Shit-Colored Glasses

If overly optimistic people can be said to view the world through "rose-colored glasses," does it also stand that the gloomily pessimistic among us view that same world through shit-colored glasses? Here, let me hand you my pair and we can share some thoughts and visions!

Setting the scene...
Eddy, Sherry, Paul and I are at the dinner-table, there is a comfortable lull in the conversation, and dinner seems to be a success. Paul comments, "People were crazed on the highway, today! Some guy with out-of-state plates was weaving through traffic like crazy, and barely missed hitting several cars." Eddy acknowledges the remark with raised eyebrows and a startled look. Sherry chirps, "Know what? That SAME THING happened to me!"

Rose-colored glasses...
Isn't that the cutest thing?! Can't you just picture an 8-year-old behind the wheel of a car, tooling down the freeway at 75 mph, shaking her tiny fists at careless drivers... As precious as that scenario is, it's more likely that Sherry just feels the need to be an active participant in the discussion and has some incident to relay.

Shit-colored glasses...
What the hell?! Trying to be "all grown-up" at 8, Sherry constantly inserts herself into conversations, regardless whether it's appropriate, viable, or beyond the farthest reaches of reality as we know it. When Paul and I look at her and indicate she should continue this line of thought, she grabs the spotlight and shines. Sitting up a bit straighter, reaching up to primp her hair, she smiles as though selling detergent on an infomercial and explains that "there's this boy... in my class... and he is SO careless!" Oh, okay... I can see the connection, NOW. We wait patiently for her to continue, to expound on this "boy," his identity, and examples of his obvious disregard for safety. Her performance, however, consisting primarily of ensuring she had our undivided attention, has come to a conclusion.

Setting the scene...
Paul is resting, and I'm feeding the kids dinner so he can have a break. Dinner, tonight, is smoked chicken-breast pieces, in fettucini with a mild tomato sauce. Call it "chicken spaghetti" if necessary, to simplify and take away the kid-level intimidation factor. Two bites into his meal, the expression on Eddy's face sends a message of loathing and despair.

Rose-colored glasses...
Well, dang. There must have been some flavor or texture in the meal that Eddy simply didn't like. It's a shame, but it's not the end of the world. Kids' likes and dislikes can vary on a day-to-day basis, and who knows? He might even like this the next time it's presented to him!

Shit-colored glasses...
What the fuck?! It's CHICKEN, for heavens's ake, and PASTA! With the blandest, most Chef-Famous-Are-Dee-kinda sauce on it... what's not to like when you're TEN? I guess it didn't quite live up to the all-starch/all-fat fast-food he's presented with at his other "home," and might not pack on the POUNDS like whatever he's been eating over there. No wonder he doesn't like it, it's not take-out shit in a paper-bag. Imagining what my Mom would've done to me had I gagged on her meals, I content myself by excusing him from the table and informing him there'll be no more food for him this day.

They didn't nickname it "Mother's Little Helper" for nothing... surely I'm not the first to tread these grounds.

Now hand back my glasses...!

Dinner Out... with The Kids

It's an evening to have dinner "out" after I get off work, and this is a good thing. The dining establishment in question, here, is not of 4-star quality; however, it is a buffet-style eatery, and the kids always find something they enjoy (translation: something they'll eat without coercion or gagging).

I drive over after work, Paul and the kids are already there. Walking up the sidewalk, I see Paul, a child holding each of his hands, and his face splits in a huge genuine grin, lighting up with pleasure as he catches sight of me. God I love this man.

The kids notice my arrival, and they pull away from their Dad and run screaming happily toward me for hugs. This is a good thing, and I wonder whether Kodak has noticed how wonderful this is. Damn. Where's a cameraman and film-crew when you need 'em?

As we walk to the front door of the restaurant, Eddy declares, "I'll get the door!" "Why, thank you, Eddy," Paul says to him, "that's very considerate of you!" "Yes, Eddy, thank you very much," I add, smiling. Eddy opens the door, allows his sister through it, then races for the next door, leaving the first one to close in my face. Hmmmmmm. We might need to work on the finer points of door-holding. Ah well, no matter. Baby steps. This is all good.

