My problem is that I’m too nice. When I was on my honeymoon and the pizza waitress served up a big ole pepperoni pizza instead of the mushroom one I ordered, and my brand new husband said, “Can’t you just eat it?” I dined on greasy pepperoni and smiled graciously.
When the movie rental place suggested I pony up $50 in late fines for movies I knew I returned on time, I smiled, handed the clerk my membership card, and walked away forever.
When the fat lady in the tight (sheer) bathing suit wanted to be friends at the local amusement park. . .well, I ran and hid behind my kids on that one, but now I AM the fat lady in the tight (not sheer) bathing suit, so you see how it works.
The movie rental place went out of business. The pizza place has become a shop for cheap souvenirs. The husband is now known as The Defendant and has been replaced with a dashing pirate captain.
So I never saw the need to go all Rambo in the face of suburban unrest.
Until now.
Out in Texas, where the bad times are bigger, Taco Bell jacked up the price on the crunchy beef burritos an additional fifty cents. And if burritos are crunchy here in South Carolina, I can just imagine the crackle they carry deep in the heart of Texas.
And the man ordered seven. SEVEN BURRITOS. I don’t let my kids eat a taco without a license, and this man wanted to wolf down seven burritos surrounded by innocent byproducts.
The price gouging would add an extra three and a half bucks to his total. Highway robbery on a grand scale! So it’s perfectly understandable that this man—we’ll call him the Burrito Bandito just because it sounds big enough for Texas—brought out the firepower when he found out about the price increase.
Now I can work up a perfectly good pout over the price of gasoline, but this is gas of another color. When he headed out to his trusty energy-efficient ride and laid out his assault rifle on the sunroof, the Taco Bell manager, who probably has never played the role of bullseye, even on TV, locked up and called the police.
After a three-hour standoff at a nearby motel that did not provide room service, not even chips and salsa, to our amigo, the affair was settled.
The tacos still cost the same, but now there’s a bigger price. And the Burrito Bandito never did get his authentic American Mexican food. Which is probably a good thing.
Because, really, seven burritos? Now that’s assault with a deadly weapon.
Laugh
Showing posts with label movie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label movie. Show all posts
Monday, March 21, 2011
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Tales from Military School
In the practical joke system, there are two separate yet equally important groups: the perpetrators of practical jokes and the victims of those jokes. This is one of their stories.
I am not one for practical jokes, but when you attend military school with 150-200 other adolescent males, practical jokes are a way of life. Having a practical joker (PJ) for a room mate meant never being able to let your guard down, always coming back to your room as though you were entering a mine field or a small Viet-Cong-controlled village. After a while, this can wear a bit on the nerves, and homicide is contemplated.
If you want to avoid spending your formative years banged up in a juvenile corrections facility, you must deter the PJ, either by being eternally vigilant until he gets bored and searches elsewhere for victims, or by giving as good as you get.
The first strategy can be time-consuming. In a military school with few options for entertainment, the PJ has lots of incentive to to keep himself entertained at your expense. The second option carries the threat of escalation to the point of “mutually assured destruction," meaning you both wind up in the commandant’s office, followed by 30-50 hours of marching and a couple of hundred demerits a piece.
The only way to win using the second option is to retaliate at the first practical joke with massive overkill. Metaphorically speaking, this means responding to cross-border name calling with a squadron of ICBMs, leaving nothing but a smoking crater where your PJ was standing. This thwarts the desire of the PJ to escalate the war, since he really doesn’t want to find out what the next step up on the retaliation scale will be. Better yet, done in front of witnesses, this strategy makes other PJs think twice before engaging you, sending them in search of easier targets.
This was the strategy I adopted. I never went after anyone first, but I bloody well left terror and despair in my wake if fired upon.
I was a patient opportunist when applying this strategy. The PJ was always on his guard following any assault upon your dignity, and immediate counterattacks were contraindicated. I never made an elaborate plan for the response. I was simply patient and waited for the an opening, then improvised.
A friend of mine learned this first hand after subjecting me to a prank which, I must admit, was simple but effective.
I changed my underwear and waited my turn.
The year was 1976, and it was a cold November Saturday night. I was at the movie theatre.
Being a “day student” at my school meant I got to go home in the evenings and on weekends, whereas everyone else in school was constrained to the barracks, unless they got “town leave”. This was easy to obtain, providing one had not broken any of the myriad rules and regulations that are the epitome of military school life.
The movie was Carrie, and I loved horror movies.
I got this fondness for the macabre at an early age from my mother, who loved nothing more than a good scary movie. Easy on the gore, but buckets of blood was fine. From the age of literacy I had a steady diet of House of Mystery, The Phantom Stranger, Ghostly Tales, The Many Ghosts of Doctor Graves, etc. TV was filled with episodes of The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Sci-Fi Theatre, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and my all time favorite, The Night Stalker.
A few parents were horrified (sorry) by my tastes, especially when I told them I only got to read the comics after my Mom was through reading them. Other parents took their kids to Disney movies, but if there was an all-night horror fest at the drive-in, Mom and I were there.
Alas, Mom wasn’t with me that night, as she had to work that weekend. She was annoyed that she was going to miss Carrie, but movies in our town ran for only a week (this was in the days before “multi-plexes”). We had one theatre, and it showed a different movie every week. Occasionally, a really popular movie would run two weeks, but that was rare.
