I have heard that the mid-thirties is an important time for women. It's a peak time for women for certain things. I won't mention this because my mom might read this. I am 36, and I find myself viewing life quite differently as of late. I know not what to attribute this to, but I embrace it as I look back on my journey here.
Most who know me well consider me a bit cynical and negative. These are people who have known me for years. My negative attitude, occasional rants and complaints and sarcastic tirades were always just a part of me. They made me recognizable and unique. My friends joked about it. I accepted it. When did this part change? I can't be sure, but my new place of work has definitely had something to do with it.
While teaching at my first school (oh, how I miss it there), I was never one to hide the pessimism. I tried a few times to shake it. I know some will recall the lunch table conversation during which I demanded we all say something we were grateful for then say at least one nice thing about each person at the table. This was on a day during which I was feeling much appreciation for my place in the world. I don't recall what I said about my fellow educators who shared my table (oh, how I miss them), but I can likely say some sarcasm seeped out. I do remember what I gave thanks for in my life. "I am happy I have two working legs, and I can use them to go anywhere." I found some happiness in that. Was this the only thing I could muster? It seems a tad weak; however, I recall truly being glad I could walk or run, if I so chose.
Surely my students saw some of these negative moments. Some were certainly the target of my sarcastic rants. I can't go into details here because I am still teaching, and I dare not incriminate myself. Sorry, kids. It made you all better people though. The only students exempt were my students during the school year of 2002-2003, what I call "The Most Glorious Year of My Life." I worked only 4/5 due to the addition of little Maddie. I left school each day at noon, graded papers (of which I had many due to my seniors in Writing for College and World Literature) in the afternoon and found myself freed from most English teacher constraints. This allowed for much play time with Maddie. I have video to prove it. I also have plenty of great memories. During that year, I recall my students telling me I was so happy every single day. They loved coming to class because I was always in a good mood. I shared this with my fellow teachers who looked at me with skeptical eyes. Nevertheless, I was a joyful teacher. Instead of essays that year, we deemed them "happy papers." Wow, what a year that was. I remember so many of these students and smile. Good kids. Good times.
I have found my true happy again. I have it right now where I work because I love my job. I enjoy most of the people I work with. The students are wonderful. The circumstances, of course, make all of the difference. Perhaps it is my age and my maturing and acceptance. Or maybe it's just because the people I work with are cool. I can only speculate.
Although I can't say exactly what caused this transformation or when it clicked, I can certainly own it. I recognize it and am grateful for it. Gratitude is powerful. Perhaps I was just too busy complaining to see the good before. Perhaps I didn't have what I needed then. I can wonder, and I do. I accept it now and declare that I will keep loving life.
For those of you who think I need to be miserable to make funny. Don't worry, I don't need that. I promise the next post will include laughs where this one possibly elicited smiles. Smiles are pretty good, too.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Pink is for Pepto-Bismol
October is such a lovely time of year. The football season is in full swing, the World Series sometimes results in an interesting match. The NBA usually starts at the end of the month. Usually. Idiots. For those of you who live in regions with climate change, the season brings falling leaves in appealing hues of orange, yellow and red. In those same areas, the weather starts to get crisp, producing chilled mornings.
Those are things I used to associate with October. I don't know what seasonal changes are anymore, so that's out. Football is still pretty interesting. The World Series is boring (I lost baseball interest long ago when I didn't have three extra hours each day to watch games). I might never see the Suns play again. No matter. These things mean nothing anymore. October, after all, means only one thing: Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
A few of you will relate to this blog, and most of you will likely call me some bad names and buy something pink to make up for my hateful attitude. I am ready for the consequences. This entry has been building, and the time has come for me to voice these frustrations.
Everything I see, buy or use is pink, right now, only in the month of October. The worst offenders are the football teams. Can I please watch a game without seeing a ridiculous pink addition to a team's hat that should never, ever have pink anywhere near the color combination? The cheerleaders at the high school football game last Friday night had pink pom poms. Pink clashes with orange and blue, by the way. I bought a pair of underwear the other day, and the tag had the pink ribbon on it. If I wanted to, I could buy toilet paper with the pink ribbon, so I could wipe my butt and help the cause. We have reached overkill. It's not cute anymore. It goes way beyond the idea of drumming up interest and getting donations. Now it's just a ridiculously marketed bandwagon that people jump right on.
