The Script Writers

Did you ever wake up and realize that if they made a movie of your life, they'd cast Paul Giamatti to play your character?  The movie would be called 'The Insomniac.' If you're female, like me, being portrayed as a man would be horrifying and unfair.

Well, it was funny this morning. Mike thought it was funny, anyway.  I just couldn't get over the fact that the script writers would have changed me into a man.

They would have changed me into a man because no woman, at least the stereotypes offered on screen, would have that many dirty dishes in and around her sink.  No woman would be so apt to splatter mayonaise on her favorite shirt as she was trying to rinse out the very nearly empty jar to recycle it.  No woman, for that matter, would call that faded green Tshirt her favorite shirt.  And no woman, at least an on-screen woman, would put that much garlic in her daughter's lunch. 

Furthermore, Mike decreed that my character, in the movie, would have to be divorced so as to be as miserable as possible.  He would have driven away his wife in his myriad ways of being miserably cranky from all the interruptions to his sleep, and inept in his attempt to finish any project.  Even when he went to bed at 10:53 pm, the lonely cat woke him at 2:17 am meowing at his face.  The dog woke him at 4:57 am needing to go out because he forgot to take the poor guy out before he shuffled off to bed.  Cheerful parents of Giamatti's daughter's friends would text him just as he got back to sleep at 5:54 am asking to know if Sherri was going to ride the bus that day.  The next night, brown-nosing coworkers would email at 11:37 pm and CC him as if he gave a damn crap about whether they shipped 47 free samples of lip balm to the potential client to cover all their staff or 94 to include spouses as well.  He would not have figured out how to turn off the beep or the buzz of his phone every time he got an email, so that it even beeped or buzzed the resonant wood of his desk when junk mail was sent from Clinique at 12:00 am because his daughter signed up for some free stuff and gave out his email to get it.  The worst of it was that when his phone was occasionally silent at night, he often dreamed he heard it beep with some urgent message at 3:14 in the morning.  It just seemed so real.  And then he'd lie there and worry that he hadn't called to schedule a hair cut and his hair was getting long.  He needed to refinance the house to get a 2% rate, but they only offered that rate for a fifteen year loan and he wanted thirty. 

Yes, Giamatti would do a great job playing this role.  He would make it miserably funny.  The worst part of it all is that all would not end well in this movie.  It would not be allowed to end happily ever after.  No, the script writers would change that too.

Thank you for listening, jules

Shut it!

It sucks that just about the time my husband and my son figure out that I really do feel like crap and start taking care of me, I start to feel better. 

Well, okay, I don't feel totally better yet, but I'm here aren't I?

I wanted to tell you that I really hate the people who posted that viral hate-mongering video.  You know the one I'm talking about, the anti-Muslim one that's causing all the protesting.

Here's what.  I don't know a thing about the Muslim religion or culture except that I read, once, that the Koran held close many of the same principles as Christianity.  I believe in that.  I know that their culture is quite different than what I know and I might have to get used to their food, but that I'd find beauty and truth in it.  I know that the Muslims generally live peaceful lives.  Like in Christianity, they have some fundamentalists who are way out there, but everybody's got them.  Just like I'd hate if people from another religion thought all Christians were willing to murder doctors from a woman's clinic, I hate to connect all Muslims with awful things a very few people have done in their name. 

As if Christians are clean.  Can you say Crusades? 

But what the hell is wrong with people, making a hate video?

Here's the other thing I need to tell you.  I refuse to watch this video.  I will not, not even for the sake of knowing what I'm up against, increase the viewing counter on this video. 

Here's the last thing I need to tell you.  I am happy I live in a relative democracy, with our Constitutional rights spelled out for us on a 200 year old sheet of paper.  But one of the things that really sucks about free speech is how these absolute lunatics in our country get to have such a loud and grating voice. 

I do, however, have the right to say to them - Shut the hell up, you morons!  Did your mothers teach you to behave this way?

Thank you for listening, jules

Uncontrolled Growths

I'm tired and cold.  That's what I get for staying up to almost midnight when I've been getting up before dawn every day.  The other morning after I woke him up, my son asked why he was eating breakfast in the middle of the night.  It's because his damn bus comes at 6:20 in the morning. It stinks.

