There's somthing to be said about Eddie Haskell. He might have been a weasle--but at least he was a polite weasle. I realize that that might appear like a random statement, in light of my continued postponement of the mice story conclusion, but, just think about it. Eddie was always coming around the Beave's house, brown nosing Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver. And , they were fully away of his phony persona, yet, they could say nothing about it. They were helpless to put an end to the pretense. What could they do? They couldn't smack Eddie and tell him to knock it off. Although, back then, DCFS probably wouldn't have faulted them if they did. But, no, they had to smile and take it.
Every day when Walley would bring Ole' Eddie by--The Cleaver's knew the drill.
"Hi, Mr. Cleaver, Mrs Cleaver. How are you today?"
"Fine, thank you Eddie." Mrs Cleaver would respond, in an unappreciative tone, slightly dripping of sarcasm.
Hey, I was right with you in wanting to throw Eddie up agains the wall and rubbing that smug smile off of his face, but, I will tell you this-- I would take ten Eddie Haskell's greetings to one greeting of the present generation. These days, when kid comes over to my house, I am lucky if I am even acknowledged, let alone greeted. And, it is almost a given that I will be addressed by my first name. Can you imagine Eddie calling Wally's mom, June? She was probably waiting for that, so she could call Ward in to throw him out. But, that day never came. And it never would, because kids back then were taught manners.
I don't know what happened to that concept. I have seen kids that I have known for 10 years, and who have been at my home, many times, walk right passed me on the sidewalk, without so much as a glint of recognition. It seems odd to me. Do I have invisible powers that I was not aware of?
I am sure that my own kids fall short in the manners department on many occasions. But, I know that they are not calling adults by their first name. So, I have succeeded on some small level. I think it would be nice, if we tried a little harder to get our kids to be polite as often as possible. Don't they say that manners are the lubricant of society? I am afraid that in the coming generations, society is going to be very dry indeed.
Jeepers, I wasn't trying to give you guys the business, I know the truth stinks. But, if we all try really hard to be more polite--think how keen it would be.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
No Christian Bale out
Well, before I continue with the saga of the mice, I feel the need to weigh in on all of the celebrity hullabaloo currently flooding the T.V. Mind you this is just the perspective of a simple, gal from Nebraska, who is far removed from the glitz of Tinsel town. Yet, opinions--I have.
This Christian Bale thing--what’s that? I heard excerpts of his tirade, while I was driving in my car. I found it interesting that the Dark Knight could be so, for lack of a better term--rude. I mean, most British men might have handled the situation thusly:
“Oh, my, my dear chap, would you be so kind, as to not distract me on the set? Jolly good show, Govner” instead of:
"What the #*$! are you doing you #$*!ing ass*#*!"
Hmmmm, He’s a rather impatient fellow, isn’t he? He would be a lot of fun to stand behind at the post office or the DMV. I don’t ever remember hearing a recording of Cary Grant of Gary Cooper behaving that way. What happened to class? What used to be scandalous is now regarded as typical behavior. Flattering publicity--unflattering publicity--it's all good.
That got me to thinking about other people in the public eye that are elevated to beyond mortal status. Michael Phelps for example-- Here is a person who has just made a gazillion dollars in endorsements for being an uber athlete, who is stupid enough to let himself be photographed smoking Marijuana. It is bad enough that he actually feels the need to smoke it. I mean, I would think that all of the fame and mega millions would make a person content to the point that they would not need to alter their reality. But, No, he has to smoke it around other people who have photo capturing devices. I guess being a good athlete doesn’t necessarily make you smart.
Why does society feel the need to focus on these pseudo icons? Most Actors and athletes are spoiled, self centered, people, who really shouldn’t receive our attention. In fact, on Oprah’s show today, she had Jenny McCarthy plugging some new book about “women warriors“. She had to say the word “warriors” 50 times if she said it once. Then, after Jenny’s self indulgent spot, Oprah brought out a woman who had to have her arms and legs amputated after giving birth . While in the hospital, a Bacterial infection wreaked havoc throughout her body. Yet, she never gave up and returned home to her loving husband and family. This was a strong women who deserved our respect and compassion. Why did we need big mouth, Jenny McCarthy sitting next to her, telling us how she was a “warrior?” Because it tied into her book. Do we need to be lectured on who to admire by Jenny? It would have been much better, if Oprah had the inspirational woman on in her own right.
