Tag Archives: life

An Evening With Some Potheads

31 Jul

The other night I was out enjoying a drink and attempting to catch up on some posts.   I’ve been desperately attempting for quite some time to sit down and pound out some ideas so that I’m a few days ahead and not completely stressed out.

I’ve been terribly unsuccessful.

So I was out at a lovely establishment where Dave got called in to do a little last-minute bar help and took advantage of the awesome writing day I was having.  Words flowed so easily for me; I didn’t even have to edit what came out of me.  I had every intention of writing at least three posts before I left the bar that evening but my attempts were thwarted by a chatty activist and a surprise benefit. 

I arrived at 8:30pm and wrote with a fury, pleased that after a long dry spell things were coming so naturally.  At 9:00pm, a gentleman came to the bar and sat down beside me to chat.  

I’m not very good at handling these sorts of situations.  I used to just put out a really heavy hate vibe and hope that people were too intimidated to talk to me.   But over the past year or so I’ve been really trying to fix that and now I feel bad relying on it.  Which is why my writing attempt was thwarted by a discussion of pot activism.

Yeah, that’s right: pot.  Weed, green, cookies, Papa C’s Funky Space Boots.  Apparently at 10:00 that evening there was a benefit for a pot advocacy group.  Their goal is to legalize marijuana so that the country can regulate and tax it and so they can stop hiding it from their landlords.  The gentleman who sat down next to me (let’s call him Deeb) wanted to make sure I knew all the statistics, history, and details associated with their pursuit.

I just wanted to write.

It’s not that I don’t care about pot legalization – I do.  But Deeb doesn’t understand how difficult it is to write 366 (thanks a lot, Leap Year) unique posts when I also have a job, a second job, and do not have the benefit of being inspired by the creative properties of Papa C’s Funky Space Boots.  

I tried everything I had in my Polite Bag, including emphasizing that I didn’t know there was a benefit that night, that I sat at the end of the bar to be away from everything so that I could write, and that my boyfriend was working there (complete with a visual cue).   Finally I got  in the Slightly Rude Bag and pulled out my cell phone to text a friend and invite her to come.   If I was going to throw a great day of writing down the tubes, I was going to at least get good conversation with a friend in exchange.

At 10:00pm when I’d decided to dip into the Blatantly Rude Bag, a girl approached me and told me that the evening was a benefit for her group and that there was a cover charge of ten dollars.

You’re kidding, right?

I wanted to give her a full lesson on the concept of a cover charge.   No one starts an event and goes inside to tell everyone that’s already been in the establishment for an hour and a half that they owe them money.  I’m pretty sure that in any other part of town, that would have warranted a punch in the face.  But I was tired and annoyed and didn’t have any cash on me anyway so I decided to just say “Oh, I’ve been here since 8:30 – I actually came for dinner and didn’t know there was a benefit tonight.  I don’t have any cash on me, but I can talk to the bartender and see if he can charge my card and pass along the money.”   She replied “Well, we’re a nonprofit soooooo…”

Allow me to defer to a fellow blogger’s post on ending phrases with “so”.  Here, Pegoleg lays out her disdain for the unresolved phrase and considers the due consequence: killing offenders and hiding them in her floorboards.

You can understand why I’m an avid follower.

Of course, had I not read the post, I would not have been thinking about the variety of ways I could kill the person in front of me for her offense.  In fact, she had to die for a multitude of offenses being that she attempted to charge me a cover when I was already in the bar.  Absolutely, death was the only option.  

But just then, my friend arrived and beckoned me to the other end of the bar, where I dodged both Deeb and the fundraising zealot.  The stand-up comedians began to take the stage (oh yes, it was a comedy benefit) and I woefully waved goodbye to my inspiration and ease of language for the evening.