Tomorrow, I have to go and get part of my forehead cut of in an attempt to keep skin cancer at bay.  I wonder what I'd end up looking like if I didn't?  Would I have a great red glob of skin hanging from my forehead?  My son had a hamster once who got cancer and died because she couldn't carry it around any more.  It actually grew almost half her size.  That was hard to watch.  Actually, it was hard to know that Jack could see that happening.  It really was like a bad horror movie at the end. 

My family is talking about getting a kitten.  No!  Not a kitten!  Kittens are like babies.  I will lose sleep if we get a kitten!  We'll all lose sleep.  Here's the truth of it besides the fact that Jack's wanted a kitten since our other cat grew up - our other cat needs the company.

Can't we just go out and get a middle aged cat from the shelter that will lie around the house all day?  Wouldn't that be better for the world than bringing home a kitten?  It would be more likely to save a life.  Think about it.  Kittens get adopted.  Middle aged cats that sleep a lot don't. 

I really want another middle aged cat not a bouncy baby cat.  I want to skip getting my skin cut off, though I don't want a great glob of red flesh hanging from my forehead.  I want to sleep in tomorrow morning.  Yup, I really do.

Thank you for listening, jules

Can't Complain

What can I be pissed off about today?

Not a thing.

So there isn't much to write about, then, is there?  I haven't been harassed today.  I didn't end up going to Costco.  Mike didn't complain that I'd made a hockey puck roast for dinner.  Okay, I could complain about my own crappy memory and how I left the house with the oven still on and when I got back, the roast was still edible, but barely.  I could complain about a woman who made a snide comment about how Mike and I are raising our son.  I could complain that I'm not adjusted to the school schedule yet and I ran out of time this afternoon.  I could, but I don't feel like it.

So there.

Thank you for listening, jules

The Bad-Asses Versus The Grizzly Bear

Oh, I hate people.  I just know I'm going to turn into one of those old ladies that calls the police when the neighbor drives into his driveway at 3:00 am. 

I walked the dog with my friend at the dog park today.  I was standing by my car, brushing the dog out after my friend left, when I noticed that there were two guys who'd been walking around the cars, especially a Cadillac SUV, and stopped when they saw me looking at them.  They spent some time trying to look relaxed, as if they always got out of their old truck to wander around in the small parking lot.  They sauntered back to their truck and talked to two other guys sitting there.  These people reminded me of a dog who's been caught eating food off a plate on the coffee table, only not at all friendly.  They wouldn't make eye contact.  Then, they watched me as I wrote down their license plate number. 

Isn't there an unwritten rule that you don't hang around other people's cars, looking into them?  You're supposed to get out of your car in a parking lot and go where you're going.  You might linger by your own car, getting stuff out maybe, but unless there's a 1967 Ford Mustang sitting there, you don't even pay attention to other cars.  Oh, and if you are looking at a car you really like, you might make a comment about it's lines or how you'd never be able to afford it if someone walks up while you're standing there gawking. 

These people didn't even have a dog.  See, there are about eight spots to park a car there.  It's an off leash area with nothing else around it.  Unless you just want to cut through the park to walk along the Snoqualmie Valley Trail, you need a dog to have a good reason to be there. 

Oh, and they were the tattoo and pierced variety.  See, when a tattooed person brings their dog to the park, I stand around and chat with them while our dogs play.  I don't expect to become friends with them, really, but I don't mind admiring their dog.  Without a dog, my natural suspicion of the tattoo and pierced people raises its ugly head.  Type casting.  Profiling.  But you have to admit that if someone looks like a derelict, they're usually a derelict. 

So, no dog, skulking around looking into cars, and tattoos growing up into their sleeves.  That's why I wrote down their license plate number.  See, I had a plan.  

I put the dog into my car, wrote down the plate number, and headed back to the park where I could see a woman in the park who was still in sight.  I looked back to see tattoo guys taking a picture of my car.  The hair on the back of my neck raised up a little higher. 

I walked back toward my car, fumbling with my phone.  I took about six pictures of these guys and their truck, got into my car, and drove it over to the gate at the entrance of the park.   I couldn't really get my car very far from these guys.  I was not subtle.  I could still see the woman with her dogs, so I called her over and told her what I thought of the guys loitering by the cars.  She wrote down the license plate number and actually wanted me to send her the photos.  I did, noticing that the woman had no problem giving me her phone number.  Another woman wandered by and I gave her the plate number as well.  She told me she was going to put the information on Facebook.  Good idea, I thought! 

