Halloween Stuff

Have a great Halloween weekend. Here are five tricks-and-treats for you.

The 2021 Halloween Light House. These used to be simple videos made by Halloween lovers, now light houses are a major competition. Regardless, here is the best 2021 Halloween Light-Up house. It’s 20 minutes long, but fun and impressive to watch even if you only have a minute or two.

Funny Onion slideshow “Trick-Or-Treating Dangers Every Parent Should Watch Out For“:

https://www.theonion.com/trick-or-treating-dangers-every-parent-should-watch-out-1847905091

“Veronica” and “It Follows.” If you don’t know by now that I am a horror movie buff, you’ve only just joined us. This past week I had a craving for something different, and my sons suggested “Veronica” and “It Follows.” Both deeply cinematic and disturbing on a level that is hard to put your finger on. “Veronica” is on Netflix, and “It Follows” can be rented on Hulu or Amazon. Neither end well, so prepare yourself.

Candy Corn Martini. Is there any candy more Halloween-esque than candy corn? If so, I can’t think of it. This adorable drink is the candy corn every adult dreams of getting in their trick-or-treat bag. It’s a layer of grenadine topped with a layer of vodka and pineapple juice and some fluffy, tasty whipped cream on top. It looks just like candy corn in a glass, tastes terrific, and will have you doing the Monster Mash in no time.

Fun Halloween stuff. Super fun slideshow to enjoy the Halloween weekend.

If worst comes to worst, watch the Eagles (2-5) play the Detroit Lions (0-7) on Sunday. That’ll scare the shit out of you for sure.

She is Me

You’re in the supermarket self-checkout line, and you see an older woman in front of you.  She has a lot of items, seems tired, and keeps rubbing her eyes.  All you have is a Kelloggs Fun Pack, milk and a box of Trojans.  You exhale impatiently. You’re busy, and you just want to get out of the store to get ready for this great date.  She’s doing her best to move quickly, but she keeps screwing up her scanning.  When it’s time to pay, she squints at the keypad, trying to read the instructions.  You roll your eyes slightly, and when she turns to you to apologize, you smile and say, “Don’t worry about it,” and mean it.  You feel bad, because she seems nice, but you’re glad when she finally pushes her big old mom cart filled with Twinkies and Fruit Roll-Ups out of your way.  You watch her walk away and you think, “Cute, for an older lady.”  She doesn’t cross your mind again.

I am that harried woman.

You’re pulling out of the supermarket parking lot, and see a woman picking up items off the ground.  You’re late for the gym, but you feel sorry for her.  You pull into a parking space, and get out of your car to help her.  She thanks you, and explains that she left the back hatch of her Jeep open when she pulled away, so all of the items fell out of the back.  She’s distracted, she says, because she has to pick her kids up from baseball, and is in a rush.  How embarrassing, she says.  The eggs are broken, but she doesn’t make a big deal of it.  She comments that if that’s the worst thing that happens to her today, it’ll be a good day.  You smile and walk away, feeling good that you helped, and relieved that you’re young and unencumbered.

I’ve been that bag woman.

You go to the gym, feeling young and energetic.  There’s a fit older lady on the elliptical in front of you, really working hard.  You run for a few minutes, admire yourself in the mirror.  You look hot, you say to yourself.  You’ve been tanning and working out all week, and it’s paid off.  You walk around the gym, half heartedly working on some machines, knowing all the men are admiring your youth and beauty.  As you walk by, you notice that the older lady is still on the elliptical.  You feel sorry for her, having to work so hard, when what you have comes to you so easily.  You take a steam and a sauna, leave the gym, and see her still working out.  

That older woman is me.

You’re walking on the beach with your friends.  You’re wearing your new bikini, and feeling awesome.  It’s summer, and anything goes.  You have plans to go to a party later, and you can’t wait.  You look up the beach, and see a woman in a huge beach hat carrying a beach chair, a boogie board and a beach bag.  You stand by the water, and watch her yell at a bunch of kids to get their sunblock on.  You see her finally settle into a chair, and pick up a book as her kids play in the water.  “Boring,” you think to yourself.  You feel bad for her, that all she has to look forward to is a dumb book.

