Don't Read Too Much Into My Reading Choices

Someone I barely knew once told me I "really should make better choices" because I was reading a book called, You'll Never Make Love in This Town Again. So what if I wanna read about Hollywood hopefuls who became Hollywood hookers? (By the way, Mr. Stallone, you are a freaky-deak!) I'm 82% positive I would never be a prostitute to the stars. My choice of reading material doesn't define me. Although I enjoy reading about infamous murders on occasion, I wouldn't actually kill anybody--not even someone who had the gall to lecture me about the books I read. Besides, you can hire people to do that for you.

Hey, I read good stuff, too. Austen, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Salinger are represented in my stacks. But I do own several books on killers and Hollywood scandals. How did I start down this wayward reading path? As a girl, I devoured Nancy Drew books. From those, I graduated to Agatha Christie. And from there, Stephen King. I guess you could say King's books provided a gateway to the macabre world of true crime.

A movie buff since my teens, I've always loved reading Hollywood biographies--especially those about stars from the studio years. Movie stars of today aren't nearly as secretive (or intriguing) as their 1930s-1950s counterparts, yet I'm still nosy curious about what goes on when the cameras aren't rolling.

You may find my taste in books ... ahem ... distasteful; however, reading about real-life murders and sordid tales of Hollywood doesn't make me a bad person. Fifty Shades of Grey is the best-selling book of all time in the U.K. If you are what you read, Britain must be overrun with sex fiends.

Thank goodness Hubs saw past my book collection when we met. Our reading preferences aren't exactly in sync. He owns Power Ambition Glory by Steve Forbes. I own Malcolm Forbes's They Went That-A-Way, which details how famous people died. He's read How to Win Friends and Influence People. I've read Friends Who Kill Friends. I suppose my reading habits could've scared Hubs off, but he stuck around and even lived to tell about it.

While I sometimes choose to read about psycho killers and the scandalous lifestyles of the rich and famous, I'm harmless. So, don't judge me by my book covers. If you do, just remember: I've read enough true crime books to know how to make your death look accidental.

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A Reel Love Story

Our family loves movies. We have weekly movie nights. The family calendar includes theatrical release dates. So, as you can probably imagine, the Academy Awards are a huge deal in our house. We fill out ballots in advance and let the kids stay up to watch the telecast. We trash talk when our picks win and hold grudges when a favorite nominee loses. (Meryl Streep over Viola Davis? Are you freakin' serious?!)

Since movies are such a big part of our lives, I decided to compose a valentine to Hubs incorporating titles of Best Picture Oscar winners throughout history. So, grab some popcorn, silence your cellphone, and enjoy the show.

Dear Hubs,

I'd pretty much given up on love when It Happened. One Night I went on my first ever blind date, not expecting a whole lot. You see, I hadn't had much luck in the dating department. I’d had my share of Dances With Wolves in sheep's clothing. Once I met you, though, things seemed to finally be Going My Way. On our second date, I knew you were "the one." When we kissed goodnight, I swear I heard The Sound of Music.

I fell faster than the Titanic. I didn’t tell you this, of course. But, if you’d asked me to, I would’ve followed you Around the World. In 80 Days or so, you moved in with me. (It was a good thing, too, because The Apartment you lived in was a dump.) We moved lightning fast, but when you know, you know, right? And then, just one month later, you risked The Sting of rejection and asked me to be your wife. They say it’s good luck if your wedding day brings Rain. Man, we must really be lucky. It snowed on that sunny April afternoon as we vowed to be one From Here to Eternity.

We had A Beautiful, Mind-altering honeymoon. We didn’t stay at some Grand Hotel. That’s not our style. We went on our first Disney cruise and visited Disney World. Nine months later, our honeymoon souvenir arrived: a bouncing baby boy. A couple years passed, and then we added a baby girl to our family. With two little ones, our carefree days were Gone With the Wind.

