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Today, my first thought of the morning — well other than the standard “man, I’m tired” — was of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. There is a scene where she’s sobbing to Billy Crystal’s character, “And I’m gonna be 40!” He asks her when and she replies, “Someday,” to which he responds, “in like 8 years,” the ridiculousness of it all evident in his voice.

Well, I don’t have 8 years and I’m not sobbing either. I’m not necessarily dreading 40 any more than just the average “getting older sucks” funk that I’ve fallen into lately. And I’m certainly not conceding that 40 is old. It just goes back to the whole “no more firsts” thing I’ve already whined about. But 40 is the next milestone.

See, yesterday was my 39th birthday. Since I’m only teaching on-campus 3 days a week this semester, I technically didn’t have anywhere to be. So I spent the morning in glorious solitude on the tractor, satisfying my OCD by cutting the pastures in boxed sectioms and singing along with my music at the top of my lungs with no one to judge my lack of vocal talent but the critters and trees. Living in the country has its perks, y’all.

It was spectacular … other than the part where I backed into (and destroyed) the pond fence. Perhaps it was the brisk morning air or the bright warming sun, but even that didn’t get me down. I just kept on singing.

Then, I managed an afternoon nap before the kids got out of school and a dinner that I neither had to cook nor clean up after. All in all, it was a good birthday. What more could I ask for? Maybe I’m still high on sunshine, but I’m choosing to not answer that today.

Foreword: In recent years, I’ve been trying to “watch my language.” I really try to limit my use of curse words. You know, because the whole “don’t let evil come out of your mouth” thing; and because I know my kids are listening and it’s hard to discourage them from using bad words when momma’s got a potty mouth. But this week, and today especially, that’s all gone to hell in a handbasket. Also, 9 out of 10 of the posts like the one that follows never make it from my notebook to the site because I write them in a fever and then realize how full of whine they are when I cool down. I decide not to share that whine with the world, or the handful of people who actually read this blog. Again, this week, and today especially, I guess I’m just gonna be a hot head. See previous statement regarding the handbasket. Consider yourself warned.

My friend MorganMorganMorgan and I have been commiserating a lot lately about our pitiful lives.

Disclaimer #1: Okay, so our lives aren’t pitiful. We both have healthy families with loving husbands and generally well-behaved children. We have roofs over our heads and food on our table and are generally healthy ourselves (with controllable physical issues and only slightly questionable – on good days – mental issues). So, yeah, we should be ashamed of ourselves for even complaining. Yada, yada, yada.

Disclaimer #2: “Lately” isn’t quite accurate either. We commiserate all the time. The foundation of our friendship is that we can be happy or sad to our heart’s dis/content without the need for a disclaimer like #1.

On with it, then. For this latest downward spiral of despair, I take full responsibility. Morgan’s been saying for awhile that she feels like she’s failing at everything … that her one responsibility in life is raising her kids and she sucks at it. Now that’s simply not true, but I get what she’s saying. Earlier this week, I texted her that I was severely depressed because the best years of my life were behind me. “I’ve no firsts left,” I said. I then went on to whine about how I wish my life was a book or a movie and some other such ridiculous nonsense too embarrassing to admit.  Instead, I’m almost 40 and can’t even maintain the very basics of life.

This morning neither of the big kids could find clean laundry … well, one of them just wasn’t happy with what there was but the other swore there was no clean underwear. My knee-jerk reaction in my head is “Well, crap, there’s something else I’ve f-ed up this week.” But then, the Girl walks in, while I’m drinking my coffee and trying to wake up properly before facing the world, and says, in the same judgmental tone she usually saves for her “Mother!” admonishments after I’ve cursed aloud, “Can you please wash some clothes today because I seriously had to dig in the hamper for running shorts.” (Well, they’re running shorts; it’s not like they have to start out clean.) And she just stands there looking at me, waiting for a response. (Here’s where the loving husband part comes in: he says to her very calmly, “Walk away now and pretend you didn’t say that.”)

Urging me to read The Bloggess‘ post Is it just me?, Morgan texted, “I don’t know if it’s normal, or if you, me and her are the only f-ups … but yeah, whatever.” The Bloggess’ post could have been written by me, about me, except that would mean actually accomplishing something other than getting out of bed. (And at least she gets comments on her blog, so I win at failing). Now, I don’t think we’re the only ones; and to anyone who says we are, I’m call bullshit right now. But that doesn’t make me feel any better.

