I'm Twitchy, the Eighth Dwarf

I should learn how to write shorter entries so that I can post more regularly, I think. Work has been so busy lately that I don't have the time I'd like to write. Besides, I'm far too long-winded. Editor, edit thyself, right?

So here's what's been happening the past week or so: I spent an inordinate amount of time fussing over Daniel's application for federal financial aid and finally got it submitted in the nick of time. Have I mentioned my hatred of paperwork and applications? OH, THE HATRED AND LOATHING. I wouldn't survive working for a government agency.

Also, I gave Daniel his first driving lesson and have developed a new twitch in my right eyelid that hasn't gone away yet. Apparently I didn't explain the concept of power brakes clearly enough, and the first time he stopped, he stomped on the brakes so hard that I nearly went flying through the windshield even with a seatbelt on. I think I have a permanent scar on my neck from the seatbelt cutting into it, and I'm positive I can see finger impressions in the dashboard now. On the outside, I remained remarkably calm, however. Maybe the bottle of rum I had tucked under the seat helped? Heh.

I've also been preparing for Daniel's 18th birthday TOMORROW, OH MY GOD, MY BABY IS TURNING 18, WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN?? In a burst of Noel Coward-esque civility, my ex, his wife, Kevin, and I are taking Daniel out to dinner at a Japanese restaurant. If the conversation gets stilted, I plan to quiz The Ex's Wife on his bad habits and quirks. "Does he still take 6 hours to balance the checkbook because he thinks calculators are newfangled inventions?" "Hey, how many times has he gotten lost between your house and the grocery store? Ha, ha!" That should get the conversational ball rolling, right? I'm the Socializer! Invite me to your next party to get things going!

Oh, for Daniel's birthday, I decided to add him to my cell phone plan and get him a phone. He's mentioned wanting one a few times, and I can get a good deal on it. Also, I got him a sturdier leather case for his iPod, a nice hardback paper journal, some new shirts because his current ones are hanging on him like giant sails flapping in the wind, and the movie Borat. Sacha Baron Cohen makes him helpless with laughter, so I guess he's a typical 18-year-old boy in at least some ways. Besides, I need to make sure I maintain my status as Mother of the Year by buying my son a movie filled with ribald language and crass humor, you know.

The rest of my time has been taken up by fretting about increasingly convoluted work projects that refuse to go smoothly and the disorganized mess my house has become. "Has become." I snort in my general direction. Like it's usually a model of organized cleanliness. I usually do maintain some sort of system to the chaos, but it's gotten way out of hand, and I'll be agonizing over it all week because my parents are driving here Friday to visit for Daniel's birthday. You're looking forward to hearing more about that, I can tell. Awww, aren't you sweet?

For Karen

I was reading a summary of Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking at Amazon last night to figure out whether I wanted to read it. I suspect that book would turn me into a puddle of tears, but I'd still like to read it--or one of her novels--someday. I've read only a few essays of hers here and there. I started thinking about the first time I heard of Joan Didion, the summer I started graduate school, which inevitably led to thoughts of Karen. She was in my class on Southern women writers, one of the best classes I ever took.

I was a little intimidated by some students in there who had majored in English as undergrads; I'd been a communications major, so although I'd read a wide variety of authors on my own, I wasn't as knowledgeable as they were. Consequently, I kept my mouth shut during most class discussions. Not Karen, though. She had something to say on every topic, and her comments were usually contrary to the general consensus and often involved Joan Didion, her favorite writer (whether Joan was pertinent or not--and she usually wasn't because she isn't a Southern writer).

Neither factor was what made people in the class nervous, however. Karen's contributions to discussions were usually in the form of outbursts: She interrupted, loudly and insistently, and always peppered her remarks with several "fucks" or "fuckings." I've been known to swear like a sailor at times (ahem), but I never thought that was appropriate in a classroom. I wasn't alone, either; you could see other students, and the professor, flinch a little every time Karen let a "fuck" fly out. What made me more uncomfortable, though, were her mannerisms. She was so jittery--constantly twitching and shifting in her seat, jiggling her foot, throwing her hands around while she talked. Sometimes she talked so fast she almost tripped over her own words, and the longer she talked, the louder she got.