Maybe when Deeb and the zealot succeed in their quest, I can hit them up for some help with the dry spell they’ve caused. ♣

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Sometimes Only a Cow Will Do

30 Jul

Yesterday I was overworked,  overtired, and overly hungry. By the time 2pm rolled around it was apparent that I had not thought out my day and prepared for the wrath of my mid-afternoon situation.

At about 2:30 there grew within me a beast so unruly and intense that only the flesh of a heavy red meat could pacify it.  I tried to ignore it by reaching for the emergency applesauce in my desk drawer and slurping it down in a jiffy. But anything that could be eaten “in a jiffy” was child’s play.  

It needed blood.  It needed slaughter.

Just then, my boss ordered me to scrounge up a sub from the local sub shop and I saw my opportunity and seized it.  When the delivery guy came, I took the order and promptly darted to my local Five Guys, where only the freshest, juiciest, lard-laden cow is served up daily.  I sprinted there, trying to simultaneously track where I would be in relation to walking to pick up a sub from the opposite end of the street.  I was on target.  I was a mastermind.

I arrived in a sweat and saw only one gentleman in front of me on his way to order.  I let him go instead of sprinting ahead because good masterminds also take time to be kind.  

That was a mistake.

The guy was a total noob – a greenie – a know-nothing.  It wasn’t just as if he’d never been to Five Guys; it was as if he’d never placed an order in the world of food service before. Luckily, his brother/friend/man of substance in his life came over and laid everything out for him.  Slowly and painfully.  Suddenly in the middle of the rundown, four little sprogs appeared shouting for cheeseburgers like little baby birds hoping for their mother’s seconds.  

My one kind pass had now grown to six.  

Time was ticking.  My hypothetical sub dispatch would already have sandwich in hand and be on the return flight.   As my patience began to waver, one man showed the other the intricacies of burger-building like an amusement park tour guide.  He pointed to the line cooks.  He oohed and aahed over the magazine articles on the walls.   As my eyes followed his guided visual tour, I fantasized about leaping over the counter, snatching a cow patty, throwing money on the counter, and running away in maniacal laughter.

After he successfully emerged from the ordering process, they stopped at the pickup counter and asked me to snap a picture of them. You know, right beside the sign that says “you must be this tall to eat a cheeseburger”.    I snapped the picture with my finger slipping on the capture button from the nervous sweat that was accumulating on my palms, knowing what I might be missing back at the office.  I pictured my boss’s meeting coming to an end and her in her office drumming her fingers wondering where the Beach Club Sandwich was that, if on schedule, should have been delivered ten minutes ago. 

Foil-wrapped burger finally in hand, I speed walked back to the office like an old lady in a housing development.  My stride was full and fierce.  I arrived to find the meeting door just opening and my boss exiting.  I casually handed her the sandwich and tried the excitement within me that wanted nothing more than to shove the entire burger I was holding in my other hand directly in my mouth all at once.  As soon as she walked into her office, I jumped into my office chair, tore off the foil wrapper and bit down into what was one of the best cheeseburgers I’ve ever had in my life and reveled in the glories of perfect timing and luck.

Ah, the sweet, juicy spoils of a mastermind. ♣

 

 

Mouthwatering satisfaction. Emmmm.

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The Fatness Cometh

29 Jul

Folks, I have a serious problem.

Super serious.

Some of you may remember a post I wrote not too long ago about my mourning the loss of my favorite ice cream place in all the land: a little shop called Mercurio’s that disappeared suddenly from a little hole in the wall I would have gladly called home.  As it turns out, someone from the shop actually read that post (because I’m famous, yo) and assured me that they would reopen in another part of town.

And so they did.

Today as I was picking at the sale scraps at a few sidewalk sales like a kitten in a dumpster and spyed with my little eye a sign that said “Mercurio’s”.    I couldn’t control the force that took over me and thrust me through its doors to be greeted by the sweet, cool, whiff of fresh gelato. Mmmmm.  And as I stood in line, happily ordering a death by chocolate bowl of sweet regret, I looked to my left and noticed an entire wall was sealed off from the rest of the shop, with a sign right in front that said “Mercurio’s Pizza: Coming Soon!”.