Some predictable but perfectly acceptable choices are made by Sherry and Eddy, and after ensuring they're all settled in at the table, Paul and I return to the buffet to prepare our own plates. As we navigate back to our table, I notice that Eddy and Sherry are both nearly face-down in their plates, elbows planted squarely on the table, eating like cattle at a trough.

Deep breaths... this is NO big deal. Paul sits down beside Eddy, and I take the place beside Sherry. "Guys," I whisper, "Elbows!" Both children promptly remove their elbows from the table. "Thanks, Sweeties." I beam at them, knowing these things take time... and pleased that it takes so little to remind them of their good manners. They really ARE wonderful kids, and I need to learn to lighten up.

Paul reminds each of them, gently, to sit up straight at the table, and their sweet little faces are now visible, no longer buried in their dinner plates. At the same time, those dinner-plates are alarmingly empty-looking, and Paul and I have barely begun our own meals. Predictably, we are only a few bites into it when Eddy announces he's ready to return for seconds. Sherry chimes in happily, "Me too!"

Gosh it's good to see them so enthusiastic about their food. My dinner is good, too... I think. The couple of bites I've had so far have been very nice. "I'd rather not get up, just yet, Sherry. Can you please wait for me to finish what's on my plate before we return to the line?" Sherry seems disappointed, but she's a good sport, "Sure, okay." she says. Paul looks at Eddy. "I'm not ready to get up yet, either, buddy. Can you give us a few minutes to enjoy our food before we have to get up?"

Eddy's face mirrors his disappointment, though he's clearly trying to be a good sport, too. An idea dawns on him and he begins sliding down the booth, "EDDY! What are you DOING?" He climbs back up onto the seat. "I was going to go UNDER the table so you didn't have to get up." Oh sweet Lord. I don't know whether to award him points for creativity, or grouse at him for trying to go under the table. While I'm debating the finer points of both options, Paul steps in. "That's a kind thought, Eddy, but we do NOT go UNDER the table, okay, buddy?" Eddy nods, and the kids return to a harmless non-stop fidget festival while Paul and I finish our food.

The roving table-bussing-staff swing by to take away our empty plates, and the kids are now more than ready to return for their seconds. Paul turns to Eddy, "What do you think you'll have this time?" Eddy answers loudly, "Waffle, Dad! I want a WAFFLE!" I'm biting my lip, deciding whether to comment, and realize that I simply don't have the self-restraint to hold back. I snap, "A waffle, PLEASE, DAD." Eddy looks at me like my spaceship just left. "Huh?" "I'm sure you meant to say, 'I'd like a waffle, PLEASE, Dad.'" "Oh. Yah. Please Dad." And off they go toward the serving lines.

"Sherry, honey, what would you like this time?" Careful not to repeat her brother's error, Sherry replies politely, "I'd like some more mashed-potatoes, gravy, and ham, please." Most excellent! I thank her for remembering her manners and we venture off in search of the requested items.

Paul and Eddy, Sherry and I all return to the table about the same time. Again, we get the kids settled at the table. Eddy and Sherry begin eating and notice, uncomfortably, that I am still standing at the edge of the table, looking at them expectantly. They return my gaze, calmly and serenely, as though a Zen state has taken hold. Finally, Sherry asks, "Yes, Brenda?" I answer her, "You're welcome." Now she's confused. "I am?" "Yes, Sherry. You're WELCOME for my help in getting your second serving." "Oh! Thank you, Brenda!" "You're welcome," I repeat, yet again. These simple lessons in manners are supposed to take hold eventually, right? RIGHT?

The meal winds down without further incident, and I'm sitting in a blissful post-meal glow when an unusual movement across the table catches my eye. Oh geez. "EDDY!" Eddy peeks out from behind the plate he's just been LICKING CLEAN. "Yes?" "Put the plate down! We do NOT LICK OUR PLATES. Is that understood?!" "Yes ma'am."

