Supercalifragilisticexpiali-DOH!

How Julie Andrews Sold Me a Load of Musical Bullshit, and I Bought Every Note.

I have a bone to pick with Julie Andrews.

Actually, I have two.

This woman spent a considerable portion of my childhood convincing me that life could be managed with a ridiculously long word, a spoonful of optimism, and a basic understanding of musical notes. And I believed her. Like an idiot.

In one movie, she floated out of the sky with an umbrella, sang a word that sounded like someone choking on a dictionary, and convinced an entire household that everything would be just peachy if they loosened up a little.

In another, she ran around the Austrian countryside singing about deer, sunshine, sewing supplies, and carbohydrates, teaching seven children to sing while looking like she’d just stepped out of a commercial for fabric softener.

And somehow, we were supposed to believe these were valuable life lessons.

Well, Julie, I’m a grown-ass adult now, and I’d like a refund.

Let’s start with that mouthful of a word.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

According to Mary Poppins, you could trot this little linguistic masterpiece out whenever you didn’t know what to say, and suddenly everything would be wonderful. I’ve tried that.

Turns out, when the electric bill is overdue, the dog has thrown up on the carpet, and somebody has eaten the leftovers you’ve been thinking about all day, saying “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” doesn’t fix a damn thing. It does, however, make people look at you like you’ve finally snapped. Which, to be fair, is not entirely inaccurate.

But then there’s Maria. Oh, sweet, innocent, singing-in-the-meadow Maria.

She had a whole system for teaching us about life through music. And now that I’ve had several decades to analyze this little educational scam, I have some questions.

Doe. A deer. A female deer. Okay. Fine. A female deer. But why are we starting with wildlife? Why not a mortgage? A tax return? A colonoscopy appointment? Something that’s actually going to matter when these children grow up? Besides, I’ve seen deer standing in the middle of the road at night. They don’t look particularly musical. They look like they’re contemplating whether or not to destroy my front bumper.

Ray. A drop of golden sun. That’s adorable. You know what a drop of golden sun means to me these days? It means somebody forgot to close the blinds, it’s 6:30 in the morning, and one of the dogs has decided that daylight is an invitation to lose its ever-loving mind. Golden sun, my ass.

Me. A name I call myself. Oh, Maria. Honey. The names I call myself vary considerably depending on the circumstances. Some are encouraging. Some are downright inspirational. And some should never, under any circumstances, be spoken within earshot of a church or a preschool. Especially after I’ve spent twenty minutes looking for my glasses while they’re sitting on top of my head.

Fa. A long, long way to run.

Run?

RUN?!

At this age? Listen, sweetheart, if you see me running, you had better start running too, because something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. I don’t run for exercise. I don’t run for fun. I don’t even run when the microwave beeps. If someone hollers, “Let’s go for a run!” I’m calling the authorities. Clearly, they’re experiencing some sort of mental health emergency.

Sew. A needle pulling thread. Now we’re getting somewhere. Because as an adult, I have learned that life is essentially one long exercise in trying to stitch together things that have absolutely no business being connected. Work. Bills. Relationships. Laundry. Responsibilities. And occasionally, you’re just standing there holding the thread, wondering who the hell stole the needle.

La. A note to follow sew. That’s it? Seriously? A note to follow sew? Maria, you magnificent fraud. You spent all that time prancing around the Alps, and when you got to “La,” you just phoned it in. That’s not a definition. That’s somebody who ran out of creative ideas but had already promised the children eight notes. I’ve given more detailed explanations to a quail. And trust me, they’re not exactly intellectual giants.

Tea. A drink with jam and bread. NOW we’re talking. Except these days, tea means gossip, jam means the traffic I’m stuck in, and bread is the money I apparently need to keep earning until I’m approximately 117 years old. And if we’re going to sit around discussing my problems over a beverage, I’d prefer something with a little more kick than Earl Grey. Then Maria cheerfully announces that all of this brings us right back to Doe.

BACK TO DOE?!

You mean after all that singing, running, sewing, drinking tea, and personal introspection, we’re right back where we started?

Well, hell. That’s adulthood in a nutshell.

Every Monday, I start over. Every January, I make resolutions. Every time I get my shit together, somebody comes along and knocks it right back off the shelf. And just when I think I’ve finally figured things out, there’s that damn deer standing in the road again. Which brings me back to Mary Poppins.

Maybe she and Maria were onto something after all. Maybe the secret to surviving adulthood really is a combination of nonsense words, ridiculous optimism, and the ability to break into song while the world around you is coming completely unglued. Because some days, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” is considerably more socially acceptable than what I actually want to say. And sometimes singing about a female deer is easier than admitting you’re one minor inconvenience away from packing a suitcase and disappearing into the Austrian Alps.

Maybe that’s the brilliance of it.

Two women, played by the same woman, teaching us two completely different ways to deal with life’s bullshit. One says, “Make up a word and carry on.” The other says, “Start at the beginning and sing your way through it.” Meanwhile, I’m over here thinking a third option involving a stiff drink and a locked door might have been helpful.

But I digress.

The older I get, the more I understand that life doesn’t always have to make sense. Sometimes it’s magical. Sometimes it’s musical. Sometimes it’s a complete shitshow with an orchestra playing in the background. And occasionally, if you’re really lucky, you get all three before lunchtime.

So here’s to Mary Poppins, Maria von Trapp, and the incomparable Julie Andrews. You taught us to sing, to dream, to believe in a little magic, and to pretend everything was under control even when it clearly wasn’t. And for that, I suppose I should be grateful.

Although I still think a little more emphasis on credit scores, blood pressure, and how to deal with stupid people would have served us better. Until then, I’ll just keep singing.

Supercalifragilisticexpiali-DOH!

Doe, a deer, a female deer.

Ray, a drop of golden sun.

Me, a name I call myself…

And F@*K, a word I use when the other seven aren’t cutting it.

Sorry, Julie.

Somewhere along the way, I rewrote the soundtrack. And frankly, I think it’s a hell of a lot more realistic.

The hills may be alive with the sound of music, but at my age, I’d appreciate it if they’d keep the damn noise down.