Month: March 2008

Signs you might be in a movie theater and not at home

1) You drove away from your house, parked your car and bought a ticket.

2) The popcorn costs money and comes in a gigantic tub.

3) The screen is very very big.

4) Your seat flips down and has armrests that go up and down.

5) There are a hundred other people in the same room.

6) The lights are dim.

7) Your feet stick to the floor.

If, indeed, you discover you are actually in a movie theater and not at home, please refrain from:

1) Bringing a baby with you. Even happy baby sounds are unwelcome during quiet movie dialogue. (Numbskull.)

2) Text-messaging. That handy-dandy screen-light is very annoying to your fellow movie-goers. I CAN HEAR YOU PUSHING BUTTONS! STOP IT! (Idiot.)

3) Chatting with your friend. (Thoughtless brats.)

4) Answering your phone. (Knuckleheads.)

5) Making stupid comments. (Are you twelve?)

If I weren’t such an upstanding citizen, I might have tackled you both. I followed you out of the theater, you know, and I am confident I could totally win in a random smackdown. Bring it on! I’ll take you both on, you twits.

Instead of roughing you up, though, (dingbats!) I asked to speak to a manager and informed her that–thanks to you–this was the worst movie-going experience of my life. (I would have walked out–and stepped on your toes, you inconsiderate jerks–but finding the time to get away to even see this movie was almost impossible.) I accepted two free movie tickets as an apology. I just hope she takes that out of your allowance, you little dim-wits.

* * *

Oh, and the movie? “The Other Boleyn Girl.” I take my movie-going seriously and prepared to see this movie by reading the excellent book first. Save your money and spend it on the book because the movie was a hot mess, thanks to the horrific screenplay and senseless plot. The actors weren’t so great, either.

The book, however, is a must-read. (Some adult content, if you are very sensitive about your reading material . . . but if you are aware of the story of Henry VIII at all, you realize that that is integral to the story and it is tastefully handled.) I am not a huge fan of historical fiction, either, but I really loved this book.

Oh, and if you stumbled onto this blog and feel compelled to scold me for my latent hostility or my narrow-eyed view of stupid teenage girls who bring babies to the movies–spare yourself the trouble. I am aware of my passive-aggressiveness and find it a source of amusement when channeled appropriately (i.e. into this blog rather than grabbing a fistful of straightened blond hair of that girl one seat away who has absolutely no manners and needs to be throttled within an inch of her life to teach her a lesson).

Haircuts, fights, errands, death and daffodils

My poor 10-year old boy. I took him for a haircut today. I do respect his desire to have long hair, but once or twice a year, I insist on a trim–and he concurs, until he is perched in the barber’s chair. Then his face reflects his terror and his shock that cutting hair shortens the length of said hair. His blond long bangs are now clipped to his eyebrows and he has no need to flip his head to see. He hates this. Honestly, I didn’t intend for it to be as short at it is (though it’s not very short at all). It does look much better, though. He will not be happy until it’s long enough to put in a pony tail on the top of his blond head.

Meanwhile, my 5-year old slammed her middle finger in the door this morning when she closed it for emphasis. I told her that’s what you get for slamming doors at me. I also said to her today (while running errands), “You are making me sorry that I brought you!” and she said, “Well, you are making me sorry that I like you!”

While I was out running errands with the non-stop-talking 5-year old, my boys were all home alone for a short time. In that time period, one of the 14-year olds grabbed a handful of the 10-year old’s hair (prior to the haircut) and yanked it hard five times. The 10-year old had annoyed the usually annoying 14-year old and thus, the hair-pulling.

When I returned home to pick up the 14-year old to take him to Costco to have his glasses repaired and adjusted, my husband informed me of this hair-pulling incident. The hair-puller was sent to his room to consider an adequate punishment and that’s when I took the 10-year old for a haircut. (Which took forever because we go to a walk-in barbershop where it’s first-come, first-served. We waited for an older gentleman to be finished, then for a soldier to have his head shaved with a straight razor.)

I delivered the sad, shorn 10-year old home, picked up the 14-year old (all the while, the 5 year old is with me, chatting away) for a quick trip to Costco. On the way, he moaned to me about how awful his punishment is (cleaning the front and back yards tomorrow and not being allowed to play video games) . . . he clearly missed the point. Oh, and while I was gone, the 14-year olds got into a fight: one 14-year old annoyed the other until his brother grabbed his head and bumped it into the couch. Apparently, I’m raising juvenile delinquents or future WWE wrestlers. The kid experienced karma, though he didn’t recognize it even though it bumped him in the head–he did to his brother what his other brother did to him.

I despair that they will ever learn.