Oh my dear, sweet, Lord in Heaven save me from this great temptation.

I don’t know how to take it.  On one hand, I’m thrilled that someone cares enough about me and my love of ice cream and pizza to make them both out of high quality ingredients and put them under the same roof for my convenience.  Really, I appreciate that.  Obviously someone’s been reading my blog and slowly tailoring a shop to specifically my tastes.  That’s the most thoughtful and large-scale thing anyone’s ever done for me.

On the other hand, I am seriously considering moving beside the shop and never eating anything else ever again.

This is serious.  Like I said: it’s “super serious.”  For years when I first started college I downed an entire frozen pizza and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s twice a week.   That is not an exaggeration.  I spent the majority of my late high school/early college years fat and unhappy by day and fat and STOKED by night.  I love food.  Particularly food that is terrible for me and in mass quantities.

So this pizza and ice cream shop that Mercurio’s is building for me is fantastic and all, but I also just canceled my gym membership.   I can’t even gorge myself and pretend I’m going to go work it off.   I don’t know how long it is until they take down the plastic that separates the beautiful ice cream from the beautiful pizza, but I’m in trouble.  And scared.  Hold me?

After all, this might be the last time I’ll fit in your arms. ♣

They even have an apartment upstairs. Don't mind if I do.

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Breaking Up Is the Hardest Part

28 Jul

I broke up with my gym yesterday.

It was a long time coming, really.  I think it knew;  I’d been neglecting it for quite some time.  Ten out of the twelve months we were together were distant and awkward.

When we first started out, I had so much optimism.  I entered its shiny new doors with hopes that with its help I could be a better version of myself.  It even had these stationary bikes with screens where I could pedal after dragons and coins and game scenarios of all kinds.    It was the perfect workout for a recovering World of Warcraft addict.  What more could I possibly want?

I guess the first real blow was when I wanted to come over one night and it was closed.  Apparently the doors had been shut in observance of a holiday.  I didn’t have any holidays marked on my calendar until it occurred to me that my gym was Jewish.

Which is fine and everything.  I just didn’t realize when we started together that I couldn’t see it on Shavu’ot.

From there, things started to go downhill.  There were all these rules and restrictions – hours I had to pay attention to.  I couldn’t just mosey over any time my schedule allowed; it only wanted to see me on its terms.  I often showed up ready to give and was rejected.   I didn’t want to have to check in every time I wanted to see it just to make sure it also wanted to see me.

I’m a grown woman. I need stability.

Now I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.  It’s hard to admit that something isn’t working out and then try to execute the decision you’ve made about it.  After all, it’s right down the street from me.   I go by it all the time.  So what do I do? Do I acknowledge it but try to look casual?  Do I check in and see how things are going?  Or should I just ignore it altogether?

The hardest part is staying away.  Because even though I know this is the best decision for me, I might get fat and sad one day and come crawling back. 

…Or rolling.♣

For the record, my gym did not look this awesome. But even if it did, I wouldn't go.

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Office Anger Management

27 Jul

Yesterday someone at work asked me what my “email number” was.

It’s moments like those that make it incredibly difficult for me to resist the urge to bash my skull in with a stapler.   In fact, I had a variety of taxing conversations yesterday that featured various displays of ignorance and stupidity.  Throughout them all I surveyed the office supplies on my desk and daydreamed about how to turn them into lethal weapons of self-destruction.

When I have to say “T as in ‘Tango, A as in Alpha” 3 times and someone still manages to send an email to “T as in Tango, K as in Kilo”, I am fantasizing of a death by pushpin acupuncture.   When I answer the phone with my name and department and the immediate question on the other line is what my name is and what department they have reached, I am drowning in a tub of ink, with a letter-opener stabbed into my heart.  And when I have to play a voicemail 8 times to catch the number at the very, very end, I am testing man’s ability to fly by jumping off the roof with wings made out of post-it notes.