I have a few concerns. Primarily, I am not a big pink fan. I do not enjoy seeing it plastered everywhere. I think it's an ugly color. It makes me think of Pepto-Bismol and the one time I puked it up on my olive green shag carpet in my bedroom when I was about 10. I also find the color too feminine. I don't even know what that means, but I feel it. I don't need my hot dog buns to have pink splashed on the plastic. I don't want my yogurt to have a pink seal. I am not going to buy a pink hair straightener when I already own one. Yes, it's green. Further, I am at the point now where I will choose the product that is pink-free.
One of the biggest reasons I swing the other direction here is because I understand how marketing works. Not all of the companies reveal how much they donate to the cause. They just make their crap pink to appeal to the helpers of the world. Guess what? We can be helpers of the world without buying the crap. We can donate DIRECTLY to the National Breast Cancer Foundation. If we want to support the research, we have other, more effective ways to give. We don't need to buy pink scissors, pink pens, pink water bottles and pink shoelaces in order to make a difference. If you feel the need to advertise that you, in fact, gave to help, get a sticker or something. That's pitiful anyway. Just feel good about donating.
Why is this a single-month issue? Why October? Why can't we hate breast cancer all year? "During September, I am pretty much all right with lumps in boobs. When October rolls around though, no way. That's when I suit up in my pink, put my game face on and swear to take no prisoners as I spend a crapload of money on pink stuff I do not need. I'm a fighter, and I'm fighting . . . for the cause."
The other issue that I can't leave alone here is the numerous other foundations and causes that need just as much funding and assistance. Why don't all of the sports leagues promote all of the organizations? I have never seen a Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation tennis shoe logo on a football helmet. I don't see socks with puzzle pieces on them with proceeds going to the Autism Research Institute. Hell, I don't even know what color represents the Colon Cancer Foundation. I think brown would be appropriate, but I can't recall seeing the color plastered all over during a special month when we should care. This is fine with me because if I want to give to that foundation, I will do it without having a color or a product pushed at my face.
Having purchased a few pinked-out items in the last few days, either inadvertently or due to lack of options, I realize now that I have given my share to the cause. Super. I find no need for me to donate anything else. I already gave. I am good. Boy, did I help out. I am so awesome, thinking of others.
I am not a hateful person. I just want football back. And October. Pink makes me puke.
Those are things I used to associate with October. I don't know what seasonal changes are anymore, so that's out. Football is still pretty interesting. The World Series is boring (I lost baseball interest long ago when I didn't have three extra hours each day to watch games). I might never see the Suns play again. No matter. These things mean nothing anymore. October, after all, means only one thing: Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
A few of you will relate to this blog, and most of you will likely call me some bad names and buy something pink to make up for my hateful attitude. I am ready for the consequences. This entry has been building, and the time has come for me to voice these frustrations.
Everything I see, buy or use is pink, right now, only in the month of October. The worst offenders are the football teams. Can I please watch a game without seeing a ridiculous pink addition to a team's hat that should never, ever have pink anywhere near the color combination? The cheerleaders at the high school football game last Friday night had pink pom poms. Pink clashes with orange and blue, by the way. I bought a pair of underwear the other day, and the tag had the pink ribbon on it. If I wanted to, I could buy toilet paper with the pink ribbon, so I could wipe my butt and help the cause. We have reached overkill. It's not cute anymore. It goes way beyond the idea of drumming up interest and getting donations. Now it's just a ridiculously marketed bandwagon that people jump right on.
I have a few concerns. Primarily, I am not a big pink fan. I do not enjoy seeing it plastered everywhere. I think it's an ugly color. It makes me think of Pepto-Bismol and the one time I puked it up on my olive green shag carpet in my bedroom when I was about 10. I also find the color too feminine. I don't even know what that means, but I feel it. I don't need my hot dog buns to have pink splashed on the plastic. I don't want my yogurt to have a pink seal. I am not going to buy a pink hair straightener when I already own one. Yes, it's green. Further, I am at the point now where I will choose the product that is pink-free.