Leaving the restaurant, Eddy decides again that he'll hold the door; this time, he does it beautifully and with care. I hug him and thank him for being such a gentleman. As Paul and the kids are walking me to my car, Eddy takes my hand and says, "Can I ride home with you, Brenda?" "Oh, Eddy, that's very sweet. But I really think I need the few minutes' ride home alone, okay?" Still holding my hand, he says, "PLEASE?! I want to ride with you!"

Looking into his face, so open, so loving... what else is a wicked stepmother to say? "Okay, Eddy, you can ride with me. But no off-key singing, alright?" I wink at him, and we walk off hand in hand. Silently, I promise myself to try harder to be as wonderful as he seems to believe I am.

Lives in Motion

A month since the last entry, and "motion" doesn't even begin to describe the movement and changes that have occurred since that time... looking back over the past month I see...

... Paul and I, hand in hand, laughing and walking into the county courthouse to obtain a marriage license...
... the Reverend Jesse, in our living-room, reciting vows for us to repeat, and the eventual exchange of rings and kisses that formally end our courtship and mark the beginning of our marriage...
... whispered promises in the dark, and a feeling of peace and contentment such as I have never known before...
... I've loved him for so long, and yet that love blooms, now, in ways that I cannot articulate...

... and the next phase of our lives begins.

Just Shoot Me

Not having any great ideas for lunch, today, I thought 'Why not pizza? The kids LOVE pizza!'

Riiiiiiiiiight.

I call the nearest Dominos. "Do you deliver to 900 Fairview?" The kid on the other end says, "Are you east or west of Strand?" "We're on the corner of Strand and Fairview," I answer. "Which corner?" Damn. He's not giving up on this. "The southeast corner." "We don't deliver east of Strand." "But! But! To deliver to my neighbor on the WEST side of Strand, you have to park in MY driveway!" ARRGGH! I thank him for all his "help," and begin searching for another pizza provider. Note to self: No more Dominos EVER!

I finally settle on a Little Caesars nearby. They don't deliver, but they also don't care which side of the bloody street I live on. I place an order for a plain cheese pizza (Eddy's only choice in pizza) and a meat pizza with sausage, pepperoni, and bacon. They assure me my order will be ready for pickup in 15 minutes. Excellent!

As I get into the car, I see Eddy at the front door, "Where ya goin?!" "I'm going to pick up the pizza, Eddy."

He looks concerned. "It's not delivery pizza?"
"No, honey, they don't deliver here."
"Soooooo it's not... Dominos?"
"No, honey, not this time."

Now he's really concerned, chewing his lip and his forehead creased in a frown. "Will it be hot and fresh?" he asks. Okay, now he's parroting commercials. "Eddy, it will be hot and fresh. I'm leaving now."

Twenty minutes later, I return home, "hot and fresh" pizzas in hand. The kids are seated expectantly at the table, seemingly eager for pizza.

Riiiiiiiiiight.

Detailed accounts of this meal are probably not required. Suffice to say, Sherry didn't like either kind, and Eddy ate his every bit as eagerly as if he'd been presented with a plateful of used cat-litter. To his credit, he didn't gag, wretch, or complain excessively; he did use good manners and finish his serving. My expectations (and hopes) are sinking like stones, so that's plenty enough to make me grateful and call it a success where he was concerned.

I turn to Sherry. "Honey? Do you realize that I try really hard to get things that will please you and make you happy?" "No." "Well I do. And I have to tell you, especially lately, I don't feel like I can do anything to please you or make you happy." She looks at me, doesn't know quite what to say. I excuse myself and go lie down for a nap. My sleep-quality is for shit, so I'm always tired. And naps, I find, are the last refuge of the struggling step-parent.

Night Tears

Honestly, I just don't get it.

A couple of months ago, when both Sherry and Eddy were insisting they weren't tired enough to go to bed, I introduced them to 'vanilla milk,' with the assurance to both that it would help them sleep.