The way Karen interacted with people was odd, too. After class, she'd usually run out the door, tossing papers into her backpack and scattering books and pencils in her wake. I overheard her once telling someone she rode her bike five miles to school, but she never looked tired or winded at all when she arrived. On the rare occasions she did hang out with some of us after class, she was given to abrupt announcements that never had anything to do with what we were talking about. Out of nowhere, she'd blurt out "Yeah, I had sex for more than two hours last night!" or "You were so full of shit about that essay." I developed the habit of veering away from groups she was in or making an excuse to get away fast when she approached me. Even when I agreed with her opinions in class--and she did have a good point sometimes, despite her lack of finesse in expressing it--I never spoke up to support her lest I be painted with "The Crazy" brush, too.

Every now and then, I wish I could be 21 again: young, with no real responsibilities but full of possibilities. And then I think about how I treated Karen. I mean, it's clear to me now that she had ADD, hyperactivity, or maybe mild autism. I'm pretty sure that if I met her now, I could react with a little more understanding and sensitivity; I'd like to think I could make the effort, anyway. Back then, I thought I was Miss Open-minded, a model of tolerance for different lifestyles and viewpoints, but I was so full of shit. I couldn't handle someone being the slightest bit different behaviorally, and instead of trying to understand her, I freaked out and avoided her. I don't understand now what I was so afraid of. That her behavior was contagious? That other people would assume I was nuts, too, if I showed her any kindness? I wonder how often she must have felt alone and isolated. How many times was she hurt and bewildered by the way other people treated her? No wonder she usually raced to the door after class was over.

Sure, I'd love being 21 again in some ways. Having my breasts in their original location--very nice. Being able to run up two flights of stairs without breaking a sweat? Great! Not having to worry about bills, empty nests, and gray hairs--yes, yes, and yes. If it meant going back to that level of ignorance and uncertainty, however? No, thank you. I wish I could tell Karen that--and tell her how sorry I am for being so self-involved and afraid that I couldn't put myself in her shoes for one minute.

Mr. COI must die

I am livid. Mr. COI finally got on my last nerve. I got up this morning to find an e-mail from him--which was unusual in itself because he rarely e-mails or answers my e-mails--and I'm reproducing part of it here with some explanations from me:

Lisa,
This all worked better when the worked/edited copies were emailed back and forth and ALL the authors were cc'd... [That was never the practice. Files are always posted on the FTP server. Occasionally, I've e-mailed files when authors had trouble connecting to it--because I'm a nice, helpful editor.] ...the FTP server is/has been a pain in the ass. The FTP link that was provided does/has NOT worked from the very beginning. I've sent several emails about that, yet the issue has not been corrected and no one has sent me the edited versions until this week. [BUZZZ! Wrong. He never said exactly what problem he was having, despite my repeated e-mails asking him to clarify. And for the record, no other authors have problems with it. The "edited versions" he mentions have been available since December 20 of last year, yet he never asked me to send them by e-mail until now.]
What's humorous here is your willingness to accept my changes/submissions via email if I'm having problems connecting with the FTP server. [Yeah, being helpful--that's funny, funny stuff! I told the putz I'd e-mail them if necessary, but he NEVER RESPONDED. I'm supposed to read his mind?]
That said, when I don't get a copy of the edits/comments, I am working blind. As was the case for this chapter. If I see no need for changes, due to a lack of comments/edits in the first submission, I don't make any. [This makes not one whit of sense. I told him an edited version had been posted. How could he possibly assume there were no edits or comments? Pardon my language, but he's a fucking idiot and a liar. He tried to turn in last year's chapter as his author second submission, and the only place he could have gotten it is from the FTP site. And although I'm repeating myself, I think, this author second he turned in didn't even contain HIS OWN CHANGES to the draft he originally submitted last November--which was more than a month late, I should point out.]
I have about 3-4 hours this weekend to work on Chapter 6 & 7. I'll send what I have, by email, Sunday night. [And it will be promptly returned to him as unacceptable. Three to four hours won't even begin to fix the sloppy crapola he turned in.]

