my roommate works at American Eagle I am wearing suspiciously less black band tee shirts. Oh, the irony.

Biscuit…Is my roommate. Given that everyone gets to live anonymously, it’s only fair. It’s her favorite food. She’s also buttery and soft. I think it works.

COMMENT POLICY

Until I posted a formal About The Gospel post, I was carefully screening all comments. Thus far, every comment has been published. I’ve done this as my other blogs tend to receive spam (from Argentinean Internet providers). This hasn’t been a problem here, but I’d like to ask that you not spam the The Gospel in the comments, because then I have to log in and delete the comments, and boy, is that a pain in the butt. In order to do that I have to put down my bucket of French fries and I’d rather not. It’s not as if you’d post advertisements in your chapel, would you? Or, at the end of a sermon shout, “THIS SECRET WEAPON WILL GIVE MORE POWER TO YOUR LITTLE SOLDIER!”

Anonymous commenting is fine, too. I think it would be mature and respectful if you signed your name or left some indication of who you are. Emily has a way of commenting on all of my projects without having to sign her name, but most people aren't as proficient as she is.

What I love about the internet, aside from its rampant freedom, is its access to discourse. You’re wholly encouraged to comment, critique, and discuss this blog’s content with the Quimbys and each other. Rejoice!

AND IT WAS GOOD, AMEN.

Mean Mom

Winifred is obsessed with the Meanest Mom story. Apparently it's all over the Today Show but I wouldn't know. Because some people? Some people go to class every morning, do their homework every night, schedule free time around The O.C.'s two-hour airings on SoapNet, and go to bed.
At least that's what the kids who aren't the Dumbest Kids on the Planet do.
In short, a spoiled teenager was given permission to drive a car--which was purchased, owned, and covered by his parents--provided he didn't drink and drive.
Jane Hambleton, the mother, checked his car, found alchohol, and placed the following ad in the Des Moines Register:

"OLDS 1999 Intrigue. Totally uncool parents who obviously don't love teenage son, selling his car. Only driven for three weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on the planet."

She says the ad cost her a fortune. Hambleton is a copyeditor and has received a buttton of attention for the ad.

When I was finally allowed to get my license at 17 in 2003, days before my senior year of high school began, I wasn't allowed to leave town behind the wheel for more than a month. (I was told I had to wait one full month but come November I was desperately negotiating permission.) My town is 4.3 miles, mostly farmland, and has nothing to do for a high school senior. I was fortunate that I was allowed to drive Winifred's car at all, and one morning a month for six non-consecutive months I was allowed to drive Winifred's car in the morning for newspaper day which required that I arrive a little after 6 a.m., before most of the faculty. Every month that she agreed, I spent the next five days kissing her butt. Because she was the nicest mom.

Oh, but I digress in the face of spoiling parents and their children! Hambleton's son says it was left by a passenger. ...If I allowed alcohol into the car at all I would have been lucky to live. It wouldn't matter who left or was drinking it. At 19 and out of college I wouldn't be allowed to argue that my 21+ friend left it behind. I knew what the driving laws were and I knew what my parents said, and that was what was obeyed, period.
I'm not sure that Winifred would revel in her new fame. I'm also sure that I'd be yanked out of school and out on my own. And if Hambleton were as mean as she claims, she'd do that too.

I'm a harsh woman.

Pancakes For All!

Biscuit and I are under the weather. As such, we have been in front of our television all day (10 a.m.-8 p.m.) watching Six Feet Under and parts of a Project Runway marathon ($45 flight to Elisa's homeplanet on HotWire.com, going fast!!) and dreaming of better times...namely the weekend. Sharing these dreams with Winifred, she replied by e-mail.
Keep in mind I use gmail so when I get the e-mail I see only the first line. Making it all the better for me:

YES, go to IHOP !!! I can put money into your account to finance this operation. I think it is still all you can eat pancakes--though who could eat more than three anyway??

Love, MOM

ALL YOU CAN EAT? Good Lord I hope I feel better soon.

AND THE HITS KEEP COMIN'

In an e-mail sent seven minutes ago:

Hello Girls,

At first I could not believe Michigan voters would vote for Romney. Then I realized the people he helped to put out of work are not Republican voters. On another note the AARP is endorsing Obama. Why? Because he "was raised by his grandmother so he will understand the needs of the elderly and retired." The real reason in this crock of crap is because the AARP has a significant number of old white members who are not going to vote for Senator Clinton.

On still another note, no one makes a better lemon meringue pie than I do. No one makes a better lemon tart than Charlotte does.

Love, MOM

I don't know about you but my favorite part is the pie.