One of the biggest reasons I swing the other direction here is because I understand how marketing works. Not all of the companies reveal how much they donate to the cause. They just make their crap pink to appeal to the helpers of the world. Guess what? We can be helpers of the world without buying the crap. We can donate DIRECTLY to the National Breast Cancer Foundation. If we want to support the research, we have other, more effective ways to give. We don't need to buy pink scissors, pink pens, pink water bottles and pink shoelaces in order to make a difference. If you feel the need to advertise that you, in fact, gave to help, get a sticker or something. That's pitiful anyway. Just feel good about donating.
Why is this a single-month issue? Why October? Why can't we hate breast cancer all year? "During September, I am pretty much all right with lumps in boobs. When October rolls around though, no way. That's when I suit up in my pink, put my game face on and swear to take no prisoners as I spend a crapload of money on pink stuff I do not need. I'm a fighter, and I'm fighting . . . for the cause."
The other issue that I can't leave alone here is the numerous other foundations and causes that need just as much funding and assistance. Why don't all of the sports leagues promote all of the organizations? I have never seen a Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation tennis shoe logo on a football helmet. I don't see socks with puzzle pieces on them with proceeds going to the Autism Research Institute. Hell, I don't even know what color represents the Colon Cancer Foundation. I think brown would be appropriate, but I can't recall seeing the color plastered all over during a special month when we should care. This is fine with me because if I want to give to that foundation, I will do it without having a color or a product pushed at my face.
Having purchased a few pinked-out items in the last few days, either inadvertently or due to lack of options, I realize now that I have given my share to the cause. Super. I find no need for me to donate anything else. I already gave. I am good. Boy, did I help out. I am so awesome, thinking of others.
I am not a hateful person. I just want football back. And October. Pink makes me puke.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Just Get Rid of the Hair There
I don't think many women enjoy shaving their legs and armpits. Consequently, I don't think men enjoy shaving that much either. It doesn't produce joy. The act is not exciting. In fact, it can lead to injury.
Shaving is a tedious task that we should not even have to complete. If the hair does not need to be there, should not be there, why is it there? This is just another confusing part of being a species that can think. No one is ever going to witness a platypus squatting in front of a mirror wondering how he can tone down the excessive fur on his body. An African Grey Parrot, an intelligent species, will not preen in his cage, use a little body shear and trim his feathers to a more manageable, attractive size. I realize his using the shears would be difficult, perhaps impossible, but you understand that the point is he doesn't need to. Further, he doesn't want to.
We humans find the need and the desire to shave, to look better. Of course, we all don't necessarily buy into this. I could be a person who stands my ground and says, "God put the hair there for a reason, so I am keeping it." That's ridiculous talk. I am not that natural. Plus, everyone else is shaving. I don't want to look like a freak.
My first foray into shaving was when I was much younger. I have no idea how old I was. I am thinking it was around 12. I simply know that my legs were hairy, and it looked like other girls were getting rid of their unwanted, ill-placed hairs. After much contemplation, and questions to no one, especially my mother, I decided I would give it a try. My mother had not discussed the issue with me, and I certainly did not want to address the situation. We just didn't mention these types of things. It may sound like this was the 1960s, but I am not that old. We're talking 1987 here. I had no earthly idea how to shave, but I found some disposable razors in the hall closet. I knew I wanted to do it in the privacy of my own room, not the bathroom we all shared. I had some logic, obviously, so I knew I needed to apply something to my legs before shaving. In a bedroom, without a sink or water, what could I use? Jergen's Lotion seemed pretty reasonable. Yep, that's what I used. It did not work that well, oddly. The razor kept getting clogged up with hair and pink lotion. I had to move the operation into the bathroom where I used water. Had I never heard of shaving cream? Never seen a commercial for the product? I have no idea.
I eventually discovered shaving cream and now use it all of the time. No need for any royalty payments for me since I didn't name a brand. I don't use a particular brand because I am cheap. I buy whatever is on sale or cheapest. Thus, this idea began this morning as I was using my Target brand shaving cream in the shower and looked at the fragrance. I was expecting to see Perfectly Peach or Luscious Lavender or some other "clever" name. Nope. This is sexy shaving cream, for the sexy, erotic job of shaving. It's called Ooooh Baby. This is such an appropriate name. How did the marketing geniuses arrive at this? I can only guess.