Want to see my response? It's not nearly as snotty as I wanted to be:

[Mr. COI], it's a [publisher] guideline to post all files on the FTP site, which provides a more objective record of when files were submitted and serves as a backup in case someone loses files on his or her system. Chapters were supposed to be posted to the FTP site when we worked on the previous edition, too; it's not a new guideline, and the other authors have been following it with no trouble.
What I find humorous is that I e-mailed you about the files being ready on 12/20/06 and offered to e-mail them if you had trouble with the FTP site, so you had more than two months to request I e-mail the files to you. You never did. I'm glad you find my willingness to be helpful humorous.
In addition, your AU2 submission did not contain [other author's] edits OR your own original Ch. 7 changes. It's exactly the same as the version from the previous edition--which was, by the way, posted on the FTP site.
Three to four hours isn't going to be enough for AU2 passes on Ch. 6 and 7. Had the chapters, particularly Ch. 7, not been submitted in such rough shape for AU1, that might have been enough time.
Hugs and kisses, [OK, I didn't really say that]
Lisa

Stephanie commented that chronic hemorrhoids might be a suitable punishment for Mr. COI. I agreed before I saw today's e-mail from him, and now I don't think that affliction is severe enough. Any thoughts y'all have on what he does deserve would amuse me and perhaps keep me from killing him. ARGGHHHH.

Mr. COI strikes again

Whew, busy week. I've been working like a dog on that four-author book, but there's no way it's going to be published in time to hit the sales cycle for fall college classes. The authors have been dragging their collective feet and turning chapters in late AND in rough shape, and permissions for software they'd planned to include on the book's DVD are turning into a nightmare. Even with open-source software, they have to get the software creator's permission to distribute it on a CD or DVD. Have they done that? Don't be silly. So Kid Manager and I have been trying to track down that information.

To make matters worse, Mr. Conflict of Interest (the author who can't be bothered to show up for conference calls) said he was dropping off the project because he was having surgery for "an old war injury." FINE WITH ME! For a few blessed weeks, I didn't have to deal with him or his sloppy work. However, when author seconds of his chapters were due, suddenly he was back on the project and claimed he'd have the first chapter done by last Friday. Keep in mind he's had that chapter with my edits and reviewer feedback since December 20, OK? That will be important later.

Naturally, I assumed he wouldn't finish by the date he gave, but when Friday came and went with no chapter, I started e-mailing to ask for updates. Finally, on Tuesday, he e-mailed the chapter files because he said he couldn't access the FTP site to post them. I opened the files and discovered, to my dismay, that not only had all my edits--10 hours worth of work--and the reviewer feedback disappeared, but the chapter didn't even have the original changes for his author first draft! I did some checking and realized he'd gone to the FTP site and downloaded the previous edition's chapter, and submitted that version. So he did NOTHING for his author second pass, and he lied about not being able to use the FTP site. I was livid, I tell you. I wrote a terse e-mail to him, stating what he'd done, and copied all his co-authors, Kid Manager, and the acquisitions editor (the big cheese, in other words). Do not fuck with me, Mr. COI. His co-author tried to apologize for him, saying Mr. COI couldn't get to the FTP site to download my edited version, but I told him that excuse didn't wash. Mr. COI had been notified on December 20 that the chapter was ready and had plenty of time to try to download the files, and I'd specifically told him I'd be happy to e-mail the files to him if he had trouble with the FTP site. Take that, you putz. Gah! Do these people think I'm stupid?