Mom gave me three dollars (I said it was 1976. A movie ticket was $1.50, drinks and candy $0.75, or three times the going rate outside the theatre. Some things DON’T change).
Where was I?
Oh, yes, at the 7:00 show, watching Carrie by myself.
Now, if you have never seen Carrie, you should go and rent it (or stream it), before reading the rest of this tale.
Go ahead, I’ll wait.
. . .
This was the first Stephen King novel to be adapted as a movie, and I (and my Mom) had somehow missed reading any of his books up to this point. But when Carrie was released, people were excited. Stephen King was scary, really intense, and this movie was supposed to be a faithful translation of the King novel.
And it was.
Especially the final scene. A last-second “gotcha” scared the wee wee out of you (this was before such things became cliche), by lulling you into inattention with a bright and cheery scene, then literally leaping at you from the grave.
If we delve into the Stephen King oeuvre, we see that King’s stylistic use of imagery. . .
Wait a minute! You! Yes, you on the left, behind the Control Panel icon. You didn’t go watch the movie, did you? You just went to YouTube and watched this clip:
Sigh! Folks today are SPOILED by the Internet.
What that clip doesn’t convey is that the movie segues from Carrie’s burning house, following a night of some pretty vicious people getting their due (any movie which kills John Travolta is OK with me), to a very bright scene with soothing music. Sue (played by Amy Irving) is the only person to survive Carrie’s vengeance, as she was the only person who treated her kindly. She walks to the site of Carrie’s burnt-out house, carrying flowers to lay in front of a “For Sale” sign shaped like a cross. But even in death, someone has mocked Carrie, scrawling “Carrie White burns in Hell” across the sign. Sue ignores this, then bends down to place the flowers.
That’s when Carrie’s bloody hand reaches out of the ground and grabs her. We cut to a hospital room, and Sue is screaming in her bed, while nurses try to restrain her.
Like I said earlier, this scene was really scary at the time, because no one else had done it before. These days every third horror flick pulls this stunt, and it only scares the teenyboppers who haven’t broken the parental controls on the cable box.
But back then, we didn’t see it coming.
Bright cheery scene, soft focus, lilting music...
BLOODY HAND REACHES FROM THE GRAVE AND GRABS THE HEROINE'S ARM!!!
People in the audience, men and women, screamed in abject terror. When the lights came up, people were pale, nervously trying to laugh off the fright.
More than one pair of bloomers were soiled that night, my friend.
Movie over, nothing left to do, but head out into the frigid November night and start for home.
Then, as I entered the lobby, I saw my friend (we'll call him Dave) at the ticket counter with his girlfriend.
Opportunity had knocked.
I faded from the lobby, retreating to the bathroom, and bided my time until the 9:00 show had started. I then returned to the theatre, sitting in the back, looking for my friend. The 9:00 movie played to an audience that took up a third of the available seating. Since people weren't forced to sit next to each other, they had formed little clumps of humanity, interspersed amongst the black Juju Fruit speckled seats.
Dave was down in front, three rows back, and in the center.
As the movie progressed, I noticed his girlfriend holding tighter to his arm, as the plot became darker and spookier. This was good, the perfect setting.
The movie reels spun on, and I watched the movie up to the point where I estimated I had ten minutes left. I slipped back to the bathroom, turned on the cold water tap, and let it run.
As I mentioned, it was a very cold night, and snow was still on the ground from a storm on Thursday. The bathroom pipes must not have been well insulated, as the water was COLD -- so cold, in fact, that my hand became painfully numb after a minute under the tap.
I gritted my teeth and kept the hand under the icy flow for a good five minutes, then stole back to the theatre.
I moved quickly down the aisle, slipped into the row just behind Dave, dropped to the sticky floor, and crawled to a spot just behind him.
And I waited.
As the last 45 seconds of the film started, the theatre shifted from darkness to near daylight, and Amy Irving walked across the yard to place her flowers. She bends down, and I wait for the sound I know is coming: The mass inhalation of an audience about to shriek in fright.
And then I grabbed Dave's leg.
I had snaked my way as far under the seat as I could and, as cautiously as possible, moved my hand up his pant leg without touching him. I wanted the area just above his sock, for my glacial, vice-like grip.
From my vantage point, I did not get to see how he moved, but I certainly heard him.
I have never to this day, ever, heard the sound he made come from another human being. It was more ululation than scream, kind of like Xena's war cry, but it went on for about seven seconds. Simultaneously, I heard the sound of something I also have not heard since: An audience taking a break from one shriek of terror, to start another, completely different one.
I am told by witnesses (his girlfriend) that his leg shot forward and he launched from his seat, vaulting over three rows, before careening onto the floor, trying to get away from his own leg. No slouch at moving from point A, to point B, while not actually transiting the space in between, the girlfriend moved perpendicular to her now departing boyfriend and wound up across the aisle and sprawled over three seats.
My friend is screaming.
The girlfriend is screaming.
The vox populi find their vox, with feeling.
Amy Irving is screaming, but I don't think anyone notices.
The audience has cleared a blast zone around my friend that is 15 rows deep with folks on the left and right section hugging the wall and each other.
Pandemonium erupts as people try to figure out what is happening.
I arise from my cramped position and behold my handiwork. My friend has not an ounce of color in his face. He looks up at me and the tumblers tumble into place. He raises a hand and points at me.
"YOU!" he hisses, with some considerable heat.
I chose this time to start laughing.