"Ouch, That Hurts. How about that? Or maybe Oops, I Nicked It Again? Wait. We're getting there. Let's go with Slather Up, Shave Down."
"Nope. Nope. These ideas are not cutting it. Jim, what do you got?"
"Oooooh Baby." Doesn't that appeal to the lady in the shower, getting rid of that unsightly stubble so she doesn't have to look like a freak and feel like a lazy, hairy loser? It's the perfect balance of 'this is sexy' and 'I am looking good after I don't have unnecessary hair.' Right?"
"Yep, Jim. We've got our fragrance. Great work."
Yes, I am being sexist. I don't believe a woman named this women's shaving cream Oooooh Baby. Evidently, Jim does do some great work. It's an entirely irrelevant name that reveals nothing about the actual smell. What the hell does Oooooh Baby even smell like?
The next time I shop for shaving cream, I am going to look at the fragrances much closer. I want something that tells it like it is and lets me know what the smell in the shower will be. That's what I want - something that smells good and gets the job done. I am hoping for Let's Get This Over With Lilac or No Nicks Nestle's Quick. C'mon people, let's quit creating weirdness where none should be, so we can keep getting rid of the hairs where none should be.
Shaving is a tedious task that we should not even have to complete. If the hair does not need to be there, should not be there, why is it there? This is just another confusing part of being a species that can think. No one is ever going to witness a platypus squatting in front of a mirror wondering how he can tone down the excessive fur on his body. An African Grey Parrot, an intelligent species, will not preen in his cage, use a little body shear and trim his feathers to a more manageable, attractive size. I realize his using the shears would be difficult, perhaps impossible, but you understand that the point is he doesn't need to. Further, he doesn't want to.
We humans find the need and the desire to shave, to look better. Of course, we all don't necessarily buy into this. I could be a person who stands my ground and says, "God put the hair there for a reason, so I am keeping it." That's ridiculous talk. I am not that natural. Plus, everyone else is shaving. I don't want to look like a freak.
My first foray into shaving was when I was much younger. I have no idea how old I was. I am thinking it was around 12. I simply know that my legs were hairy, and it looked like other girls were getting rid of their unwanted, ill-placed hairs. After much contemplation, and questions to no one, especially my mother, I decided I would give it a try. My mother had not discussed the issue with me, and I certainly did not want to address the situation. We just didn't mention these types of things. It may sound like this was the 1960s, but I am not that old. We're talking 1987 here. I had no earthly idea how to shave, but I found some disposable razors in the hall closet. I knew I wanted to do it in the privacy of my own room, not the bathroom we all shared. I had some logic, obviously, so I knew I needed to apply something to my legs before shaving. In a bedroom, without a sink or water, what could I use? Jergen's Lotion seemed pretty reasonable. Yep, that's what I used. It did not work that well, oddly. The razor kept getting clogged up with hair and pink lotion. I had to move the operation into the bathroom where I used water. Had I never heard of shaving cream? Never seen a commercial for the product? I have no idea.
I eventually discovered shaving cream and now use it all of the time. No need for any royalty payments for me since I didn't name a brand. I don't use a particular brand because I am cheap. I buy whatever is on sale or cheapest. Thus, this idea began this morning as I was using my Target brand shaving cream in the shower and looked at the fragrance. I was expecting to see Perfectly Peach or Luscious Lavender or some other "clever" name. Nope. This is sexy shaving cream, for the sexy, erotic job of shaving. It's called Ooooh Baby. This is such an appropriate name. How did the marketing geniuses arrive at this? I can only guess.
"Ouch, That Hurts. How about that? Or maybe Oops, I Nicked It Again? Wait. We're getting there. Let's go with Slather Up, Shave Down."
"Nope. Nope. These ideas are not cutting it. Jim, what do you got?"
"Oooooh Baby." Doesn't that appeal to the lady in the shower, getting rid of that unsightly stubble so she doesn't have to look like a freak and feel like a lazy, hairy loser? It's the perfect balance of 'this is sexy' and 'I am looking good after I don't have unnecessary hair.' Right?"