Marriage isn’t easy. We’ve seen many a union Crash and burn, but that won’t happen to us. Sure, we've had Rocky patches. After all, we’re just two Ordinary People with plenty of faults and quirks. As you know, putting up with me requires a Braveheart and a lot of patience. We have our disagreements, but no problem goes unresolved; no mistake is Unforgiven. As The Artist, Auguste Renoir, once said, "The pain passes and the beauty remains." The obstacles we've overcome in our marriage have strengthened our bond.

I think the secret to our success is that we don’t take each other for granted. We let the other know we care daily—be it with Terms of Endearment or a simple “I love you.” We’ve also never lost our passion. In the Heat of the Night we still have that heat (wink, wink). If you ever stop Patton my rear end when I walk by, I’ll know we’re in serious trouble.

Honey, you’re my Million Dollar Baby ... because that’s how much life insurance I have on you. Aww, come on; you know I’m kidding. I wouldn’t trade what we have for all the money in the world. I mean, money is nice, but You Can’t Take It With You. A love like ours is forever.

We've had 15 amazing years together, but I believe The Best Years of Our Lives are yet to come. Happy Valentine’s Day to my one and only leading man!

XOXOXO

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Oh, Is It Super Bowl Sunday?

OK, I do plan on watching the Super Bowl, but really only for the commercials. After much consideration, I've decided to root for the 49ers, based solely on the fact that I've been to San Francisco twice and Baltimore never. (You better believe I'm DVRing that Wives With Knives marathon, though.)

I can't figure out football to save my life. Seriously. I have some learning disability that seems to effect only my capacity to grasp the ins and outs of football. Hubs is currently in Europe on business, so he's not even here to field my inane questions about plays, calls, etc. During my four-year stint as a high school cheerleader, I became quite adept at faking my way through football games. I was always a couple seconds behind the other cheerleaders in celebrating our team's good plays. (As luck would have it, there weren't too many of those). Guess I was more of a cheerfollower in that sport. Thank goodness Son plays soccer. Now, that kind of "football" I get.

So, anyway, go 49ers!

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Confessions of a Tragically Cool Mom

Me: "So, you're actually gonna let me deliver pizza to you ... in public?"
Son: "Yes."
"In front of the whole cafeteria?"
"Yes."
"Do I need to wear a bag over my head?"
"No."
"Can I hold the pizza up with one hand and dance like this?" (neck moving, hips swaying, duck face)
"No."
"Will you hug me?"
"Yes."
"Really?!"
"I might even give you a kiss on the cheek."

Tomorrow is Son's 13th birthday. Today he was willing to risk supreme humiliation to treat his friends to celebratory pizza. Yep, he let me come out of hiding to deliver said pizza. Every kid in that cafeteria now knows Son has a mother. For the record, there was no kiss on the cheek, and the hug was that one-armed, sideways kind usually reserved for stinky people and pervs (of which I am neither). I got the last laugh though, because I'm pretty sure my fly was open while I was there.

It's like this: If we're to be seen together outside the confines of our home, Son would prefer I hold myself to a minimum standard of conduct. Specifically, he'd like me to refrain from dancing, singing or going off on people. Hugs should be quick, and kisses should only take place under the cover of darkness.

This whole "my mother's very existence mortifies me" thing has gone on for about a year now. It coincided with the appearance of his armpit hair, for whatever that's worth. Son doesn't seem to be embarrassed by his dad. Just me. Apparently, Hubs is better behaved than I am. The thing is, I'm actually quite cool. Don't believe me? Here are some facts that attest to my coolness:

• I don't wear mom jeans. I wear mid-rise bedazzled jeans even though my butt crack shows when I sit down.
• I know at least four Ke$ha songs.
• I can rap. Don't put on Ice Ice Baby unless you want me to break it on down.
• Jamie Foxx once asked for my number. That was, like, 20+ years ago. I'm still waiting for him to call, but I deserve cool points for that nonetheless. 
• I own a T-shirt with Thor on it that says "It's hammer time." 
• I can turn my tongue upside down and flip my eyelids inside out. I'm practically a circus act.
• Able to name nine "Star Wars" planets, I am.
• I have a mustache key chain, for crying out loud.