It was a full-throated, howling laughter. The type where your sides hurt, your eyes water, and you actually get a headache (though that may have been from my friend trying to kick the Oreos out of me when I collapsed to the floor in hysterics).
The audience reaction to the matter was confused and disorganized. Some folks figured out what was happening, and started laughing. Others were somewhat, shall we say, vexed. Actually, most were vexed, to be honest.
"THAT'S NOT FUNNY!", one fellow shouted several times. His companion, thought otherwise and wheezed out, "Yes, it is," as tears ran down his cheek and he held his side.
A couple of less-than-sporting types thought the police should be summoned, and I took that as my cue to depart via the exit door, stage right, Dave still beating on me into the night.
I think it was some time after the Christmas vacation before Dave saw the humor in the situation. From that day forward, he always looked for me when he entered a room, making sure I never sat behind him.
And for some reason, he took an irrational dislike to Stephen King.
David Allen is the Chief Minion of Dr. Miguelito Loveless, and is writing this stuff under duress. He is a professor emeritus of Computer Debuggery, and chair of the Department of Broken Home Economics at Miskatonic University (Go fighting cephalopods!). He holds a Masters in Computer Anger Management, and a Bachelors in Applied Computer Telephone Tech Support, with a minor in "Have you tried turning it off and on again?"
I am not one for practical jokes, but when you attend military school with 150-200 other adolescent males, practical jokes are a way of life. Having a practical joker (PJ) for a room mate meant never being able to let your guard down, always coming back to your room as though you were entering a mine field or a small Viet-Cong-controlled village. After a while, this can wear a bit on the nerves, and homicide is contemplated.
If you want to avoid spending your formative years banged up in a juvenile corrections facility, you must deter the PJ, either by being eternally vigilant until he gets bored and searches elsewhere for victims, or by giving as good as you get.
The first strategy can be time-consuming. In a military school with few options for entertainment, the PJ has lots of incentive to to keep himself entertained at your expense. The second option carries the threat of escalation to the point of “mutually assured destruction," meaning you both wind up in the commandant’s office, followed by 30-50 hours of marching and a couple of hundred demerits a piece.
The only way to win using the second option is to retaliate at the first practical joke with massive overkill. Metaphorically speaking, this means responding to cross-border name calling with a squadron of ICBMs, leaving nothing but a smoking crater where your PJ was standing. This thwarts the desire of the PJ to escalate the war, since he really doesn’t want to find out what the next step up on the retaliation scale will be. Better yet, done in front of witnesses, this strategy makes other PJs think twice before engaging you, sending them in search of easier targets.
This was the strategy I adopted. I never went after anyone first, but I bloody well left terror and despair in my wake if fired upon.
I was a patient opportunist when applying this strategy. The PJ was always on his guard following any assault upon your dignity, and immediate counterattacks were contraindicated. I never made an elaborate plan for the response. I was simply patient and waited for the an opening, then improvised.
A friend of mine learned this first hand after subjecting me to a prank which, I must admit, was simple but effective.
I changed my underwear and waited my turn.
The year was 1976, and it was a cold November Saturday night. I was at the movie theatre.
Being a “day student” at my school meant I got to go home in the evenings and on weekends, whereas everyone else in school was constrained to the barracks, unless they got “town leave”. This was easy to obtain, providing one had not broken any of the myriad rules and regulations that are the epitome of military school life.
The movie was Carrie, and I loved horror movies.
I got this fondness for the macabre at an early age from my mother, who loved nothing more than a good scary movie. Easy on the gore, but buckets of blood was fine. From the age of literacy I had a steady diet of House of Mystery, The Phantom Stranger, Ghostly Tales, The Many Ghosts of Doctor Graves, etc. TV was filled with episodes of The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Sci-Fi Theatre, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and my all time favorite, The Night Stalker.
A few parents were horrified (sorry) by my tastes, especially when I told them I only got to read the comics after my Mom was through reading them. Other parents took their kids to Disney movies, but if there was an all-night horror fest at the drive-in, Mom and I were there.
Alas, Mom wasn’t with me that night, as she had to work that weekend. She was annoyed that she was going to miss Carrie, but movies in our town ran for only a week (this was in the days before “multi-plexes”). We had one theatre, and it showed a different movie every week. Occasionally, a really popular movie would run two weeks, but that was rare.
Mom gave me three dollars (I said it was 1976. A movie ticket was $1.50, drinks and candy $0.75, or three times the going rate outside the theatre. Some things DON’T change).
Where was I?
Oh, yes, at the 7:00 show, watching Carrie by myself.
Now, if you have never seen Carrie, you should go and rent it (or stream it), before reading the rest of this tale.
Go ahead, I’ll wait.
. . .
This was the first Stephen King novel to be adapted as a movie, and I (and my Mom) had somehow missed reading any of his books up to this point. But when Carrie was released, people were excited. Stephen King was scary, really intense, and this movie was supposed to be a faithful translation of the King novel.
And it was.
Especially the final scene. A last-second “gotcha” scared the wee wee out of you (this was before such things became cliche), by lulling you into inattention with a bright and cheery scene, then literally leaping at you from the grave.
If we delve into the Stephen King oeuvre, we see that King’s stylistic use of imagery. . .
Wait a minute! You! Yes, you on the left, behind the Control Panel icon. You didn’t go watch the movie, did you? You just went to YouTube and watched this clip:
Sigh! Folks today are SPOILED by the Internet.