That’s me, reading that book.

You see a woman at the baseball park.  She’s clapping for her son, who just had a great hit.  It strikes you how happy she seems, as she talks with her friends.

You see a woman in the mall, trying on one piece bathing suits as you look for a bikini.  She smiles at you, and tells you that the blue one is prettiest.  She remembers the days she could wear bikinis like that, and laughs, but doesn’t seem to care.  You admire her, and tell her that her suit is pretty, too.  And you mean it. 

You see a woman walking her dog, checking out books at the library, doing laps in the pool, renting a dirty movie, drinking wine in a fancy restaurant.  And every time you see her she looks beautiful, and happy.  She’s always laughing, never embarrassed, and comfortable in her own skin.  She tells you you’re beautiful, but you think she is.  She loves her kids out in the open, has great clothes, and is a great cook.  She’s every woman who has reached the point in her life where she likes herself, hopes others like her too, but doesn’t care if they don’t.  

I’m all those women.  And I thank God for it.    

Zingers

There are some questions a mother just shouldn’t have to hear from her sons.  I’ve been the victim of thirteen years of zingers.  And the hits just keep on coming.

Not all questions are dumb.  Plus, my sons are sensitive, and talented, not like other kids. 

They’re artistic:  “Where’s the graffiti remover?”

They know the importance of good grooming:  “How do you get taffy out of hair?”

They’re sensitive to women’s issues:  “Were those sanitary pads in the closet important?”

They have civic awareness:  “If one were to light fireworks illegally in New Jersey, where would one go, hypothetically?”

They have a sense of the rhetorical, and the ironic:  “Mom, why would we stick our five-year old brother’s head in the sink of a supermarket bathroom?  What pleasure could we possibly derive from doing that?”

(This denial turned out to be true, his head was NOT wet from the sink.  They derived their pleasure from a different source).

The older they get, the more sophisticated the questions.  One of my twins recently sauntered past me, performing a skit from the off-Broadway play How to Look Casual When Approaching Mom for Money – he hugged the dog, kicked a ball, whistled a tune and asked me how my day was going.

(ALERT!  ALERT!  Son asking me about my personal welfare, DANGER, Will Rogers, DANGER!)

And then it came.

“Mommy, do you currently have an active checking account?”

My head whipped around.  His face was empty, like nutrition in a slice of Wonder Bread.                  

“Why?” 

“Just curious.”  He pushed buttons on his iPod touch.

Pause. 

“Mom?”

“Now what?”

“Is our median household income well over $100,000?”  His fingers poised over the buttons of his iCrack.

“What is this about…”  I started, and then my iPhone sent me a text: 

“Catherine Zeta Jones was recently diagnosed with a) Schizophrenia  b) Rabies  c) Bipolar disorder  or d) Gingivitis.  Answer correctly now and win a free iPad!”

He was looking down intently, still pushing buttons. 

“Who texted you, Mom?”  Assuredly it was the same tone of voice that would one day be used for the question, “Who are you leaving the house to when you die, Mom?”

“Who texted me?  Michael Douglas.  He wants to give me a free iPad.”  I glared at him, trying to freeze his soul with my icy gaze.

He looked up, feigning surprise. 

“Wow! Cool! Congratulations! Can I share it?”

Young boys forget you can check their stories. They don’t possess the skill and sophistication to cover their tracks.  A $250 phone bill for two 13-year olds who don’t answer their phones is suspicious.  Upon investigation, I discovered that someone shorter than I had spent one hundred dollars on the “Greatest Hits of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.” I didn’t know that they had any hits, much less greatest ones.