So, obviously Son is the one with the problem, not me. Case in point: Daughter and all her little friends think I'm über cool. Oh, yeah. I'm a big hit with the female-under-12 demographic. Daughter begs me to show the girls how to do "the running man," and it's not even so they can laugh behind my back later.

One day Son will realize how freakin' cool I am. I mean, if he's embarrassed by me now, just wait 'til I'm sporting elastic-waist, polyester pants, orthopedic shoes and have more hair on my lip than he does. You'll see, Son. You'll see.

Happy birthday to my amazingly handsome, incredibly talented, impossibly skinny son. Love you mucho!

 

Is it me, or did he look embarrassed even back then?

 

Your Agenda Is NOT on Today's Agenda

This is getting depressing.

Last time I blogged was in September, and it was a remembrance of 9/11. And the blog prior to that was about the Aurora, CO, theater shooting. Now, here I am again, writing about one of the biggest tragedies our country has ever suffered. Two days ago, some obviously deranged man shot and killed 26 innocent people at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, CT; before that he killed his mother with a bullet to the face. Twenty of the fallen were children, all ages 6 or 7.

As a parent, learning about the murder of 20 children ripped me apart. I'm devastated for all of the victims' families, but even more so for the mothers and fathers who will have to bury their babies. I cried off and on all day. I cried because these parents would be going to school to identify their children rather than picking them up to take them home. I cried because I was thankful my kids would be coming home. I cried because those parents will have to look at presents under their Christmas tree that their children so desperately wanted but will never get to enjoy.

I searched the Internet for information and perhaps something to help make sense of this unspeakable act. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to find people using this tragedy to further their political and religious agendas.

Right now, the focus shouldn't be on gun control or prayer in schools. There's plenty of time to debate those things. For the time being, can't we just concentrate on coping and healing? If I lost my child in such a heinous manner, the last thing I'd want to hear is how his/her death could've been avoided if our country had stricter gun laws or let students talk to God during class. I'm not arguing the merits of either stance. I'm saying that's not what anybody, especially the loved ones of the shooting victims, needs at this moment. Oh, and equating the murder of these children at the hands of a madman with abortion is ridiculous at any time. Don't. Just don't.

We as a nation should be focused on the living victims: the loved ones of those who were killed, the children who survived something much too evil for their young minds to comprehend, and even the gunman's family. How will they ever move on from this? And what can we do to help them all cope?

Many a school morning I am irritated with Daughter, who seems to think "hurry up" is synonymous with "please take your sweet-ass time getting ready." On those days, I can easily spend the 10-minute drive to school bitching at her. Sometimes there are tears; they're usually mine. Since I know mine is not the only infuriatingly slow-moving child, I hope none of the parents had a rough morning with their child--not knowing that would be the last words they spoke, the last minutes they shared. I pray no mom or dad is beating her-/himself up over something like that. No matter how bad our morning is, I try to remember to tell Daughter and Son I love them. From now on, they will never get out of my car until they've heard those words.

I pray the families of these victims will somehow find the strength to get through this holiday season. I hope in the future they are able to reclaim some of the joy they once felt at this magical time of year. I don't know how I ever would, and I don't know how they ever will, but this is my wish for them.

A final note:

I will not post the murderer's name. Frankly, he's already been given too much attention in the media. Rather, I would like to acknowledge those who died at his hand:

Charlotte Bacon, 6
Daniel Barden, 7
Rachel Davino, 29
Olivia Engel, 6
Josephine Gay, 7
Ana M. Marquez-Greene, 6
Dylan Hockley, 6
Dawn Hochsprung, 47
Madeleine F. Hsu, 6
Catherine V. Hubbard, 6
Chase Kowalski, 7
Jesse Lewis, 6
James Mattioli, 6
Grace McDonnell, 7
Anne Marie Murphy, 52
Nancy Lanza, 52
Emilie Parker, 6
Jack Pinto, 6
Noah Pozner, 6
Caroline Previdi, 6
Jessica Rekos, 6
Avielle Richman, 6
Lauren Rousseau, 30
Mary Sherlach, 56
Victoria Soto, 27
Benjamin Wheeler, 6
Allison N. Wyatt, 6