Category: Movie Reviews

. . . trust me. I hate Netflix, but I love going to movies.

See Mel Work and Play and Try to Drive a Car

The smallest project can turn into a sprawling time consumer.  At least it can if you are me. 

At 8 p.m. last night, after my daughter went to bed, I headed for Home Depot to pick up the foam insulation and assorted decorating items.  But first, I took a long look at the van’s interior and tried to imagine shoving  a few 4′ x 8′ boards into it.  I decided the seats needed to come out.

I had to look that up in the manual.  Then I unscrewed one, tilted it back and pulled and fussed at it until it finally came loose.  By the time I finished the second seat, my husband had come out to see why I was still in the driveway.

So, off I went.  At Home Depot, I got an orange cart, then headed over to the building supplies where I quickly realized I needed a heavy-duty metal cart with space for carrying things bigger than myself.  I trudged back outside to find the appropriate cart.

I lost several months of my life inside Home Depot as I wandered and priced items and searched for other items and carted four 2″x4’x8′ pieces of foam insulation.  The two-by-fours only fell off the cart three times.

A surly cashier rang up my items.  I paid.  Then the real fun began.

I reached my super-huge van, the one big enough inside for a dance party (I’m only missing a disco ball–believe me, this van is just that groovy).  I opened the back and pulled the first gigantic piece of foam off the cart and . . . not into the van.

It didn’t fit through the back doors.

No need to panic, right?  I opened the side doors and acted as if I knew what I was doing.  I heard laughter coming from an SUV parked nearby, but I ignored it and muscled the foam insulation diagonally through the door.  For a few moments, I didn’t think it would slide all the way in, but through the magic of geometry, physics and panic, I somehow fit it in.

I was sure I’d never fit the other three pieces in, but one after the other, they slid into place.  I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to get them out, but removing them at the church proved a simple task.

But as I carried the wood and foam and paint cans down the long church hallway at 10:30 p.m., I wished that I were one of those tiny, petite women who flutter their eyelashes so that big, strong men do this type of job for them.  For whatever reason, I am loathe to ask for help, even when it involves Home Depot and power tools.

*  *  * 

My husband rocks.  Today, he stayed at home with the kids while I gallivanted.  I went shopping–my closet has become bare as I’ve cleaned out clothes that no longer fit.  I especially need something to wear to church on Sundays, but I was unable to find a dress department, let alone a dress!  Do women no longer wear dresses?  Marshall’s used to have a rack of dresses, but not anymore.  The local department store has two small racks of random dresses, none suitable.

So, after shopping (I settled on capri pants and some shirts), I headed to a movie.  “The Devil Wears Prada” received a good review in the local newspaper and so I expected to love it.  I did like it–I think Anne Hathaway is beautiful to watch and Meryl Streep was fantastic in her role. 

But I was annoyed by the plot.  We are supposed to believe that the heroine in the story is wrong to excell at her job and that putting her job first (she’s not married and has no children) shows that she’s lost her soul somehow.

I didn’t buy it for a minute.  In fact, I wanted to slap her whiny boyfriend hard across his stubbly cheek.

So, after the movie, I left the parking lot by the alternative route behind the building.  As I turned the corner, I noted (with mounting panic) that my car wasn’t accelerating when I pressed the pedal.  I lifted my foot and the car idled along . . . but when I pressed again, it slowed.  

Oh no, I thought.  This car isn’t fixed after all!   I pressed the pedal once more, the car nearly stalled and then I realized something important.

That pedal, the one I pressed?  It was the brake pedal.  Yes, I seemed to have confused the gas pedal with the brake pedal.  A-hem. 

*  *  * 

I returned home to put my daughter to bed and then back out into the world again I went, this time to buy $200.00 worth of groceries.

I am utterly exhausted, but at least we have food again.  (And shampoo and cat food.)  If I’m lucky, my daughter will sleep past 7:00 a.m.  I hope I’m lucky.  

