The Not Right Now List

When Movies are Real

Movies? I just don’t watch them, I live them.

Movies are my wine after a long week. My doobie that takes the edge off. My cold mug of microbrew when life has grated against every nerve. You get the picture.

Films are my way of forgetting about life 100 percent, I fall for them and into them harder than any book can rapture me. But two days ago, I was told that I turn into someone else during movies. Apparently, not every facet about me is a sparkling gem. There is something not found to be endearing about me when I sit in front of a Hollywood script, and it is about to drive this person reporting this to me, insane.

To put a not too fine a point in it, I am really bugging the crap out of my domestic partner. I suppose he couldn't keep it to himself any longer, I mean, 20 years with someone is enough to make you lose your mind as it is, but for my spouse, who lives in the other camp that until now I did not recognize as existing, I have a case of 'loud movie watching.'

 

Seems that there is this division among movie – goers: those who watch quietly and want those co-watching to do the same, and those like me: unable to distinguish between movie reality and real life .

The screen, up there, it's all real, right? Because for 90 minutes of it, they've convinced me it's my body getting chased by Russian agents.

I don't want to get defensive because these sedate movie watchers are important people in my life, but I feel I must go on record with speaking up for my kind: are we full on movie enjoyers that bad? Are we?

I mean, if I do the things reported below, am I still/not/moreorless/ unlovable?

◾So I yell at the girl on the screen to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE already. It's my job to let her know since obviously she can’t “sense” the way that I can that the bad guy coming up to the back door is a bad guy.

◾Is it my fault that calling out for everyone to be safe takes away the thrill for you?

◾If I fall asleep for two seconds (I work hard) at what you consider a crucial moment in the film, I can still catch up to the plot. Trust me, I'm quick, I've seen them all.

◾If you ask me what movie I’d like to see, I will give you an answer and believe you when you present the question as if it’s my choice. Yes, I will insist that we see that movie. Word to the wise: if you don't want me to pick a movie you don't like, don't ask me what movie I'd like.

◾If I choke in gasping, soul-ripping tears as if it's me up on that screen, then God love me if that's the worst thing I do. For the 90 minutes we’re in front of that screen, I am the woman stranded in that back room with only one match left.

◾When something unfathomable occurs, like talking Chihuahuas, I have to call it. “Yeah, right,” is the best way. Let me say it, and I'll be on my way. 

◾We all have to take a stand and make our feelings known on issues that strike at our moral fiber. If I see women portrayed as anything less than equal, I’m going to talk about it. Loud.

I see myself as providing endearing movie companionship to you, you say intolerable and unendurable movie accompaniment.

And painful, excruciating, agonizing, was also mentioned, but whatever. I just need you to sit there and watch along with me, use closed captioning for your understanding and comprehension. I exist, cerebrally, on a higher plain, I've been this way since I can remember. If things become too much again for you this Saturday night, balance out the scales by remembering who brings in the Twizzlers, who's the one who pops the popcorn and sprinkles it just right with butter, who's the one who always manages to have a chilled Gatorade in the fridge for the moment you need it.

You know who that is as well as I do. That would be me, the loud movie viewer that you sometimes forget you love so much.

So, let's strike a deal here, you can call me animated versus loud, and I'll refrain from asking to take your pulse next time we watch Jason Bourne.

We'll make it through this, because I love you.

 

Even when it's harder on movie nights.

 

* * *

9/11 : 15 Years Ago, and a Son Who Is 14

On a Tuesday 15 years ago, we had just found out we were going to have our third child. It was a week of good news, the Thursday before, after a months long job search, my husband had found work and now we were ecstatic to know we were adding another to our family of two boys.

Then, that same day, we watched as the whole world did along with us, stunned and knocked to our knees, at what was happening on TV screens across America.

The devastation was certain, we saw it before us everywhere we looked. We heard it on every radio station, a plane had hit the Twin Towers. Then, a second plane followed. What was unfolding as a terrorist attack on America was something that didn't seep through to where it would make sense. We saw flames, black clouds of smoke, we heard of screaming and terror and none of it settled in as news. What we saw was numbing hell. And we stared, unblinking, as a third and fourth plane were reported. What was happening was done in intent, to us.

The videos were everywhere, and the atrocity was nothing that anyone could turn away from. To be sure, I never forgot about this new baby to be that I held inside of me, but the knowledge of his existence will forever be braided with the scenes of 9/11 on that day.