I’m having a difficult time managing my work anger.  

I’ve considered a multitude of coping mechanisms.  For example, I could install a program on my computer with random pop-up pictures of adorable baby animals.   Because nothing brings me down from the rage I feel when someone emails me and then immediately calls me like a bowl of baby kittens.

But in the middle of my thought, a delivery guy came in with a bouquet from Edible Arrangements.   I’ve always wanted to try Edible Arrangements (a bouquet made out of edibles – in this case, chocolate-covered fruit) and I’ve always always wanted to get something awesome in the mail at work.  I assumed it was for my boss, but this time the peasant prevailed and I laid claim to the booty.

It was my loyal reader from this past weekend’s Battle of Bull Run, wishing me a Happy Lollipop Tuesday and thanking me for joining her.    And suddenly all my anger disappeared.   It had been replaced by chocolate covered apple wedges and grape skewers.   I felt like a rock star.  A blog star, if you will.   And my problems were solved.  I don’t need to injure myself with office supplies or have a baby goat screensaver.  I just need daily gift deliveries at my place of work.  Preferably chocolate.

So, you know.  Feel free. ♣

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Reenacting the First Battle of Bull Run

26 Jul

Ladies and gentlemen, I have promised you epicness and I now bring you epicness.   Straight from the 1860’s. This past weekend, while nestled in the historic bosom of Manassas, Virginia, I proudly reenacted the First Battle of Bull Run.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.

Getting into formation before heading out to the battlefield in the sweltering heat. Like this group, many chose to don the complete uniforms in spite of allowances made by the organizers for the elimination of jackets, gloves, and a variety of equipment.

It all started when a loyal reader casually mentioned her long and lustrous history of reenactment.  For those of you who are lost, reenactors are folks to trot from one famous battleground to another to reenact a historical event that took place there many year prior.  They don the clothes, they sleep in tents, and even the greenest of them know more about history than your high school teacher.  In fact, many of them can tell the story of a battle in such interesting and tremendous detail that it makes you want to be a history teacher.

Apparently, my reader has been donning crotchless pantaloons (and a host of other period-accurate items) since high school and wanted to share her joy with me.  And as if that weren’t enough, she also suggested I apply for a media pass on the grounds that I was covering it for my blog.

And to my surprise, it worked.

I drove in the evening before to get the lay of the land and conduct an “interview” with my friend.  I donned a dress with my bright red magical media lanyard sticking out like a sore thumb and in the parking lot stumbled upon a group of rowdy men in camping chairs, drinking beer.  I walked past and gave it a moment – considering the power of my magic lanyard, and whipped back around to actually, well, interview someone.  Without the quotation marks.

They greeted me happily with a camping chair and a beer – which in any other scenario I might have declined but I was on official business.  And if I had to stomach a can of fizzy urine to have an experience, then by golly I was going to make that the best damn beer of my life.  I asked them what reenacting was all about, what brought them there, and things like there they got their uniforms.  Out of respect for their privacy and for what they shared with me I shan’t go into further detail.  But suffice it to say they were a wonderful group of fellas who gave me my first glimpse into what an interesting mix of fun and sincerity goes into the life of a reenactor.   When I parted, I left them a bottle of Brandy for their troubles and decided that I had experienced something fantastic that weekend even if all the rest was a bust.

A reenactor in full uniform takes his horse to practice maneuvers with a view of the Union camp behind.

Which it wasn’t.

Because the next day when I walked onto the battleground, I was greeted by horses, muskets, canteens, and wool uniforms on every lad and lass in spite of the ridiculous death-taunting heat index.  Make no mistake: these people aren’t joking around.  One man brought his 2-week-old baby along.  (Fear not – rumor in the Union camp was that they were harboring a small AC unit in their tent for moments of dire need.)