“Wow, someone must really like Anthony Kiedis, huh?”  I stood, brewing, in the doorway of their bedroom, watching them kill innocent civilians in a bloody video game. 

“Who?”  They answer in unison.  They share a brain as well as a room.

“Anthony Kiedis.  The lead singer of the Red Hot Chili Peppers?  Someone in this room spent one hundred dollars of our household income on their greatest hits.  You’d think he’d know that.”

After years of observing guilty behavior, I can detect the slightest prevarication.  A raised eyebrow, a rise in core body temperature, sweat on an upper lip.  But they didn’t miss a beat.  Born sociopaths.

“Uh, I think I bought one song,” Twin A says.  Eyes never leave the screen.

“I bought one too.  But just one song,” says Twin B.  Eyes never leave the screen.  They consider me Medusa, and avoid looking me in the eye.

I hyperbolized on the cost of songs these days.  Fifty dollars, I say, is certainly a lot for a song.

“Yeah, we thought so too, haha….uh, Mom?  Could you move?  You’re blocking our view.”

One zinger after another.

Trail-Rated, Not Trail-Approved

I had to take my Jeep in for servicing last week, and the technician greeted me right away.  “And what’s the problem with the vehicle?” 

“There is a light on inside the plastic shield that covers the dial thingy.”

My husband rolled his eyes, but he didn’t help me.  He enjoys watching me flounder about in strange waters.  This aspect of his personality has always disturbed me.

The technician spoke Womanese.  “Yes ma’am.  You mean the dashboard.  And what does the light say?”

“It doesn’t say anything.  And you don’t have to call me ma’am.  I’m only 44.”

He smiled patiently, the way someone would look at his oldest relative who calls him Colonel and asks him about the war.

My hubbie turned into Tony from “Seinfeld.”

“It’s her fault.  She has no respect for her car.  She rides it too hard.  She goes over potholes.  She drives through ocean flood water.  She doesn’t slow down for speed bumps.”  He crossed his arms across his chest as if had made a salient point.

“Rides it too hard?”  I screeched.  “It’s a Jeep!  It’s trail-rated, it says it right on the side door panel!  The Jeep commercial shows a guy riding down the side of the Grand Canyon, jumping over trapped donkeys!  Are you telling me that a few speed bumps and a puddle can break down the Official Yellowstone National Park Rescue Vehicle?”

My husband just raised his eyebrows in commiseration with the counter guy, as if to say, “See, what’d I tell you? Hysterical woman alert!”

I complained on the way home. 

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I call them the way I see them.  You have no respect for electronics or anything mechanical.”

“Hah!” I said.  “Name one.”

“Your cracked iPhone.”

“That doesn’t count.  I dropped it.  How is that my fault?  Name another.”

“Your work copier.  I get emails from the Xerox company, begging me to explain to you that you can’t slam the trays.”

I spoke slowly, and took on his patronizing tone.  “I don’t slam the trays, dear.  I load paper into the trays, there’s a difference.  Just because my code comes up as the job before the machine broke down doesn’t mean…”

“Yes, it does,” he drawled.  His superior tone was getting to me.

“Well, those are two lame examples.  What else you got?”

“The washing machine and dryer.  The dishwasher.  The garbage disposal.  The refrigerator.”

“What?”  Now I was incensed.  “How are the shoddy products of General Electric my fault?”

“You overstuff the washing machine.  You don’t clean the lint trap of the dryer.  You grind up cantaloupe rinds and forks in the garbage disposal.  And you put too many dirty dishes into the dishwasher.”

That was the last straw.

“Hold on,” I said.  “If only a certain amount of dishes can be loaded into the dishwasher, why do they build them with so many racks?  And why did we spend all that money on a dishwasher if I have to wash them by hand first?  And if the washing machine can’t be fully loaded, why do they make it that big?  False advertisement is what it is.  Like those dresses in Macy’s that look good on the hanger, but then won’t go over your ankles.”

“How about the microwave?”