What that clip doesn’t convey is that the movie segues from Carrie’s burning house, following a night of some pretty vicious people getting their due (any movie which kills John Travolta is OK with me), to a very bright scene with soothing music. Sue (played by Amy Irving) is the only person to survive Carrie’s vengeance, as she was the only person who treated her kindly. She walks to the site of Carrie’s burnt-out house, carrying flowers to lay in front of a “For Sale” sign shaped like a cross. But even in death, someone has mocked Carrie, scrawling “Carrie White burns in Hell” across the sign. Sue ignores this, then bends down to place the flowers.
That’s when Carrie’s bloody hand reaches out of the ground and grabs her. We cut to a hospital room, and Sue is screaming in her bed, while nurses try to restrain her.
Like I said earlier, this scene was really scary at the time, because no one else had done it before. These days every third horror flick pulls this stunt, and it only scares the teenyboppers who haven’t broken the parental controls on the cable box.
But back then, we didn’t see it coming.
Bright cheery scene, soft focus, lilting music...
BLOODY HAND REACHES FROM THE GRAVE AND GRABS THE HEROINE'S ARM!!!
People in the audience, men and women, screamed in abject terror. When the lights came up, people were pale, nervously trying to laugh off the fright.
More than one pair of bloomers were soiled that night, my friend.
Movie over, nothing left to do, but head out into the frigid November night and start for home.
Then, as I entered the lobby, I saw my friend (we'll call him Dave) at the ticket counter with his girlfriend.
Opportunity had knocked.
I faded from the lobby, retreating to the bathroom, and bided my time until the 9:00 show had started. I then returned to the theatre, sitting in the back, looking for my friend. The 9:00 movie played to an audience that took up a third of the available seating. Since people weren't forced to sit next to each other, they had formed little clumps of humanity, interspersed amongst the black Juju Fruit speckled seats.
Dave was down in front, three rows back, and in the center.
As the movie progressed, I noticed his girlfriend holding tighter to his arm, as the plot became darker and spookier. This was good, the perfect setting.
The movie reels spun on, and I watched the movie up to the point where I estimated I had ten minutes left. I slipped back to the bathroom, turned on the cold water tap, and let it run.
As I mentioned, it was a very cold night, and snow was still on the ground from a storm on Thursday. The bathroom pipes must not have been well insulated, as the water was COLD -- so cold, in fact, that my hand became painfully numb after a minute under the tap.
I gritted my teeth and kept the hand under the icy flow for a good five minutes, then stole back to the theatre.
I moved quickly down the aisle, slipped into the row just behind Dave, dropped to the sticky floor, and crawled to a spot just behind him.
And I waited.
As the last 45 seconds of the film started, the theatre shifted from darkness to near daylight, and Amy Irving walked across the yard to place her flowers. She bends down, and I wait for the sound I know is coming: The mass inhalation of an audience about to shriek in fright.
And then I grabbed Dave's leg.
I had snaked my way as far under the seat as I could and, as cautiously as possible, moved my hand up his pant leg without touching him. I wanted the area just above his sock, for my glacial, vice-like grip.
From my vantage point, I did not get to see how he moved, but I certainly heard him.
I have never to this day, ever, heard the sound he made come from another human being. It was more ululation than scream, kind of like Xena's war cry, but it went on for about seven seconds. Simultaneously, I heard the sound of something I also have not heard since: An audience taking a break from one shriek of terror, to start another, completely different one.
I am told by witnesses (his girlfriend) that his leg shot forward and he launched from his seat, vaulting over three rows, before careening onto the floor, trying to get away from his own leg. No slouch at moving from point A, to point B, while not actually transiting the space in between, the girlfriend moved perpendicular to her now departing boyfriend and wound up across the aisle and sprawled over three seats.
My friend is screaming.
The girlfriend is screaming.
The vox populi find their vox, with feeling.
Amy Irving is screaming, but I don't think anyone notices.
The audience has cleared a blast zone around my friend that is 15 rows deep with folks on the left and right section hugging the wall and each other.
Pandemonium erupts as people try to figure out what is happening.
I arise from my cramped position and behold my handiwork. My friend has not an ounce of color in his face. He looks up at me and the tumblers tumble into place. He raises a hand and points at me.
"YOU!" he hisses, with some considerable heat.
I chose this time to start laughing.
It was a full-throated, howling laughter. The type where your sides hurt, your eyes water, and you actually get a headache (though that may have been from my friend trying to kick the Oreos out of me when I collapsed to the floor in hysterics).
The audience reaction to the matter was confused and disorganized. Some folks figured out what was happening, and started laughing. Others were somewhat, shall we say, vexed. Actually, most were vexed, to be honest.
"THAT'S NOT FUNNY!", one fellow shouted several times. His companion, thought otherwise and wheezed out, "Yes, it is," as tears ran down his cheek and he held his side.
A couple of less-than-sporting types thought the police should be summoned, and I took that as my cue to depart via the exit door, stage right, Dave still beating on me into the night.
I think it was some time after the Christmas vacation before Dave saw the humor in the situation. From that day forward, he always looked for me when he entered a room, making sure I never sat behind him.
And for some reason, he took an irrational dislike to Stephen King.
David Allen is the Chief Minion of Dr. Miguelito Loveless, and is writing this stuff under duress. He is a professor emeritus of Computer Debuggery, and chair of the Department of Broken Home Economics at Miskatonic University (Go fighting cephalopods!). He holds a Masters in Computer Anger Management, and a Bachelors in Applied Computer Telephone Tech Support, with a minor in "Have you tried turning it off and on again?"