"Yep, Jim. We've got our fragrance. Great work."
Yes, I am being sexist. I don't believe a woman named this women's shaving cream Oooooh Baby. Evidently, Jim does do some great work. It's an entirely irrelevant name that reveals nothing about the actual smell. What the hell does Oooooh Baby even smell like?
The next time I shop for shaving cream, I am going to look at the fragrances much closer. I want something that tells it like it is and lets me know what the smell in the shower will be. That's what I want - something that smells good and gets the job done. I am hoping for Let's Get This Over With Lilac or No Nicks Nestle's Quick. C'mon people, let's quit creating weirdness where none should be, so we can keep getting rid of the hairs where none should be.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Feature Films Feature Freaks
While talking with friends about a recent movie-going experience, I realized that watching movies in the theater often yields some type of uncomfortably strange situation for me. Some of the people in the conversation each had a single story about unusual events involving them in movie theaters. After they exhausted their tales, I had plenty to continue sharing. This is a bit bizarre because I do not go to the theater that often. Having young children makes it difficult to get out to the "R" rated pictures. Maybe my stories are aplenty because I remember these weird instances more than others. Or, it just may be that I attract the odd. Maybe it's because I am odd. I don't know.
Experience #1 (most can understand and have experienced as well):
Last week I went to see "50/50" while in Denver with my friend, Amy. After touring a number of Denver malls in the sleeting, snowing, ridiculously cold for a Phoenix girl weather (should I hyphenate that?), I was happy to have a seat in a comfortable theater during which I would attempt to warm up my chilled feet. Thin socks and Converse do not insulate well. Although plenty of other seats remained open, two women in their 50s sat beside me. Right next to me, avoiding the "keep one seat open between parties rule." They began their chit-chatting . . . loudly. Annoyed, I remained quiet assuming their mouths would become silent after the previews. During the opening scene, the main character jogs down the street at a seemingly decent pace. A woman quickly surpasses him. The idiot next to me remarked, "That's what it looks like when I jog!"
This I could not abide. I turned to the right and asked, "Could you guys please be quiet?" The woman returned my death stare. We had a short death staring contest, which I won. Obviously, I did not pay $10 to hear Debbie Dumbass make funny during what turned out to be a great flick.
Experience #2 (perhaps this has happened to you):
While watching "Jarhead," a gruesomely bloody movie about war, a family of five sat behind us. This appeared to be parents and their children. This was a curious family film, considering the burning bodies, masturbating and vulgar language. Oh, but I don't judge. Where this went wrong was when little Jimmy (not his real name) began to cry. Apparently this toughened five-year-old wasn't ready for the images of war. He continued to cry and sob in fear. All the while, his family ignored him as they enjoyed their refreshments and Jake Gyllenhaal's performance. This occurred six years ago. I am sad to say I did nothing at the time. I am happy to say that if this happens again, I will not keep my mouth shut.
Experience #3 (relating to this is somewhat doubtful):
We were in the theater to watch "Zombieland," a movie I was excited to see. Arriving early, we sat close to the end of a row. During the previews, a family of three sat one seat away from me. Parents and a child of about seven unwrapped their snacks, poured popcorn down their throats and sucked down pop. Of course, I was disgusted that such a young boy would be watching this movie. The opening scene depicts zombies eating people, breaking bones and chomping on human flesh. The language is definitively "R." Nevertheless, I cannot dictate parenting techniques to others, so I lost myself in the film. We were about 30 minutes in, and I was enjoying the entertainment when I heard a large amount of liquid letting loose toward the bald man's head in front of the boy two seats away from me. It seems his 32 ounce soda wasn't sitting well with him. This resulted in projectile vomiting, made all the more powerful due the high content of liquid. My feet went up on my seat, and I clutched my purse next to me. How would these stellar parents respond? Dad yelled, "Fuck." Mom did nothing. Dad made a big scene and was ANGRY at his son. They were missing out on this awesome movie, after all. Both parents annoyingly ushered the son by us to the stairs where the little guy puked again. After about 10 minutes, a movie worker, with little booties on his feet and a penlight in his hand, approached the area to clean up both floor and stairs. Yes, the puke smell lingered.
