Note to movie-going parents of young children: I don’t care if your 4-year-old is the next Roger Ebert, or if he’s funnier –in your opinion — than whatever is happening on screen.

I don’t care if you’ve been cooped up indoors with the kiddies for 4 straight weeks and have been saving your nickles and dimes so you can get out of the house before you lose your marbles and become one of “those” parents whose mugshots grace the nightly news.

I don’t care if you don’t have a sitter and think you’ll just die if you can’t see a film on the big screen (trust me, you won’t).

If your kid starts talking, whining, or complaining that he’s crapped in his pants and you can’t get your kid to STFU, then get off your ass, grab your kid and leave the damn theater.

Yes, you might miss some of the film but that’s less potentially harmful to your health than making people like me (who hoped to not just see but also HEAR the movie) have to find an usher to escort you and your crap-pantsed kid out.

Signed,
The Stranger Who Unapologetically Told Your Kid To Hush During “Alice” Today Because You Didn’t

Now that she’s not trying to wad my panties for me, I want to say: read The Bride of Rove who has, fortunately, turned her attention to getting her own panties in a wad.

Two great birthdays to celebrate today.

First, my Big-Eyed Boy is 10 years old! This, he’s informed me, is a major milestone because his age now ends with a 0. I’ve assured him that he’s correct — it is a major milestone — but probably not for that reason.

Second, Electric Venom turned 7 years old today!

And, yes, these things may be related.

Last night, VH informed me that I’m starting to sound like a cranky old woman. Not venomous, mind you, just old and cranky… and for a while there I started to think maybe he was right.

Fact is, I’m actually just as Venomous as ever – perhaps even more so. (Hey, YOU try dieting for four freaking months and tell me if YOU don’t feel a bit more Venomous than usual, m’kay?) It’s just that my venom seldom makes it to the computer these days because I’m reaching the age where, by the time I’ve waddled up the stairs and awakened my laptop from its energy-saving slumber then turned on the light so I can see the keyboard and located my glasses because even a 100-watt bulb six inches from the keys STILL leaves me feeling like Mr. Magoo, well I’ve… uh, what was I saying? Oh, that’s right: I forget shit unless I’ve somehow managed to immediately write it down. And since that entails not only finding my glasses, and turning on the light, but also locating pen and paper (good luck with that if you’ve got a budding artist in the house like my Big-Eyed Boy)… what was I saying? Oh, that’s right: I forget shit unless I’ve somehow managed to immediately write it down.

Also, I repeat myself a lot these days. That, I’m fairly certain, has to do with being in a constant state of hunger. My brain simply cannot retain a great idea about something to blog AND chant I-want-a-bacon-double-cheeseburger- I-want-a-bacon-double-cheeseburger- I-want-a-bacon-double-cheeseburger-” simultaneously.

So, what was I saying? Oh, that’s right: I forget shit unless I’ve somehow managed to immediately write it down. Also, I repeat myself a lot these days.

Which is why last night I had the shocking realization that I’m starting to sound like a cranky old woman. It went something like this: VH and I decided we’d watch the Angels and Demons DVD from Netflix that we’ve had sitting around for three months now. (I’d meant to watch it sooner, but my brain can’t retain the plan to watch it AND chant I-want-a-bacon-double-cheeseburger- I-want-a-bacon-double-cheeseburger- I-want-a-bacon-double-cheeseburger-” simultaneously.)

As always, VH commandeered the remote control the instant our butts hit the sofa. Why this happens, I don’t know. He can’t see the tiny little letters beneath each key on the remote that tell him which one to press, even with a ceiling of recessed 100-watt flood lights all turned on and aimed at his favorite spot on the sofa. He won’t wear glasses, and he’s too impatient to wait for me to waddle up the stairs and find mine. Ergo, most of our tv-viewing time consists NOT of watching tv but, instead, of me sitting on my end of the sofa trying to coach him through locating the correct button to push (and, in the meantime, pushing all of his).

Watching a DVD requires a different remote from the one I’ve memorized because I’m too lazy to waddle up the stairs and find my glasses and too forgetful to bring them down the stairs with me when we’re going to watch tv. Fortunately for us, the PLAY button on our DVD remote is really freaking big so the movie was running before his food started to get cold. (Note I said HIS food. He was having a gigantic slab of roast beef with a loaded baked potato on the side. I was having a salad. Again. Cold, hot, doesn’t matter: it’s still salad. Again.)

Unfortunately for us, the ‘menu’ button on the DVD remote is really freaking tiny, so we pretty much had to sit there watching the now-standard anti-smoking commercials that lead into the 10-minute segment of mandatory previews for movies we aren’t interested in. That’s when VH realized his dinner was and mine couldn’t possibly get any less appealing and so, what with smoking on our minds thanks to the anti-tobacco propaganda and all, we decided to step outside for a cigarette.

Five minutes and twenty-eight seconds later (the exact amount of time it takes to suck down a Winston Light 100 when you’re standing barefoot outside in temps below 60F), and we were back in our respective seats on the sofa… where the mandatory movie previews were still playing.

