How do I have 274 followers? That’s just… odd. But I know it’s the Nu Nu post, STILL the most popular post on my blog. Because people are awesome.
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We’re watching The Fugitive. I should say, we have been watching The Fugitive for about 6 1/2 minutes, which is about as long as my husband can stand to watch anything before clickity click clicking and we watch something else for 6 1/2 minutes. I’ve learned some things about this situation: a) he genuinely enjoys the clicking, certainly more than watching 90% of the fine programming on offer, b) if something is really important to me, I can make him stop, c) very little on television is that important to me.
So, it’s only important that we’re watching The Fugitive because one of the characters is “Dr. Charles Nichols,” who has just been introduced at the awards banquet in the film. My husband replies (or so I think), “Chicken.”
My first thought is that my husband knows something about the movie that I do not know, namely, that Dr. Charles Nichols nickname is “Chicken.” They sort of sound a little alike, right? Sort of? But, worth asking:
“Chicken?”
He looks over at me. “Chicken?”
Now, I have known this wonderful man for 33 years, since we were 12. We will have been together for 19 years, married for 16 years come June. We’ve been through more joys and sorrows together than I can even gesture at in a “Crazy Crap” post. And there are some things that even he, talented actor that he is, cannot hide from me. And one of those things is that he has absolutely no idea that he just said “chicken” because, although he was wide awake 6 1/2 minutes ago, he has since fallen dead asleep and dreamed… something. After 33 years, I know him too well to assume that it had anything to do with chickens.
So I laughed at him. Because.
“You just said ‘chicken’.”
(He just rolls his eyes.)
A bit later, he started laughing and said, ”…now I can’t give it back to her!”
Me: What?
He: GAH! It won’t make any sense!
Me: And that has dissuaded me when?
He: OK: A girl and some of her friends were waiting in the lobby of a hotel, and I had a string of loaves of bread that I was trailing in from the car through the automatic sliding glass doors. I knew she was waiting for her alligator, but I had left it in the car. (He clarifies:) It was, like, a big marshmallow alligator, it wasn’t horrifying, it was sort of cuddly.
Me: Oh good.
He: And I was driving a subway car.
Me: Of course.
He: So the doors shut on the string of loaves and it was sort of a “laugh or cry ” moment because I knew I couldn’t go back to the car to get her alligator for her.
Me: Gotcha. And what was the last dream, when you said “chicken”?
(pause)
He: I said “chicken”?
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Tags: more crazy crap
Possum: Wok 4/26
[No, I know that this sounds like "Kids Say the Darnedest Things," but it actually happened, for really real.]
Possum (4 yrs old) and I are sitting on the porch:
“Mommy, I want to pull up a wok onto the porch.”
“A what?”
“A wok.”
“A wok?”
“Yes, a wok.” (Mommy is still confused)
“And you want to pull it up?”
“Yes.”
(Mommy is grasping at straws here…) “How can you pull it up?”
“With a wope.”
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He’s super sleepy tonight. We’re watching Dr. Who (“Balakafalata… CYBORG!”) so he doesn’t want to go to bed, but really, it’s a lost cause.
He: “KRI kri ka ta croff…”
Me: What?
He: (elaborate eyeroll-to-facepalm maneuver)
Me: What was that?
He: (laughing) Something about beer.
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ADHD Moment o’ the Morn: The bus is coming down the road. Dad says, “Put your shoes on, please, we need to be outside now.” Possum starts to put the first shoe on.
* * *
We’ve learned that when we ask our 8-year-old to do something, it’s best to watch and make sure she actually starts doing it before we turn to other things. This is because there are many distractions between each step of picking up the toothbrush, picking up the toothpaste, walking to the kitchen sink… something on the counter, a bird singing outside, the noise from the icemaker that means it’s about to dump the ice into the bin, an event more heralded and entertaining than the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace.
Over the years, we’ve come up with little interventions that help to minimize — if not prevent –distractions. For example, Possum has two sets of toothbrush and toothpaste: one in the upstairs bathroom and one downstairs in the kitchen. Also, I get her clothes ready during the excruciating process of getting her out of bed and into her bathrobe, and bring the clothes downstairs with us. Why? So she doesn’t have to go upstairs and back downstairs after breakfast. Because there are many potential distractions between each step of walking out of the kitchen, walking through the living room to the steps, walking up the steps… Something like, “Run upstairs and get dressed, please, and then come right back down” is just asking for trouble; “Go get dressed” is pure fantasy.
