Maybe this is just me, but you know that sense of disillusionment you get when you come to the realization that you have less in common with a singing Austrian nun from the 1930s that you had originally thought?
Let me backtrack a moment. The other night, I’m at home indulging in some healthy late night snacking while watching The Sound of Music on Turner Classic Movies. You know, a typical Tuesday. Eventually, that iconic scene comes on where Maria croons to the Von Trapp brood, listing off “A few of my favorite things.” And for the most part, I’m hitting par for the course with her. “Raindrops on roses”? — Love ‘em! “Whiskers on kittens”? — Huge fan! “Bright copper kettles”? Hey, that water’s not going to boil itself, right?
Now for me, like many of you, these are my three favorite things of all time. Ever. With the next one down on my list being “the concept of world peace.”
But, as if out of nowhere, Maria goes off on this whole bizarro tangent with “warm woolen mittens” and “brown paper packages tied up with strings.”
Now I’ve got to say, you kinda lost me with those, Fraulein. No offense to be taken here, but where exactly were you when they were handing out the ability to pick favorite things? Looks to me like you were stuck holding the door for everyone else as they piled single-file into the Favorite Things Building.
It’s little wonder the Nazis ended up chasing your pious arse out of Austria. You’re completely boffo, woman. Yes, the hills are alive, Maria. With the sound of you picking out a bunch of crappy favorite things. And let me tell you something, sister, that sound is deafening.
I’m sorry... It just makes me mad is all. I mean, in other ways, I’m sure we’re still very much alike. For instance, I’m more or less with you on the whole “when the dog bites” issue. Clearly that would be distressing. I’ll concede that if one were to be suddenly mauled by an unrepentant mongrel, the act of visualizing “cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudels” might indeed be a shrewd alternative to seeking out appropriate medical attention. Out of basic respect to you, I’m more than willing to avoid ruling out the possibility.
Ditto on the “when the bee stings” quandary. Admittedly it’s rare that anything good ever comes from that sort of thing. Unless say, the bee in question inexplicably carries a form of antidote in its stinger that directly counteracts some mysterious affliction that happens to be ravaging your immune system at an appallingly accelerated rate.
Should such a scenario arise, the potentially life-saving sting of the bee would likely be considered a welcome prick. Perhaps even welcome enough to be upgraded to one’s shortlist of favorite things. Difficult to say.
But that’s only one possible situation. And an unlikely one, by my own admission. Realistically, what would the odds be of someone coming into contact with such a miracle insect? Perhaps one in 20? That would be my estimate. And a relatively conservative estimate at that.
Consequently, barring the unlikely situation depicted above, the occurrence of any given bee sting would ultimately be regarded as a real pain. No pun intended, Fraulein.
Well, OK, it was. Anyhoo, with regards to our personal selections of favorite things, perhaps the most accommodating solution is for us to simply agree to disagree. I mean, who’s to say that the dear notion I hold of seeing poverty abolished in my lifetime is any more meaningful than your penchant for “doorbells and sleigh-bells and schnitzel with noodles”?
Certainly not I. Live and let live. That’s my motto.