No More Pencils! No More Books!

Yesterday, we celebrated the last day of school by going to a movie.  (“Cars.”)  Tickets for five children and me cost somewhere around $40.00.  (I could buy two DVDs at that price! I said to myself as we hurried toward the theater.)   

I have recently become devoted to Fandango.com so I purchased my tickets online before we left for the theater.  No line to wait in!  I had no idea if the theater would be crowded at 1:30 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, so we arrived at 1:00 p.m. 

Lucky us!  The concession stand had no line, so we bellied up to the bar and I ordered:  a combo (large popcorn/large drink), a small Sprite (for the two little ones to share) and a second large popcorn.  My twin 13-year olds ordered and paid for their own drinks.  (They love to spend their money.)

Large popcorns come with one free refill, so after paying, we traipsed over to the salt and butter-dispenser.  I pulled out five brown lunchbags from my purse and divided the popcorn five ways.  Then I sent one of my boys back to get the empty popcorn bag refilled. 

I smuggled a bottle of water into the theater for my 8-year old who prefers water to pop.  So now, everyone had a snack and a drink–and I only spent $18.00 on snacks, which was something of a thrifty miracle.

Unfortunately, we had to wait a solid fifteen minutes before the movie started.  My three boys sat three rows ahead of me–one of the boy’s glasses were destroyed by a dog and he can’t see that well, so they wanted to be very close to the screen.  I sat between two almost-four year olds; my daughter, who has never been to a movie, other than “Finding Nemo” when she was a year old, but that doesn’t count because I spent almost the whole movie chasing her as she toddled in the hallways outside the darkened theater and freaking out about germs.

The other three and a half year old is a movie-veteran, having seen pretty much every kid’s movie as it was released in theaters over the past two years.  He sat entranced, methodically placing popcorn in his mouth and chewing without moving his eyes from the screen.

My daughter said, “I don’t want that,” and gave me her popcorn bag.  She scooted back in the theater-seat and due to her small size, the bottom of the seat flipped up, bending her in half.  This became her primary occupation during the whole movie.  She appeared to be doing some type of weird ab exercise, the kind you see on late-night informercials. Open, closed, open, closed, open, closed, the seat flipped and flapped, back and forth, up, down, up, down.

Five minutes before the movie started, she leaned over and said, “I want to go home.”  Flip, flap, flip, flap, flip, flap went her legs.

When the movie finally started, so did a baby two rows behind us.  The baby squalled and I turned and scanned the rows, but didn’t spot the baby.  The crying continued and I turned again and this time, I stared straight into the grim eyes of the screamer’s mother.  She had a hand clamped over the unhappy baby’s hollering mouth.

My annoyance instantly turned into sympathy.  I felt sorry that I had turned to shoot her a look.  (My look said, “Hey, I paid fifty-eight bucks for this–get that crying kid out of here!”)

A few minutes later, I heard the weeping recede into the distance at that mother left the theater.  I have no idea if she came back.

My daughter did watch the movie with interest, though her legs only sporadically stopped flapping the seat bottom up and down.  She ate popcorn, she laughed at funny parts.  Then, finally, she grew bored and said, “I have to pee.”  I said, “No, wait.”  She insisted, so I had to gather my purse and the hands of both three-year olds and crawl over two people.

She did pee and so did the little boy.  We washed hands and returned to the theater, crawled over two people and settled into our seats.  Then she wanted to switch seats with her little buddy.  Then she wanted to sit on the other side of him.  Flip, flap, flip, flap, flip.  Whisper, whisper.

“I want to go home.”

She called the name of her friend over and over.  He didn’t hear her, completely engrossed in the movie.  I can see why his parents take him to movies all the time.  He, the boy who cannot walk without leaping and kicking, sat immobile, except for one hand bringing popcorn to his mouth.  I think he blinked, too.   

Finally, she got his attention and had nothing to say.  Flip, flap, flip.

“Mommy!  I need to poop.” 

