Titanic

My mom and I both had birthdays this week.  That means two things:

1.  I totally ruined my mom's 31st birthday by forcing her to hobble around with a two-week-overdue baby inside her.
2.  I totally ruined all my mom's subsequent birthdays by overshadowing them with my own impending festivities.  I did buy her a really nice pair of Adidas one year, though.

My mom has put up with a lot of other things from me over the years, especially my obsessive personality.

When I was five, any time I rode in the car, the song "Part of Me, Part of You" by Glenn Frey had to be played on repeat while I sang along and pretended I was recording a music video in the fold-down mirror.

Our car had a cassette player, so we had to wait each time while the tape re-wound.

I was convinced a music mogul would pass us on the highway one day, see my burgeoning talent, and give me a record deal.  Sure, I was five, and I looked like a boy due to the pixie cut I'd insisted on getting earlier that year, but I didn't care.  My stylists would figure out a way to make me look like a nineteen-year-old model.

But that was all just a precursor to the most epic obsession of my childhood.

When I was nine, I saw Titanic eight times. 

Most of those were with my mother, the only person with the patience, love, and mental fortitude to indulge my Leonardo DiCaprio-fueled obsession with a movie that was more than three hours long.

The first time, my parents and I all enjoyed the movie equally.

Even the second time, I like to think Mom got a hint of enjoyment out of seeing the movie again.

The third time, I argued that my best friend had to see the movie.

Meemaw and Pappaw saw it with me.

But Mom bore the brunt of my Titanic craze.

Sometimes, we'd go to the theater intending to see another movie, until I inevitably noticed Titanic was still playing.

The worst part was, my nine-year-old brain was incapable of fully comprehending the tragedy playing out on the screen.  While Mom was forced to sit through the same gut-wrenching scenes eight times, I remained completely unaffected.

I didn't realize what a terrible thing I'd done to my mother until I re-watched Titanic last year for the first time since my childhood.

 

 

 

 Some kids need therapy because of their parents.  My parents probably need therapy because of me. 

They'll have to settle for this blog post for now, though.

Happy birthday, Mom!

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Immune System

For the past few years, my immune system has been going through an existential crisis.

I'm starting to think my immune system has abandoned its identity altogether.  Like maybe it wants to be a spleen now.

It's sure as hell not fighting foreign antibodies on my behalf.  Occasionally, it seems to remember its function, but always at the worst possible time.

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The Rental Inspector

We had our annual rental inspection this month.  We straightened up the house and had everything much-less-dirty-than-usual.  On the day of the inspection, the inspector was scheduled to arrive anytime between 10:00 AM and 2:00 PM, so we went about business as usual, except we were wearing pants.  10:00 AM came and went; no inspection.  11:00 AM; still nothing.  12:00 PM arrives and I think, I hope they don't catch me in the middle of lunch, but no, still nothing.  Finally, at 1:45 PM, I had to leave for work. 

As I gathered my scattered belongings, someone knocked on our door--a woman wearing a very pink shirt and pants covered in big, tropical prints.  Of course, the rental inspector arrives now.

Why isn't this rental inspector coming inside?  Maybe she wants to start by walking the perimeter of the yard.  Ari heard me talking and came to the door.

Ari, sensing the woman's hesitation, introduced himself.

And with those friendly words, she rallied.

I don't know what was more awkward:  the fact that this lady had no idea Ari is Jewish and does not want to go to a Jehovah's Witness meeting, or the fact that I had just invited her to come walk around in our house for no apparent reason.

 

And that's why I'm a terrible spouse.

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The Anne Frank Game

I spent a lot of time at my grandparents' house as a child.  We lived with them for nearly a year when I was four.

At some point, my grandmother told me the story of Anne Frank, minus the part where they all get caught and sent to concentration camps. 

I became deeply fascinated by Anne Frank, and Meemaw invented a game in which I was Anne Frank and she was some other, less glamorous member of the family.  We'd sneak upstairs and try to be as still and quiet as possible.

Inevitably, Meemaw's role in the game would require that she go downstairs to fend off some Nazis or stage a rendezvous with the German neighbor who smuggled us our groceries.

Meanwhile, I stuck to my post in the secret annex, thinking how nice Meemaw was to play the lesser role that involved going downstairs to the boring part of the house.

Eventually, Meemaw would return from the perilous outside world with a snack she'd scavenged.

The Nazis always lost the war just in time for Rugrats, or dinner, or both.

When I think of the Anne Frank game now, I am in awe of my grandmother's ingenious ploy to keep me out of trouble for hours at a time and simultaneously teach me about World War II.

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Cat Ponderings

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Zombie Bob Kidnaps Muse

I recently let you guys know that Zombie Bob decided to take a vacation.  Upon hearing this news, MOV was quick to remind me that her friend, Muse, had also recently gone AWOL and needed to be bailed out of jail before disappearing again. 

At first, I thought it was just a humorous coincidence.  So imagine my surprise when they both turned up at my doorstep this morning.

Sorry, MOV.  I tried my best.  But on the bright side, at least Zombie Bob didn't eat her brains!

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Zombie Bob Takes a Vacation

I haven't had any good Zombie Bob ideas in a while.  I like to think he's just been on vacation, lounging somewhere and sipping brain cocktails.

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