Experience #4 (I bet this hasn't happened to you):
"Castaway" was one of those talked-about movies. I had read about its amazing scenes and wonder, so we decided to go. I want you to remember that movie if you have seen it. I mean really think about it. Tom Hanks' character is alone on an island with his friend the volleyball, Wilson. The dialog is next to none. The music is little to none as well. What viewers can hear is ocean waves, rain and the natural sounds of the island. I bring this up so you will appreciate how extremely peculiar it was that a blind man was sitting right in front of me at this movie. I think the time spent on the island is close to an hour. Nearly an hour of very little for this guy to hear. Well, it would have been very little if he had not had his buddy, The Movie Narrator sitting next to him.
"Ok. Now he's putting some palm fronds together. Weaving them to make something. We're not sure yet, but it's likely some sort of shelter."
"All right. You hear the rain, right? It's really raining. He looks very cold. He must be so depressed at this point. He doesn't know if he'll survive."
"The Wilson he is speaking to is a ball, a volleyball. He has given it hair and a face, so it's like he's actually talking to another person. It's all he's got right now."
This concludes the tales of my life at the movies. I have left out the story of the Loud Napkin Guy, The Family of Stair Runners and others. Luckily, I will go to the movie again, and something just might happen that elicits another story. We do plan to go see "Moneyball" today because the children are away, far away, with Grandpa and Grandma. You'll be the first to know if I make an addition.
Experience #1 (most can understand and have experienced as well):
Last week I went to see "50/50" while in Denver with my friend, Amy. After touring a number of Denver malls in the sleeting, snowing, ridiculously cold for a Phoenix girl weather (should I hyphenate that?), I was happy to have a seat in a comfortable theater during which I would attempt to warm up my chilled feet. Thin socks and Converse do not insulate well. Although plenty of other seats remained open, two women in their 50s sat beside me. Right next to me, avoiding the "keep one seat open between parties rule." They began their chit-chatting . . . loudly. Annoyed, I remained quiet assuming their mouths would become silent after the previews. During the opening scene, the main character jogs down the street at a seemingly decent pace. A woman quickly surpasses him. The idiot next to me remarked, "That's what it looks like when I jog!"
This I could not abide. I turned to the right and asked, "Could you guys please be quiet?" The woman returned my death stare. We had a short death staring contest, which I won. Obviously, I did not pay $10 to hear Debbie Dumbass make funny during what turned out to be a great flick.
Experience #2 (perhaps this has happened to you):
While watching "Jarhead," a gruesomely bloody movie about war, a family of five sat behind us. This appeared to be parents and their children. This was a curious family film, considering the burning bodies, masturbating and vulgar language. Oh, but I don't judge. Where this went wrong was when little Jimmy (not his real name) began to cry. Apparently this toughened five-year-old wasn't ready for the images of war. He continued to cry and sob in fear. All the while, his family ignored him as they enjoyed their refreshments and Jake Gyllenhaal's performance. This occurred six years ago. I am sad to say I did nothing at the time. I am happy to say that if this happens again, I will not keep my mouth shut.
Experience #3 (relating to this is somewhat doubtful):
We were in the theater to watch "Zombieland," a movie I was excited to see. Arriving early, we sat close to the end of a row. During the previews, a family of three sat one seat away from me. Parents and a child of about seven unwrapped their snacks, poured popcorn down their throats and sucked down pop. Of course, I was disgusted that such a young boy would be watching this movie. The opening scene depicts zombies eating people, breaking bones and chomping on human flesh. The language is definitively "R." Nevertheless, I cannot dictate parenting techniques to others, so I lost myself in the film. We were about 30 minutes in, and I was enjoying the entertainment when I heard a large amount of liquid letting loose toward the bald man's head in front of the boy two seats away from me. It seems his 32 ounce soda wasn't sitting well with him. This resulted in projectile vomiting, made all the more powerful due the high content of liquid. My feet went up on my seat, and I clutched my purse next to me. How would these stellar parents respond? Dad yelled, "Fuck." Mom did nothing. Dad made a big scene and was ANGRY at his son. They were missing out on this awesome movie, after all. Both parents annoyingly ushered the son by us to the stairs where the little guy puked again. After about 10 minutes, a movie worker, with little booties on his feet and a penlight in his hand, approached the area to clean up both floor and stairs. Yes, the puke smell lingered.