I have news for you Jenny--you are not a warrior. You are an (often vulgar) comedian/actress/playboy centerfold. Maybe you should look up the definition of warrior sometime. In fact, it would be nice if a lot of celebrities and celebrity news show looked up the meaning of words. “Amazing” is the new “awesome.” HLN’s Showbiz tonight uses the word “provocative” 5-10 times a show. Very few things are actually “amazing” or awesome. Oprah's inspiring guest was actually deserving of the word. But, not Jenny. She should have been on a differnet show.
And the last thing I want to say on the subject is how annoying it is to hear celebrities wine and cry about all of the publicity and paparazzi they have to contend with. Give me a break. It must be horrible to have people idolize you. It must be devastating to make 25 million dollars a movie and have to sign autographs and smile for photographs. Man, these poor, oppressed people. I wonder what they say when the cameras STOP following them.
What would be nice, is, if more people would lay their admiration at the feet of those who deserve it. I remember how much press Mother Theresa’s death garnered compared to Princess Diana. Diana was a likable person--but, she was no Mother Theresa. This warped way of idolizing stars won’t be changing any time soon--not with the internet and glut of celebrity show, and reality T.V. But, maybe some day, it will burn itself out enough that we can celebrate some real heroes like, generations before us did. I wonder....if Harriet Tubman were alive, and went on the Oprah show--would Tina Turner be in the seat next to her?
This Christian Bale thing--what’s that? I heard excerpts of his tirade, while I was driving in my car. I found it interesting that the Dark Knight could be so, for lack of a better term--rude. I mean, most British men might have handled the situation thusly:
“Oh, my, my dear chap, would you be so kind, as to not distract me on the set? Jolly good show, Govner” instead of:
"What the #*$! are you doing you #$*!ing ass*#*!"
Hmmmm, He’s a rather impatient fellow, isn’t he? He would be a lot of fun to stand behind at the post office or the DMV. I don’t ever remember hearing a recording of Cary Grant of Gary Cooper behaving that way. What happened to class? What used to be scandalous is now regarded as typical behavior. Flattering publicity--unflattering publicity--it's all good.
That got me to thinking about other people in the public eye that are elevated to beyond mortal status. Michael Phelps for example-- Here is a person who has just made a gazillion dollars in endorsements for being an uber athlete, who is stupid enough to let himself be photographed smoking Marijuana. It is bad enough that he actually feels the need to smoke it. I mean, I would think that all of the fame and mega millions would make a person content to the point that they would not need to alter their reality. But, No, he has to smoke it around other people who have photo capturing devices. I guess being a good athlete doesn’t necessarily make you smart.
Why does society feel the need to focus on these pseudo icons? Most Actors and athletes are spoiled, self centered, people, who really shouldn’t receive our attention. In fact, on Oprah’s show today, she had Jenny McCarthy plugging some new book about “women warriors“. She had to say the word “warriors” 50 times if she said it once. Then, after Jenny’s self indulgent spot, Oprah brought out a woman who had to have her arms and legs amputated after giving birth . While in the hospital, a Bacterial infection wreaked havoc throughout her body. Yet, she never gave up and returned home to her loving husband and family. This was a strong women who deserved our respect and compassion. Why did we need big mouth, Jenny McCarthy sitting next to her, telling us how she was a “warrior?” Because it tied into her book. Do we need to be lectured on who to admire by Jenny? It would have been much better, if Oprah had the inspirational woman on in her own right.
I have news for you Jenny--you are not a warrior. You are an (often vulgar) comedian/actress/playboy centerfold. Maybe you should look up the definition of warrior sometime. In fact, it would be nice if a lot of celebrities and celebrity news show looked up the meaning of words. “Amazing” is the new “awesome.” HLN’s Showbiz tonight uses the word “provocative” 5-10 times a show. Very few things are actually “amazing” or awesome. Oprah's inspiring guest was actually deserving of the word. But, not Jenny. She should have been on a differnet show.
And the last thing I want to say on the subject is how annoying it is to hear celebrities wine and cry about all of the publicity and paparazzi they have to contend with. Give me a break. It must be horrible to have people idolize you. It must be devastating to make 25 million dollars a movie and have to sign autographs and smile for photographs. Man, these poor, oppressed people. I wonder what they say when the cameras STOP following them.