As with any Lollipop Tuesday, I tried to get as involved as possible.  So when my reader offered a pair of crotchless pantaloons, a modesty skirt, a full button-up dress, and told me she could get me onto the battlefield if I donned them all and followed her command, I giggled like a little schoolgirl.

To be frank, it was awesome.  The entire thing.  With over 8,000 registrants, what could have been better than standing in the battlefield with the Pennsylvania Artillery as they rallied the horses to pull the canons forward, cried havoc, and let loose the dogs of war?  As they pushed their way farther onto the field and gun powder and dust overran them, I made my way  over to the official spectators area to see the fruits of their labor.

And my heart sank.

I saw real gunpowder, real formations, real charges, and real horses.  I saw men fire guns and others fall to the ground.  And while I knew it wasn’t real because I was just having a beer with those men or laughing as they shoved ice in their hats to fight the heat, I couldn’t ignore the fact that not long ago, men gathered on these fields to fight for something far bigger than themselves.  And when it was over, they did not retire to their tents to talk about what a good time it was or drive home to air conditioning, or – in most cases – get to rise from the battlefield and brush themselves off.  That’s what brought people from all over the world and the United States to reenact the 150th Anniversary this past weekend.  In fact, some of them took it upon themselves to represent a member of their own family who lost their lives that day in Manassas.

And even after the camaraderie, the thrill of a new experience, and a beer enjoyed with a great group of men, that realization is one that quiets my soul. ♣

To see professional photographs of this event, consider viewing the Richmond Times-Dispatch album here.  Their photographer, Kevin Morley, did a fine job of capturing the weekend.

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My Blog Is Making Things Awkward.

25 Jul

I wish I knew how to make people stop apologizing to me for not reading all my posts. 

It happens all the time.  I’ll be in casual conversation and suddenly be accosted by a plethora of apologies for someone not reading my every written word.  It takes many forms, but the scenario almost always includes a reason they don’t read it every day (busy, see it in inbox and intend to read it later, don’t read much) followed by an excited recall of the last one they’ve read in striking detail so that I know they actually do read it sometimes.

It’s pretty painful.

Firstly because I don’t really care if people read it every day.  It’s certainly nice to have readers, and I’m floored by the folks who try to read every word.  But I don’t sit around my apartment, brooding over so-and-so who didn’t mention anything about yesterday’s post.  It actually never occurs to me to wonder which of my friends read and which don’t because, quite frankly, I don’t actually know most of my readers.  I’m quite startled when someone I actually know tells me I had a good post recently – because I forget that people I actually talk to could know that I’ve eaten a cricket or pole-danced the night before. 

I prefer to ignore it. 

I don’t know how to make people stop apologizing.  I’ve at least gotten to the point where I can spot the fear in their eyes and as soon as I hear the word “blog” I stop them dead in their tracks and emphasize that it’s really okay and that I really don’t mind and am flattered they even know I have a blog.

Unfortunately, they rarely believe me/accept it/stop talking.

As in any predicament, there is a flip side.  There are folks who read my blog every day or darn near close to it.  And those folks neglect to converse with me at all because they now have daily access to my brain and have no need of a personal interaction.  Which, to be honest, the hermit inside me is absolutely thrilled about.   I’d be pretty down for just conducting all social business online.  

I don’t really like people.  They disturb me.

Which is why I really have to find a way to stop the apologies.  It’s just too awkward; I can’t take it anymore.   I thought about sewing on “I don’t care if you read it” on the bottom of my jackieblog.com t-shirts, but that seemed overkill.  Besides, I can’t always anticipate when I’ll be accosted, so I’d have to wear the t-shirt every time I leave my apartment.   That will add up to some pretty frequent laundry loads and that’s unacceptable.

 

I could just start every conversation with someone who hasn’t already apologized to me by telling them not to apologize, but that’s even more awkward.  If they don’t read it, they’ll feel like I’m calling them out and drop their subscription because they’re scared I can track them with WordPress.com’s super awesome site stats and summary (for the record, I can’t).  If they do read it, they’ll be equally insulted by the accusation that they don’t.