Experience #4 (I bet this hasn't happened to you):
"Castaway" was one of those talked-about movies. I had read about its amazing scenes and wonder, so we decided to go. I want you to remember that movie if you have seen it. I mean really think about it. Tom Hanks' character is alone on an island with his friend the volleyball, Wilson. The dialog is next to none. The music is little to none as well. What viewers can hear is ocean waves, rain and the natural sounds of the island. I bring this up so you will appreciate how extremely peculiar it was that a blind man was sitting right in front of me at this movie. I think the time spent on the island is close to an hour. Nearly an hour of very little for this guy to hear. Well, it would have been very little if he had not had his buddy, The Movie Narrator sitting next to him.
"Ok. Now he's putting some palm fronds together. Weaving them to make something. We're not sure yet, but it's likely some sort of shelter."
"All right. You hear the rain, right? It's really raining. He looks very cold. He must be so depressed at this point. He doesn't know if he'll survive."
"The Wilson he is speaking to is a ball, a volleyball. He has given it hair and a face, so it's like he's actually talking to another person. It's all he's got right now."
This concludes the tales of my life at the movies. I have left out the story of the Loud Napkin Guy, The Family of Stair Runners and others. Luckily, I will go to the movie again, and something just might happen that elicits another story. We do plan to go see "Moneyball" today because the children are away, far away, with Grandpa and Grandma. You'll be the first to know if I make an addition.
Saturday, October 01, 2011
Keeping Quiet
You know what's really loud when everyone else in the house is sleeping? The answer, of course, is everything. For example, ripping out the perforated center of a fresh, new Kleenex box equates to slamming a door, dropping a large wooden bowl to the floor and screaming at a high decibel level. This is what I hear, in my head, right now, when I have 4 ounces of extra snot in my sinuses. I truthfully don't know what the regular level of snot is for said cavities, but my vast knowledge of this from Advanced Biology with Mr. Bowen during my junior year of high school puts it at about 4 ounces less than what I must have now. I just thought I should explain how I arrived at that number. Quite scientifically, obviously.
We have company visiting from out of town, so all of the rooms of refuge for nights like these are unavailable. The presence of these guests also amplifies the distracting performance of noise I was sharing with the household before I had a smart idea. I am unsure why it took me over an hour to realize this, but I did discover I could just take my sniffling, nose-blowing self outside.
Here I sit, at 4:30 in the morning, finally finding the time to post a blog on a site which I claimed I would update more frequently. That was in June. Good intentions sometimes don't go very far, for all sorts of reasons.
Oct. 1 has brought a chilly 80 degree morning, and I was enjoying the peaceful sounds of the neighbor's pool, which must have some type of running water feature. And now the air conditioner just kicked on, taking over all serenity with its loud whirring motor. The short-lived Zen moment that didn't fully develop is now complete. Plus, I forgot my Kleenex box inside. Also, a mosquito just bit me. Good, I certainly wasn't expecting any special favors.
Oh, Urgent Care, oh, Urgent Care, open your doors for me.
We have company visiting from out of town, so all of the rooms of refuge for nights like these are unavailable. The presence of these guests also amplifies the distracting performance of noise I was sharing with the household before I had a smart idea. I am unsure why it took me over an hour to realize this, but I did discover I could just take my sniffling, nose-blowing self outside.
Here I sit, at 4:30 in the morning, finally finding the time to post a blog on a site which I claimed I would update more frequently. That was in June. Good intentions sometimes don't go very far, for all sorts of reasons.
Oct. 1 has brought a chilly 80 degree morning, and I was enjoying the peaceful sounds of the neighbor's pool, which must have some type of running water feature. And now the air conditioner just kicked on, taking over all serenity with its loud whirring motor. The short-lived Zen moment that didn't fully develop is now complete. Plus, I forgot my Kleenex box inside. Also, a mosquito just bit me. Good, I certainly wasn't expecting any special favors.
Oh, Urgent Care, oh, Urgent Care, open your doors for me.
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