I told her she did NOT, and she gave up asking.  She has realized that declaring her need to vacate her bowels is a Get Out of Anywhere Free card.  For instance, when she whispers that in a stage-whisper at church, I hurry her out of the pew.  Because . . . well, just because.  But in the movies?

I really did like the movie.  I did not particularly like my movie-companion, however!  She will not go to another movie anytime soon.  This is a child who can barely be convinced to watch an entire television show.  I won’t be paying five bucks again for her to fidget and exercise her already taut abs.

*  *  * 

Today my 8-year old played in the final baseball tournament of the season.  (Hooray!)  His team took third place.  This was the first game I’d seen this year–my husband normally takes him, but today, my husband took my older boys to a Mariner’s game at Safeco Field.  (My husband tried to make me feel guilty about missing all the other games by launching into a chorus of “The Cat’s in the Cradle,” but I am not easily guilted.)

The funny thing is that my 8-year old could have gone to the Mariner’s game, too, but he was invited to a birthday party and he chose the party.  So, I went to his baseball game and took my daughter with me.

They won the first game, and played in a second one, so he was at the field from 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.  When he went to the birthday party at 3:30 p.m., I took my daughter to Costco to drop off film and shop (mainly for a roast for dinner tomorrow).

She had been begging to go to “the dolly store” to get another dolly (because you can never have enough dollies when you are almost four years old).  I took her to Goodwill where the doll bins were stuffed full of rejected and neglected dolls.  She picked out two, played in the toy aisle as long as I could stand it and then finally, we returned home.

And that, my friends, is about as much fun as I can stand to have in one weekend.  (And it’s not over yet!) 

(Oh, and we aren’t quite finished with school yet–we have to wrap up History and my Reluctant Student managed to leave himself a generous helping of Spelling over the summer.)

Rainy Days and Fridays Never Get Me Down

Last night, my husband and I went with another couple to see United 93.  When it first opened a few weeks ago, I wanted to see it, but I just never found myself in the right frame of mind.  Yet, I knew it was an important movie, and reading this review by Susan Nielsen reminded me again that I ought to see it.

So we went.  I give high marks to the technical aspects of the film.  In fact, one of our companions is a retired military pilot and currently teaches commerical airline pilots.  (I think I have that right.)  I asked afterward if the depiction of the airline cockpit, the air traffic controllers and military personnel was accurate.  He said it was all exactly right.

You know the story of September 11, 2001.  But if you’re like me, you don’t think much about that day, where you were, what you saw, how you felt.  But as Memorial Day approaches, I embrace the memories.  The movie was exactly the right way to start the Memorial Day weekend for me.  We must remember the heroes who died defending our country, the ones who never wore military uniforms and the ones who did.

*  *  * 

In other news, I accomplished great things today:

1)  I cleaned off my desk. 

2)  I arranged to return unwanted items from Oriental Trading Company.

3)  I figured out how we will finish our school lessons in the next three weeks.

4)  I completed my order for Vacation Bible School.

5)  I remained sane, even though it won’t stop raining.  See? 

*  *  * 

Don’t forget to visit my other blog over at ClubMom.  I update it daily, too.

Weekend Update

If I wait until I have a leisurely moment to write, I will never write again. So, I’m going to begin this, even though my daughter is whining because “Max & Ruby” ended and she wants to make cherry juice, just like Ruby, and my sons are making noodles for lunch and the dryer buzzer sounded long ago and in fifteen minutes the 15-month old baby will return from his lunch with his mommy.

* * *

So, now it’s 2:30 p.m. The boys finally finished their history assessments (on the Constitution) and math problems (Probability and Statistics, which they don’t get “get”). My daughter is upstairs “napping,” which mainly consists of watching PBS instead of sleeping and the 15-month old sleeps soundly, despite the boy noise coming through up the heating vents.