* * *
Dad turns to get her coat and then turns back. It isn’t necessarily a surprise that she has one shoe on and is peering into the icemaker.
“Possum, put your other shoe on!”
“One minute!“
Dad leans back and exclaims unto heaven, “THERE ARE NO MORE MINUTES!”
* * *
Bonus: ADHD Redirection o’ the Morn: “OK: please lift your hands off of the dog.”
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Tags: The Possum Chronicles: Walk a Mile in My... Where are My Shoes?
Attention Citizens of Earth!
I don’t ever want to hear one single word about how ADHD is overdiagnosed for perfectly normal childhood behaviors
UNLESS you have had to break down the task of “Go brush your teeth” into redirectable steps as small as “put your foot on the ground.”
What? But she’s such a bright girl!
Yes, indeed — “Very superior” in fact.
Well then why doesn’t she just DO it?
Aha! Here we are at the “I don’t want to hear one single word UNLESS” part again!
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Parade’s End? Honourable PORN.
I am SHOCKED and APPALLED by the SMUT that HBO recently allowed into the living rooms of unsuspecting Americans: Tom Stoppard’s production of Ford Madox Ford’s Parade’s End.
Did not kiss her. Because he is married.
And no, I’m not talking about the boobies — hell, if I had a body like Rebecca Hall’s I would never not be naked.
I’m talking about Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch’s portrayal, therein, of Christopher Tietjens.
Don’t get me wrong — I’m not blaming the guy. This could not possibly be his fault.
.
As a matter of fact, I’m willing to bet Benedict Cumberbatch One Million Pounds that he had no clue what a pornographic triumph his performance as Christopher Tietjens would be.
Why so cocky?
Well, if I win, one million pounds! Score!
If I lose, I’m still having a conversation with Benedict Cumberbatch about porn. Score!
.
But I’ll win. I’m positive he didn’t intend to inspire such shameless lust, because Benedict Cumberbatch has more respect for the character than to subject him to such degradation.
(Oh boy…)
Not only that, but as Mr. Tietjens himself said: “I stand for monogamy. And for chastity. And for not talking about it.”
(Thwack! Deb opens elaborate sandalwood fan to cool sudden glow.)
I mean, this is a man who waited five years and a whole World War even to speak of his love for a woman who was not his wife, although his wife was an immoral harpy.
(Oh, fidelity! Oh, respectful regard! Oh, baby!)
Was sent back to the trenches because he assaulted an officer… a drunk officer who smashed into his wife’s bedroom. She may be an immoral harpy, but she’s still his wife.
In fact, Christopher Tietjens might just be…
The Last Honourable Man.
(oh…YESYESYES!!!)
Some women love The Bad Boy. Some women love The Whip-Smart Pain in the Ass. Some women love The Hero, The Shy Guy, The Underdog, The Good Husband. And representations of these are slung about hither, thither, and furthermore yon.
Less well known, and far more subtle, is the Last Honourable Man (spelt Brit-wise, in honor.) The man who can be relied upon to do right, especially when it is to his detriment. The man who will only do wrong in the service of unassailable elemental forces like The Greater Good. Justice. Love. The man who, surrounded by corruption on every side, is willing to stand as the last bastion of decency. Never underestimate the… not fetish, exactly, let’s say soft spot (oo-er!) some women have for the Last Honourable Man.
In the case of Christopher Tietjens, never has there been a Last Honourable Man so perfectly designed to make said women’s clothes fall off. You need insider information to hit all the erogenous zones on this one, so unless Mr. Cumberbatch got a checklist from a devotee, it had to be an accident. A happy, happy accident.
I stand in the fortunate position of Observer to this phenomenon by virtue of being happily married to… who? You guessed it, a Last Honourable Man. He’s so honourable that he doesn’t like it when I talk about how honourable he is. He says it embarrasses him because there are so many people far more honourable than he. I hated to break it to him: “Honey, that just makes you all the more honourable.” He had to throw in the towel: you can’t fight the honour!
My Observer status is further reinforced by Mr. Cumberbatch’s having announced to all and sundry that not only is he a randy little tart but that he wants babies, and lots of ‘em, and soon. It’s a phallocentric universe over by him: the man could impregnate a woman by osmosis, I just know it. Having had all the babies I’m going to have, thank you very much, I prefer to keep a safe distance.
Besides, it isn’t about the actor. I’m sure he’s a lovely person and all, but he isn’t…
Christopher Tietjens, Last Honourable Man.
(Sigh!)
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