I’m out of ideas.  Maybe I just have to accept that people will be forever apologizing to me for something which I don’t hold them accountable.  

Or maybe I can just order more t-shirts. ♣

 

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The Making of a Manservant

24 Jul
sketchbook018

Apparently, I'm the lion samurai and Dave is the dinosaur pulling my rickshaw. ...With a..bra on his eyes? Image by "Wild Guru Larry"

I’ve recently noticed this terrible habit I have of asking Dave to do things for me that I’m perfectly capable of doing myself.

I don’t mean boy things like killing bugs and installing shelves and other gender stereotypes that I’m happy to burden him with.  I mean things like getting me a glass of water when we’re both comfortably sitting beside each other in the same room.  

Or sometimes I ask him where things are that I know he’s never touched or had any reason to touch.   Not because I’m accusing him, but because I’m enlisting him on a search in which he has no personal stake but to prevent me from warping into a frustrated, impossible beast.  I need him to be on my side and on the hunt.  Not only is it a good tactical step because it doubles  my searching power in the house, but I get some kind of personal relief in the knowledge that finding the item is not just my burden to carry.  

That, and he’s a damn good hunter.  It’s probably the man in him.  Or the common sense.  I lack both so it’s hard to gauge.

I’m not sure why I do this.  I was never specifically taught it.  And as far as I know I haven’t always done it.  It’s just something I’ve kind of noticed as he and I are together longer and longer….and longer… and longer.

Not only am I surprised at the realization that I do this, but I’m kind of shocked that it works.  Not that I intentionally have sought to make this a dynamic in our relationship, but now that I look back on it, it’s pretty obvious that it has a high success rate.   It’s alarmingly effective.  In fact, sometimes he elects to do things that I haven’t even asked him to do but he has a hunch I want.

That’s love.

For example, last night I ordered Take Out from the Cheesecake Factory because I’m apparently on a quest to spend all the money I make ever.  He went to pick it up for me and when he came back, I was missing the cheesecake. …Which is obviously the most important component of the entire transaction.

If you’re going to name your establishment a factory when it’s actually a restaurant,  you can at least have the good sense to be efficient at carrying out the business you appear to be so fantastic at that you can name yourself a freaking factory.  A manufacturer of cheesecake.  One that produces – and presumably delivers – mass quantities of cheesecake.

Anyway, after the realization that the slice was missing, Dave offered to go back and get it.  To go back and get it! He went to pick up food for me in the first place that he had absolutely no stake in and yet offered to do it a second time!?

In retrospect, I suppose doing so had two positive outcomes for him.  First, he didn’t have to see me transform into a frustrated, impossible beast (which apparently happens when I lose things and when I don’t receive cheesecake that is owed to me) and second, he could rest at night knowing that the local Cheesecake Factory didn’t hear me give them my shpeal on how they have no business calling themselves a factory.

I’m kind of concerned at the recognition of this power.   I would hope that I use it for good and attempt to stop asking Dave to do things I’m perfectly capable of doing myself.  But there’s also the slight possibility that I could use it for evil and see what I can get away with.

Imagine the possibilities. ♣

 

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I’m Being Thrifty and Autumn Is Coming

23 Jul

In order to achieve my upcoming super epic Lollipop Tuesday post, I had to pony up for a hotel room in the heart of good ol’ Virginny.   

It’s incredible how my experience of hotel rooms has changed as of late.  Since I’ve entirely nixed television from my life and I refuse to put air conditioning in the apartment, an evening in a hotel is like a venture into another world.  

A world where I’m not irritable and uninformed.

It might actually be kind of nice if I didn’t have to pay for Internet, didn’t always have strangers in the hall, and had a place to put leftovers.  Now that’s not winter, I can’t just throw them on the window sill.  It’s unfortunate because I love those opportunities.  It makes me feel like there are rewards to my intellect.

