First published in The Big Jewel.
Sunday
Brother-in-law invites us over to watch football. Upon arriving, he admits his youngest daughter is getting over the flu, but that he kept that fact a secret for fear my hypochondriac husband wouldn’t visit. What a scamp! My laughter drowns ominous foreshadowing music playing in the background.
I spend hours singing “Living on a Prayer” with older niece, who isn’t yet showing symptoms of illness shared by younger sister, a.k.a. “Patient Zero.” 40,000 viruses swarming video game microphone sing backup in screechy virus voices, but go unheard thanks to my stirring rendition of “Life is a Highway.”
I rock on.
Monday
We drive home. Viruses begin digging trenches, preparing for the upcoming battle. My white blood cells float around, high-fiving the red blood cells, nary a care in the world. They are complacent, thanks to the infrequency of my interaction with weapons of mass destruction known as “children.”
Tuesday
Normal work day. The viruses share battle plans through their hive-mind. “We are the Borg,” they say. “Existence as you know it is over.” The white blood cells shrug. They never watched Star Trek The Next Generation. They assume someone is mumbling about 1978 professional men’s tennis and, inspired, trot off for a quick match.
Wednesday
Wake up with sore throat, which I blame on window left open all night and/or allergies. White blood cells think “open window” theory seems a reasonable assumption and return to throwing clay in pottery class. One of the white blood cells puts on “Unchained Melody” from the Ghost soundtrack and they all have a good laugh.
Ever feel terrible because you just don’t have time to read all the blogs out there? Didn’t know a blogger posted twice a day, every day?
Send our new apology card and no one can blame you.
Last Valentine’s my husband brought me a vodka drink in the middle of my work day. Best Valentine’s Ever. This year he decided to decorate.
Would this have anything to do with the fact that the other day I got out of bed and there was a Snickers-mini wrapper stuck to my back?
Could it be because I spent most of last weekend mixing Reeses Pieces with M&M’s until I recreated the perfect ratio to recreate a Reeses Cup?
Could it be because everytime he vacuums under the sofa cushions he finds wrappers I’ve hidden?
Could it be because he’s caught me drinking directly out of the Hershey’s syrup bottle?
Could it be because the answer to “How many chocolate iced donuts will you eat?” always ends up being “As many as you bring home?”
Maybe.
I think he’s just weird.
Mike had escaped his ex-girlfriend and needed a place to live. I lived in a house with a dog and a huge crush on Mike, neither of which required much space. We were at a tenuous moment in our courtship, and I felt keeping Mike near would cement our bond. To me, the answer to his housing problem seemed as obvious as the empty drawer in my bureau, but he thought it tacky to move from one girl’s house right into another’s.
Luckily for Mike, stalkers can be quite helpful. I told him he could stay with me, temporarily, while I helped him find an apartment. I used the word “temporarily” quite a bit during these negotiations, which of course is Smitten Kitten Speak for “until death do us part.”
I further eased Mike’s reluctance by explaining the whole process would be beneficial to me, because he would be there to help me eat the big, delicious dinners I cooked for myself every night for no apparent reason. And, bonus: I had just read a book that proposed giving nightly back rubs could increase typing speed. Finally, I would have a back on which to test this theory. What a relief.
Mike could see it was a clear win-win situation.
I emptied out a closet and hid anything that could be perceived as a “shrine” so as to avoid spooking my nervous beau. Photos taken during our first date, photos of our second date, photos taken while he wasn’t looking using a high-powered telescopic lens; I put away all these cherished mementos. Spiders don’t hang Christmas lights on their webs.
Little Known Ryan Gosling Fact:
While Ryan Gosling is to silent stares what Captain Kirk was to strategically torn Starfleet uniforms, people don’t realize how close the new Hollywood heartthrob came to losing the part of “Driver” (the quiet badass in the movie Drive). The part was originally written for famous French mime Marcel Marceau, who died in 2007, forcing producers to hire Ryan Gosling. Below we have some of the original script (featuring Marcel) paired with the final script featuring Ryan Gosling.
Would it have been a different movie? You be the judge.
See if you can spot the subtle differences:
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Marcel Marceau As Driver |
Ryan Gosling As Driver |
| Driver gets a non-descript car scene:
Shannon: You look like a zombie kid. You gettin’ some sleep? Can I offer you any Benzedrine, Dexadrine, Caffine, Nicotine … Oh you don’t smoke, that’s right, better off. There she is! Chevy Impala. The most popular car in the state of California. No one will be looking at you. (throws car keys to driver) Driver:(Pretending to fight an imaginary heavy wind as he moves toward Shannon. Catches car keys)
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Driver gets a non-descript car scene:
Shannon: You look like a zombie kid. You gettin’ some sleep? Can I offer you any Benzedrine, Dexadrine, Caffine, Nicotine … Oh you don’t smoke, that’s right, better off. There she is! Chevy Impala. The most popular car in the state of California. No one will be looking at you. (throws car keys to driver) Driver:(Stares. Catches keys)
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Driver meets Bernie Rose (Albert Brooks) for the first time: Bernie: Nice to meet you. (puts out hand to shake) Driver: (Leans on an imaginary lampost. Stares.)
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Driver meets Bernie Rose (Albert Brooks) for the first time: Bernie: Nice to meet you. (puts out hand to shake) Driver: (Stares.)
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Driver confronts Standard about being beat up: Standard: You going to go beat them up for me, hey stunt guy? Why the f– do you want to know who they are? HuSh? Driver: (Climbs an imaginary ladder. Stares.) |
Driver confronts Standard about being beat up: Standard: You going to go beat them up for me, hey stunt guy? Why the f– do you want to know who they are? Huh? Driver: (Stares.) |
| Driver finds himself in elevator with killer:
Driver: (Pretends to be trapped in invisible box, killer is delighted by the irony that they ARE already in a box and can’t bring himself to hurt Driver.) |
Driver finds himself in elevator with killer:
Driver: (Attacks killer and kicks his skull into pulp with boot heel.) |