“At this rate,” I said, “we’ll be done eating dinner before the movie ever starts.”

“You sound like a cranky old woman,” VH said. (And, no, I didn’t hit him.)

Finally – FINALLY! – the movie started. With subtitles. In English. (Oh, and by the way, it’s not really accurate to call them sub-titles when, even on a 52″ television, they occupy well over 1/3 of the screen’s real estate. )

Now, don’t get me wrong: unlike VH, I love to read. I read everything, and I mean every. thing. Novels. Magazines. Cereal boxes. Bread wrappers. Notes from the principal. Instruction manuals. Everything.

But I despise subtitles. Not for the same reason that VH does – like I said, he doesn’t like reading. Especially instruction manuals. But when I’m watching a movie with Ewan McGregor in it on a 52-inch flatscreen then I want to feel so up in Ewan’s face that I can practically feel his mole pressing against my left breast, an experience of which I’m deprived when gigantic freaking subtitles are covering said mole.

So, setting aside our dinners, VH and I spent the next few minutes trying to locate the menu button on the DVD remote so we could turn the damn subtitles off. This should have been my first clue to get off of my ass and waddle upstairs to find my glasses AND the instruction manual for the DVD remote. Not that VH would have read it, of course. But my brain was already busy taking in the sight of the 2 cups of salad greens drizzled with 1 tbps. of fat-free dressing that I get to call dinner and thinking “I-want-a-bacon-double-cheeseburger- I-want-a-bacon-double-cheeseburger- I-want-a-bacon-double-cheeseburger-“, so I had to hope VH could figure out which button to press.

Two minutes passed.

“At this rate,” I said – and, honestly, I don’t remember having said it before, probably because I didn’t write it down — “we’ll be done eating dinner before the movie ever starts.”

“You’ve said that already,” he pointed out. “You STILL sound like a cranky old woman.” (And, no, I still didn’t hit him. Maybe I should’ve written down that bright idea? But, no, that would have required waddling upstairs and finding my glasses and….)

So, I closed my eyes and envisioned the DVD remote then tried guiding him through it: “Press the tiny little round button on the right side of the remote next to the oblong buttons that have numbers on them – not that you can read them, of course, because you refuse to get glasses OR to read and, you know, you really SHOULD just give in and get glasses because, now that you’re pushing 50, it’s not like you have to worry about looking good or anything.”

“Would you SHUT UP?” he said. “Which button was that?”

“The tiny little round one on the right side. I think it’s got an orange circle on it. But don’t press the one that has a red circle — ”

And, of course, it was too late. He’d pressed the red one, which for some reason (probably because my husband is cheap and buys crappy electronics) is NOT the record button like it is on EVERY SINGLE OTHER REMOTE IN THE ENTIRE UNITED STATES but which is, on this remote, the button that changes auxiliary inputs. So, suddenly we’re staring at my son’s MySims Agents game loaded on the Wii.

“Crap,” VH said.

“Push the red button again,” I told him.

“I DID, DAMMIT. I PUSHED IT AND IT’S NOT DOING ANYTHING!”

By this time I’d decided that my salad wasn’t going to turn into a bacon-double-cheeseburger, so I started to eating. Around a mouthful of horrible, bitter arugula that I personally think is a fake lettuce hybridized by the Beef Industry to convince people to abandon salads in favor of cheeseburgers, I said:

“That’s because you’re probably pressing the orange one now. Remember that one, because when we get back to the DVD you’ll need to press IT to get to the menu. But for now, press the one you THOUGHT was the orange one – but which wasn’t, and which you’d have known if you’d just fucking wear glasses.”

“Would you SHUT UP?”

“At this rate, we’ll be done eating dinner before the movie ever starts.” (To VH’s credit, he did not hit me, either.)

Three more minutes pass during which VH navigates back so the movie is on screen and he even somehow manages to find the tiny round button with the orange – not red – circle on it so we’re finally – FINALLY! – at the DVD menu. Now we just need to figure out how to turn off the subtitles (which I’m still pissed are called sub-titles).

Then a miracle happens: VH – without my coaching, mind you – figures out which buttons to push to call up the ‘Languages’ option on the DVD menu where we’re presented with the choice of hearing the movie in English or French. (As I’ve already noted, the movie was playing in English AND had English subtitles… which really should NOT be called subtitles!) Below that was the option to turn subtitles off. Hot damn, we were almost there! PRESS THE ACTION BUTTON TO SELECT, the DVD prompted.

“What’s the ‘action button’,” VH asked.

I thoughtfully chewed another bite of salad and envisioned the remote in my mind but couldn’t remember seeing an ‘action button’ anywhere on it. “Try the ‘Play’ button,” I said. (Hey, on my DVR remote it works!)

The movie started. With subtitles…which should NOT be called SUBtitles when they’re taking up 1/3 of the damn screen!

“Back to pressing the tiny round button with the orange circle,” I told him.

Naturally, he pressed the one with the red circle again.