The Bloggess says her biggest accomplishment some days is going to the bank. Mine is not crawling back into bed after the kids get on the bus, because, 5 out of 5 days a week, that’s exactly what I want to do. And I’ve no idea why. I know I didn’t use to be this way. But I can’t figure out what happened. Now fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I can’t crawl back into bed most days; but I don’t feel any better about myself for that either.

Some days, some weeks even, are better than others. I’m able to maintain that perspective and blessed feeling related to disclaimer #1. Other days, I’m in what Morgan and I call a funk … which is more like a black hole … in which any light that remains is zapped from existence by the very fact that I should be happy but am not. So what’s wrong with me and how do I fix it? Or do I just accept that this is it?

See, if my life were a movie, this would all be resolved in 2 hours or less. And everyone would have clean underwear.

Logo revealed at Comic-Con (from www.empireonline.com)

It’s been a couple of weeks now since the news hit that Ben Affleck accepted the role of the caped crusader in the Man of Steel sequel, the title of which writer David S. Goyer has said would be a toss-up between either Superman vs. Batman or Batman vs. Superman. (And it occurs to me now that I never posted my reaction to MOS. Well, I loved it. I could pick it apart and harp on this or that, but really I’d rather just enjoy it. To me, MOS brought Superman back into the limelight of mainstream, made him someone little boys want to be, and did justice to his story).

Anyway, as the story of Affleck’s casting spread like wildfire, reactions seemed consistently heated and so “Batfleck” was born (oh, Internet, aren’t you so clever?). Inexplicably, however, neither the announcement that James Spader would be Ultron in The Avengers sequel nor the rumor that the Shatner – i.e., the original James T. Kirk – wanted a role in the MOS Sequel, generated nearly as much venom. Damn it, Jim.

Honestly, my immediate reaction to Batfleck was somewhat similar to the masses (a “No, this hurts,” text to MorganMorganMorgan). I mean it wasn’t that long ago that I said I didn’t want Affleck as a super friend. But then I took a breath. I’m still not completely happy with the idea of Benny boy as the dark knight but not for the reasons it seems the majority of folks are in an uproar about. Mine is not a cry of foul, more of a whimper of worry.

Daredevil sucked. Yes, that’s true. But I don’t blame Affleck for that. Poor writing and directing prevented a good comic book origin story from translating well to the big screen. It’s not the first time dignity’s been lost in the translation, and it won’t be the last time a generally good actor looks bad because of poor packaging.

Yes, Affleck is a good actor. Yes, I’ve changed my tune on this; he’s a good actor, one who has gotten better with age. Did you see Argo? How about The Town (which I think is my fave of all his performances to date)? He goes all in, developing a look, a sound, a feel for a character; characters that aren’t all the same, and he’s believable in the different roles. Anyone who says Affleck can’t go dark should watch the scene in The Town when Rebecca Hall’s character tells him some guys harassed her so she takes the long way home now. He asks, with just a hint of edge to his voice, “What’d they look like?” The next thing we see is him telling Jeremy Renner’s character, “I need your help. I can’t tell you what it is, you can never ask me about it later, and we’re gonna hurt some people.” Yeah, he can go dark enough.

So do I think Affleck can pull it off? Yes. I think he’ll be just fine, maybe even great, as Batman. My problem, i.e., my worry, is about what this means for a Man of Steel sequel. It wasn’t long ago when Affleck said he wasn’t interested in taking on projects unless he could both direct and star in them. And it was about this very topic really, the idea of a Justice League ensemble. So here he’s already backtracking a bit because Snyder’s at the helm again. So what about the starring part? Coupling Affleck’s prior comments with Goyer’s title bombshell, I’m worried we’re awaiting more of a Batman reboot than a Superman movie. For someone who’s waited almost my whole life for a good Superman movie, I’m not ready to hand over my dreams of an awesome sequel of hope and home to yet another telling of billionaire-turned-bat. (And, seriously, I’ve nothing against Batman. He’s just not Superman).

But I’m tempering my response to Batfleck because I do still have hope.

I’ve complained early before and been happily proven wrong. I hated the idea of Marvel getting anyone other than Ed Norton to play Bruce Banner in The Avengers, only to eat crow and proclaim Mark Ruffalo the best Hulk ever.  I didn’t like the decision to get some unknown (to me) British actor to play the symbol of truth, justice and the American way, only to declare Henry Cavill as MY Superman. (Sorry, Tom Welling, though you’ll always be my Clark Kent).

So, I have hope that Affleck will rock the bat mask and black cape, that Cavill will deliver the goods again, and that Superman vs. Batman (or whatever the heck they decide to call it) will be epic.