Monday, March 15, 2010
I'll Take "No Clue" for $100, Alex
Because it’s human nature to forget pain, and also because I have the memory retention of an aquarium-based goldfish, I gather the family together in front of the TV every night to feed my Jeopardy addiction.
I may not rinse and spin with any degree of regularity, and if it's going to take me past starting time, the roast may just come out of the oven at half past rare, but at 7:30 Alex Trebek is going to find me poised on the edge of the recliner screaming, “Dust Bunnies for $100!”
I’m a perennial loser at Trivial Pursuit, I don’t store random facts about movie titles away in my cheeks for the winter, and I’m at the point in life when I have to slap a sticky note on my forehead to remind me why I’m looking in the mirror, but I’m going to get the video clue to finish out the category or die.
Meanwhile, my husband and two sons, human memory dumps in baseball caps, are spouting off the answers to history, science, and technology questions like it’s the entrance exam to Romper Room. By the time I get to answer a question, the Jeopardy music is giving way to a commercial featuring a bear in the woods.
I was an English Major. I can compare and contrast diction and theme in Shakespeare and Chaucer with one poet tied behind my back, but give me three seconds to come up with the name of Tex Ritter’s horse and I crash and burn.
The show ends, high fives are awarded all around and the living room empties. I feel like the last kid on the school bus.
“Oh sure, everybody leaves now,” I snarl. “I was about to stage a come from behind victory.”
“The show’s over, Mom.”
“Why don’t they have essay questions?”
“Because Alex Trebek is getting older. He doesn’t have enough time left to grade papers.”
That hurts. Alex was my first love. If it were up to him, I’d probably be the Vanna White of the light up board.
I pop back in the recliner, grab a handy copy of War and Peace and prepare to do some light reading.
I’ll get ’em tomorrow. Double Jeopardy or nothing.
I may not rinse and spin with any degree of regularity, and if it's going to take me past starting time, the roast may just come out of the oven at half past rare, but at 7:30 Alex Trebek is going to find me poised on the edge of the recliner screaming, “Dust Bunnies for $100!”
I’m a perennial loser at Trivial Pursuit, I don’t store random facts about movie titles away in my cheeks for the winter, and I’m at the point in life when I have to slap a sticky note on my forehead to remind me why I’m looking in the mirror, but I’m going to get the video clue to finish out the category or die.
Meanwhile, my husband and two sons, human memory dumps in baseball caps, are spouting off the answers to history, science, and technology questions like it’s the entrance exam to Romper Room. By the time I get to answer a question, the Jeopardy music is giving way to a commercial featuring a bear in the woods.
I was an English Major. I can compare and contrast diction and theme in Shakespeare and Chaucer with one poet tied behind my back, but give me three seconds to come up with the name of Tex Ritter’s horse and I crash and burn.
The show ends, high fives are awarded all around and the living room empties. I feel like the last kid on the school bus.
“Oh sure, everybody leaves now,” I snarl. “I was about to stage a come from behind victory.”
“The show’s over, Mom.”
“Why don’t they have essay questions?”
“Because Alex Trebek is getting older. He doesn’t have enough time left to grade papers.”
That hurts. Alex was my first love. If it were up to him, I’d probably be the Vanna White of the light up board.
I pop back in the recliner, grab a handy copy of War and Peace and prepare to do some light reading.
I’ll get ’em tomorrow. Double Jeopardy or nothing.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day, Captain!
Dating for Baby Boomers is a lot different than dating for teenagers. Teenagers may say they're hanging out, but Baby Boomers really do. I should know—these days I spend a major portion of my life trying to cover it all up. To me, a belly shirt is something that rides up in the front when I pull the shirttail down in the back and is more an item I would wear to ward off would-be attackers than out to a seven-screen cinema on Saturday night.
When teenagers say they’re going to see a movie, they mean an action flick where the main action is blood loss. Baby boomers experience blood loss when we stand up too fast and all of our platelets stage an intervention around our ankles. Teenagers go to a Counting Crows concert and play air guitar. Baby Boomers count crows feet and go to see the Eagles farewell tour. (Unless we can find it on HBO. Then we watch it from our recliner, wake up at the end of the show and say, “Now THAT’S music,” as we gather our pillows and head up the stairs to bed.)
The younger generation thinks midnight is the new sunset. By the time the clock on the mantle strikes 12 at my house, I’ve been in bed long enough to have pillowcase creases on my cheeks. I realized the difference in mindset one wild weekend when The Captain of My Love Boat and I planned an adult extravaganza to keep the current flowing to the old spark plugs. Both of our teenaged sons were gone for the weekend, so with a hot date in mind and free access to the car, we headed out with high hopes and no curfew. Friday night we went to Wal-Mart and bought a box of those nose strips you put on at bedtime so you don’t sound like an asthmatic mountain goat.
We were going to go out to eat, but we were both so tired from the Wal-Mart excursion that we went home, had a peanut butter sandwich and went to bed, where we slept soundly until 2 a.m. when we passed each other in the darkened hallway during bathroom breaks. Thus rested, we were able to venture out to the mall Saturday night where we shared a combo meal at the food court, got a smoothie for dessert and walked to the electronics store to see if the batteries were on sale. Then we went home and went to bed. I woke Bill up about an hour later trying to put one of those nose strips on him without turning on the light. My aim must have been a little off because when I got through, he wasn’t able to close his eyes for the rest of the night.
