Patrons Who Stare at Idiots

The husband and I decided to take in a movie this evening and try out the revamped Visulite, in the historic district of Staunton. The Visulite turned out to be better than the theaters at the Staunton Mall; The seats are comfortable (they rock), the aisles are wider providing plenty of leg room, the movie screen is large, and the sound system is above average.

The husband and I decided to see "Men Who Stare at Goats", and my only problem with the experience at the Visulite was the overly giddy twenty-something year old girl who sat two rows behind me, to my right. The movie was bizarre,and it had some true comedic moments where I laughed out loud, but for the life of me, I did not understand why this girl chose to laugh when certain words were said. Was her laughter because of some odd and new type of 'Rocky Horror' experience that neither I, nor any other patron, were akin to? I am puzzled by this. Let me give you an example: Whenever George Clooney or Ewan McGregor would say "Jedi" or "the Force," this girl would laugh LOUDLY, and it was not a quick laugh. It was a solo long LOUD laugh. It became most annoying after her fourth inappropriate outburst, and it was at this time that I got my husband's attention, ushered him closer, and gingerly whispered in his ear, "She must be high." He let out a quick giggle, because he sometimes forgets that I can be wicked. Every time she did her solo outburst, I sat there thinking that it would be great to learn George's awesome talent of being able to stare at some live creature and make it's heart stop. I could use that talent on this inappropriate girl, and I believe there were others who may have thought this same thing tonight. I dared not look at her as I left the theater, fearing that I may blurt out something wickedly witty, or that I may have miraculously picked up George's talent and ended her idiotic ways. In a way, I failed humanity but not sparing future legions of movie goers from her idiotic torture. I am sorry citizens of Staunton.

Wicked

Halloween is a wonderful holiday; I absolutely love all the ghoulish festivities, making children work for their candy (this year a coin toss--had to land a coin on dinnerware), and creating my grand-daughter's costume. I tend to be a people watcher, too, more so during this holiday than any other. Some of the costume ideas people come up with are absolutely original and awesome. Other ideas people have, like adults buying some store bought costume, stuffing themselves into it, and then wearing it out in public...OMG!!! What were they thinking!
Being Catholic at heart, and being raised in a Catholic school from the start, I was taught that if you thought something wicked, you have sinned. Oh what a sinner I was in elementary school, and yes I was very consistent. Though I felt much guilt and a touch of shame for all those wicked thoughts, having to go to confession weekly to cleanse my wicked soul, did not deter my evil ways. Why just yesterday, I observed Wonder Woman clutching a bag of candy, only this was an impostor! Wonder Woman was stuffed into her sexy outfit--it was bulging at the seams! Where did her girlish figure go?? This was a ghoulish figure! Was this her intention, after all it is Halloween? I suspect this impostor splurged on too many Krispy Kreams, Duncan Donuts, Big Macs, etc. I wanted to rip the clutched bag of candy from her hands and yell, "No more woman! This must stop!" Immediately after those thoughts crossed my mind, I said to myself, "Oh Marie, you are so going to Hell." I chuckled to myself, because I know I have a fast track ticket to meet Satan, as evidenced by my continued consistent wicked thoughts. What would the nuns at Sacred Heart say if they knew this has continued well into my 40s? Here comes the guilt, that is quickly washed away again by a chuckle, and I just love when I do that and people stare, wondering what I am chuckling at. Currently, my husband sits puzzled by this thought. I need only say three words, and he gets it. "Going to Hell," because of my wicked, wicked ways.

Livin' in Zombieland

My almost 16 year old son and I saw Zombieland Saturday night, and honestly that was the funniest movie I have seen in some time. It was full of wit, included great rules for a zombie attack, Woody Harrelson is awesome, and the movie did not gross me out! Bill Murray even makes an appearance as himself, but alas is killed while playing a prank on one of the main characters. One of my favorite lines from this movie is when Woody's character greets Bill, "...Bill F****ing Murray; I know that's not your middle name..." My favorite funny-horror flick, Dracula Dead and Loving It, has just been replaced!

A Thief in the Night

Working in a place where people are forced to use a community refrigerator, invites thieves to steal the carefully packed food of others. Tonight, my thoughtfully packed grapes and banana were stolen. Petty, yes, but those yummy snacks should be in my belly beginning the fascinating process of digestion. Instead, by a thief in the night, they were taken away and savored by someone else. As I sat eating my lean cuisine pizza, I thought of terrible ways this fiend should suffer: projectile vomitting and diarrhea, choking while at work requiring intubation, four point restraints, a foley catheter, and an EGD in the morning. Let's throw a run of a-fib in there, too, where we did not have time to sedate and did cardioversion emergently...yeah... shock the crap out of him or her. Might get my grapes back that way! I take comfort in knowing that I never washed those grapes; hell, I even dropped some on the kitchen floor, before placing them in the baggy :)

Liam makes his debut

After a few false alarms, our second grandchild, Liam, made his entry into this world 9/15/09 at 11:30 p.m. Most C-section babies are just beautiful--they have no misshapen heads. Little Liam was delivered vaginally, and thus has a slight cone head. My husband's first thought on seeing him, "Mr Smithers." Liam really is a beautiful baby, but I chuckle at the Mr. Smithers resemblance. In my search for a funny hat that Liam could wear for pictures, I wound up finding only a pirate's hat. When I took the hat out of it's package, I thought, "Hmm. Looks like something Aunt Jemima wears. So here is Liam, aka Smithers, in his Jemima headgear :)

Chillin' with FCC

Today FCC decided to attach himself to my back, as I steadily worked at my laptop. I guess with his new assault technique he has figured out that I cannot swat at him from behind. Ahh...but I still won. I laid back on the bed and gave him a little smush while yelling, "Uhhh--What the heck is wrong with you?" Here he is seen in a rare mellow moment, plotting/dreaming up his next attack.

My New Acronym: FCC

Acronyms are a strange part of health care; most health care professionals use them in shift reports or as code in front of lay people. Acronyms are also part of a cryptic language for the various fields of medicine, and these cryptic languages tend to spill over into our everyday lives.

I share my home with three dogs, and two of those dogs enjoy killing any and all small creatures that dare to venture into the fenced yard. Over the years, I have found numerous rabbit parts, dead birds, and most recently a dead kitten. I have rescued one rabbit and two kittens from the clutches of my carnivorous hounds. One of the spared kittens now lives in my bedroom, tucked away hidden from the hounds. I think this kitten owes me some gratitude, some respect damn it. Do I get it? Heck no! I love him, play with him, feed him, clean his poop from the litter box, make sure he has plenty of litter to kick out of the box for me to sweep up; what thanks do I get? Currently, as I type, he is viciously biting my ankles--correction--toes!! Yesterday, while I was readying myself for work, he decides to attach himself to my thigh. I would like to add that I was wearing shorts!!!! That damn cat drew blood, and not just a drop or two. I have wounds on my anterior thigh and shin from his assault. Obscenities flew from my mouth as I swung to remove him from my thigh..."*ucking crazy cat," I yelled, as I swatted and watched him sail comfortably onto a pile of dirty laundry.

I have been having trouble finding a name for him. Jinx, Kitty (how original), Lil' F'er, and now FCC. For now, I will stick with FCC, until his next assault and my new attempt at cleaning up blurted obscenities.