What would be nice, is, if more people would lay their admiration at the feet of those who deserve it. I remember how much press Mother Theresa’s death garnered compared to Princess Diana. Diana was a likable person--but, she was no Mother Theresa. This warped way of idolizing stars won’t be changing any time soon--not with the internet and glut of celebrity show, and reality T.V. But, maybe some day, it will burn itself out enough that we can celebrate some real heroes like, generations before us did. I wonder....if Harriet Tubman were alive, and went on the Oprah show--would Tina Turner be in the seat next to her?
I'm a bad housekeeper and a bad mousekeeper
Just wanted to mention that I hit my other elbow on the corner of a cabinet today. So I have decided that I have some type of magnet in both elbows that attract the corners of objects. I’m glad that that mystery is solved.
Anyway, just a little info on the Deer mouse situation I described many bogs ago. After finding the chocolate coin foils in the basement suitcases, (refer to "micecapades) but not actually seeing any perpetrators, I started to suspect that the whole thing might be the work of the small people who live in my house and tend to do despicable things and then pretend that they didn’t.
So, I sort of forgot about the whole thing. Then, one day, many weeks later, my younger son claimed he had actually seen a little mouse run across the den floor. There were two other people there at the time (a larger son and even larger husband) who did not see the intruder. Was my son trying to throw me off his scent? Who knew?
A week later, the same kid yells that he has just seen the mouse again, and he ran under the refrigerator. (the mouse-not the kid) Well, I don’t want to bore you with the many unsubstantiated sightings, but they tended to be very similar. They took place in the kitchen/den, and the same imaginative boy was the only witness. I was skeptical. It had been over a year since the coin incident. Why would these little guys be upstairs all of a sudden? Why indeed.
Then, one evening, as I was alone, watching T.V. I heard a distinct munching sound from the kitchen, several feet behind me. There in the dim kitchen near the cabinet , (on the floor, of course) was a tiny black/grey mouse, going to town on a cheerio or something he found on the floor. (When I say you can eat off of my floors--I am not kidding.) With my recent shoulder injury, a mouse could probably find the all-you-can-eat buffet there. Needless to say my broom and I had not spent much time together over the previous months.
Oddly, I was not startled at all. I guess all of the previous inklings of the little guys presence prepared me for such a meeting. I thought him a little brazen though. I mean, to sit right there, in the open, and chow down in front of the house owner, is probably not in the “How to be a smart mouse” book of rules. When I got up, he had the presence of mind to scurry away. Not that I was going to hurt him--I just wanted to get a good look at the chocolate coin bandit. I tried to ferret him out, but he went behind the oven. A while latter, I could here him rattling around in the oven drawer, He or she, was a gutsy mouse. I knew no matter how cute it was, where there was one mouse there was more somewhere else.
Later, I'll tell you more about how and why they finally came upstairs after staying out of site, in the basement for so long . I found the whole experience very interesting and entertaining. Yet, sad and anxiety filled. If you love animals as much as I do--you are pretty much screwed in that situation.
Anyway, just a little info on the Deer mouse situation I described many bogs ago. After finding the chocolate coin foils in the basement suitcases, (refer to "micecapades) but not actually seeing any perpetrators, I started to suspect that the whole thing might be the work of the small people who live in my house and tend to do despicable things and then pretend that they didn’t.
So, I sort of forgot about the whole thing. Then, one day, many weeks later, my younger son claimed he had actually seen a little mouse run across the den floor. There were two other people there at the time (a larger son and even larger husband) who did not see the intruder. Was my son trying to throw me off his scent? Who knew?
A week later, the same kid yells that he has just seen the mouse again, and he ran under the refrigerator. (the mouse-not the kid) Well, I don’t want to bore you with the many unsubstantiated sightings, but they tended to be very similar. They took place in the kitchen/den, and the same imaginative boy was the only witness. I was skeptical. It had been over a year since the coin incident. Why would these little guys be upstairs all of a sudden? Why indeed.
Then, one evening, as I was alone, watching T.V. I heard a distinct munching sound from the kitchen, several feet behind me. There in the dim kitchen near the cabinet , (on the floor, of course) was a tiny black/grey mouse, going to town on a cheerio or something he found on the floor. (When I say you can eat off of my floors--I am not kidding.) With my recent shoulder injury, a mouse could probably find the all-you-can-eat buffet there. Needless to say my broom and I had not spent much time together over the previous months.