OK, enough about work. I think I mentioned Daniel's Brain Game team was done for the year, but he joined the science AND social studies academic teams, which also have quiz matches with other schools. The kid went for three years refusing to participate in extracurricular activities, except for occasional French Club meetings, and suddenly, he's signing up right and left for activities. I think the Little Red-Haired Girl is on the science team, and I'm sure she's a partial motivation. I'm delighted he's having fun and getting involved in something with a social component, though.

For the past few weeks, he and a few other seniors who have been taking French the past four years have been going to local elementary schools and teaching French to third graders. I thought Daniel might not have the patience to teach young kids, but he loved it. He even asked me for ideas on lesson plans! I'm still useful! Whooo! The last day of teaching, he came home looking exhausted and said he'd learned a valuable lesson. "What's that?" I asked. "Never, EVER, give candy to third graders," he said grimly. He and his partner decided to take in some candy for the last day as prizes for a game they'd devised, and apparently the kids were bouncing off the walls in a frenzy of candy greed and sugar rushes by the end of the lesson. Heh.

Kevin's art class went well last Saturday. Not as many students as he'd hoped for, but the five who showed up had a great time and asked when he'd be teaching another class. He met with the art center's director, who asked him to teach at least one class a month, preferably two. His next class will be on making art dolls, loosely based on the faux voodoo dolls we made as a craft project at our last Halloween party. Mayberry's on the cusp of the Bible Belt, so Kevin's promotional materials for the class have to include a disclaimer that the art center doesn't endorse voodoo, and the dolls aren't meant to be used for actual voodoo practices. Because that's SO likely to happen, you know. Without the disclaimer, who knows what people might try to do with these potent symbols of evil!

Kevin made a big deal of saying he wanted me to attend this next class, too. He's been making an effort to take the iniative more on finding things for us to do together, bless his heart. We had a little talk about some of his recent behavior, but I didn't accuse him of having irritable male syndrome or anything. I figured that would put him on the defensive. I are so smart sometimes! One decision we came to is that we need to spend more time together doing things we both enjoy, and art and crafty pursuits are definitely interests we have in common.

Sometimes it seems as though we go for weeks in which our conversations consist mostly of details about picking up milk and stamps, figuring out what to make for dinner, discussing whether shampooing the couch will get rid of the smell from Holly throwing up on it, and other fascinating topics. I guess other couples fall into similar ruts, but with an impending empty nest, I don't want to become one of those couple who go out to dinner and have nothing to say to each other. That prospect terrifies me. My theory is that spending more time together to remind us of what we saw in each other when we were falling in love might help both our irritable moods. And if it doesn't work, I can always make a voodoo doll of Kevin to make him behave. Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Maybe I'll just get him a Playboy subscription

Kevin's teaching his first class, on collage and mixed media, at the Sugarcreek Art Center today. He had to work last night, so he was up late gathering supplies and going over his notes for the intro. I can tell he's nervous because as he was leaving, he said "I wish you were coming to the class!" Fine time to tell me, pal, when I'm sitting here with crazy bed head and wearing pajama pants. Oh, don't feel sorry for him. I think he wanted me there more to boost participant numbers than for moral support. Only five people signed up ahead of time, but the center does get walk-ins for classes. I think the weather and time of year affected the number of sign-ups, too. He's planning to teach a class on rubber stamping later this spring, and I'm sure more people will sign up then. Keep your fingers crossed the class goes well for him, will you?

Oh, and I must say something snotty about his cousin Sam, who's heading up the foundation that Kevin's the artist in residence for. Sam blathers a blue streak about how "marvelous" Kevin's artwork is and how "supportive" he is of Kevin's artistic efforts, but is he attending the class today to support Kevin? Why, no. And Kevin wonders why I snipe about Sam being all talk.