That is so much like life: the devastation of September 11 so quickly responded to and covered in love from the heroes who rushed in, the citizens who came through, agencies that stepped forward, clergy, firefighters, priests, health care workers, America gathered up its people and loved on them in a way that Americans do. That is something else I will never forget, too.


Our son is now 14, he tells me he learns about 9/11 in school. This day is mentioned every year and heads are bowed in remembrance of lives lost. But it's history to him. He has seen pictures, the kind where he can't believe that what he sees in them, is real. I tell them they are, I sat with my hand on my stomach when he was still inside me, and with his two small brothers at my side, unable to move or cry, and I remember it all.

To the survivors of 9/11 and the families of victims, Obama said: "Even as you've mourned, you've summoned the strength to carry on. You've done your best to be a good neighbor, and a good friend, and a good citizen," he added. "You remind us there's nothing that Americans can't overcome."

* * *

Romance, Mystery, Intrigue

Lean in, and catch my words if you dare. Lean in, and hear about a middle aged woman whose life has been kept hidden from view. Sense her days that are ripe and luscious with romance, mystery, and intrigue.

Can you imagine being swept away by not having to ask someone to unload the dishwasher? Can you handle the imagery of  a moment such as that? Of wondering who it was that left you an almost half cup portion of coffee from that morning, even setting aside a close to teaspoonful of fat-free creamer?

If chills and goosebumps and a bouncing pulse are what arise from an enticing scene of seeing a kitchen counter that shows that the afternoon mail has already been brought in, then this post is for you. You don't have to scour the earth to dare revel in a life that you thought only existed in half off already discounted novels sold in value packs. You can have all this mature sexy marriage stuff and more, just by adjusting your life glasses.

Does your house feel crowded, or does it feel hot and cozy? Does seeing someone's underwear that's not yours hanging off bathroom doorknobs make you scream? Maybe it won't when you realize it means that someone was naked just five feet away from you. Does the glisten of sticky peach juice trailing across the kitchen sink set your head spinning? Perhaps not when you envision the sweet, dripping chin of the said pitted fruit consumer.

Maybe things aren't so rosy between you and your co-habitants this week and you're getting the cold shoulder for something you said. Being frozen out might hurt a little less if you feel it as a Benedictine monk's searing vow of silence.

Tonight I had a dinner from a frozen box of 20 chicken pot pies my husband picked up from a weekly warehouse shopping expedition. I'm sharing this delight of a meal with sips of Lemoncello that my sophisticated younger sister left behind from her visit here in June. Am I feeling sorry for myself?

No way, man. I've got the romance of a man who helps to make sure we are never without, I've got the mystery of how many diced pieces of chicken will be in my pot pie this time, and I've got the intrigue of a chilled out of budget imbibement that I wouldn't have in my life if it weren't for a visitor to my home.

Romance, Mystery, Intrigue: not for the faint of heart, but don't say I didn't warn you.

 

* * *

Levels of Self Care Like You Have Never Seen

It's Friday night, and all is well. By that I mean, I finally jumped aboard the self-care wagon. At this moment, with the keyboard before me, I am balancing a buttery flaky crust chicken pot pie just this side of heaven hot in my lap while I take sips whenever I feel like it from a sweating with refreshing coldness beads draft root beer.

I am self caring like you (or rather me) have never seen before.

And I can only ask myself one thing: what in the blazes took me so long? I have seen facebook posts hashtagged #selfcare #selfcaresaturday #selfcaremama #selfcaresacred #selfcarekicksass but scrolled on past because what me? I'm too busy for self care.

But while I lick the light and flaky pie crust crumbs from my lips, I see tonight just how wrong I was.

It really doesn't take much to reward yourself for a week of work. A pot pie, a cold soda, a quiet house and jeans with the top button undone and I'm pretty much cradling my battered soul in the lap of luxury right now. I don't think I can ever go back to living in the poorhouse of  neglect. For tonight, I'm having fun. I feel like I won a $50 lottery. Not all of us need the powerball to feel like a winner.

Though next week Friday seems like a long way to go yet, I've got my self care menu set and ready. Count me in for some more self care fun, this time with extra cheese and pepperoni. And no run out the door to pick up for the $8 pizza special. I'm calling for delivery. And I'll ask for a side order of garlic bread. And I'll be ordering it early enough in the evening, so the important self care can happen, like a nap.