November 22, 2010
One week from tomorrow the book edits are to be completed and the book sent to the publisher.
Problem: my proofreader has only proofread one third of the book.
Good thing I had all that rest last week. . .because this week is going to be a shit storm of epic proportions!
We didn't end up at Swiss Chalet Saturday evening.
Instead, we took our little dinner party to The Garrison on Queen Street.
Nice place, partly owned by friends, so I feel the need to share my custom with them when I can.
Plus, for some unknown reason, it was the only place in Fredericton where we could get a table.
I had the chicken stir fry with the sweet chili sauce.
Very tasty.
Keith, however, felt this burning urge to torture me and ordered a bbq pulled pork sandwich with sweet potato fries and. . .
. . .the biggest insult ever. . .
. . .a Picaroon's Irish Red ale.
Just cut my heart out with a butter knife.
Please.
It would hurt less than watching my 19 year old son sup on what I consider to be one of the best ales every brewed.
He just does not possess the ale maturity to appreciate such a fine blend of yeast and hops.
But, because he is the ungrateful swine of my loins, he happily drank his ale, taunting me while I sipped my Diet Coke.
Really, it was painful watching him. Like watching a former vegetarian eat a filet mignon rare.
They'll like it, but they have no idea how come they like it.
When I am able, I am going to drink a Picaroon's Irish Red.
Slowly.
Enjoying every. single. sip.
And Keith is going to be duct taped to a chair, watching me.
Last Thursday, when Meredyth was hauling my sick and sorry self through the mall in search of black pants and all black sneakers, I came upon a disturbing, and unfortunately familiar scene.
Outside of Empire Theaters, a long and twisted line of people were anxiously awaiting the midnight showing of the latest Harry Potter film.
I like Harry Potter.
All the books have been read aloud, by me to my children, complete with a poorly done British accent.
Each film graces our tv cabinet.
So I get the excitement.
Really.
I do.
What I don't get is the lining up for a midnight film as soon as the mall opens in the morning.
Or sitting on the mall floor all day, with enough provisions to last a small country for a month.
People brought lawn chairs and blankets, board games and decks of cards, bags of fast food littering these mini camp sites.
At least everyone who was in the line at the point I walked by them, fighting the urge to make the L on my forehead with my left hand, was between the ages of 16-24.
This past summer, while walking in the mall, I was greeted with, again, a long line up of movie mad campers awaiting the midnight hour to see the battle between Edward and Jacob over the always wishy washy Bella unfold.
What was more disturbing about this queue of quacks?
The number of middle aged women wearing Edward or Jacob t-shirts, sitting in their lawn chairs, in a circle, like a gaggle of giggling girls.
And this heinous site wasn't limited to just one groups of salivating middle aged women.
There were several.
Some tried to appear as if they were there for their tween daughters, but if you're sitting in the mall at 10.00 am waiting for a midnight movie, you are not there for your daughters.
So stop living in land of unicorns and jolly elves.
I was actually embarrased to be over 40.
Don't get me wrong.
I can certainly understand the appeal of the handsome Robert Pattinson.
Or appreciate the finely chisled abs of Taylor Lautner.
Em and I, last March Break, decided to see New Moon.
It was a toonie movie, and Em got me in for free, so I figured, why not?
Behind us was a married couple, and you could tell from their conversation that he was not the least bit thrilled about being in that particular movie theater.
During the scene where Bella wacks her noggin on a rock trying to become a female version of Evil Kenevil, and Jacob whips off his shirt to wipe her bloodied brow, the woman behind me gasps.
In pleasure.
And her husband says, loudly, "I hope that was worth a toonie!"
She replies, equally as loudy and in a breathy voice, "Oh, it was!"
Em just glared at me.
The don't-you-say-anything-or-I-will-get-up-and-leave-you-here-alone-and-never-bring-you-to-another-movie-again-look.
But I am not going to attempt to relive my youth by drooling over young men old enough to be my own children.
At least not in public.
What happens under the cloak of darkness of the middle of a movie theater is my business.
Meredyth starts a new job tomorrow.
Swiss Chalet.
Coupled with her job at Empire this means discount dinner and a movie for me!
Now I know why I had children.
Exploitation.
Title Lyric: Stacy's Mom by Fountains of Wayne
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