Saturday, March 19, 2011
It Was A Whopper...and a Frusciante
Last night Ellie and I decided to catch a show, as they say.
"Let's see Red Riding Hood so we can make fun of it," Ellie said. I hate to admit this, but Ellie and I are cinematography snobs and sometimes we see movies for the sole purpose of becoming irate.
"Nah, I don't want to waste my money. Let's see that movie with the cute guy who dumped Taylor Swift and the train."
So we did. And it was horrible. We thoroughly enjoyed it.
The love interest of Red Riding Hood had many painfully long head shots where the young actor tried to maintain extended expressions of intense longing...and if you'd only painted his face white down to the collar he'd have looked just like Edward Cullen. The worst scene was the Feast Scene (Tonight we celebrate!) which featured some rather embarrassing dancing...think a mixture of Jane Austen waltzes, jazz hands and shimmies, with a little bit of bump and grind pole flair thrown in for good measure. There was also drumming and the required waving of the turkey legs in the air. During the excitement of this particularly delightful scene I suffered an unfortunate incident involving a Whopper. I'm not talking hamburgers, I'm talking malted milk balls.
I had picked up one oversized box of Whoppers while at Tractor Supply buying chick feed because I knew we were going to the movies after and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I smuggled them into the movies even though I'm pretty sure they cost the same at Tractor Supply - because I'm wicked that way. Now then, I don't think that many folks buy their movie concessions at Tractor Supply and here's why. They were a little...um....hollow and chewy with a pasty, powdery substance covering their chocolate shells. I was sitting in the horrible movie eating them anyway (because I'm an addict and we do gross things like that), when I got one that tasted even worse than the others had. I mean - it tasted BAD. I made a face and a little sound and Ellie looked at me and said, "Oh yeah - I think those are rotten. Don't eat them."
Maybe it was the word rotten. I don't know. But at that moment, I knew I couldn't swallow the Whopper. I really couldn't. By now, I was producing an overabundance of saliva, profusely salivating you know, and I said to Ellie, "I thont wanth this," probably with a long string of spit hanging from my chin.
"Oh my god, swallow it mom!" she said while scooting as far away from me as her stationary theater seat would allow.
"I thant!" I said. Because I really couldn't.
"You have to!"
"No, I'm thunna sthpit it outh...gib me mah purth."
She handed me my purse, quite hastily, and with a horrified look of disgust on her face.
I dug in my purse. Normally, finding something to spit a Whopper in would be no problem - as my purse is known around here as the trashcan on a strap. But this is a NEW purse, still all clean on the inside, and no trash items whatsoever. No dirty Kleenex or napkin or gum wrapper or ANYTHING. Which is how I came to find myself spitting a Whopper into a feminine protection product just as Ellie glanced over at me and broke out into hysterical laughter. I'm pretty sure this was the best part of the movie for her.
So the moral of this story is: Don't see Red Riding Hood (it sucks) and Don't Buy Your Whoppers at Tractor Supply, and if you do, make sure you're armed with Feminine Protection.
While I'm discussing movies, let me just say that the Train/Cute Guy movie is called Source Code with Jake Gyllenhaal and it isn't out yet. Also? Jeff and I saw The Adjustment Bureau with Matt Damon and we do not recommend it. We're both Matt Damon fans so it was a disappointment. It was good acting, good effects, but the story was very Junior High - there's a "Chairman" who turns out to be God and then basically angels running around in hats interfering with everyone's business. Meh.
This brings us to the part of the show where we do a little Dream Analysis.
I love to analyze dreams. And I used to never understand people who said they couldn't remember their dreams. I ALWAYS remembered my dreams. Until the past couple of years. I think it is because I am a Big Girl now and I sleep through the night. For many years I was either, pregnant, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, or ALL THREE and let's just say my slumbering was often disturbed. Therefore, I was always waking up just after or during a dream - skipping many of the steps and processes that most people naturally undergo to fall asleep and wake up and all the stuff that happens in between. Now? I'm like the rest of you people - I go to sleep and I wake up in the morning, for the most part, completely clueless. Sometimes I awaken with a feeling of irritation, happiness, or sadness...and I'm pretty sure it is the remnant of a dream, but no details.
So you can see how extremely happy I was to wake up this morning with about 70% of the details of my waking up dream all clear and readily available. I am, however, having a bit of trouble figuring out what it means. Here it is:
We (the family) met John Frusciante (formerly of the Red Hot Chili Peppers) at a frozen yogurt shop. Nothing odd there, right? Now normally, I don't like to discuss John Frusciante on the blog because a) it would be a strange revelation of a slight obsession I have and b) the man enjoys his privacy and what would he think if he knew I was discussing him in front of the 10 or so people who regularly read my blog and the 30 or so who end up here by accident while seeking information about the mating habits of sardines? Anyway - because I'm sharing this dream I'm forced to discuss John Frusciante and I sincerely hope this doesn't somehow cause ripples in his mental/psychic sphere or anything...'cause he is sensitive in that way.
So. John Frusciante is with us at the yogurt shop. Where he buys me a spectacular pair of boots and the zipper broke on one of them but I didn't want him to know that because it would make him feel bad, so I hid the broken zipper. Now then, so you get the full picture, I'd like to say that this was not the 41-year-old John Frusciante who is at this moment probably somewhere quite happily playing with a synthesizer, and it wasn't the 19-year-old Frusciante of the Mother's Milk age...it was the Post Recluse / Post Heroin Frusciante - where he still looked a bit like a fragile Edward Scissorhands.
Anyway - so during casual chit chat it is decided that it would be a good idea for Jules to spend the rest of the day with John Frusciante. So off they go, driving away in a Volkswagen Beetle.