So let the teenagers have action-packed movie dates at the mall. As for the two of us, we’ll always have WalMart. And a relationship where we stick together like a no-snore nose strip.
When teenagers say they’re going to see a movie, they mean an action flick where the main action is blood loss. Baby boomers experience blood loss when we stand up too fast and all of our platelets stage an intervention around our ankles. Teenagers go to a Counting Crows concert and play air guitar. Baby Boomers count crows feet and go to see the Eagles farewell tour. (Unless we can find it on HBO. Then we watch it from our recliner, wake up at the end of the show and say, “Now THAT’S music,” as we gather our pillows and head up the stairs to bed.)
The younger generation thinks midnight is the new sunset. By the time the clock on the mantle strikes 12 at my house, I’ve been in bed long enough to have pillowcase creases on my cheeks. I realized the difference in mindset one wild weekend when The Captain of My Love Boat and I planned an adult extravaganza to keep the current flowing to the old spark plugs. Both of our teenaged sons were gone for the weekend, so with a hot date in mind and free access to the car, we headed out with high hopes and no curfew. Friday night we went to Wal-Mart and bought a box of those nose strips you put on at bedtime so you don’t sound like an asthmatic mountain goat.
We were going to go out to eat, but we were both so tired from the Wal-Mart excursion that we went home, had a peanut butter sandwich and went to bed, where we slept soundly until 2 a.m. when we passed each other in the darkened hallway during bathroom breaks. Thus rested, we were able to venture out to the mall Saturday night where we shared a combo meal at the food court, got a smoothie for dessert and walked to the electronics store to see if the batteries were on sale. Then we went home and went to bed. I woke Bill up about an hour later trying to put one of those nose strips on him without turning on the light. My aim must have been a little off because when I got through, he wasn’t able to close his eyes for the rest of the night.
So let the teenagers have action-packed movie dates at the mall. As for the two of us, we’ll always have WalMart. And a relationship where we stick together like a no-snore nose strip.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Oprah Envy
I don’t hate Oprah because she’s worth more money than major studios rake in by making movies about attractive, charmingly incompetent pirates. I don’t even hate her because she has a house big enough that if she weren’t speaking to her husband, supposing she’d found a nice model for a good price on Ro-Day-O Drive, he wouldn’t know for six months. Or because she can speed dial any number of people who can prevent her from ever having a bad hair day.
I hate her because she can afford to gain weight.
There are three sections in my closet. To the right are clothes that I have worn within recent history—which includes the eras that boasted Edith and Archie Bunker, Sonny and Cher, and the Beatles. With enough time and dedication to the study of fat content on spaghetti sauce labels and ice cream wrappers, I might wear these clothes again. I might also don a tricorn hat and sail with Johnny Depp on his next voyage, but that's beside the point.
The middle section of the closet is devoted to clothes I can wear right now. This section contains a pair of faded blue jeans, the black top my niece gave me with a buckle that’s guaranteed to draw the eyesight of innocent bystanders away from unsightly ripples in the terrain, and six pairs of stretchy pants.
The section to the left holds selections for days of bloat, hormone fluctuation, and random binges of drinking whole milk. My fat clothes.
My budget allows me these three small sections, although there are days when the power bill, car payment, and rent deadline band together like wayward musketeers to encourage me to sell the buckle shirt on eBay. I dream of a day when there’s enough money left after the cable bundle that I feel comfortable throwing out the bra with the broken wire.
I imagine Oprah’s closets. She probably has whole rooms devoted to different sizes of clothing. If she has an off day and, say, indulges in salad dressing or puts a dab of sour cream on her potato, she goes to the blue closet and pulls out a clever chiffon that skims the hips, conceals arm pendulums, and erases under eye circles.
Last week I went for a walk on the wild side, the closest thing I have to a workout plan, and plunged a chip deep into the salsa at the Mexican restaurant. Without a single thought for future wardrobe planning, I ate the whole thing without sharing a crumb with anyone else, including my lap. Today my jeans wouldn’t zip, my blouse wouldn’t button, and my Victorias threatened to spill their secret.
My life will never be like Oprah’s. Maybe I’ll try for Jerry Springer’s. If my clothes have a story to tell, let them tell it to somebody who will make the most of it.
I hate her because she can afford to gain weight.
There are three sections in my closet. To the right are clothes that I have worn within recent history—which includes the eras that boasted Edith and Archie Bunker, Sonny and Cher, and the Beatles. With enough time and dedication to the study of fat content on spaghetti sauce labels and ice cream wrappers, I might wear these clothes again. I might also don a tricorn hat and sail with Johnny Depp on his next voyage, but that's beside the point.
The middle section of the closet is devoted to clothes I can wear right now. This section contains a pair of faded blue jeans, the black top my niece gave me with a buckle that’s guaranteed to draw the eyesight of innocent bystanders away from unsightly ripples in the terrain, and six pairs of stretchy pants.
The section to the left holds selections for days of bloat, hormone fluctuation, and random binges of drinking whole milk. My fat clothes.
My budget allows me these three small sections, although there are days when the power bill, car payment, and rent deadline band together like wayward musketeers to encourage me to sell the buckle shirt on eBay. I dream of a day when there’s enough money left after the cable bundle that I feel comfortable throwing out the bra with the broken wire.