I was silent.  He was hitting below the belt.  We had sworn over mojitos in a corner booth in Tijuana to never mention the microwave again.

“How could you?  How could you mention the microwave?”  I wept quietly.

“I’m sorry.  But Dave couldn’t believe the state of the microwave.  It’s an expensive product.  When an alarm flashes a hundred times, warning you to ‘Check Filter,’ you listen.  Why didn’t you listen?”

I wiped my face with my sleeve.  “I thought it was a suggestion, you know, like a speed limit, or a yellow light.  It never said ‘Change filter.’  It was a suggestion for improvement, like an infomercial.  Who’s Dave?”

“Uh, the GE guy?  We’ve gotten close over the last year.  He and his wife Kristy are having a housewarming party.  And oh, you’re invited to her baby shower.”

I wondered what to get her.  Maybe some diapers. 

They don’t take batteries.

You can fill them up.

You can put dirty stuff in them.

They don’t need to be plugged in.

If you drop them, they don’t break.

Perfect.

Flagging Visigoths

(I’m going to take the week off to attend to some private writing deadlines looming by Election Day. This is Throwback Week, so enjoy some old blogs that never got published when I was a blogger for The Atlantic City Press).

Driving home from the mall, I looked over to see my thirteen-year old son writing on the back of a gas receipt.

“What are you writing?”

“How many times you’ve cursed since we’ve left the house.”  He scribbled intently.

“Excuse me?  Why would you do that?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“Who are you, Dr. Phil?” I snapped.

“Mom,” he warned patiently.

“Fine.  So what am I up to?”

“Sixty-four.  Not counting when you called the EZ-Pass Lane a d**&$%^& f**%@@@.”

“Watch your language.”

My sons continue to grow smarter, stronger, better-looking and more responsible every day while I disintegrate, becoming more likely to participate in jewelry-making in the day room.  And my sons are happy to remind me of this.  “Don’t worry Mom,” they say.  “We’ll take care of you.  We’ll visit you in the home every Sunday.”

How do women vent their anger without cursing?  I’ve heard these women in sporting goods stores, dealing with a child who is pointing a bow-and-arrow at his two-year old sister.  These mothers approach the budding archer calmly:  “Patrick, I don’t believe your decision to use your little sister as target practice was a good one.  Let’s brainstorm together different ways you can funnel your energy creatively.” The boy eyes his mother like he is a wire hanger and she is Joan Crawford.

I handle things differently.  Last week we had dinner at a local diner, and one of the twins asked if he and his eight year old brother could wait in the truck while I paid the bill.  As they walked out, I watched from the window as the older boy locked his younger brother out of the car.  He then proceeded to taunt his little brother by licking the window and making foul hand gestures.  His little brother continued to cry and whine to get in.

My other twin sitting at the table with me claims that he thought the flesh was going to melt off my face.  I walked calmly to the truck, and when my son turned to me, it was like the scene in “Cujo” when Dee Wallace looks out the car window and is face to face with a drooling Saint Bernard.  My son blanched in fear, and reluctantly opened the door.  Then, using my most colorful language, I explained what a bad decision he had made.

Patrons of the diner that night report that my invectives may still be floating over the Pacific Ocean.  Legend has it that they are being used as dental floss on the Australian Disney Channel.

I like to curse.  I find it to be effective stress relief.  How else can I possibly communicate my frustration over slow drivers, mothers who raise mean kids, and faulty electronic equipment?  Just the other day I got so angry at my dishwasher, I spewed.

“You worthless piece of **#@ I can wash these by hand faster than you can **%#@ and what the **%#@!!! is your problem?!!!!!  You, you, flagging Visigoth!!”

“Watch your language, hon,” said my husband.  “The kids are picking it up.”

“Oh yeah?  Since when?”  I answered in between swift kicks to my dishwasher’s Rinse and Hold button.

“Since your son came home with a note from his teacher.  Kids are complaining because he’s calling them flagging Visigoths.” 