******

That damn Greg (heh) suggested a Playboy subscription for Daniel's 18th birthday. He was kidding, of course (RIGHT, Greg?), but his suggestion reminded me of something I know about Daniel that I'm not supposed to. A while back, Kevin was putting away laundry and went into Daniel's closets to hang a few shirts. (He doesn't usually put Daniel's clothes away FOR him, just for the record. He was carrying a bunch of shirts up and decided to hang Daniel's up so that they wouldn't wrinkle or fall off the doorknob. Anyway, end of unnecessary explanation.) A stack of magazines on the shelves in there caught his eye, and when he took a closer look, he saw they were Playboys. Here's what's funny, though: They weren't current Playboys; they were from the late '60s, early '70s, and quite tame by today's standards. We figured someone brought them in to the bookstore with a box of books to sell, and Jon offered them to Daniel and the other male employee more as a joke. Apparently Daniel took him up on the offer! I had to laugh when I looked at a few issues. I mean, the pictures are almost sweet. If that's as far into porn as he gets, fine with me.

******

I was more upset than I let on by Kevin's touchiness over getting stuck in the snow last weekend. See, when I met him nine years ago, he was one of the sweetest, most laidback men I'd ever met. Frankly, that quality was a huge part of his attraction for me, as it was a diametric opposite to my ex-husband's personality. Over the past couple of years, I've been surprised to see outbursts of anger, irritation, and defensiveness from him. He's not a psycho, but the change has been noticeable. I tried to rationalize it by attributing it to depression (and his moods did improve a little after he started antidepressants) or frustration over being out of work or working in jobs that gave him no opportunities to use his creativity. He's had a lot of problems with his daughter, and Lord knows problems with kids can make you angry and frustrated as hell. I've had some ups and downs in moods, too, what with occasional depression and perimenopause and idiot salesclerks and theater employees (heh), too, so I thought maybe he was reacting to MY moods.

Greg mentioned male menopause after my entry about Kevin's snit fit, and I thought it might be a possibility, but with my usual laziness, didn't look into it any further. Then I got an e-mail from Kathy (more famous as The Millionth Reader at Jane's) talking about dealing with men's midlife crises, and I thought "Second mention in a week: Someone's telling me to look into this more."

So I Googled "male menopause" and lo, there were more than a million hits. I started clicking around, looking for descriptions of symptoms. This WellnessMD article, among many others, listed "dwindling libido and impotence" (which I first typed as "importance"--ha! Freudian, much?) Uh, NOT A PROBLEM. And I'll leave it at that (you're welcome).

I kept looking, and found this article at MSNBC, which also mentioned decreased interest in sex but added increased irritability and feeling "down and discouraged." What's interesting is that the article said testosterone levels start decreasing gradually as early as 30 and continue for many years, whereas woman have a sharper decline in estrogen levels starting at 50, on average. So men do go through menopause (or, more correctly, andropause), but the transition is usually a hell of a lot easier for them because it's more gradual.

I was feeling somewhat put upon, all "Men! And if they had periods, instead of cramps, they'd have soothing, tingling waves of contentment wash over them. Hmmmph!" And then I found the MenAlive site. According to the author, male depression can mimic andropause symptoms, making diagnosis more difficult, and depression often manifests itself differently in men than in women, as anxiety and irritability. Then I hit on irritable male syndrome (IMS), which at first I was tempted to dismiss with "I think that's called just being male," but I don't know. A lot of what I read sounded familiar. IMS is sometimes called Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome because of how drastic the behavioral changes can be, and that certainly fit Kevin. If you're involved with a middle-aged man, I recommend checking out the information. I don't know whether the guy writing the stuff on this site is a crackpot or is making up all these theories or what, but what I read made sense to me.

Now I need to read more about what to do about IMS. I did see something about testosterone supplements, and hell, no. That's the last thing Kevin needs, in my Google M.D. opinion. More testosterone in him? I'd never get anything done!