I imagine Oprah’s closets. She probably has whole rooms devoted to different sizes of clothing. If she has an off day and, say, indulges in salad dressing or puts a dab of sour cream on her potato, she goes to the blue closet and pulls out a clever chiffon that skims the hips, conceals arm pendulums, and erases under eye circles.
Last week I went for a walk on the wild side, the closest thing I have to a workout plan, and plunged a chip deep into the salsa at the Mexican restaurant. Without a single thought for future wardrobe planning, I ate the whole thing without sharing a crumb with anyone else, including my lap. Today my jeans wouldn’t zip, my blouse wouldn’t button, and my Victorias threatened to spill their secret.
My life will never be like Oprah’s. Maybe I’ll try for Jerry Springer’s. If my clothes have a story to tell, let them tell it to somebody who will make the most of it.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A Close Shave
Back in my day when men carried wallets instead of purses, it was commonly thought that if a man had enough spare time to shave his back, he was either a ward of the state or he was living off Mama’s welfare earnings while she made pot roast and homemade yeast rolls with cream puffs for dessert.
Any man caught moisturizing body parts that Nice People couldn’t see would be subject to ridicule and excommunication from his bowling team. In extreme cases, license to own and drive muscle cars would be suspended. I know of one man who shaved his body to satisfy the whim of a roller skate waitress at the new drive-in. She was later caught pulling on the pony tail of a Harley biker at the drive through.
I come from a section of the country where any male over the age of 21 who doesn’t have a scar that precludes hair from growing on some part of his body is considered a Mama’s Boy and is subject to exclusion from all-you-can-eat wing night with the guys. Show me a man who shaves his face, waxes his chest, tweezes his eyebrows, and has his legs lasered, and I’ll show you the next winner on Project Runway.
Really, I’m just being self serving about the whole thing. In these days when it’s the fashion for men to keep their body slicker than an icicle, there’s nothing to keep the surface temperature at a desirable level once frost dusts the peaks and points. I like a man with some heat conductors left intact. When winter comes and my behind is colder than a Butterball turkey the week before Thanksgiving, I want to know that I’m snuggling up to somebody who doesn’t think of defrost exclusively as a microwave activity.
But for now it’s warm and winter is way beyond the horizon, so I'll just while away my time watching all the Hollywood hunks in the summer movies. I’ll start with Wolverine.
A little hair of the dog never hurt anyone.
Any man caught moisturizing body parts that Nice People couldn’t see would be subject to ridicule and excommunication from his bowling team. In extreme cases, license to own and drive muscle cars would be suspended. I know of one man who shaved his body to satisfy the whim of a roller skate waitress at the new drive-in. She was later caught pulling on the pony tail of a Harley biker at the drive through.
I come from a section of the country where any male over the age of 21 who doesn’t have a scar that precludes hair from growing on some part of his body is considered a Mama’s Boy and is subject to exclusion from all-you-can-eat wing night with the guys. Show me a man who shaves his face, waxes his chest, tweezes his eyebrows, and has his legs lasered, and I’ll show you the next winner on Project Runway.
Really, I’m just being self serving about the whole thing. In these days when it’s the fashion for men to keep their body slicker than an icicle, there’s nothing to keep the surface temperature at a desirable level once frost dusts the peaks and points. I like a man with some heat conductors left intact. When winter comes and my behind is colder than a Butterball turkey the week before Thanksgiving, I want to know that I’m snuggling up to somebody who doesn’t think of defrost exclusively as a microwave activity.
But for now it’s warm and winter is way beyond the horizon, so I'll just while away my time watching all the Hollywood hunks in the summer movies. I’ll start with Wolverine.
A little hair of the dog never hurt anyone.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Super Powers
Every time the kids go see a movie where some grown man is pulling on a mask and a pair of stretch pants to head out to the streets for an evening of crime fighting, they come home discussing how great it would be to have super powers. I’ve been on the pulling side of stretch pants many times in my life and I can tell you right now that if you can get the deceitful things on without blowing out a seam or rupturing a kidney, you already have superpowers. If you can do it without ruining a new manicure, you can be leader of the team.
The last time I tried to put on a pair of stretch jeans, I lost two press-on nails, a layer of fake tan, and three pounds in sweat currency. When I stood up, I realized I hadn’t put on my shoes. Basic science and a hearty dose of common sense told me that if I bent over, the ensuing explosion would result in a pair of shredded pants hanging from an elastic waistband. Don’t tell me I don’t know how the Hulk feels. I went barefoot that day.
I do have a certain reverence for Superman, though. Anybody who can change into blue tights and a red Speedo in 2.5 seconds in a telephone booth possesses some natural skills. However due to changes in technology, there are precious few telephone booths in existence, and I just can’t see the whole scenario having the same effect if Superman dashed into a Sprint kiosk at the mall. Superman is apt to emerge from the booth with six rows of sparkly phone bling, a Velcro carrying case with snap-tight closure, and a weekend of free anytime minutes.
Dressing myself is a remarkable talent, but not my only claim to extraneous powers. I can tell by the ring of my cell phone if Son Number 1 had an unfortunate encounter with the steamer at work, Son 2 needs money for gas, or the cat just produced a bouncing baby hairball in an undisclosed but widely traveled location in my newly carpeted hallway. My Mom-sense gives me a jolt when, somewhere in my living room, a child is feeding toxic-gas-producing hot dogs to the Dachshund. And I feel an overwhelming disturbance in the Force when anyone related to me by blood, marriage, or pet adoption dries their sneakers in the toaster.