#$%uckabee

At the urge of my supervisor, Winifred has taken to calling Huckabee "Suckabee"; this is unlike Winifred (but not so much The King, who has, to my enjoyment egged her on and found other more profane nicknames) who has, to date, eradicated the following words from her home: fart, snot, sucks, and pissed. (I am in so much trouble now.)
Winifred is a woman of many articulate words, but she must be frustrated to fall into the King's traps and break her silence on using "Suck." You know what? She's not just frustrated. She's angry.
Any chocolate-lover who crosses her may in fact, be going down. Any woman that is overheard saying they don't think they can support Hilary will find herself in the cross hairs. One woman said she would vote for whoever would make "the country safe," and I realize now that she probably meant terrorism but I was thinking street crime which finally launched my own homegrown/anarchist safety-and-change-begin-locally harangue. This can only mean one thing: Winifred has expounded on her frustrations so much that I am no longer amused. I have cracked.
We met with Charlotte downtown wherein Winifred Lost It again, and began a long harangue about politics, and why is it women won't vote for a woman just because she's a woman, and why am I the only one afraid of Huckabee, and, seriously, people are behind Ron Paul, and why is Obama so much better, isn't he just the same? And then I walk to the next room because, well, truth be told, I'm burned out on "candidates" when I know I'm going to hate this president as much as the current one.
Hi, I'm Captain, and I was so excited to see Anti-Flag I went by myself, and even knowing that the mom next to me was rolling her eyes, giggled when Justin Sane announced, "IF I HAD IT MY WAY WE'D MARCH TO THE WHITE HOUSE AND PAINT IT BLACK!" It's very nice to meet you.
I told Winifred, with the museum patrons and Charlotte present, it was time to step into her anonymous power and post these issues herself. Not because I am burned out--I enjoy her tangents, her complaints, her grievances--but because there are others who feel the same. And given my inability to discuss politics online with getting exasperated, it's probably better that she takes this cause.
She's still shy, though. Even knowing I'll do all the work for her, I'm left to share these bits of e-mail:

The tv is full of crockpots. My annoyance with John Edwards had to do with his criticism of Hilary's war vote. I want McCain to just go away to wherever it is old soldiers go to.
2/23/2007

I am here to tell you that this election, more than any other, is going to drive me absolutely crazy. If I see one more woman on televisions saying how she would loooove to have a female president, just not this one I think I will shoot out the screen. God knows I would love to not have this man for president either! On top of all this, the news just showed a jackass teen from NH who registered to vote today so he could vote for Sen. Obama. Why you might ask? "Well, peer pressure had a lot to do with it. All my friends wanted to vote for him." Ok, so where are all the girls and their peer pressure to vote for Sen. Clinton? Undoubtedly following the boys. You see, I am going to lose my mind.
1/8/2008

Today she forwarded an e-mail of Charlotte's, which included an alarming quote from Suckabee:
Terrifying quote of the week from *&^uckabee: "I have opponents in this race who do not want to change the Constitution. But I believe it's a lot easier to change the Constitution than it would be to change the word of the living God. And that's what we need to do is amend the Constitution so it's in God's standards rather than trying to change God's standards so it lines up with some contemporary view of how we treat each other and how we treat the family."

Oh wait! That's it. I guess Winifred should step up her game, then. Because with a modern, feminist, up-in-arms, mother of three daughters, vet must have a lot to say, no?

I wanted to link more, but I grew angry. As for readers who disagree, I hope you'll stick around despite our differing opinions.

With These Ice Packs Removed

I'm a busy girl. I have big city jobs to go to, big city jobs to apply for, blogs to write, French fries to eat, films to articulate, and trains to catch. I am not exactly running after men--I am not trying to bag a boy, net a husband, or tackle a suitor. At a comment through a family e-mail--made by a non-family member--that someone, somewhere, anywhere, was, I responded, at large:

It's not like I have sneakers strapped to my feet so I can chase down a man. UGH.

I mean, puhhhleease, homegirl has things to do! And The King, recognizing this, set out December 19, 2007, the night the e-mail was sent, to find me a pair of sneakers for Christmas.
...Because the Quimby's celebrate a woman's singlehood, mmmhmm.
The King is not one to settle. No, he showed refined taste as Winifred suggested various options, which were too bland, not red, not bright, not Captain, unable to balance on a skateboard, too flimsy, incapable of allowing flight, etc. A pair surfaced, not red, but sturdy and most decidedly Captain in its prominent use of plaid (and its name "BEAR KITTY") wad especially fitting.
The streets in the city grew wet the following weeks, and running after a train and a bus through puddles and over hills, slogging through damp detritus, and parading around a sullen town seemed inappropriate for the inaugural outing of shoes that were purchased for that very use.
So they lived under my desk until yesterday, when suddenly everything went seemingly right.