I may be the fun parent but I’m a terrible wife. Earlier this summer, I posted (and did a little jig) about my kids saying I was the fun parent. While shocked to learn they view me as such, I’ve come to accept the title.

On Monday when hubs came home from work, the Girl giddily asked, “Who’s the happiest girl in the world?!”

“Who?” he asked, playing along.

“Meeeee!” She beamed and then proceeded to tell him how I’d gotten tickets to take her and her friends to the premiere of This Is Us (that’s the One Direction concert movie for those of you without tween-age daughters).

“What?!” he asked incredulously, looking at me.

Shrugging, I said, “I’m the fun parent,” as if that answered everything clearly. I’d like to end the story there … you know, on a high note … but …

Yesterday, hubs turned the big 4-0. A few months ago, I asked him what he wanted for his upcoming big day. I remember saying something like, “It’s a big birthday, you should get something big.”  (Why, oh why, would I say that? Oh, yeah, ’cause I turn 40 next year). He said he wanted a new gun. Okay, he was actually very specific: an AR-15 … x y z … yada yada yada … heck if I remember now what it was. I’ll tell you what I do remember: that particular type of gun costs about $1200. So, um, yeah, I didn’t get him that.

Instead, I got him a not-cheap-in-its-own-right-but-not-$1200 new Keurig coffee maker. It arrived on a Saturday, when he was home, so there was no hiding it and saving it for a big surprise on his big day. So he’s been using his birthday gift daily for a few weeks now.

Anyway, he walked in from work yesterday with the remains of what appeared to be a rather large birthday cake. As the kids dug into the left over cake, even though it was already past their bedtime and certainly past a reasonable hour for sugar on a school night, I said, “Oh wow! They threw you a party? Did you expect that?” He said he had no idea about it until right before and that when he was handing out thanks one of his co-workers said, “Ah, this was nothing. Bet your wife has something big planned. I mean, it’s your 40th.”

Uh-oh.

I got nothing.

Who’s got two thumbs and is a terrible wife? Yeah, this girl.

As we were getting ready for bed, I came clean: “Uh, just so you know, I don’t have anything planned.” He laughed it off and said it was okay, that he didn’t need anything else. I think he really meant it but still …

Even right now, I’ve no clue what I’d even do for him. We’ve been together almost 20 years, you’d think I’d have some idea what he’d want, and yet I’m coming up empty.  I mean, he’s not very social, doesn’t really like parties. He’d rather watch a movie at home in his underwear than go out any day of the week. So what could I really do?

Hmm, or maybe I’m just imposing all this on him because I really don’t want to have to plan anything else. See: a. terrible. wife.

You know the saying, “Two wrongs don’t make a right”? Well, apparently a bunch of wrongs can make something right. Because so many people use “literally” improperly, i.e., when they mean figuratively, the powers that be have added this to the definition of “literally”:

“used for emphasis while not being literally true” (informal usage, Oxford Dictionaries).

“used to acknowledge that something is not literally true but is used for emphasis or to express strong feeling” (Google).

I’m literally banging my head against the wall.

No, really, see:

Now, I appreciate the evolution of language. If a language does not grow and adapt, then it ultimately dies. I get that. In fact, I’m fascinated by it. But does growing and adapting mean just accepting error?

I mean, what’s next?

“could care less”?

“whether or not”?

“irregardless”?

“supposably”?

This makes my head hurt. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the wall-banging. I’m just saying if “supposably” makes it in the dictionary, my head will explode.

No, not literally. Because then I’d be dead. Of course, then the whole “grammar kills” argument would carry more validity.

Cyanide and Happiness: http://www.explosm.net/comics/2712/

http://jmichaelrios.files.wordpress.com/2012/04/lets-eat-grandma.jpg

See also:

Have we literally broken the English language?

44 Everyday Phrases You Might Not Know You’ve Been Saying Incorrectly

This week marks what has become an annual occurrence that I call “Kidcation.” The kids get a vacation from cleaning their rooms, milking goats, feeding animals and doing other chores; and they get to spend a week with their Mema, where the order of the day is as much fun as possible, as little “no” as can be managed, and absolutely whatever they want to eat whenever they want to eat it (I swear Mema missed her calling as a short order cook). It’s also a week that I get a vacation from trying to keep three kids entertained on a budget, as well as a break from the fighting, whining and he-said-she-saids that often accompany summer boredom.