This was something I'd done with my own kids years earlier, and it genuinely seemed to help them get to sleep. It's not difficult nor fancy, about 6 oz of milk, 1 tsp of sugar, and several drops of real vanilla extract; the milk is then warmed in the microwave for about 45 seconds. In any case, the vanilla milk was a success, and both kids began to look forward to it each evening before bed. Since I firmly believe bedtime "rituals" are important, I was happy to oblige.

Two nights ago, both kids were permitted to stay up a bit late and play their favorite video games. Since it was later than usual, we skipped the vanilla milk and went straight to the toothbrushing and bed. In tucking in Sherry, I was surprised to find her big blue eyes full of unshed tears, her bottom lip quivering slightly. "Sherry? What's wrong?"

She wipes her tears on her blanket, takes a deep breath, and assures me nothing is wrong. Uh huh. Meryl Streep, meet Sherry, she'll be succeeding you at the Academy Awards someday. "What's the matter, Sweetie? You're obviously very upset about something." Cue the tears.

In a quavering voice, Sherry tells me, "It's just that ... we didn't get any VANILLA MILK tonight!" and the tears begin falling in earnest.

"Sherry, honey, I love you very much. And if anything serious were wrong I'd sure want to help any way I could. But honestly... I'm finding this silly. So dry your tears. We'll have vanilla milk tomorrow night, okay?" "Okay."

As I close her door I wonder if I'll ever stop disappointing her.

Last night, determined to avoid my clear and obvious fuckup of the night before, I make sure there's plenty of time and a little energy to prepare and present the vanilla milk just before the kids go up to bed. Teeth have been brushed, clothes and toys put away, and the milk-ritual observed with due care. All seems well.

I tuck Eddy in first. "Goodnight, sweetheart. I hope you have a wonderful sleep! I love you."
"Goodnight," he tells me, "luv ya." I kiss his forehead and back out of the room.

Next is Sherry. I stand beside her bed and tell her, "You guys were sure great tonight, thank you!" She won't meet my eyes, but nods in response. Uh oh.

"Sherry?" "hmmm?"

"Sherry, look at me."

She raises her face to meet mine, and once again her blue eyes are welling and full of tears. Her bottom lip quivers, a promise of tears to come. "What's the matter, honey? What is it?"

Her tears begin falling, fulfilling the promise of the quivering lip, and she answers me, her voice so cracked and choked that I can't even understand her.

"Sherry, take a deep breath. Good. Now, look at me and tell me where I can understand you-- what is wrong??"

"It's just that I wanted to ask you something and now it's too late--I'm already in bed and now I KNOW you won't let me and Eddy sleep in the family room tonight!"

Huh? Family room? What the...? Where the hell did THIS come from? The whole "sleep in the family room" saga was an ongoing thing; the kids' bedrooms in their "other house" have televisions with cable (and no supervision). Since we don't allow television in the kids' rooms, here, they occasionally weasel around it by getting permission to sleep on the couches in the family room. The television, of course, stays on all night during these events. Blecch.

As I look at Sherry's bed, her pink satin curtains, the beautiful white lace canopy (MY idea) over her bed, her new dresser and shelves... and MY Monet prints on her sky-blue walls, I feel a bubble of rage and pain begin to form inside me. Was her room not GOOD enough? Did we not spend enough time, money, and effort on it?! Was the absence of an IDIOT BOX so dreadful that it was preferable to sleep on a loveseat just to be near one?! She has the biggest, nicest goddamn bedroom in the HOUSE. Our PRINCESS spends 14 nights a month there, and it's... not GOOD enough? My anger takes hold like a flash and I'm consumed...frustrated... hurt... and just fucking PISSED.

"Sherry," I tell her, in a carefully modulated and controlled voice that she KNOWS means I'm angry, "I will never answer that question again. From now on, you will discuss sleeping in the family room with your Dad, and only your Dad. I do have to wonder, though, what's wrong with your bedroom that you don't want to spend time in here?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," she assures me. "You just don't want to SLEEP in it, is that right?" "Yes. No. I mean-- I DO want to sleep in it." Her tears have stopped and we are now in a different place with this "discussion."