First, the sky opened to reveal a bright blue sky. It beckoned 60 degree weather and a number of spontaneous adventures with Biscuit when my work was unexpectedly finished in little more than an hour: lunch at the Ikea milk bar (we wanted to be more European), an odyssey of Consumer joy through clearance minimalist mass produced products, a secret ninja mission within the blue and yellow walls, unrestrained fantasies of our adult lives beyond college (real jobs, benefits, motor vehicles, painted interiors, unabashed freedom, albeit more bills), a film screening, etc. The earthly joys of 20 somethings. But the air was filled with the promise of good things, and I knew it was either the shoes, still squishy in newness, or, it was The Cake.

We celebrate Three King's Day in Winifred's C + E Catholicism, the results of which yielded a batch of carrot cupcakes and fluffy cream cheese icing. Inside Winifred baked a small, round blue stone, which I received in my cake, theoretically promising a year of good luck. ("A Red Letter Year," I sleepily mumbled on the return trip to Baltimore.) Offline I am not a believe in superstition but...it was either the cake or the shoes. I thought I'd see what happened when I wore other shoes in the printmaking studio.
You know where this is going from the subject, don't you? Everything went horribly awry. Far past so-bad-it's-funny-years-from-now. I'll be bitter when I'm 82 about January 8, 2008. Long after everything went wrong, I accidentally sent my fingers through a printmaking press. They didn't break, but my spirit did, and I bounced from grumpy to near-yarking/sobbing through the rest of the day.
Winifred made me promise to slowly back away from the keyboard, find a couch or bed and TV remote, and reconnect with an ice pack. I did, and later, I reconnected with Chipotle's burritos with carnitas sour cream, rice, corn, and salsa. She also said to wear The Shoes.
Later, to show her camaraderie, Winifred dropped a steak knife, slicing a sizable gash in her foot. The King bandaged her, and I hope, dried her tears. He used Band-Aid brand big band aids, not that sticky stuff from Target that gives me hives, and is probably looking into steel enforced house slippers.
Tomorrow I'm wearing The Shoes to class; if disaster befalls, I'll probably have to wait for another six years before I get another Red Letter Day; either way I'm owed a crown for my Epiphany win, Winifred. That's what Wikipedia says. In return I'll host Candelaria Day next month and serve whiskey. Unless you were dying for Atole?


(Thankfully I already started to type this post last night. Instead of nothing you get a 2-for-1 special!)

Winifred Has Better Guitar Hero III Scores Than I Do

Winifred and I went to a dinner party tonight and the between food that's made for dipping and caseroles made for scooping a massive Wii tournament was held in which five ladies and their respective parents picked up a plastic guitar and attempted to dominate the rock and roll world via Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock.

I've refrained from releasing my inner rock legend since the game came out because I'm not very good at Dance Dance Revolution, don't like the way the songs are presented, and don't like embarassing myself. (Only, you know, on the internet!) I'm also morally opposed to this game because the developers of the series (which had been making my skin crawl long before Legends' release) didn't contribute to this game (they made Rock Band instead). I like to postulate and say things like, "Real guitarists don't play well anyway," and "It's not like playing a real guitar," and, "I've heard the songs, they're all watered down representations!"
I really do believe the last two arguments but the truth is, for me, it's about humiliation.

I kept telling Winifred, no, you don't have to! It's okay! But no, she was having a good time, and no amount of anxious projection would keep her away from her Rock God Glory, and there she stood, performing--no wailing--Foghat's "Slow Ride."
Foghat! Did you know? Winifred adores Barry Mainlow. She was wearing a winter-themed sweater. She sings "Sunshine and Lollipops" at whim and hates it when I criticize family movies for being so freakin' happy. You know Captain, you shouldn't be so critical, she'll say nicely.

Sunshine and Lollipops found her groove, so to speak, in a Foghat song.
I made it through 21% of Social Distortion's "Story of My Life" which I found was significantly easier than the other songs in The First Level ("Starting Out Small"), like, you know, Foghat. After that 21% I missed a bunch of notes and was booed off the stage.
Oh. Winifred made it through 22% of "Slooow Ride." I'm guessing she's not taking a ride with Foghat, but she's marginally more likely to do that than I am to share much of anything with Social D.

The other parents and a few of the fellow youth performed just as well, except for one 14 year old, who picked up the axe for "the first time" and slaughtered the astronomically high scores established by a real band who borrowed the game a few weeks ago (and beat the game in a few hours, actually).
"I might be better, you know, if you let me learn guitar in middle school," I joked at one point to Winifred, who, in addition to never getting me a puppy, never let me take lessons. She nodded and said something about how I "was really good" but it probably wouldn't help anyway.

...So not only did she beat me. But she wouldn't shoulder the burden of publicly tanking my reputation.


(I'm just kidding. She was so cute playing the game. I'm proud of Winifred for being so much cooler than I am. Admittedly, it's not hard.)