Last Friday, a huge, unexpected windstorm blew through our area. I was about to drag myself out of bed at 7:45 a.m. when the electricity shut off at 7:40 a.m. I drowsily thought I ought to get dressed, just in case a tree fell on our house (I’m often an alarmist), but first, I called my husband to see if he had power at the church. He did not. (As it turned out, some 50,000 customers were without power, some for days.) I joked, “I am going to be so mad if a tree falls on our house and ruins my trip!”

A few minutes later, after I dressed and ambled downstairs, I heard a noise outside, a noise besides the howling wind. I peeked out an upstairs window and saw a firetruck with lights flashing near the cul-de-sac, so I put on a jacket and went out to see what happened.

My next door neighbor was huddled with the middle-of-the-cul-de-sac neighbor (and friend) and her 7-year old and 5-year old. She clutched the leash to her dog in her free hand. The children had only socks on. I said, “Do you want to come to my house?” and they did, leaving behind their van with one door open and a large tree covering it. We put the dog in our fenced backyard because their fence was demolished.

This is what happened. First, a big tree uprooted and fell onto another neighbor’s house, actually sheering off a corner of the house and narrowly missing the home’s occupants who were in their car in the driveway. After that, my friend rushed her children out to their van so they could leave their home. She worried that another tree might fall on their house. (We have a lot of trees in our neighborhood, giant, stately Douglas Firs.) She put the kids in the van and as she stood in the driveway, about to climb in, she heard a terrifying sound and looked up to see an enormous tree falling toward the van. She didn’t know what to do. The kids were in the van. So, she got in, too.

The roof of the two-story house broke the fall of the tree and literally broke the tree, too, so only half the tree landed on the van, smashing the roof a little and breaking the back window. The repair will take six weeks.

So, I spent my Friday morning with my neighbor while her kids played with mine in our powerless house. Her husband eventually arrived and they made calls and before we knew it, guys with chainsaws were cutting up the fallen trees. The roof of the house was caved in a little, but all things considered, the damage is minor. You can still see into the bedroom of the other house through the lopped off corner. The neighbors departed about noon, I guess, and the power finally came on at 1:45 p.m., so I was able to shower. At that point, the temperature had dipped to sixty degrees in the house.

By 5:00 p.m., my friends arrived to pick me up. By 6:00 p.m., we were eating in the bar of a local restaurant, sharing appetizers and eating big salads. By 9:30 p.m., we’d arrived at the ocean cottage. By 10:30 p.m., our Hostess with the Mostess had figured out how to get the gas fireplace burning . . . she followed all the steps, yet the flame stayed small until her dad told her (via cell phone held in the driveway where she found a tenuous connection) to smack the thermostat on the wall. Of course! Forget logic and following directions and just give the thing a whack!

When we crawled into our individual beds around midnight, the sheets were so cold–and stayed cold even an hour later (I had to read before sleeping, of course). So I went to sleep huddled shivering and woke to warmth and sunshine.

I have a little anxiety–performance anxiety, you might say–and feel a little self-conscious about describing the weekend because my friend (The Hostess) raved about my blog to the other three women. And now they have the address, so “hi!” to them. Welcome to unvarnished world of Actual Unretouched Photo.

Let me just say that my worst fear came true and they were all beautiful and thin and sported lovely manicured fingernails and cute haircuts and jeans much smaller than I’ve ever worn in my life. None of this is fair, of course, but I did get more scrapbooking pages done because I do simpler layouts and they all had to be extravagantly creative and use embellishments and computer-generated fonts and digitized photos.

I walked on the shore a couple of times, soaking in the sunshine and trying to hypnotize the sun into setting slower and taking pictures which I can only hope capture a fraction of the beauty of the vast ocean. We went to “town,” where we bought more scrapbooking supplies and tacky souvenirs from a shop overflowing with kitschy junk I wouldn’t pay a dime for at a garage sale. (Well, maybe a dime.) We viewed the lighthouse up close, photographed it, posed by the chain-link fence (me thinking, if I stand behind her a little and turn sideways, I will look almost as narrow as these tall, thin women–I’ll let you know if that worked out for me).