Oddly, I was not startled at all. I guess all of the previous inklings of the little guys presence prepared me for such a meeting. I thought him a little brazen though. I mean, to sit right there, in the open, and chow down in front of the house owner, is probably not in the “How to be a smart mouse” book of rules. When I got up, he had the presence of mind to scurry away. Not that I was going to hurt him--I just wanted to get a good look at the chocolate coin bandit. I tried to ferret him out, but he went behind the oven. A while latter, I could here him rattling around in the oven drawer, He or she, was a gutsy mouse. I knew no matter how cute it was, where there was one mouse there was more somewhere else.
Later, I'll tell you more about how and why they finally came upstairs after staying out of site, in the basement for so long . I found the whole experience very interesting and entertaining. Yet, sad and anxiety filled. If you love animals as much as I do--you are pretty much screwed in that situation.
Life's a trip
Life's a trip
I am definitely going to get the Deer mice conclusion tomorrow. Trust me--it’s coming. And wackiness will ensue.
But, after just falling half way down my stairs, I got to wondering why these things keep happening to me. People have called me clumsy. I wish that I were clumsy, because that would be desirable improvement to what I am. I have, in the past year alone, broken my collar bone, fractured ribs, collapsed a lung, fractured a toe, whacked my elbow on a wall corner, requiring a cortisone injection, hit my head on the corner of the refrigerator door, slipped on the ice, tripped on the stairs, hit my hip on the corner of a half wall, choked on a pill, bit into a piece of plastic in a Subway sandwich, bit into a rock in a Burger King hamburger, hammered my finger, and the list continues. To sum it up--I hurt myself a lot.
I have tried to figure out why I am so prone to these injuries. I have pondered it. I have considered the following possibilities:
1. I am distracted.
2. I have kids
3. I have a middle ear problem.
4. I have kids.
5. There is too much stuff in my house.
6. There is too much stuff everywhere outside of my house.
7. I have kids.
But, aside from having kids, none of these things really explain it. I know there are people out there just like me. I know they have to put up with the slings and arrows of the “graceful” clique who tease and make fun. Those smug ones that walk in a straight line, never catch a toe on uneven sidewalks, or get a finger caught in a car door. The “coordinated” ones.
Then I got to thinking, I am prone because I am always moving? I don’t like to stay in one place too long. I feel lazy if I do. And, perhaps those people who never get hurt, spend a lot of time laying around. I don’t recall any of my injuries taking place in front of the T.V. eating Cheetos or taking a nap. Maybe the graceful are just slothful. Maybe, they don’t take the same risks as I or my fellow stumblers. Maybe they choose the safe routes when we take the less path less traveled. Maybe , just maybe we get hurt because we dare to venture.
Then again--we might just have really bad vision and are uncoordinated. But, I like to think we are special. Yes, we have fallen, choked, been sliced up, fractured, broken, skinned, scarred, bruised, contused, bumped, ended up with one "itis" or another--but, we are still here. We managed to trip and fall .... have live to fall again. That's right world--look out.
I am definitely going to get the Deer mice conclusion tomorrow. Trust me--it’s coming. And wackiness will ensue.
But, after just falling half way down my stairs, I got to wondering why these things keep happening to me. People have called me clumsy. I wish that I were clumsy, because that would be desirable improvement to what I am. I have, in the past year alone, broken my collar bone, fractured ribs, collapsed a lung, fractured a toe, whacked my elbow on a wall corner, requiring a cortisone injection, hit my head on the corner of the refrigerator door, slipped on the ice, tripped on the stairs, hit my hip on the corner of a half wall, choked on a pill, bit into a piece of plastic in a Subway sandwich, bit into a rock in a Burger King hamburger, hammered my finger, and the list continues. To sum it up--I hurt myself a lot.
I have tried to figure out why I am so prone to these injuries. I have pondered it. I have considered the following possibilities:
1. I am distracted.
2. I have kids
3. I have a middle ear problem.
4. I have kids.
5. There is too much stuff in my house.
6. There is too much stuff everywhere outside of my house.
7. I have kids.
But, aside from having kids, none of these things really explain it. I know there are people out there just like me. I know they have to put up with the slings and arrows of the “graceful” clique who tease and make fun. Those smug ones that walk in a straight line, never catch a toe on uneven sidewalks, or get a finger caught in a car door. The “coordinated” ones.