So to start off this year’s kidcation, we took a mini-road-trip, a 3-hour drive to meet Mema at the halfway point and have lunch before sending the kiddos off for the week. While sitting at Pizza Hut, Wonder Boy had to use the bathroom. Now, anyone who’s gone anywhere with Wonder Boy knows that his bathroom trips aren’t brief. Bryan, having already gone in the bathroom when we arrived to wash his hands, had commented on the smell and was not too keen on returning for an extended visit. So he did what any self-respecting father would do, he tried to push it off on one of the kids. He spent a good solid minute arguing with Boy Genius about who was going to escort Wonder Boy into the smelly bathroom before I stepped in with the voice of reason (i.e., the captain’s order). As Bryan huffed and walked away with Wonder Boy, I rolled my eyes and said to Mema, “You sure you don’t want all four kids this week?” And the following conversation ensued:

Neither, especially the Girl, was too happy about sharing this with daddy (she doesn’t like to hurt feelings). But I couldn’t let it go. So when Bryan and Wonder Boy returned from the marathon bathroom trip, I said, in my giddy voice of course: “Guess who’s the fun parent?!” He was clearly taken aback at my being the fun parent and exaggerated the hurt a little, despite the Girl’s efforts to downplay my superiority. At which point, Mema stepped in to try to soothe his ego:

A few high-fives across the table to let my kiddos know I was proud was met with a mumble from daddy, “Well, I’m still not letting you have sugar.”

So, who’d have guessed it? I’m the fun parent. Just use the right words.

Today the 5-year-old becomes the 6-year-old. The one I affectionately call Wonder Boy on this site isn’t a baby anymore. He has graduated from kindergarten and reads to me every night. He dresses himself, brushes his own teeth, and showers solo, though there’s some debate as to whether he actually uses soap. Yesterday, he made his own peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But when I look at him, I still see my baby boy.

Maybe it’s because he’s the youngest. Maybe it’s because he’ll still cuddle with me when he’s tired. Maybe it’s just because as I get older I realize more and more how fast time goes by. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling a bit mushy today.

We had a small party for him last Saturday at the white place.

In this day and age, it’s socially acceptable (at least I think/hope) to send invitations via email and Facebook. It’s wonderfully convenient but when all is said and done, where do you send the thank-yous? When everyone’s available in the blink of an eye virtually, how often do we actually have someone’s physical address anymore? But, still, thanks must be made. As Wonder Boy continues to grow up, I want him to learn to say thank you, to be grateful, to show appreciation, to value others. So here goes nothing folks:

Okay, so we need to work on handwriting too. Here’s the translation: “I’m glad you came to my party and played with me! Thank you for my presents!” Now there’s a good boy.

Last week I called myself for being a Big Fat Liar Pants, whining that I can’t seem to finish anything longer than a blog post. I talked about my various writing projects, the majority of which seem to reside only in my head. Of the big ones, there are a few books – two fiction, but different genres and one nonfiction – whose ideas have lived for varying numbers of years. Of the smaller variety, I regularly come up with ideas for shorter stories, sometimes one-shots or flash fictions, some the longer of the shorter variety. I counted among my writing projects a fanfiction story that’s been in various stages on paper for two years.

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about the vampire playthings in my head: the apparent sun-fearing conspirators who wake at night (when I should be sleeping) and prance around in my mind, sucking away any chance at sleep by preventing my mind from shutting off at a decent hour. It then occurred to me (only after this had been going on for years; sheesh, I’m slow) that, perhaps, I should work them to my advantage. Thus, the novel idea of a writer writing in the middle of the night was born.

In the wee hours of the morning, I tweeted and facebooked (that one doesn’t really work as a verb, oh well) the following:

That’s right. I finished something. Something longer than a blog post. In your face last-week-self!

The two-year-old, multi-chapter fanfiction story is complete and out there for the world (of fanfiction readers, that is) to read. Granted, I never share my pseudonym, so no one knows it’s me; but that’s not the point.

No, it’s not a major writing project. No, it’s not a novel. But it’s something that’s been occupying my brain and it’s not complete. It’s a little more of that 95% that never makes it to paper actually on paper. I’m counting that as a win.

In our house, when someone says something that’s clearly not true, we call them a “big fat liar pants.” Now, this is not to make light of telling lies; lying (and omitting the truth) receives harsh punishment, just ask the Girl, who’s currently grounded from all electronics. But, sometimes, there are things said even though there’s no possible way it could be the truth, and the speaker doesn’t even expect the listener to believe him or her. For example, “I don’t know why you tripped over my shoes since I put them in my closet where they belong,” said the big fat liar pants.