We watched a terrible movie (Must Love Dogs.) “I saw that,” I said. “Was it good?” they said. “Uh, not really. But it should be. But it’s terrible. You’ll see.” Afterwards: “I can’t believe I watched that whole movie! It was awful!” (I only watched half of it and wandered back downstairs to scrapbook some more.)

We ate, we laughed, we talked (someone stop me, please–at least I didn’t tell the decapitated hamster story), we snipped, cropped, stuck pictures in scrapbooks, we read, we slept, we gazed at the ocean. I searched in vain for an unbroken sand dollar–I have such a fixation with them. Saturday night, I saw a bicyclist riding near the waves at low tide with a horse tethered to one hand and a dog leashed to the other. I hope that silhouette turns out.

Three nights, four days, two complete scrapbooks (almost). Good times. Our hostess encouraged us to make the best of our re-entry into the real world so our husbands would be inclined to send us away again for a long weekend.

What a glorious weekend!

And now the baby is crying, my son’s due home from school, my fingers are cold and I have to go.

What Was I Going To Say Again?

I sit, pondering, longer than usual. My brain turns over and over, like those chickens you see at Costco grilling behind the meat counter. And yet, nothing.

Earlier tonight, while steering my old car down dark streets, I happened upon two topics to discuss. I can’t remember the first one and I don’t want to describe the second one tonight. Which leaves me only with a recitation of the day’s events.

Have I mentioned recently how much I loathe dark mornings? I hate taking a shower. I hate brushing my teeth. I hate drying my hair. And I especially hate talking to anyone. And so, as a joke, God gave me a very talkative daughter who wakes up suddenly and with great cheer. She sits on the toilet while I shower and asks me to get her a cookie. She opens the shower door to let in a cold gust before I’m dry. She climbs on the counter to brush her teeth while I blink at my reflection.

I do not enjoy this start to my day. This morning, however, I readied myself alone because I had to be presentable by 7:15 a.m. Which I understand is not that early in the scheme of things, but still.

We’re concentrating on history lessons this week, so the boys and I sat at the kitchen table while I read the history textbook out loud. Intermittent whines, screeches, hollers and plaintive cries for help upstairs interrupted our study. Have I complained lately how stressful it is to coordinate schooling-at-home with the ravings of a three-year old and the needs of a baby or two? At one point, I rendered a dramatic reading of the Declaration of Independence, which was nothing more than a veiled attempt to outshout “Blue’s Clues.”

I learned something, too. And not just about the Battles of Bunker Hill and Breed’s Hill. No. I learned something far more important.

Laundry does not wash itself, even if you are preoccupied with the laundry generators. That hardly seems right to me.

So. We finished history. Fed the little kids. Rocked the baby to sleep. Put the little kids down for naps. Read the newspaper. Welcomed home the second-grader. Agreed to let his friend come over for the afternoon. Created a last minute dinner (frozen ravioli, frozen homemade spaghetti sauce and frozen corn . . . see? I have a frozen theme). My husband, God bless him, called to inquire about my day and I said, “I am so tired of this. And the rain.”

And he said, “At least you have tomorrow off.” And I said, “Oh, yes, at home with my four kids, that is a Day Off!” with perhaps less enthusiasm than is right. And so, a few minutes later, he called again and asked if I’d like to run his errands in exchange for leaving the house for the evening.

Of course I would! And that’s how I ended up browsing for cards at Barnes & Noble, viewing “Capote,” in the movie theater, shopping at Target, and buying three dozen Krispie Kreme donuts. (Two dozen for his workshop tomorrow. One dozen to appease the children in the morning. Okay. Who am I kidding? Half a dozen for the children, half a dozen for me because I need those calories to get through the day, tight jeans notwithstanding!)