Meanwhile, I talked to my mother yesterday on the phone for quite a while. She is a mess, watching my grandmother die. My grandmother’s been mostly unresponsive the last week, not drinking or eating at all, but roused when one of her sons arrived in town (from Tennessee) to see her. She wanted to drink coffee with him. Her 102nd birthday is Monday. By then, her five children will all be in town . . . originally to celebrate her birthday, but now we will all gather around as she prepares to leave this world for the next. I wonder if I will ever see all these relatives again, all together.

My family will probably go tomorrow night to see everyone, though my mom cautioned me that seeing Grandma might be too much for the younger children. I’ll have to see. I’ve been very open with them, letting them know that Great-Grandma is dying.

And so it seems an odd juxtaposition that today I saw daffodils blooming everywhere, a signal of the world coming back to life just as my grandmother leaves this life. She loved flowers, always had a yard blooming with them.

As if all this wasn’t enough, I am leaving town again next Wednesday to attend (for the second year) a writing conference near Santa Cruz. I feel tremendously guilty for going, especially since I flew to New York last week. I’ve also had so little time to devote to writing that I feel like less of a writer this year than I did last year.

However, I do remember how refreshed I felt last year after the conference, how full of inspiration and hope I was, and how I loved the silence of the Redwood forest. I will set aside my guilt and open myself up to whatever the experience has to give me. (Also? After spending the day with my bickering children, the guilt is outweighed by desperation to get away from them . . . which makes me feel guilty.)

My daughter and my grandmother, separately

My daughter woke me this morning by climbing on top of my bed and whimpering. I held her, thinking maybe she had a bad dream. She fussed and carried on for a good twenty minutes. Then she finally said, “Why didn’t you answer me?”

“I didn’t hear you!” I said.

“Oh,” she said. And she slithered off and returned to her room.

Kids are so weird.

* * *

All the crocuses are up, blooming with great enthusiasm. Are you ready for summer? It will be here in what will feel like twenty minutes.

* * *

My grandmother is almost 102 years old. About six weeks ago, she fell in her bedroom. She was taken to the emergency room, but I heard just last night that they didn’t bother to x-ray her. A day or two ago, they brought a portable x-ray machine to the house and, as it turns out, she has a fractured pelvis and a broken femur. She’s been hobbling around on these injuries for six weeks.

I am stunned by this news. She is heavily sedated for perhaps the first time in her very long life. My mother says that she may or may not hang on until her birthday, which is March 10.

I cannot even comprehend the idea that my grandmother might not boss us around forever. The worst thing is that I have a trip scheduled in the near future . . . I leave on March 13. I selfishly hope that she will hold on until I return on March 18. (I’m going to a writer’s conference in California.) It would be awful if she died while I was gone, or even if she died right before I’m supposed to leave.

And now I will wrap up this rambling post.

The end.

Breaking his heart

While I was gallivanting around Manhattan last Tuesday, my beloved boy turned 10 years old. I worried ahead of time about his birthday and my husband assured me that he’d take care of everything with a celebratory dinner at our son’s favorite restaurant.  His birthday party was scheduled for the following weekend (last night).

Several times in the preceding week, I considered calling my son’s teacher to see if she had an official birthday policy. This entire school year, my son had never mentioned birthdays in his class, nor had I ever seen evidence of cupcakes or Ding-Dongs or any sort of birthday treat.  However, the cacophony of details raging in my head stopped me from following through.  Bad move.

My husband tells me that Tuesday afternoon when he picked up our son from school on his 10th birthday, he spotted our son’s best friend’s mother coming out of the school with a birthday balloon and leftover cupcakes.  Our son and his best friend share a birthday (and also have joint birthday parties each year).  Then, our son appeared, looking devastated.  He cried for an hour over the lack of birthday cupcakes in his honor.

My husband told me this over the phone . . . and, of course, there was nothing I could do but suggest cupcakes the next day.

The next morning, my son–who is rarely ill and loves school–asked to stay home from school.  When my husband asked, the teacher reported nothing unusual in class the day before.  He gained permission to bring cupcakes the following day and my son stayed home all day, claiming fatigue.

It does turn out that he is sort of sniffly now with some cold symptoms, so maybe he wasn’t feeling great on Wednesday.  However, I think he was just sick with disappointment.

This marks the third serious breach of parental expectations in our lives as his parent.  It’s one thing for a child to experience pain and disappointment in his lifetime, but, oh, why do I have to be the one to hand-deliver the little heart-breaks to my baby boy who troubles us so little and impresses us so much?  I hate making mistakes more than the usual bear, but to make a mistake that hurts my child?  Horrible.

(And yet, now, all seems forgotten and forgiven, though I am sort of afraid to bring it up again.  His birthday party last night was a loud, boisterous success as far as I can tell.)