“So they probably ARE flagging Visigoths.  Thank goodness we have a son who knows how to tell it like it is.”

My sons appeared and sat down at the kitchen counter, staging an intervention.

“Mom, you really do curse too much.  We thought you were going to give it up for Lent.”

“I did, but no one gave me any encouragement. What’s the sense of giving something up if no one notices?”

“Mom.  You only lasted a day.  Remember when the rake handle got jammed in the wheels of the automatic garage door, and you called it a Natty Nusbaum?  That was the second day of Lent.”

They were right.  I fell from grace fast. 

“I have an idea,” I said.  “Every time I curse, I’ll put a quarter in a jar.”

“We tried that last year.”

“Oh.  How’d I do?”

They took me by the hand, and led me to the garage to show me the surfboards they had bought with the jar money.

The dang little wombats. 

The Blessing of “No”

It’s funny. Humans don’t like to be told “No,” but often when we hear it, we consider it a personal challenge.

If there is something I really want, I will go after it until I get it, even if I’m initially rejected. Books have been written about this sheer tenacity. Grit. Perseverance. Stubbornness.

I don’t see “No” as “No.” I see it as “Not yet, Mary, you still have some work to do.” So I do the work, and I try again. And again. And again, until I get a “Yes.” And when I look back on the lean years when I didn’t have what I wanted, I don’t see them as years spent in rejection. I see them as years spent busting my ass so that the next time I asked, the answer would be “Yes.”

Eventually, if you don’t give up your dreams and desires, the answer will be “Yes.” But most people can’t hang in there long enough to get that “Yes.” It takes a lot of work.

Say you’re driving to work, or an interview, or a concert, or a gathering, and you want to be on time. Suddenly you hit a detour, and you realize that you can only go left, right, or back in the direction you came. You know you’re never going to make it on time now. Do you say,

“Screw it, might as well just sit here at this roadblock for the day.”

Or,

“Day’s ruined, might as well go home and go back to bed.”

Of course not. You find a different way to get to your destination. Why should our journey in life be any different?

This is not to say that we are not kept waiting. Oh boy, are we kept waiting, days, weeks, months, YEARS at a time. And when I’m waiting for my “Yes,” I have a small poem I refer to. This has been taped on my kitchen wall for years since I saw it in my local church bulletin.

The Blessing of “No”

I asked God to take away my pride.

God said “No.” It is not for me to take away, but for you to give up.

I asked God to make my handicapped child whole.

God said “No.” Her spirit is whole, her body only temporary.

I asked God to grant me patience.

God said “No.” Patience is a by-product of tribulations; it isn’t granted, it is earned.

I asked God to give me happiness.

God said “No.” I give you blessings, happiness is up to you.

I asked God to spare me pain.

God said “No.” Suffering draws you apart from worldly cares and brings you closer to me.

I asked God to make my spirit grow.

God said “No.” You must grow on your own, but I will prune you to make you more fruitful.

I asked for all things so that I might enjoy life.

God said “No.” I will give you life so that you may enjoy all things.

I asked God to love others, as much as He loves me.

God said, “Ah, you finally have the idea.”

Kitty, Redux

There’s this new horror movie out. It’s about a woman who is raped on a train for 40 minutes while bystanders record it with their phones.

No one intervenes. No one helps her.

But this is not a horror movie. This is what happened on a Philadelphia train on October 13th. People on the train watched as the attacker groped the victim and eventually raped her through TWO DOZEN TRAIN STOPS. At this time, police believe that no one called the authorities.

Flashback:

In the early hours of March 13, 1964, Kitty Genovese, a 28-year-old bartender, was stabbed and raped by Winston Mosely outside the apartment building where she lived in Queens. Thirty-eight witnesses saw or heard the attack, and none of them called the police or came to her aid. The incident prompted inquiries into what became known as the bystander syndrome, or “Genovese syndrome.”

