I took the Kid to see Hugo in 3D after ripping into our lottery winnings in our mattress. The movie was great in a very dontwealllovethemovies kinda way. If you go, be on time or you’ll never have me as your movie date because the opening shot in 3D is the highlight of the film, imo.

But this post is not about the movie. It’s about the concession stand. What they think we are not seeing them do there.

First off, I am a popcorn fiend. I admit it. I am powerless to it. So, I usually always get some at the movies, however nasty it may be. I said I’m powerless, you judgey judgers! Plus, concessions is where the exhibitors make their money, and haven’t you heard, the movie business is in trouble, so I’m doing my part.

But what amazes me is how they serve up those golden morsels nowadays. They lift the scoop of popcorn highohsohigh above the bucket and let those popped fluffballs of joy float, single file, down, down, down. Leaving as much air in the bucket as possible while still remaining on Planet Earth.

Now, if you’re 15, this is The Way It’s Always Been. But if you’re 29, like me, you have not forgotten the days when they were not so lovingly tender with the corn.

They roughly scooped, slapped it down in the bucket, and scooped some more. And then, they’d pound the bucket on the counter several times like they’re about to make a free throw shot with 1 second to go to settle the corn and make room for yet another incoming scoop of popcorn.

I am not shitting you. That is how it was done. It was a beautiful thing. Ask your dad.

Now that I’ve written this, honestly, I’m lost in my movie concession stand reverie, so talk amongst yourselves. *sigh*

Do you have any great memories of going to the movies?

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It is . . . my pink scarf.

To be honest, once I realized my powers I felt a tad guilty, but hey, I got over that…

Here’s the deal. Whenever I wear my scarf, whenever wherever, someone tells me how awesome it is. They can’t help it.

So, now, I put it on every day wondering what unsuspecting innocent will be my victim? (Last time it took 1 hour, and that included 40 minutes of driving alone).

And when they find I-like-your-scarf or what-a-pretty-scarf involuntarily pouring out of their mouths, I say Thank You and smile graciously on the outside while I’m MWA-HA-HA-HAAAAA’ing and mentally putting another notch in my scarf-conquering belt inside.

But I wanted to gloat share this insight because maybe you, too, have those times when you feel blue, or your prescription ran out you need a tiny boost from a total stranger in order to feel better about yourself.

My advice is this: Get your own an awesome scarf, because you ain’t getting mine a) getting compliments feel good, b) manipulating the human race feels good, and c) having just one thought of hopeful expectation for your day was one of Oprah’s favorite things may save on your liquor store bill.
No promises on c).

Yes? What’s that? I’m listening…

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It’s not you. It’s me. It’s actually you.

I had hoped we could have some fun together, but I’m seeing problems now that are hard to ignore. For starters, you’re totally obsessed with the children of the world. Day and night, night and day, they seem to be all you think about. How is an ordinary and somewhat high maintenance woman to compete?

But it’s not just that. You’re, shall we say, a tad judgmental about it all. Naughty, nice, good, bad, all your love is completely conditional. I’m sure if you held me to that standard, I’d be getting that famous lump of coal, coal you like to coerce behavior with, coal you make those poor elves mine.

Which brings me to the elves. The more I know them, the more they seem like slaves. There’s really no payroll, is there? Sure they sing while they work, but I can’t get comfortable with that. How do you sleep at night?

Actually, between the snoring and the sleep apnea, you don’t. You should consider a better health regime, San. I’m sure once you drop out of the obese category, you’ll sleep better. That and getting Rudolph off the bed. I know he’s your favorite, but still. Hello? Antlers. Plus, sitting around 364 days and then an insane energy burst one day of the year would not be good for anyone.

Anyway, I’m sorry it’s not working out. Maybe you just need someone better suited to your lifestyle. I know you said it’s a marriage in name only, but you may have been on to something with that Mrs. Claus in the first place. She’s certainly tolerant, if nothing else. I bet if you put some effort out, she may come back from St. Thomas. That chief elf couldn’t really mean anything to her.

Best of luck to you,
Me

P.S., My kid would love an iPad2 and an Xbox 360 with Kinect. Thanks bunches!

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Does anyone like endings? They seem to just stress us out and make us reach for a big, stiff hey, hey watch your language, buddy drink, I was gonna say.
If you’re over the age of nine months days, you know that they are a huge drag. Can you ever feel happy about an ending? Well, possibly a few people can, I guess…
But we’re not talking about them. Pay attention.

We non-paying customers seem to voluntarily head straight into things that seem good or enriching or fun, but clearly have an ending. Relationships, vacations, chocolate chocolate cake…but my best example for pretty much everything is television.