So when I got home, I posted their picture with a caption about what I'd seen them doing.  Then a friend commented that these guys looked pretty pissed.  Good point.  They looked like bad-asses.  Maybe I shouldn't post actual pictures of them.  What if they were all-around normal bad-asses who weren't fond of the idea of having their pictures posted on Facebook with an unfounded accusation of smash and grab?  I hadn't actually accused them of any crime, but bad-asses and their friends wouldn't see it that way. 

What if I'm actually friends with someone who's friends with them and they can see this nasty little comment.  What if?  I don't know how open-minded my friends really are, maybe more than I am.  I might have a friend or two who has another set of friends, including the tattoo and pierced variety. 

Meanwhile, Jack and his buddy are playing with Legos in the living room.  I told them the story and said, "I just can't seem to stay out of trouble."

Jack's friend said, "You're probably mad because of what happened when those guys bashed in your window and took your backpack when we were at that park."  That made me feel a little better. 

So, I had to work to delete the photo and my friend's comment flew off into the ether with it.  Bummer.  I'd have to send her an apology, so I did that too.  Then, I called Mike who said that these bad-asses just might have a way to look up my plate number and get my address.  That means that I could have bad-asses come to my house to enact revenge for my photo-taking foibles.  When I got off the phone, I realized that the boys had been listening.

"Mom, they won't bother you.  You're a grizzly bear."  Hmm. 

You hear that, you bad-asses?  Just try to come to my house.  Just try it. 

Thank you for listening, jules

 

In the Middle of the Night

Can you believe that my son's bus is going to swing by our house tomorrow morning at 6:20 am?  It's an ungodly hour.  That means that Jack is going to have to get up, if he wants to ride the bus, at 5:30 which pushes my hour of arrival into the day to 5:10. 

Well crap.  Don't you people know that when they become teenagers, they need more sleep and naturally stay up later?  I get it that you have to share the buses with the elementary school, but set them to it early and let the hormonal ones sleep until eight.  It sucks.  The school district always uses that excuse that school gets out early because of sports.  Well, when I went to school, we had sports that started at 4:00 when school got out and we survived.

Oh, I just realized that I'm going to have to be doing this for almost the next seven years.  I'm definitely going to let Jack drive to school when he gets his license.  That'll be almost an hour more of sleep every day.  I'll go for that.  But I have to wait four years until he's sixteen!!!

So tomorrow, I'm going to be up and at 'em.  He has to ride the bus to get that established as a possibility.  Otherwise, the bus will blow by him on the mornings he needs it.  Will I even be able to make a sandwich at 5:30 in the morning? 

We'll find out then.

Thank you for listening, jb

Bad Mom

"I hate you," he said casually.  I was floored.  I thought that I had talked to my boy enough for him to understand how painful those three words could be.  I wanted to tell him that I hated him sometimes too, but I didn't.  I really didn't and I'm glad about that. 

I asked him to leave me alone. 

He wouldn't.  He kept banging on my bedroom door.  What is it with guys that when you say you want them to leave you alone, you can hear them breathing just outside your door until you open it again, even if they don't bang on it like my son was doing. 

It was exhausting.

This morning, I tried getting him to get ready without yelling at him.  I told him when he had twenty minutes before it was time to go.  I told him when he had ten minutes.  His best friend told him a couple of times to get ready.  He just kept playing the games.  Yes, video games.  I could just shred his video games into a million tiny particles.  I really could, except that my husband, Mike, would be mad. 

Do you ever want to have a do-over?  If I could have a do-over, I'd never have let Jack play video games and watch TV.  They have stunted his development.  They have shrunken his brain, his attention span, and his vocabulary. 

And he can never get ready for anything.  I came along and turned off the TV and within three or four minutes, he had put it back on again.  Really?   Who taught you that you had the right to do that? 

I was a bad mom in all of that today.  I told Jack that he might want to join the military, but if he couldn't follow directions and show up five minutes early for every appointment, he'd spend his time there washing toilets with his own toothbrush.  Well, actually, I didn't say that.  I told him he wouldn't like the military where they tell you what to eat, when to eat, when to sleep, and where to jump, and by the way, how high.  I just don't see it being a happy fit.  Home isn't a happy fit for him right now, though, either.

Thank you for listening, jules