What Kitty and the poor woman on the train went through haunts me, and I don’t say that easily. And I can’t help but wonder what was going through the minds of the people who either ignored what they were watching or worse, recorded it. I have a few theories, all of which are probably wrong. But since Malcolm Gladwell is not available right now, I’ll take a stab at it:

Fear. Were they afraid of the man? The situation? Of becoming victims themselves? Did it not occur to them that they could all rush to her aid as one strong unit?

Idiocy. Were they the dumbest people on the face of the Earth all riding the same train at the same time?

Lack of empathy. Did they simply not care? Were they so far mired down into the pain of their own lives that they simply didn’t care as a fellow human being was being brutalized?

Sadism. Did they enjoy watching it? Did they get some kind of a sick thrill watching this poor woman suffer?

Bystander effect. The bystander effect, or bystander apathy, is a theory that states that individuals are less likely to offer help to a victim when there are other people present. Would this poor woman have had a better chance of intervention if there was only one other person in the train car besides her and the attacker?

Psychotic disorders. Much like what has been said about Adam Lanza, the killer responsible for the Sandy Hook massacre of twenty children, were the people on this train unable to distinguish between fantasy and reality? Did they think they were watching a video game? An Instagram post? A hologram? An SNL skit? What are the odds all of these people had the same disorder?

The scariest part? These people aren’t monsters. They’re just people, like you and me. It’d be easier if we could call them sociopathic. But they’re just people. Flawed people who will have to live with their inaction for the rest of their lives.

Let me suggest the exposition if this was a horror movie. The bystanders, after being questioned by the police, all go home to their respective lives. They are slightly ashamed of their behavior, but they move on. But each bystander finds that they are now being haunted by their worst fears. Every day they wake up, they have to face a different horror, a different villain. And each time they are tortured, brutalized and haunted, around them are people who simply stand around and watch.

No one intervenes. No one helps them. Day after day after day for the rest of their lives.

Seems only fair.

Turkey Trot This

It’s that time of year again, when the undead start rising from the graves. It starts a few weeks before Halloween, and goes strong until New Year’s Day.

The time of year between Halloween and New Years’ when wackos appear out of the woodwork to ruin the holidays for all of us by suggesting that the most enjoyable thing in the world is to run a 5k on a day symbolically slated for gastronomical gluttony, laziness, sports and parades.

The Zombie Dash. The Turkey Trot. The Santa Sprint. The New Year’s Day Pimp My Stride. What’s even worse than 5k runners is when they band together into teams and name themselves something really ridiculous.

Between a Walk and a Hard Pace.

Run Fasta, Eat Pasta.

Blister Sisters.

Scrambled Legs.

Then we all have to listen to them justify what they eat and drink for the day, as if the rest of us, those who just like to soak up the slow-moving qualities of the holidays with a hot toddy and a silly parade, don’t deserve to eat. Because we didn’t run that morning.

SPARE US. I go to the gym six days a week, and I am NOT working out on Thanksgiving, Christmas or New Year’s Day, no matter how sanctimonious you make yourself out to be. And repeat after me: NO ONE CARES. Follow the old credo that says unless you have a funny story about falling and smacking your head on the treadmill, no one cares about the details of your workout.

So without further ado, here is:

Twenty Things I Would Rather Do Than Run a 5K on a Holiday

Listen to Adele talk about her divorce.

Watch the Rachel Maddow show.

Wear skinny jeans on the couch to relax.

Sit next to someone eating tuna on a plane.

Let OJ Simpson show me his knife collection.

Listen to liberal sputum.

Go shopping on Black Friday.

Go to Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s on a Sunday.

Eat kale chips.  

Care about Facebook posts (as in, I don’t give a shit)

Listen to the excruciating patter of Peloton coaches.

Cast a vote for Hillary Clinton.

Brush my teeth with a rock.

Agree to listen to a pyramid scheme.

Watch a “Twilight” movie.

Read an Elin Hildebrand novel.