“Capote” was a remarkably well-done film. I immediately purchased In Cold Blood, Truman Capote’s last book. Now I have two thousand and ONE books to read before I die.

Here I am now, home again, home again, jiggety-jog. Tomorrow, a wind storm is predicted to bring us gusts of 60 miles per hour. I am looking forward to that, oddly enough. The wind is already flinging raindrops at the window with an admirable show of force.

The end.

I’m Pretty Boring in My Old Age

In real life, I prefer not to call attention to myself, so I am mystified by my recent post proclaiming my own birthday. What’s wrong with me? Perhaps it’s old age breaking down my inhibitions.

Yesterday morning, I took my daughter to the grocery store to buy essentials: milk, bread, cookies and $107 worth of groceries when it was all said and done. My little girl sat in the cart, so she was positioned perfectly to transfer everything to the conveyor belt. Which she did, by herself, no help from Mommy required. She wore a sundress, tights and hot-pink Converse Chuck Taylors . She looked ridiculous and charming, so much that every menopausal woman in the story smiled and tried to chat with her. (Her Royal Majesty of the Pink High-Tops wouldn’t answer a single question nor make eye contact.)

I spent my birthday afternoon getting my hair cut. My poor stylist. I said, “Okay, see? I don’t want to look like a cocker spaniel. You know what I mean? See this? Ears? No. Too much length. But no layers. I hate layers. Layers make me look like Little Orphan Annie. You know what I mean? And my bangs. I think I need more bangs. What do you think? They are thinning a little and can you fix that? I want a sort of a bob, but not too short. And not like a mushroom. The curl is natural, yes. See, how it’s weighed down and flat on my head, but like a cocker spaniel down here?” I went on for five incoherent minutes while she squinted at me and finally pulled out a book full of hairstyles. We settled on a style and at one point, they were straightening my hair, two of them at once, tugging and burning the curl out of my locks. I went home with super-straight, silky hair, in contrast to my normal Ronald McDonald bouffant.

I was home only an hour or two, long enough to cook dinner and tidy up a little. My mother came over half an hour late to watch the children. As we drove, I telephoned the restaurant–they won’t take reservations for parties of less than six people–and asked to be put on the waiting list. Good thing I used the telephone girl’s name (“Stephanie”), when we arrived because they had no trace of us on their list and the waiting time was up to an hour and a half. When I said, “Well, I talked to Stephanie,” she whirled around and said, “That’s me!”

We waited only fifteen minutes, then sat in a corner table where we could see the sky darken from gray to black before our dinners arrived. We gazed at the lit-up ferry as it slid up to the dock nearby and I said, “We need to take the kids on a ferry this summer.” Two tables were full of high school kids in formal gowns and tuxedos. I only wish we’d been right next to them so I could have eavesdropped successfully.

Dinner was excellent and my husband was in fine form, making me laugh. We really ought to go out more often.

Last night, I watched “The Beach” on DVD. I’d recently read the book and wanted to see the movie in its entirety. (I’ve seen bits of it on the Oxygen network.) I was most fascinated by the special features, specifically the director’s commentary about deleted scenes. Of course, the book was better than the movie. Books are always better than the movies.

This morning, my daughter insisted on wearing a Barbie ballerina costume to church, which I allowed. I simply dressed her in a black turtleneck and black pants and her pink Chuck Taylors. She looked endearing in a crazy sort of way. Sadly, I didn’t get a photograph. She reminded me of that guy who dressed like the tooth fairy on some television commerical. Only smaller and more adorable and with blond curls.

We napped together, she and I, for two glorious hours, during which time I had an insane dream involving Mexican guys keying my car and two baby alligators in my garage and my daughter wandering the street due to my carelessness and my husband scolding me for driving in a dangerous residential area in Houston.

When we woke, she informed me we’d be going around the block and I knew better than to argue. I pointed out that she’d have to get dressed and that it was cold and rainy. We made it only halfway around, she on her tricycle, me walking, when she decided to turn back. She parked her trike, then we started off again, splashing through puddles and veritable streams on the side of the road. It’s rained thirty-eight out of the last forty days and half our driveway is a pond large enough to cover the tops of yellow rubber boots.