Pick a show you love. Watch it. Think about the characters in your off-time you do that, too, right?. Get involved. Guess what? Canceled! Even those stalwart classics that we thought would never end, do , I’m looking at you As the World Turns.
Yes, we’re completely bummed and left with a big, empty feeling when our show is done.

And yet, what do we do?

Thanks to Netflix, not only do we start watching shows again, we pick shows that we already know before we even watch Episode 1 have been canceled.
And frankly, no matter how many times I watch that Firefly series, knowing it will end, I nonetheless feel surprised and ripped off when I get to the last episode.

So, what do we do with that? We mourn, we pace around, we vent, we grieve, we vent we polish off that bottle of malbec, we shake our heads at the injustice, and then like a strung-out addict in a filthy, back alley with two dollars, a friend and a rat scurrying across our ankles, we go back to search Netflix for more.
Surely, this time we won’t be disappointed…

Got any new (or “new” old) shows you’re watching this fall?

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But every now and then one pops up from the outside, directly in your face.

And what is a blog for if not to vent about idiots? I mean, really, I could lose my blogger membership card if I miss this opportunity.

Here’s my most recent idiot encounter:

So, I’m taking another improv class in a complex scheme to avoid housework, taught by him here, and one of the students is a guy who’s been in a couple of other improv classes with me. We won’t name names, but let’s just say his name rhymes with “gall.”

We hadn’t been in a class together for at least six months, I’m a little nervous about not censoring myself like I do to live in my world, and Gall sits down next to me.

Hey, how’s it going, Gall? I say.

Oh, great…been seeing some plays, this and this… Have you seen those?

No, I’m doing good getting here, ya know.

Do you have kids?

Yea, I have an eight year old.

YOU have an eight year old?? Sheer shock at this modern medical miracle began to register on his old face.

As I see this I start to think, just how old do you think I am??

Have you ever thought of coloring your hair? I mean, you could look at least ten years younger!

Gee, Gall, have you ever thought of penis enlargement surgery?

Well, actually, some people compliment me on my silver hair…

He rolls his eyes (!) in a you’re-gonna-believe-that? and that my wife left me? look.

Mind if I ask you a personal question because I have no social chip in my head and I’ll keep going until you shoot me?

You mean another?? I say.

How old are you?

I’m 39, or possibly just barely 45.

[Audible gasp] I hoped thought you were at least 55 and single!

I grab my right hip.

Do you think I need to go on a diet, too, and get rid of this, you fr*&%#in idiot??

I confess, face-to-face, I am a relatively sweet particularly when sober Texas girl who gets speechless at others’ less-than-polite commentary. Hence, the improv classes.

What do you do with these people when they pop up??!

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Well, years have passed with this here blog…and I’m still waiting.
*fingernails tap tap tapping*

In fact, this week officially marked another one, a birthday for little ol’ me. Okay, perhaps it should be just “old me.”

While having a margarita with a couple of friends, they surprised me with “birthday speech!” “birthday speech!”

Just ask the Hubs about me and impromptu words (hint: when surprised by our rent-a-minister saying “you can now add your own vows” during our marriage in Belize, a stunned and speechless me let the Hubs go first. And what jewel did I say after? “Uh, can I ditto?”).

There’s a reason I take improv classes…

And what wise morsels did I, a more mature Wendy, dish out for my birthday well-wishers this week?

Errrrr, the older you get, the less you know!

and

I realize now how little control you have over pretty much everything in life!

Uplifting stuff, yes? That might explain the silent, disappointed gazes…

Years ago, I thought life was a learning curve, steep at first and then totally flattening out, and then you just are.

But again I was wrong.

I’d say now that life is more like a dig, for discovering things, mostly things closely related inside you, like yourself.

And everyone is doing it, whether you are hammering with a chisel on that rock that is you, or just sitting by a river that flows rapid and rough during storms or calm and peaceful on summer days. Excess rock gets removed to reveal more of your true form in every moment, in each breeze.

So, surprise! Maybe, if you’re lucky and live long enough, you are getting discovered.

By you.

And, birthday friends, now that I’ve had time and no tequila yet today, that is my birthday wisdom for you.

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I don’t know why. I mean, others have probably gone through the exact same thing. Why should I want to hide it?

I’m talking about my case of PTSD, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and absolutely nothing else.

What event occurred to cause these symptoms (according to the Mayo Clinic definition)?
PTSD:
Feeling emotionally numb
Avoiding activities you once enjoyed
Hopelessness about the future
Trouble concentrating
Difficulty maintaining close relationships
Irritability or anger
Overwhelming guilt or shame
Self-destructive behavior, such as drinking too much
Being easily startled or frightened
Hearing or seeing things that aren’t there

What happened is that since she lost gave up her last sippy cup, the Kid knocks over her drink every freakin’ time. On me. Everywhere, our house, Disneyland, restaurants, airports, our house, the ferry, someone else’s house, our house. Every. Where.