Go out to dinner with the cast of “The View.”

Eat frozen lettuce.

Shave my legs with a dull razor.

Listen to Adele at all.

The Writhing Life

I was grading freshman composition essays yesterday, and became very excited at one particular title in the pile. Students had been instructed to write an exemplification essay describing “types of” of their choice. You know, types of Mexican food, types of Uber drivers, types of skateboard tricks. This one was titled “Types of Writhing.”

Types of writhing? Yes!!! I was already gaga over this writer, a true rebel, an original, a rule-breaker. As I eagerly began to peruse it, I was quickly disappointed to realize what you probably already have.

He meant “types of writing,” of course. It was just a typo.

So since I have always ascribed to the motto “If you want to read a book that hasn’t been written, write it yourself,” here is the essay I never read.

Types of Writhing

by Mary Oves

Writhing rhymes with “tithing.” Tithing is the practice of paying part of your wages to your church, and nothing to do with “writhing.” They just sound the same. I am now going to discuss some types of writhing.

Writhing with joy: This occurs when happiness is so overpowering that your body begins to gyrate in pleasure. You can writhe in pleasure when you wake up from a good sleep, and you’re stretching under your covers. You can writhe in pleasure as you enjoy the sunshine when you’re stretched out on a beach chair. You can writhe in pleasure during a massage, while you eat a fantastic meal, or when you’re in bed with a sexually-accomplished partner, which is my favorite kind of writhing.

(Mary, these are all good examples, but that last one was inappropriate for a school essay, and you’ve received a five-point deduction).

Writhing in pain. This can happen when you’ve stubbed your toe, when you’ve eaten too much Mexican food, or when you drop a barbell on your foot. My father would writhe in pain when his back went out, and then my mom would writhe in pain when she would have wait on him since he was laid up. Writhing in pain is never good.

Writhing in boredom. This kind of writhing usually needs to be hidden, because it’s not nice to let other people see that you’re bored of them. There are many phone emojis you can use to indicate boredom without writhing visibly. Examples like long tedious staff meetings, Zoom conferences, extended church sermons, Civil war documentaries, Peloton pep talk and March madness basketball all can cause someone to writhe in boredom.

Writhing in annoyance. The reasons people writhe in annoyance are varied. Someone might writhe in annoyance watching someone else open a Christmas gift too slowly. Another person might writhe in annoyance watching someone else try to thread a needle. Another might writhe with annoyance having to write a dumb essay. Even another person might writhe in annoyance at how slowly it takes her lover to put a condom on. There are many ways people writhe in annoyance.

(Mary, you were warned. Another five-point deduction).

Writhing in embarrassment. Sometimes something is so awkward in life that it manifests itself physically. Maybe you remember something dumb you said to a cute boy in eighth grade, and the thought of it makes you writhe. Maybe your mom just HAS to introduce you to someone you knew when you were a baby but whom you don’t remember at all, and you writhe as she pinches your cheeks. Maybe it’s your turn to introduce yourself in class to a bunch of stupid-heads, and as you pronounce your name, it sounds so annoying that you begin to writhe. Maybe you try to talk dirty in bed, but you just can’t pull it off, and the thought of the things you said make you writhe. Those are some examples of writhing in embarrassment.

(Mary, please see me after class).

In conclusion, I would like to quote Henry Miller who said, “writhing is its own reward.”

Death of the Rom-Com

The most current five stories on our local newsfeed:

Insidious insects headed not only to New Jersey, but for your house. They’re coming right for you, right now. Get that caulk gun ready.

School dance gone very, very wrong, sans pig’s blood.

Body found on a beach.

Tainted beef gravy recalls.

School nurses on the front line of the pandemic.

Look at those again. Seriously? Now that must be an uplifting place to work. The morning staff meeting must be a blast. What do they provide for breakfast? Coffee, doughnuts and a bowl of Prozac?