Really.

There’s always something I really need at a hotel that I didn’t bring with me and could really, really use.  Like last night when I ordered one of those freak pizzas that have a tiny little baby slice on one side and an enormous mutant piece on the other.   If I’m at my house and for some reason am without something I need, I can come up with alternatives.  I may not have Pepto Bismol, but I’ve got baking soda.  Or I can’t find a toothpick, but I’ve got a paper clip.   But when I’m in a hotel and I need a freaking knife, there’s absolutely nothing that can be done short of going down to the hotel bar and requesting one outright.    I have no ability to improvise. 

In a real fix, I could use materials from the complimentary Bible but that comes with a host of negative consequences.

air conditioner

Photo by Michelle Tribe. Click for credits.

Perhaps there was more refined improvisaiton, but I couldn’t think of it because my brain was in a state of shock from the air conditioned cold.

I’m not sure if I’ll survive much longer without the AC in my apartment if 1) the heat doesn’t stop getting all ‘hey look what I can do’ on us  and 2) I don’t stop visiting grocery stores/department stores/work/hotels that have air conditioning.   

I just have to tell myself I’m being thrifty and autumn is coming.

 

“I’m being thrifty and autumn is coming.   I’m being thrifty and autumn is coming.  I’m being thrifty….” ♣

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Sequels, Captain A, and the Wild Blue Yonder

22 Jul

Out of the way world, I have a day off today.

A complete, legitimate, entire day off.  The world is mine, and I shall take it by storm.

Last night I put in an 11-hour day at work because I’ve completely lost my freaking mind and then went to see Horrible Bosses to make myself feel better.    It didn’t really work.  It started out all right but then went off the deep end with vulgarity and cheap shots.  That, and all the previews -the best part of most movie-going experiences – were incredibly depressing.  Not because they were bad – which they were – but becayse one was for a romantic comedy and the other five were all about dooming situations from which there was no or little to no salvation.

I’ve been doing this thing called ‘it’s stupid to pay for TV’ and refusing to pay people to bring advertisements, poor customer service, and terrible programming into my living room.  It’s been working out pretty well for me.  The only thing I still can’t get the hang of is not having any idea what movies are playing or what they’re about.   So when, from an outsider’s perspective, I noticed a lineup of movies that included Fright Night, the fifth installment of Final Destination,  and (my favorite) a weekend in paradise that takes a terrible turn with seemingly set up shark attacks in the aptly named Shark Night.

Of course, one could argue that the preview for the new take on Footloose is just as frightening.   With a movie year featuring 27 spin offs, remakes, and sequels, these are dire times indeed.  Really.  27.  You can read about it here.

Without constant contact with the television world, I was unable to anticipate the apparent hype of Captain America.  On my way out of the theater,  my eyes were accosted by the sight of a gentleman in the popcorn line in fully blue spandex and shield on his back to celebrate the opening.   I would have taken time to debrief on the experience with Dave, but I was promptly greeted by a variety of audience members who were sporting various shield shirts and American apparel of all shapes and sizes.

Apparently, I missed the memo that we were all going to get excited for this.

Anyway, yesterday evening was a somewhat failed attempt to kick off my 3-day independence fest.  I also somehow got suckered into buying a bottled water, thereby losing $4.50 of my hard-earned American dollars, destroying the planet, and demonstrating a complete lack of lesson acquisition from my recent post, Why I Stay Indoors Reason 129: Movie Theaters. 

Today I will do better.  I will sleep in this morning, head firmly suctioned to the pillow and thanking the Lord God Almighty for the autopost feature.  I will spend way too much money on gas, prepare for a complete mental shutdown, and drive into the wild blue yonder to Virginia.

Somewhere in its bosom lies a Lollipop Tuesday of epic proportions.

Prepare yourselves. ♣

Blue sky 2

Image by Fabio Marini. Click for more details.

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