All in all, I find that movie-type superpowers are over-rated. I never saw a single member of the Fantasic Four who could remove a jelly glass from the flushomatic on the first try. For that, you need a lot more than a cape and coloredy support hose.
You need a Mom with the plumber on speed dial.
The last time I tried to put on a pair of stretch jeans, I lost two press-on nails, a layer of fake tan, and three pounds in sweat currency. When I stood up, I realized I hadn’t put on my shoes. Basic science and a hearty dose of common sense told me that if I bent over, the ensuing explosion would result in a pair of shredded pants hanging from an elastic waistband. Don’t tell me I don’t know how the Hulk feels. I went barefoot that day.
I do have a certain reverence for Superman, though. Anybody who can change into blue tights and a red Speedo in 2.5 seconds in a telephone booth possesses some natural skills. However due to changes in technology, there are precious few telephone booths in existence, and I just can’t see the whole scenario having the same effect if Superman dashed into a Sprint kiosk at the mall. Superman is apt to emerge from the booth with six rows of sparkly phone bling, a Velcro carrying case with snap-tight closure, and a weekend of free anytime minutes.
Dressing myself is a remarkable talent, but not my only claim to extraneous powers. I can tell by the ring of my cell phone if Son Number 1 had an unfortunate encounter with the steamer at work, Son 2 needs money for gas, or the cat just produced a bouncing baby hairball in an undisclosed but widely traveled location in my newly carpeted hallway. My Mom-sense gives me a jolt when, somewhere in my living room, a child is feeding toxic-gas-producing hot dogs to the Dachshund. And I feel an overwhelming disturbance in the Force when anyone related to me by blood, marriage, or pet adoption dries their sneakers in the toaster.
All in all, I find that movie-type superpowers are over-rated. I never saw a single member of the Fantasic Four who could remove a jelly glass from the flushomatic on the first try. For that, you need a lot more than a cape and coloredy support hose.
You need a Mom with the plumber on speed dial.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
You Might Be A Parent If. . .
You have ever stood toe to toe with another adult at Christmas time, clutching the last action figure on the shelf at Wal-Mart and spewing spittle into one another’s face, because that action figure is second only to "Surprises" on The List.
You have ever entertained ten cake-throwing preschoolers wearing party hats in your living room so that Johnny will have warm birthday memories and extra presents.
You have ever sat through three showings of Pokemon, The Movie because it’s Precious Child’s favorite film.
You have ever stood in line during your lunch hour to exchange the Spiderman bookbag for the Iron Man bookbag because NOBODY has a Spiderman bookbag. (Feel free to substitute Barney, Dora the Explorer, Bob the Builder or your own animated choice.)
You have ever taken time off work to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Parent’s Lunch Day at second grade.
You have ever thought the sixth grade band played the most beautiful and spirited version of Frosty the Snowman that has ever been witnessed the world over.
You have ever worked overtime to make up for the time you were late taking Billy’s lunchbox to school because he left it in your car and you know they’re having ugly food in the school cafeteria.
You have ever climbed into the driver’s seat of your car only to come in contact with the business end of GI Joe’s assault weapon.
You have ever told one child not to “look at,” “touch,” or “smile at” another child?
You have ever uttered the words “Because I Said So!” because if you said what you were really thinking it would scar the listener--and bind your psyche with guilt--for life.
You have ever entertained ten cake-throwing preschoolers wearing party hats in your living room so that Johnny will have warm birthday memories and extra presents.
You have ever sat through three showings of Pokemon, The Movie because it’s Precious Child’s favorite film.
You have ever stood in line during your lunch hour to exchange the Spiderman bookbag for the Iron Man bookbag because NOBODY has a Spiderman bookbag. (Feel free to substitute Barney, Dora the Explorer, Bob the Builder or your own animated choice.)
You have ever taken time off work to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Parent’s Lunch Day at second grade.
You have ever thought the sixth grade band played the most beautiful and spirited version of Frosty the Snowman that has ever been witnessed the world over.
You have ever worked overtime to make up for the time you were late taking Billy’s lunchbox to school because he left it in your car and you know they’re having ugly food in the school cafeteria.
You have ever climbed into the driver’s seat of your car only to come in contact with the business end of GI Joe’s assault weapon.
You have ever told one child not to “look at,” “touch,” or “smile at” another child?
You have ever uttered the words “Because I Said So!” because if you said what you were really thinking it would scar the listener--and bind your psyche with guilt--for life.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Driving Bigfoot
It’s traumatic enough to teach a teenage boy to drive without having to do it during a period of time when oil sells for more per barrel than the movie Titanic grossed during its entire run—including endorsements, action figures, and Leonardo DeCaprio’s autograph on a commission check. When my son put his size 72 foot (appendages on the accelerator may be larger than they appear when peeking through my fingers) on the gas pedal, he burned $27.50 of premium unleaded and left a skid mark in my driveway composed of the entire collection of Commemorative State Quarters. At the stoplight he revved the engine and the smell of burning presidents filled the air like fake butter scent at a movie matinee. Counting the meager stash left in my wallet, I couldn’t help hoping he caught on quickly to the concept of three-point turns. Besides, I needed to get to the bank before closing time. I wanted to take out a loan to teach him to parallel park.
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