I’ve got the nervous twitch to prove it. Just bring us our beverages make mine a double, and I’ll show you.

And I have those symptoms. I avoid giving her drinks unless she’s choking; I swear I hear the dumping sound of a full cup of milk when there is no cup; and I jump and gasp like a freakin’ kangaroo (yes, they gasp, pretty sure) if the Kid’s hand goes anywhere near anyone’s glass at any time in any place.

I am drinking too much ok, possibly not related; I don’t want to be anywhere close to her; I feel terrified of tall, skinny glasses (oh, SO tippable); and I feel hopeless about the fact that she will never ever stop doing this.

It has made me irritable screw you, that’s why, I tell you!, and I have trouble concentrating which is wholly unrelated to Twitter or Facebook usage.

The first step is awareness, right? So, there we go. Hello, PTSD!

Now, I’d like a sippy cup of Grey Goose, please, while I go online to order more quick-dry pants.

Are you suffering any known diseases? Don’t be ashamed! Confess!

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I went to a breakout session conducted by playwright Elizabeth Heffron, and she offered a four line, two character (potentially three) writing prompt with about five minutes to write.

Amazing, the different directions people went with it. I hope you’ll use it and put your own amazing results in a comment here (or post on your own site with a link here so we can share)!

Here’s the prompt:

A: Hey.
B: Shhhh, he’s (or she’s) sleeping.
A: Who is that?
B: What do you mean?

Here’s my scene from that starting point:
A: Hey.
B: Shhh, he’s sleeping.
A: Who is that?
B: What do you mean?
A: Who is back there? I hear snoring.
B: Well…
A: Is that your boyfriend? Are you with someone?
B: I never asked you to come over.
A: I wanted to see you.
B: Maybe we can meet somewhere, later.
A: Let’s go now. I need to talk.
B: Now’s not a good time. Maybe…?
A: No. Just come with me. I wanted to tell you. I left my wife.
B: What?
A: I said I would.
B: I never expected–
A: But I love you!
B: Shhh!
A: Marie, I mean it! I left her! I’m sure we can work out a good joint custody arrangement. I’m yours!
B: Oh.
A: I even called a lawyer.
B: Really?
A: Yes, Frank Carls.
B: Frank? You called Frank?
A: Oh, you know Frank? I’ve heard he’s the best around.
B: Yes, he’s very successful.
C: Hey, Hon, who’re you talking to out there?
B: Oh, no one, Frank. Wrong house. Someone lost.
A: Marie!
B: G’bye, Joe.
A: But I–!
(Door shuts.)

Now, you out there (yes, you) get writing!

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Today was that day.

Where the f#ck can a contact lens go when it pops out of your eyeball in the bathroom? There’s one foot of space between my eyeball/finger and the mirror, over the counter. And yet, that contact lens finds the black hole.

Imagine the power this country would have if it too could make things completely disappear in a nano second.

Seems like I should gain admittance to Magic Castle for this trick.

I looked myself over, the counters, the mirror, and only hours later from that par excellent vantage point known as the crapper commode, I caught glimpse of that sneaky little devil, crispy and curled over for his nap, on the edge of the counter. At least four feet away from where I lost him.

Little booger, he was crunchy from being out in the air all day. I wasn’t about to try to revive him after his poorly executed escape. Be careful what you wish for, lenses of the world. Freedom may not actually taste so sweet.

If you’re a contact lens.

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Which means, yes, more terrible limericks from me because I value your opinion so much and the Hubs doesn’t like any, I am offering a few samples to see what you can stand like the best!

Oh, and unlike prior times where they had Bainbridge Island as the theme, this year’s theme is books!

Please tell me your fave in the comments!

1. A book can help with balance as you walk,
Or guide you to parler, sprechen and talk.
Worlds open wide,
And from life, you can hide.
So unite, bookworms, and never be mocked!

2. A book is the best kind of friend,
Loyal and constant, unlike the wind.
Fulfills all your needs
From laughs to chicken feed,
And props your table leg in the end.

3. I love shopping for books on a Sunday,
While churchgoers seek Grace for their stray.
Nothing leaps from the shelves
Like color spreads of nude elves,
Which I’ll lewdly drool on while they pray.

Please be honest in your comments, and realize I spent ten minutes valuable writing time on these and put my heart into them!

Thanks again for your valuable reading time!

Warning: all copyrights of the above material, and any and all other material contained herein, are reserved to me because we all can see this is incredibly valuable intellectual property, and I do mean intellectual!

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