Can you believe this recitation of my weekend? I feel like I should be writing it on notebook paper and turning it in for a grade to my creative writing teacher who would then ask me to please rewrite and use more interesting details and embellishments. Have you learned nothing from James Frey? she’d say.

I watched the Screen Actor’s Guild Awards tonight. My favorite moment just might be Jamie Lee Curtis stumbling and then regaining her balance while she came down the stairs. And I was pleased that “Crash” won for Best Film Ensemble. And Reese Witherspoon won, which is perfect.

Then I sobbed during the end of Grey’s Anatomy, which can mean only one thing.

I’m not menopausal yet, despite being fortysomething.

(Thank you, everyone, for the birthday greetings. I appreciate it.)

A Waste of Two Hours, But At Least I Wasn’t Doing Laundry

This afternoon, I went to see Jennifer Aniston’s movie, “Rumor Has It.” I had no deep desire to see this movie, but nothing else better was playing when I was able to get out of the house.

The only remarkable thing about the movie was that every single amusing line was featured in the trailers. So, if you’ve seen the trailers, don’t bother seeing the movie. Why do Hollywood movie publicity people do that? Can’t they save even one funny line so you can pretend to be surprised and amused during a rather plodding, dull movie? I was bored and you will be, too.

Unless, of course, you are like those three women who sat two rows ahead of me. They evenly spaced themselves out in seven seats. The center woman sported a shiny bald head. Each of them needed the extra space afforded by the empty seat between them, but they didn’t let the space stop them from tossing remarks back and forth.

And they loved this movie. They chortled. They guffawed. They giggled. And toward the end, one of them sniffled and wept–sobbed, really–loudly. I can sometimes be reduced to tears by a children’s book or song lyrics, yet this movie left me completely unmoved. I wondered if perhaps I keep my reservoir of emotion so deep that a Jennifer Aniston movie cannot reach it.

Or maybe those three women ahead of me just have a vast pool of emotion under a thin membrane of composure.

Maybe I’m just dead to the romantic comedy in which you have to believe that the main character is dumber than a doorknob, so dumb, in fact, that it never occurred to her that . . . well, I don’t want to spoil the movie for you. But trust me. No one can be that dumb.

Heard at the Movie Theater

To answer a few recent questions (“What do you do for me-time?” and “They have zebras at your fair?”), let me just say this. I go to movies alone, probably too often, considering the price of of a movie ticket, but I do. I like the communal experience of watching a movie with strangers. What I do not like is the presence of small children in a movie theater when the movie is not animated and rated G. Tonight’s small child (at the 7:30 p.m. show) was loud and then cried and had to be carried from the back row of the theater all the way to the front and out the door. Uh, can you say “distraction”? PLEASE PEOPLE, I AM BEGGING YOU, HIRE A BABYSITTER WHEN YOU GO MOVIES WHICH ARE INAPPROPRIATE FOR YOUR PRESCHOOLER!

A-hem. Okay. Where was I? Oh. So, during the movie In Her Shoes, a character tries on an outfit. Another character says, “Jackie Kennedy?” “No,” the character responds, “Jackie Onassis.” At which point, a girl to the right of me leans over to her friend and says loudly, “Who’s that?”

Well, maybe you had to be there. I found that amusing.

I have to say, this movie pleasantly surprised me. I laughed. I cried. I wished I had more than one tissue stuffed in my pocket.

It did not, however, make me nostalgic for my own sister, the one who hasn’t spoken to me in more than three years.

Finally, yes, we did have zebras at our fair. An entire barn held exotic animals, African cattle and pygmy goats and other furry, fuzzy creatures not seen at your local farm.