(Afternote: At the publishing of this post, I had to add these two headlines: “Deer colliding with motorists increased in 2021,” and “Two die in bus crash.” Strangely enough the Monday headlines are more effervescent, and deal with protecting special needs students on school buses and a fundraiser for health care workers).

The fear-mongering media is nothing new, and the lack of feel-good stories is not surprising. I have to share in the blame, because the first three non-fiction essays I asked my classes to analyze this semester dealt with the futility of adult existence, the proliferation of school shootings in the 90’s, and a sociological study of a serial killer. One of my students asked in Zoom:

Are we going to read anything uplifting this semester?

Me: No. Subscribe to Disney+.

Uplifting just doesn’t sell.

Top movies in the movie theaters right now:

“Halloween Kills.”

“The Last Duel.”

“The Blazing World.”

“No Time to Die.”

“Venom.”

Yep, more feel-good stuff there. And don’t blame Halloween. “Halloween Kills” is the lightest fare of the five. Since the pandemic has wreaked such havoc on our country socially and politically, Hollywood has just…fizzled out. Right?

Movies used to be an escape, a place where we could feel happy, scared, or titillated for a couple of hours, a place where we could leave our troubles at the door. Armed with a bucket of buttered popcorn, Raisinets and a fizzy soda, we could enter into an alternate existence. We could watch Harrison Ford run from bad guys. Kevin Costner play golf. Meg Ryan fake an orgasm, Julia Roberts go to the opera, Tom Cruise show us the money. We could escape from our heads for a little while.

Now there’s no escape. The droning insistent cacophony in our heads is the same droning insistent cacophony we see up on the screen. Where are the feel-good movies about sports? Love triangles? Gentle family dramas? High school hi-jinx? Travel, career, falling in love with Mr. Wrong, who turns out to be Mr. Very Very Right?

Jeez, everything now is so heavy, laden with purpose and metaphor, bogged down in political correctness and sociological messaging. Media messaging is like an anchor pulling at the legs of studio moguls, forcing them to spit out this politically-correct drivel that no one wants to go see. Except for superhero Marvel movies, people would prefer to get their feel-goodness from renting the stuff they enjoy watching from their own couch. How are these studios making any money? How are movie stars making any money? The industry needs something to save it.

You know what we need? I’ll tell you what we need.

We need the Rom-Com back. Where are all of the Julia Roberts? Meg Ryans? Tom Hanks? Sandra Bullocks? Diane Keatons, Meryl Streeps, John Cusacks?

God, I miss the Rom-Com. My favorites:

“Something’s Gotta Give.”

“As Good As It Gets.”

“The Proposal.”

“Crazy, Stupid, Love.”

“Dear John.”

“Forgetting Sarah Marshall.”

“She’s Out of Your League.”

The Brigitte Jones franchise, before Renee Zelwigger screwed up her face with plastic surgery.

“Tootsie.”

“Enough Said.”

“Notting Hill.”

Literally any movie with Meg Ryan, before she screwed up her face, too.

“Four Weddings and a Funeral.”

Molly Ringwald and any Brat Pack movie.

“Working Girl.”

Kevin Costner. ‘Nuff said.

“Say Anything.”

“Groundhog Day.”

“Moonstruck.”

“Broadcast News.”

I know Netflix is trying its best in the genre, but sitting in one’s living room is not the same as sitting in a movie theater with a bucket of popcorn just losing yourself for a few hours. And TBH, I don’t even know what movie stars right now could even pull off a rom-com in this day and age. What actress do we have now that would agree to star in a simple movie about the popular girl in high school falling in love with a nerd? What actor would put down his political cudgel long enough to play the part of a high school football star who really wants to be an artist? And when will Scarlett Johannson get back to me about playing me in the movie that will be adapted from my book?

I mean, Scarlett, you only have more two years to sign on, or we’re going to have to go with someone else.

Regardless, when it comes to rom-coms and Meg Ryan’s brilliance:

I’ll have what she’s having.