"Sherry, I hope you have a wonderful sleep. Goodnight, and I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight."

I close the door as I leave the room, and I wonder... can I keep doing this? It's not good for me, I'm sure of it. And it can't be good for the kids. So why am I bothering? And what really IS the matter here?

No answers materialize and I return downstairs, angry, hurt, and fearful for our futures.

Sloppy Josephine

I'm told we're having a special lunch, today. :) I'm told that Sherry has chosen this lunch, and that she's very excited about it. "Oh?" I look at Sherry. "What are we having, honey?" "Sloppy Joes!" Oh dear. I mentally run through the ingredient list for canned sloppy-joe mix... bell peppers, onions, tomato sauce... oh dear.

"Sherry, sweetheart? Have you ever actually HAD sloppy-joes?" She looks at me as though saddened by the realization of the depths of my ignorance. "Of COURSE I have," she answers. "I eat them at school all the time!" Oh dear.

"What's Eddy having?" I ask Paul. "He's having buttered noodles." Ah. Well, at least one of the kids will eat today. And how's this for a twist... I HATE sloppy joes. Oh dear.

Paul is bustling happily in the kitchen, always pleased to be able to prepare nice meals for his family. God, I love that man. He turns and smiles at me, "I'm serving them on those wonderful onion rolls, too!" Oh dear. I glance quickly at Sherry... yes, she heard him. And yes, her mouth is pressed tight into a slight frown. Oh dear.

A few minutes later, a serving of sloppy-joe appears at my place at the table. It's as lovely a presentation of this dish as I've ever seen. Identical portions, each as lovely as mine, grace Sherry and Paul's places at the table, too. Eddy's plate is covered in warm, buttery noodles, topped with fresh parmesan cheese. We're seated, and the meal begins.

Eddy's noodles are a big hit. Buttered noodles are one of his favorite "dishes," and he's careful to observe good table manners while still eating enthusiastically. I compliment him on his excellent manners and receive a thumbs-up in response.

I've eaten about half of my sloppy-joe, now, and sure enough, I still don't like the damn things. Yuck. At least I can appreciate the effort that went into them, and how well-prepared they are.

A look at Sherry and her progress is not encouraging. She's meticulously picking tiny bits of burger-meat and wiping off as much sauce as possible, then nibbling the burger bites; the supporting onion rolls are untouched beneath the sauce and meat mixture. Oh dear.

I catch Paul's eye and frown toward Sherry's plate.

"Sherry? Honey? Why aren't you eating? I thought you were really looking forward to this meal, sweetheart." Sherry looks up at him, answering, "Daddy... I don't like the bread." Damn. I knew she'd heard the word "onion roll" earlier. Oh dear. Paul laughs and tells her, "Sherry, there's no way that bread tastes any different under all that sauce from any other bun or bread that you've had in the past. And besides, you haven't even TRIED a bite of it. Eat up, sweetie."

A few minutes later, I'm finished eating. I didn't like it, but could appreciate it. And it was filling. I smile at Paul and thank him for the lunch. Almost reflexively, we both glance at Sherry's plate; nothing has really changed, there. Paul sighs. Oh dear.

"Sherry? Why aren't you eating your lunch, honey? I made it specially for you." Sherry sighs, unconsciously mimicking her father's frustration and defeat. "I don't like it, Daddy. I don't want to eat it." "Sherry! You ASKED for it! I bought the ingredients because YOU asked for it! What's wrong with it?!" "It isn't like what they serve at school." Oh dear.

"FINE. Scrape your plate in the trash. Next time you want to ask for a particular meal, don't bother." Sherry scrapes her plate, then returns to her place at the table. "Daddy?" she asks, "What's for dessert?"

Oscar Meyer... Take Me Away!