And now back to me. What do I do for myself? Well, I read blogs and I write. I read books and I write. I leave my house in the evening as often as I can, sometimes to grocery shop in peace, sometimes to see a movie, sometimes to prowl the aisles at Marshall’s for bargains. I occasionally enjoy a decent break in the middle of the day when the babies and toddlers all nap simultaneously and then I eat lunch and read the newspaper. Whenever I have a break in the action, I give myself permission to sit and read or rest rather than clean.

It’s not much, but it’s enough for now.

Judgment of the Day


Here is stupidity: The parents who took their three year old boy to the movie,“Red Eye,” a thriller in which a woman is terrorized by her seatmate, who happens to be a really bad guy. These people were walking ahead of me when the movie ended and I heard the man say to the little boy, “Did you like that?” Meanwhile, I’m thinking to myself, “You have GOT to be kidding me!”

Stupid people. Don’t take preschoolers to movies that are meant for adults! Hire a babysitter or take the kid to a movie meant for him. What is wrong with people?

On Not Falling to the Sticky Floor in Mirth

I read this review of “The 40 Year Old Virgin,” and decided that I had to see a movie that is “that funny. . . Howl-aloud funny. Choke-on-your-popcorn funny. Convulse-on-the-floor-and-roll-around-in-the-Gummi-Bears-until-you-get stuck-and-dislocate-something funny.”

Roger Ebert gave it “thumbs up” and a great review.

So, Saturday afternoon, when the thrill of garage-saling faded, I went to see what all the hoopla was about. I was prepared to shoot Diet Coke from my nose, choke on my popcorn and fall out of my seat onto the sticky floor.

No one mentioned that you must find the f-word hilarious to find this movie funny. My eardrums are still bleeding from the profane battering they endured. The humor often relied on the expectation that people will find obscene language uproariously funny. At least 68 times, they invoked the f-word.

Well, call me a prude, but I find the use of the f-word offensive and stupid and distracting. I expect it from fourteen year old boys who are proving how cool and grown-up they are (though, I reserve the right to wash out my boys’ mouths with soap if I ever hear that coming from them) but to include foul language in every scene, coming from every character in the movie? I don’t think so. What is the point?

I must be living in my own special bubble because while everyone else was laughing, I was thinking that this movie was not funny.

Oh, sure, there were funny moments, but I did not howl. I did not clutch my stomach. My face did not ache from laughter, nor did I spew any carbonated beverages from my nasal passages. While I did appreciate Steve Carell’s portrayal of the 40-year old virgin–the hair-waxing scene had the potential to be a really classic laugh-out-loud funny moment–the language ruined it for me. I found his use of a string of profanity to be completely out of character for him.

I know. What did I expect from an R-rated movie? I expected to laugh a lot. I just didn’t realize that what passes for humor these days is the frequent use of profane language. I really wanted to like this movie–I like the idea of this movie. I liked the end of this movie. I did not like the fact that I saw a 6-year old boy in the front row with his family. Call me judgmental, but children do not belong in movies intended for adults. Surely I’m not the only woman in America working actively to protect my children’s innocence?

I find it irresponsible to use coarse words as a shortcut to a punchline. I think it devalues language and underestimates the audience. It’s just offensive. Using the f-word like a common adjective is a lot like using a cannon to kill a fly. Ease up. A fucking fly-swatter will do.

Unless, of course, you’re trying to make a point.

And my point? Quit using extreme words for ordinary circumstances. I shocked you when I said that word, didn’t I? But when everyone says it routinely, no one is shocked anymore–except me, and maybe–hopefully–that 6-year old in the front row. If everyone uses the f-word all the time, the word itself becomes about as pungent as an old stale lavender sachet. Save it for when you really need the firepower.

Meanwhile, while everyone else is chortling, I’ll be wondering why movies are written in the vocabulary of a fourteen year old boy (no offense to fourteen year old boys, of course) and thinking that I am a fuddy-duddy.

Now, I need to go wash my mouth out with soap and disinfect my keyboard.