Edited to add: Y'all should pay attention to the lovely Miz S, if you go check out that site! I'm oblivious to advertising most of the time and didn't notice all the stuff this guy is hawking. That makes me suspicious, but I still think the descriptions of behaviors are interesting, and to be honest, I'm relieved to think there might be something wrong with Kevin, whether it's physical or psychological. Not that I WISH an ailment on him, but that's better than resigning myself to him becoming the world's crankiest old man, right?

Oh, and no worries: He doesn't read anything here. I'm not hiding it from him on purpose, but when I switched sites, I just never gave him the new address. Even at my old journal, he didn't read that often because I think he was afraid of inhibiting my "self-expression" or some such notion. Self-expression, heh. More like aimless babbling, but still, it was sweet of him. See? He is sweet when he's not being Mr. Crankypants.

Heed the snow blob's warning!

Why do I have to work for a living? Whyyyyyyyyyyyy? It gets in the way of so much I want to do. For one thing, I was enjoying updating more often, but I don't how I'm going to continue doing that if work stays at this pace. More work = money coming in, so I don't want to complain too much. Sometimes the feast-or-famine nature of freelance work gets to me, though.

******

In case you were wondering, the snow finally started melting, and I did indeed survive my Cabin Fever '07 experience. Good thing I wasn't a pioneer woman in one of the plains states who was forced to hole up in a cabin the entire winter. I wouldn't have maintained a Little House on the Prairie cheerfulness in the face of hardship. No, I'd have been the type who wrote increasingly paranoid, disjointed entries in my diary that would one day be found and illuminate for my descendants why I went insane and roasted my family in the fireplace. Or maybe I WAS one in a former life, and that explains my dread at the prospect of one more day of being trapped inside by the weather.

******

Damn, American Idol sucks up a lot of time during semifinals, doesn't it? I read the other day that at 1 minute and 30 seconds per song for each contestant, a night with 12 contestants takes up 18 minutes of actual singing. That's of a two-HOUR show, folks. That leaves 102 minutes for judges' comments, commercials, intro-backstory blather about contestants, and, of course, manufactured drama. Thank God Kevin's been working mostly nights and I've been taping shows; we just fast-forward through all the crap and commercials and save vast amounts of time. I don't think I'd enjoy it nearly as much if I wasted 204 minutes plus the results show in one week.

******

Daniel turns 18 in three weeks! I'd like to get him something special for his birthday, but I'm so broke right now. With all the work I've had, you wouldn't think I am, but payments are at least a month behind the actual work. Anyway, I wanted to give him a present that acknowledges the significance of this birthday--that it marks the transition from child to adult, in a way. I haven't a clue what that might be, however. Any ideas?

Speaking of my boy, he continues to develop a warped sense of humor that fills me with all kinds of strange pride. Heh. The day after the blizzard, he went out to shovel the steps again and took his camera outside to get some pictures of the snow. He said he'd tried to make a snowman, but the snow didn't pack well. However, I found a picture he took the next day, and he did manage to fashion a snowman of sorts--more of a snow blob, I guess:

Bwah! I just love that kid. He's never lost his "Calvin and Hobbes" quality.

He was so excited last week because he got an acceptance letter from Purdue. He'd listed geology as his first choice of major, with history as a second choice. Unfortunately, his math grades and math scores on the ACT/SATs weren't high enough to get accepted into the College of Science, but he made it into the College of Liberal Arts. He's cool with that and figures he can reapply after a year, if he takes some science and math review/remedial classes and does well in them. His grades in natural sciences have always been high, so I think he has a good shot at it; if not, he'd be happy doing something in liberal arts.

******

Netflix finally sent The Departed, so I'll have seen an unprecedented TWO of the nominees for Best Picture before this year's Oscars. Whooo! The other one was Little Miss Sunshine, which I loved, even though I don't think it's going to take the Best Picture award. Daniel and I have already filled out the ballot cards Entertainment Weekly includes in the Oscar preview issue. We've been doing that for the past three years, and then keep score during the show of who predicted the most right choices. I've edged him out every year so far, but his prediction score has been improving. He just might whup my ass this year--our own nerdy little version of the child surpassing the parent. Poor Kevin. The man hasn't got a competitive bone in his body and is slightly bewildered by our intense enjoyment of this game. He adores snarking about the red-carpet interviews and cheesy performances of Oscar-nominated Best Songs, however, so that night has something entertaining for us all.

