Over the weekend, my family and I wanted to do something together that didn’t require a lot of money. We went to the “cheap” theatre in town and saw Valkyrie. I enjoyed the movie a lot and would have probably enjoyed it even more if I had waited until it came out on demand video so I could watch it at home.
It seems like every time I go to the movies, I always leave there asking myself if people are rude, stupid or a combination of both.
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I knew what I was getting into before I married my husband. The piled up boxes of comic books in his room in college were my first clue.
Right now there are about nine cardboard comic book crates in a closet in our house. And the thing that has him down right giddy is the fact that “the best comic book of all time” is finally being turned into a movie. On March 6th, The Watchmen comes to the theater.
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I feel like a real schmuck. The sad fact is that the reason I feel like an idiot is because I’m honest.
On the day I’m writing this, February 2nd, I’m gathering up all my tax stuff to send to the lady who has done our taxes for years. While I’m looking through all our receipts, records, W-2s and such, I’m listening to talk radio and how Tom Daschle, Obama’s pick to lead the Health and Human Services Department, failed to pay more than $120,000 according to CNN.com.
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I’m just a little person, which means I’m not a celebrity. And yet everyday, I try to be a good mom, wife, writer and friend. For a year now, we’ve been recycling and I volunteer my time teaching Sunday school and working with the Boy Scouts. I don’t mention this to pat myself on the back, but to point out that this is just what my family and I do and we did it long before Obama was elected.
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I can plainly remember Clinton’s first inauguration. Part of the reason might be because my boss at the time was a huge supporter of his and wanted to rush home at lunch time so she could watch it. She invited me along and we sat in her living room eating BBQ beef sandwiches on TV trays while we watched Bill Clinton take the oath. Afterward, I remember admiring the cadence and eloquence of Maya Angelou’s voice as she read her poem she’d written just for the occasion.
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When my husband and I had been married for two years, a single girlfriend of mine (we’ll call her Macy) asked me a very personal question.
Macy’s personality was that of a desperate chameleon, a toxic mixture of trying to be what she thought the man she dated wanted her to be, and, approaching the age of twenty-five, feeling pressure to get married.
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Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my family and I went to visit relatives in the Phoenix area. On our way home from staying with a friend, we knew we’d be passing a mega Ikea store, so we decided to stop and check out the prices and styles of desks for my daughter’s room.
In case you’re not familiar with Ikea, it is a Swedish home furnishing store that offers inexpensive, well-designed, well-functioning products ranging from kitchen utensils and dishes, to furniture to flooring to textiles. There are only 37 stores in the United States.
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