It's a glorious Saturday afternoon, sunny, clear, and warm. A fresh breeze teases its way through the house, cooling us and stirring the flower-blossoms in the front and back yards. The table is set; the children are seated and smiling... it is a commercial-perfect Kodak moment. Fresh-off-the-grill hamburgers are served to Paul, Sherry, and me. A perfectly-grilled hot-dog lies nestled in a warm bun on Eddy's plate; his eyes are shining and he licks his lips loudly and dramatically for effect, "Yummmm! HOT DOGS!" Condiments and drinks are served and the meal begins.

I force my eyes to my plate, determinedly keeping them downcast as I eat this magnificent burger. A quiet mantra repeats itself in my mind, "I will NOT nag the kids. I will NOT nag the kids. I will NOT..." Occasionally, I look up and smile. I glance around nervously... are they eating? Are their elbows on the table? Are their mouths wide open whilst chewing, providing a grotesque but fascinating insight into the early digestive process? NO, I won't look. I stare at my plate again, the mantra soothing me as it continues... "I will NOT nag the kids..."

The quiet sounds of consumption are interrupted by an announcement. "Daddy? I think I got too much burger." Sherry has eaten half her adult-sized burger, a rather excellent serving size and a rather excellent job of it. "That's fine," Paul says, "you did a great job on your lunch, Sherry! We'll wrap up the rest of the burger for later, if you want it. Now please sit quietly with us until everyone is finished." Sherry beams. Life is good. Is Kodak getting all this, I wonder?

Having completed her meal, Sherry is now free to do what she does best: talk. She begins with an overview of why she needs to see a dentist and why she will eventually need braces. We are treated to a brief ("Sherry! Stop it!") wide-open view of her mouth, and the "offending" teeth, complete with fingers pointing out what we might've overlooked, and a running commentary, made hard to understand by the open mouth and dancing fingers. Thus deterred from her dental dissertation, Sherry begins inventorying her callouses and blisters. "I got these on the monkey-bars at school." She smiles knowingly, reminding us, "I'm the monkey of the family," then continues... "You know, Eddy, if you'd play more on the monkey bars, you'd have callouses, too. I've got them all over both my hands and some on my legs. I don't know how the ones on my legs got there. I don't really think I use my legs on the monkey bars... or at least not enough to cause callouses. I'm not really sure. Maybe I do. You can see, here, where this one WAS a blister, but then turned into a..." I quit listening. She's not hurting anything. Let her talk... "I will NOT nag the kids... I will NOT nag..."

My burger is now a happily-digesting memory. MAN that was good. I sip my drink, careful not to slurp, and return my glass to the table. It is time. There's nothing else for it. Staring at an empty plate will raise questions I don't want to answer, and I must now rejoin my dining companions in a more interactive, meaningful way.

Deep breath. I look up. Paul is finishing his burger. Sherry is still talking; I don't hear her, having tuned out that frequency in a desperate attempt to preserve any remaining illusions of sanity. I tune in briefly, "So Alexa and I went to Brownie Camp and it was only one night but we had a lot of fun and we learned some new songs--I think I'll sing one for you now!", and quickly tune out again.

My attention turns to Eddy. His right leg is propped up on the cross-bar of the chair, his body turned slightly to the right. He's leaning heavily on his right hand, as though too exhausted to sit up straight and manage the herculean task of... eating. His left hand rests idly on his hot-dog bun, and his wide glazed eyes are aimed skyward. I look at the hot-dog in horror. There is a bite taken from one end... small, almost accidental-looking. The bun is a ragged-eged mess of finger-picked destruction, bloodied with catsup and left to die on the plate.

Paul sees me and follows my gaze to Eddy's plate and the slaughtered carcass of the innocent hot-dog. "Eddy! What are you DOING? Sit up straight and face the table! Eat your lunch! It's a HOT-DOG! It's what you ASKED for!"

Eddy drags his attention back to his lunch. He eyes it suspiciously. Who'd want to eat THAT? Indeed.