I'm back in the sweat pants again

Even with yesterday's fresh snow, I was optimistic about getting out of the house to see a movie. Going down to Mt. Pilot was out of the question, but maybe, just maybe, Mayberry's local theater would show something besides Talladega Nights, which topped the marquee for six solid weeks. Ugh. Holding my breath, I dialed the movie line and was shocked to hear that Music and Lyrics had a 5:00 showing. Matinee prices, even!

About 4:30, Kevin and I headed out to the garage, with me practically skipping down the shoveled path. I was wearing real pants! And a bra! Lipstick, too! Well, I'd wear lipstick in the aftermath of a tornado with a fever of 105, but REAL PANTS, people. Mountains of packed snow lined the driveway on either side, but I stayed positive--until Kevin backed up and got stuck. He kept revving and spinning the tires while I gritted my teeth. I lived in Chicago for 10 years, and I know that technique isn't going to get you anywhere on slick snow. Finally, when the smell of burning rubber began drifting through the air, I suggested Kevin try going forward again and rocking the car back and forth. Apparently this remark was a slur on Kevin's manhood, intelligence, character, etc., etc. "Stop criticizing me!" he yelled. "Oh, I forgot being helpful is CRITICIZING," I retorted.

For God's sake. Am I nuts? It would have been better to let him burn the tires up than offer advice? Meanwhile, the clock on the dashboard was ticking inexorably toward 5:00, and the possibility of a fun movie date began fading. Kevin was getting nowhere fast, so he grudgingly got out of the car to let me try. I told him to get ready to push on my signal, and then rocked the car back and forth a few times. When it felt right, I hollered at Kevin to push and backed up until I was through the packed snow. Kevin ran to the car, and I was nice enough to brake for a few seconds while he climbed in.

Now, let me emphasize that I did not gloat, but Kevin pouted and muttered "Fine, YOU lived in CHICAGO, you know all about driving in snow." All the way to the theater, we "discussed" the difference between criticizing and giving advice, and I bit my tongue about 42 times to stop myself from shrieking "Would you GROW the HELL UP?" Which would have been quite mature of me. Pot, kettle, yadda yadda. I was determined to see the movie, however, so I tried to let it drop.

We raced into the theater at a few minutes before 5:00, and as the teenaged cashier was handing the tickets to us, I happened to spot the movie times listed above him, which said "Music and Lyrics: 4:50 7:00." WHAT? The movie line said 5:00! I asked Teen Cashier whether the movie had already started. He looked blank (well, blankER) and said "I dunno." I asked whether he could, oh, I don't know....FIND OUT? He stared for a few seconds and stuttered that the previews were "probably" still playing. Fine. We walked back to the theater, but when we went in, I saw Hugh Grant talking (adorably, I might add) to Brad Garrett on the big screen and threw a minor hissy fit. I don't know about you, but I'd rather have major dental surgery than watch a movie that's already started. It's just not done. If I started my own religion, that would be number one on the list of deadly sins. (Number two: Talking in the theater during a movie.) I stomped back to Teen Cashier and demanded our money back.

Of course, nothing else worth seeing was playing in that stupid theater, so we went back home. I was crushed. I'd looked forward to this outing so much, and I desperately needed to get out. Instead, I got a stuck car and a ridiculous argument and missed the movie because the idiot girl who records the movie listings read the wrong time. Hmmmph! If we get more snow today, I'm going to commit hara-kiri on the giant icicle hanging next to my back door. At the very least, I could put my eye out!*



*For the three people who haven't seen A Christmas Story, I'm kidding.