Then I got to thinking, I am prone because I am always moving? I don’t like to stay in one place too long. I feel lazy if I do. And, perhaps those people who never get hurt, spend a lot of time laying around. I don’t recall any of my injuries taking place in front of the T.V. eating Cheetos or taking a nap. Maybe the graceful are just slothful. Maybe, they don’t take the same risks as I or my fellow stumblers. Maybe they choose the safe routes when we take the less path less traveled. Maybe , just maybe we get hurt because we dare to venture.
Then again--we might just have really bad vision and are uncoordinated. But, I like to think we are special. Yes, we have fallen, choked, been sliced up, fractured, broken, skinned, scarred, bruised, contused, bumped, ended up with one "itis" or another--but, we are still here. We managed to trip and fall .... have live to fall again. That's right world--look out.
Vagina mono blogs
I really want to finish my story about the Deer mice, but I keep getting side tracked by a new rant. As a woman with many questions about mid-life, I have been researching the changes our bodies will go through. One of the things I have learned is that, after menopause, and without estrogen replacement, a woman’s vagina may (now get this) atrophy. The hell, you say.
I just don’t understand how I could have gone in excess of 40 years and never have gotten wind of this information. How is it that nobody-- not a parent, not a teacher, not a doctor, nobody-- ever related this, or came right out and said, “Hey, by the way, you should know, that someday your vagina is going to atrophy.” Is it because I might have said, “Excuse me? Come again.? No way.”
“Way.” they would say.
“ But, how can that be?”
“Oh, it be.” they would assure me.
They might go on to add that it could become very dry and painful too. It will shorten and lose its elasticity. Well, that conversation never took place. So. I have to start wondering what else is going to happen that no one ever warned us about. What else? Is my ass going to fall off? My nipples turn to stone? What? Just how bad is this thing going to get?
It would have been nice to know about this a long time ago so I could have gotten all the use out of the thing before the end came-before the withering. I could have taken advantage of all the moisture before I had to dust my underwear.
Things do make a lot more sense now though. I used to wonder why old women didn’t seem to have much interest in sex. (not with me of course) It wasn’t because they didn’t want to have it--it was because there was a Rest In Peace marker over their vaginas.
Drug companies are ecstatic about our dilapidating mid-life bodies. Estrogen is the number two selling drug in America. It seems that a lot of women are not content to have atrophied vaginas or hot flashes for that matter. Even the threat of horomone side effects is not enough to make some suffer through the lousy consequences of aging. They refuse to mourn a dead vajayjay. Now that I think about it, maybe it would be better not to try to be so informed of things to come. Why mourne prematurely? I think I'll research the origins of chocolate.
I just don’t understand how I could have gone in excess of 40 years and never have gotten wind of this information. How is it that nobody-- not a parent, not a teacher, not a doctor, nobody-- ever related this, or came right out and said, “Hey, by the way, you should know, that someday your vagina is going to atrophy.” Is it because I might have said, “Excuse me? Come again.? No way.”
“Way.” they would say.
“ But, how can that be?”
“Oh, it be.” they would assure me.
They might go on to add that it could become very dry and painful too. It will shorten and lose its elasticity. Well, that conversation never took place. So. I have to start wondering what else is going to happen that no one ever warned us about. What else? Is my ass going to fall off? My nipples turn to stone? What? Just how bad is this thing going to get?
It would have been nice to know about this a long time ago so I could have gotten all the use out of the thing before the end came-before the withering. I could have taken advantage of all the moisture before I had to dust my underwear.
Things do make a lot more sense now though. I used to wonder why old women didn’t seem to have much interest in sex. (not with me of course) It wasn’t because they didn’t want to have it--it was because there was a Rest In Peace marker over their vaginas.
Drug companies are ecstatic about our dilapidating mid-life bodies. Estrogen is the number two selling drug in America. It seems that a lot of women are not content to have atrophied vaginas or hot flashes for that matter. Even the threat of horomone side effects is not enough to make some suffer through the lousy consequences of aging. They refuse to mourn a dead vajayjay. Now that I think about it, maybe it would be better not to try to be so informed of things to come. Why mourne prematurely? I think I'll research the origins of chocolate.