With further prompting, the hot-dog is conveyed to Eddy's mouth, and a reluctant bite taken. He glances desperately from Paul to me, hoping perhaps, for a reprieve from this task before him, but finds no mercy. He begins chewing... and chewing... and chewing... what began as a bite of hot-dog has undoubtedly become a tasteless paste in his mouth... yet STILL he chews... "EDDY! Swallow that bite and take another!" Paul is not happy.

Eddy's throat flexes and constricts... the tension is palpable (even Sherry has quieted, watching her brother in morbid fascination). Will he do it?? Will he swallow?!

*HORK* *HACK* *GAG* Eddy retches violently, and the hot-dog paste spatters on the plate. I look down quickly, suppressing a gag-response of my own, then push back from the table. I can't watch this. I can't sit here while he vomits onto his plate and have any hope in hell of keeping my own lunch down. MY lunch had been excellent. Well... right up until the bit where Eddy puked in his plate. Note to self: have the Kodak people edit this out.

My temper flares suddenly and viciously, "Don't you DARE do that! Leave the table immediately! What the hell is WRONG with you?!" Eddy prepares to leave the table. "Oh no you don't!" I bellow. "You'll scrape that disgusting plate into the trash and clear your place young man! Thanks a LOT, Eddy, for ruining lunch for everyone else!"

Eddy takes his plate to the trash and scrapes the contents as instructed, placing the cleared plate into the sink. As he prepares to wander off, Paul snaps him back to the immediate issue. "Edward James! SIT DOWN."

Eddy's shoulders droop. It's not over, yet. He returns to his seat at the table. "Yes, Dad?"

"Eddy, you ASKED for a hot-dog for lunch. Why did you do that if you didn't WANT it?" Eddy shrugs. I excuse myself and leave them to finish their exercise in futility; I've seen this show before and it never has a satisfying ending.

What're YOU lookin' at?! 

Movie Night with the Kids

The movie begins... "Envy," with Jack Black and Ben Stiller.

On cue, the fidgeting and mumbling commence... I can't quite make out what he's saying... but he's talking to himself, quietly and steadily. "Eddy? Do you not want to watch the movie?" The fidgeting stops momentarily; he is twisted, pretzel-like, improbably, no part of his body touching the chair where it was meant to do so. "I want to watch it," he answers. "Okay," I tell him, "then please sit still and keep your mouth shut tight. You can't watch and listen if you're talking non-stop, honey." He nods vigorously in agreement, as though it's just occurred to him how this might be true.

The beginning of the movie is typically a setup for all that follows; I try to focus on the screen and listen. From the corner of my eye, the recliner's occupant is a steady, arrythmic blur of movement. I take a deep breath and release it slowly... quietly. I strain to hear the movie soundtrack, the subtle, but steady commentary in the chair beside me acts as a damper. What IS he saying?

"Eddy!" I hiss. "PLEASE be quiet! I can't even hear the movie!" He clamps his lips together, miming the 'pick-a-lock' gesture, and I return my attention to the movie. What's just happened? Why is the main character...?! Oh hell. Never mind. I'll just keep watching and see if I can figure it out.

Like a carefully composed swell of inspirational music, Eddy's monologue resumes, building slowly but steadily in tempo and volume. I can't hear the movie, again, and shoot Eddy a look. He's oblivious... fingers weaving and twining together, foot tapping to a rhythm only he can hear, glazed eyes aimed at the ceiling, but seeing nothing of it.

"EDDY!"
"Huh?"
"Honey, please watch the movie with your mouth SHUT. If you can't do that or aren't interested in the movie, you may leave the room!"
"I want to sit beside YOU."
Sigh. "Sherry, would you mind trading places with Eddy for a bit?"
"I don't want to."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Trade places with him anyway; you can take turns sitting here with me."

She sighs, glaring at Eddy, and changes places with him.

Eddy puts an arm around me awkwardly, craving closeness but not sure how to achieve it. The position of his arm and hand are pulling my hair painfully; I take his hand in mine, and we hold hands sitting close together. Sherry alternately sulks and snuffles at her exile.

Now, what's happened in the movie? Oh for the luv of GOD, is that a new character?! Who IS it? We are 30 minutes into the movie.