Last weekend, we watched two movies, one of which has really stuck with me this week. I don’t want to talk about We Need to Talk About Kevin. I try not to think too much about that one. The one that I can’t seem to stop thinking about is The Words. Bryan said his mom watched it and “knew I’d like it.” I did like it. But it made me teary. When Bryan asked why, I couldn’t put it into words. Because I’m a big fat liar pants.

The Words (2012) movie poster from IMDB.com

The Words is about a writer who, in the midst of the tidal wave of rejection from potential publishers of his first novel, finds an old manuscript in an attaché his wife purchased for him at an antique store. When he reads this manuscript (these words of another), he’s overcome with emotion … the story so genuine, the descriptions so detailed, the feelings so raw … he’s moved, he’s awed … and he’s jealous. He has no idea who wrote these words or how they ended up hidden away from the world; all he knows is that he wishes he’d written them.

At this point in the movie, the writer tells his wife, “I’m not who I thought I was, okay? I’m not. And I’m terrified that I never will be.” (The Words, 2012). I get this. His wife gets upset, taking his comments to mean he’s not happy with her. Of course, he loves her, but, just as we learn about that manuscript’s original writer, he “loved the words more than the woman [he] was writing them for.” (The Words, 2012).

Now the blurb for the movie will tell you what happens next: the writer passes the words off as his own, receiving both critical and commercial success. And then he meets the original writer, the old man. The old man tells him where the words came from and all he wants in return is for the writer to bear the pain that bore the words. The old man is tired, he has nothing left, he just wants the pain to go away.

I do love words, but I don’t love them more than my family. And there’ve been many times when I’ve read things I wished I’d written. Typically, I consider that a sign that I like something. But I’d never try to pass anything off as my own though. I may be a big fat liar pants but I’m not dishonest. I’m a big fat liar pants because I’m not who I thought I was. Writers put words on paper; they share things with the world (however big or small that world may be to them). If I had to put a number on it, I’d say about 95% of my “writing” occurs in my head. Only about 5% of my words make it to paper. I spend too much time in my own head (but, hey, I know everyone there and it’s cozy). I’ve got at least three “writing” projects in the works; the majority of which are in my head. How can I call myself a writer if I never finish anything longer than a blog post (and this one’s been in my head for four days now!)?

I’m not a writer. I’m a thinker. Nothing more than a daydreamer.  Don’t get me wrong, daydreaming is fun, but I’m not who I thought I was. “At some point, you have to choose between life and fiction. The two are very close, but they never actually touch.” (The Words, 2012). I’m a big fat liar pants.

While I was out gallivanting on my Harry Potter London experience (speaking of awesome, more on that later), Bryan took the kids on a day trip to Petit Jean State Park. It’s one of the natural beauties of the Natural State.

Of their trip, he shared a “quotable moment” from Boy Genius (BG). They’d been hiking all day and even trekked down a “treacherous” trail to stand behind the waterfall that everyone else was pointing at. (At this point in the retelling, Bryan pauses to interject: “I’m sure they were all commenting on what a bad parent I am, because no one else was back there.”) Afterwards, the Girl said “That was so cool. I couldn’t think about my past or my future, just about what was happening right then.” And BG replied, with a big smile, “You know what that’s called? A moment of awesomeness. I have them all the time.”

Quotable indeed, and true to form. I, of course, shared this with my fellow London gallivanters, as I so often do with BG stories.  At dinner out with the family a few days later, I was sharing how my friends always get a kick out of those stories. This was when Wonder Boy [WB] spoke up: “I know you wish I wasn’t your son.” Stunned silence all around. Finally finding my voice, I said, “[WB ], what do you mean?! Of course I want you for my son.” When he didn’t reply, BG interjected, “Well, cause you’re always offering to give him away.” Looking from BG to WB, I saw the latter nod his downturned head.

And it’s true, I often reply to “he’s so cute!” comments with “you want him?” or the like. Trying to be funny, all in good humor, of course. But it’s not funny if no one’s laughing. Looking at his sad face thinking I don’t want him just broke my heart. You know what that’s called? A moment of epic failure. And unfortunately, I have them all the time.

So I vowed to him then and there that I’d never say it again, and spent the rest of the night trying to convince him how much I love him and kicking myself for being a moron. Little eyes and ears see and hear everything, and their owners may not think about what happened before or what is to come, just how they feel in the moment. Though words can’t break bones, they can hurt deeply; and we all must watch our words to make our moments awesome.