Curious life? Not so much
I feel compelled to take a break from the Mice shenanigans to put in my two cents on the movie: The curious life of Benjamin Button. I don't get out to see many movies, so, it is dissapointing when one falls very short of its hype. I have not read any reviews on it, but I am sure that there are plenty of people with the same observations as I.
First of all, anyone who has see it, will notice obvious comparisons to Forest Gump. The oft repeated line: "You never know what's comin' for ya." Is strikingly similar to Gump's: "Life is like a box of Chocolates-you never know what you're gonna get." Is it not? In fact the whole movie is kind of like a recycled Forest Gump. Only this time, its a strange child man--man child dude instead of a slow, child-man who falls ass backward into everything.
A lot of the movie didn't make a lot of sense either. Why is Benjamin born a baby who is old, and becomes an old looking child, and then at the end of his life he becomes a baby who is actually a normal looking baby. To be consistent shouldn't he have died a full grown man who looks like a baby? C'mon. Did they go over budget on the freaky special effects?
Then, later in the movie, after Benjamin has a child with his love, and they are happy--he decides the best thing to do is to abandon them. This is for their own good. What the hell? His reasoning it that he will be too young to raise the kid, and his true love will be saddled with two kids. But, in reality, Benjamin, who at the time is the same age as her, (around 40) will have many years to raise this kid. In fact, he has over 20 years as an adult while she grows up. Why couldn't he raise her? In another inexplicable scene, the now, adult daughter is visiting with her old and dying mother in the hospital. She finds a picture of the mother in her dancing attire. And, says this: "Mom, you never talked about your dancing." Her mother owned a dancing studio, for God's sake. I found myself getting really anrgy at this point in the movie, as I had already invested a couple hours.
Another problem, that only serves to make an already too long, film drag, even more, is that there were too many extranious characters. Sure, they were supposed to be colorfull, but, guess what? They weren't. And they didn't really have much significance to anything. The woman at the hotel--the guy who came and took him out when he lived at the retirement home. The story at the beginning of the guy with the clock. Do they have to beat us over the head with symbolism? What was that all about? Who cares?
I kept waiting for a pay off. I kept waiting to feel something--but, I never did. There were plenty of opportunities for the makers of this film to touch the audience, but they were lost in an overblown score of heart tugging music and a parade of lifeless characters. What left me most curious about Benjamin button, is why I wasted 7 bucks to see it.
There-I feel better now. Not that I couldn't have gone on as long as the actuall movie about all that was wrong with it. But, will restrain myself. This whole blog entree has made want popcorn.
First of all, anyone who has see it, will notice obvious comparisons to Forest Gump. The oft repeated line: "You never know what's comin' for ya." Is strikingly similar to Gump's: "Life is like a box of Chocolates-you never know what you're gonna get." Is it not? In fact the whole movie is kind of like a recycled Forest Gump. Only this time, its a strange child man--man child dude instead of a slow, child-man who falls ass backward into everything.
A lot of the movie didn't make a lot of sense either. Why is Benjamin born a baby who is old, and becomes an old looking child, and then at the end of his life he becomes a baby who is actually a normal looking baby. To be consistent shouldn't he have died a full grown man who looks like a baby? C'mon. Did they go over budget on the freaky special effects?
Then, later in the movie, after Benjamin has a child with his love, and they are happy--he decides the best thing to do is to abandon them. This is for their own good. What the hell? His reasoning it that he will be too young to raise the kid, and his true love will be saddled with two kids. But, in reality, Benjamin, who at the time is the same age as her, (around 40) will have many years to raise this kid. In fact, he has over 20 years as an adult while she grows up. Why couldn't he raise her? In another inexplicable scene, the now, adult daughter is visiting with her old and dying mother in the hospital. She finds a picture of the mother in her dancing attire. And, says this: "Mom, you never talked about your dancing." Her mother owned a dancing studio, for God's sake. I found myself getting really anrgy at this point in the movie, as I had already invested a couple hours.
Another problem, that only serves to make an already too long, film drag, even more, is that there were too many extranious characters. Sure, they were supposed to be colorfull, but, guess what? They weren't. And they didn't really have much significance to anything. The woman at the hotel--the guy who came and took him out when he lived at the retirement home. The story at the beginning of the guy with the clock. Do they have to beat us over the head with symbolism? What was that all about? Who cares?
I kept waiting for a pay off. I kept waiting to feel something--but, I never did. There were plenty of opportunities for the makers of this film to touch the audience, but they were lost in an overblown score of heart tugging music and a parade of lifeless characters. What left me most curious about Benjamin button, is why I wasted 7 bucks to see it.
There-I feel better now. Not that I couldn't have gone on as long as the actuall movie about all that was wrong with it. But, will restrain myself. This whole blog entree has made want popcorn.
Micecapades
Okay, after a couple days to rest the ol' wrists, I can continue the strange, but true story of My house guests--the deer mice. A unruly clan that took up residence in my basement last winter after my son broke out a window and nobody bothered to officially fix it. The piece of cardboard deftly stuck in, did not seem a formidable barrier for the ingenious , yet adorable, Deer Mouse.
Of, course at the time, I was unaware that I had to protect from these invaders, as I have never seen one around. Yet, last, Xmas, as I went down into the basement, (where everything unusable ends up for eternity) I noticed that the two bags of Chocolate coins that I had stashed amid other hidden Christmas gifts, were mysteriously missing. All, but for one strange piece of empty gold foil shell, that remained to mock me. "What the hell?" I asked myself. surely this is not the work of my kids. They are crafty enough, to dispose of ALL evidence of such a crime. Having lived in our home for close to two decades, and never seeing anything more than an occasional spider. My blame did not readily fall on anyone in the rodent family. But, then, I saw it. The tiniest of all calling cards from my wee vermin visitors. If I hadn't squinted--I wouldn't have seen it. The size of a poppy seed--a mouse dropping. Egads!!! But, I could not be sure. I could not definitively accuse an entire species of animal. So, I forgot about the incident with a bemused shrug.
Almost a year later, I was cleaning out some old clothing from some suitcases (on the other side of the basement, mind you.) When I unzipped a large plaid one-- I could not believe my eyes. Behold!! Before me-the entire cache of gold coin foils. amid a shredded sweater. I scratched my head. My previous suspicions now seemed confirmed. Yet I questioned myself. "How in the hell did they get these coins into this zipped suitcase? How did they drag over 20, rather large coins such a distance? (The equivelant of me hauling an unweildly chocolate filled Tobaggen a mile.) How did they so expertly peel the foil off of the chocolate? What else had they destroyed?" Yet how could I be mad at creatures that obviously understood about the joys of chocolate? I felt a pang of endearment. But, just as fast, a shudder of what would happen if my husband ever found out about my newly discovered, fellow chocoholics.
Of, course at the time, I was unaware that I had to protect from these invaders, as I have never seen one around. Yet, last, Xmas, as I went down into the basement, (where everything unusable ends up for eternity) I noticed that the two bags of Chocolate coins that I had stashed amid other hidden Christmas gifts, were mysteriously missing. All, but for one strange piece of empty gold foil shell, that remained to mock me. "What the hell?" I asked myself. surely this is not the work of my kids. They are crafty enough, to dispose of ALL evidence of such a crime. Having lived in our home for close to two decades, and never seeing anything more than an occasional spider. My blame did not readily fall on anyone in the rodent family. But, then, I saw it. The tiniest of all calling cards from my wee vermin visitors. If I hadn't squinted--I wouldn't have seen it. The size of a poppy seed--a mouse dropping. Egads!!! But, I could not be sure. I could not definitively accuse an entire species of animal. So, I forgot about the incident with a bemused shrug.
Almost a year later, I was cleaning out some old clothing from some suitcases (on the other side of the basement, mind you.) When I unzipped a large plaid one-- I could not believe my eyes. Behold!! Before me-the entire cache of gold coin foils. amid a shredded sweater. I scratched my head. My previous suspicions now seemed confirmed. Yet I questioned myself. "How in the hell did they get these coins into this zipped suitcase? How did they drag over 20, rather large coins such a distance? (The equivelant of me hauling an unweildly chocolate filled Tobaggen a mile.) How did they so expertly peel the foil off of the chocolate? What else had they destroyed?" Yet how could I be mad at creatures that obviously understood about the joys of chocolate? I felt a pang of endearment. But, just as fast, a shudder of what would happen if my husband ever found out about my newly discovered, fellow chocoholics.
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