This is the part in the story where I decided to finally – FINALLY! – waddle upstairs and get my glasses. And the DVD Remote instruction manual. Not that VH would read it, I knew.

So, I’m halfway to my office – where I file such things – when the Big-Eyed Boy asks if I’d get him a glass of milk. My kid hardly ever asks for milk, so I was more than happy to fulfill his request. Then, since I’d spilled some of the milk on the counter, I wiped it up and rinsed the sponge. That’s when I noticed there were some crusty spots of tomato sauce on the side of the sink and, since I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made anything that included tomato sauce, I realized I needed to clean the sink.

“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?” VH bellowed from the family room in the basement.

Oh, yeah. I was going upstairs to get the DVR Remote instruction manual – not that VH would read it. Maybe I should’ve written that down so I didn’t forget? That’s right, I couldn’t write it down because I’d first need to get my glasses, and they’re upstairs. What was I doing again? Oh, that’s right….

Upstairs, I actually managed to get my glasses AND the instruction manual AND remember to bring them both down to the family room without getting distracted. Hunger does have a way of motivating one, I suppose.

VH, meanwhile, had continued pressing all sorts of buttons on the remote in a willy-nilly fashion so now the movie was playing in French with subtitles in Spanish. (And, even in Spanish, THEY SHOULD NOT BE CALLED SUBTITLES WHEN THEY TAKE UP 1/3 OF THE SCREEN!)

“So what did you push to change the languages? That’s probably the ‘action button’,” I said as I sat down and dug into my salad. (In my defense, I was hungry. Hell, I’d probably burned off the calories from those first two bites of salad on my trip up and down three flights of stairs.)

VH rubbed his temple where, I noticed, a small vein had appeared that I’d never seen before. “I don’t remember,” he said.

“Let me look up ‘action button’,” I told him. “Try getting back to the menu, okay. It’s the round button with the ORANGE – NOT RED – CIRCLE.”

Note to Instruction Manual authors everywhere: you are not nearly as clear in your technical writing as you think. No, not even in your subtitles (which, in your defense, really ARE subtitles and I should know because, even with my glasses on and a ceiling of recessed 100-watt floodlights, were still TOO SMALL to be easily read by a starving woman whose brain is busy hoping her salad will turn into a bacon-double-cheeseburger). So, would it kill you to make a include a freaking index at the back of your manual so we can find what we’re looking for?

I ate a few more bites of salad while thumbing through page after page of pictures of my DVR remote with text descriptions in a font as small as what’s actually ON the damn DVR remote. When skimming didn’t turn up any clue as to the mysterious location of the ‘action button’ I set aside my salad (though not my hope it would turn into a bacon-double-cheeseburger) and started READING the damned manual. (Like I said, I read every thing, even if VH will not.)

“At this rate,” I said about midway through the manual, “we’ll be done eating dinner before the movie ever starts.”

Despite clenched teeth and a frightfully throbbing vein on his forehead, VH managed to say, “Kate, I am warning you – you are sounding like a cranky old woman!” I flipped him off, licked my finger, and turned the page.

When I got to the end of the manual I sat it down and reached for my salad. “There’s no mention of an ‘action button’,” I said. “Try the ‘Go’ button. It’s a round one on the LEFT side with a GREEN circle on it. NOT the one with the orange circle. NOT the one with the red circle. The one on the LEFT side with a GREEN circle on it.”

“Fine.”

And, boom! We were back to the menu which, though I didn’t say it, meant he’d pushed the button on the RIGHT side with the ORANGE circle. But whatever.

“At this rate — ”

“Do not say it,” he warned me. “Do not fucking say it.”

“Okay. But you know what I’m thinking,” I replied, though by that point my brain had gone back to thinking how much I wished my salad was a bacon-double-cheeseburger. Except that even if a miracle had occurred at that point and my salad HAD turned into a bacon-double-cheeseburger it wouldn’t have mattered.

Ewan McGregor’s face had appeared on the screen with his mole the size of my fist. Not that I could see it, mind you, because the subtitles were STILL there and they should STILL not be called SUBtitles when THEY TAKE UP ONE THIRD OF THE SCREEN.

Also, I’d finished my salad.

“Screw it,” VH said, throwing the DVD Remote down and picking up the cable remote, one that even he has managed to memorize, just as he’s managed to memorize which channels play reruns of Friends and at what times. So, instead of Ewan McGregor’s face I found myself thinking – not for the first time – that Jennifer Aniston has a very large chin, one that I actually wouldn’t mind being covered up with subtitles taking up one-third of the screen.

“Know what?” I said as I gathered up my dirty plate and fork. “I was right. I finished dinner before the movie ever started playing. So, see? I’m not really a cranky old woman. I’m just always RIGHT.”

And my husband, God love him, kept his mouth shut.

Considering how internet-centric my life is, it may come as a surprise that I’m still a big fan of dead tree media. Magazines? I can’t get enough of them. Though I absolutely adore my Kindle for reading books, using the joystick button to navigate between headlines and sections of magazines or newspapers is a freaking pain in the neck.

Also, many of my most-loved magazines (National Geographic, Natural History, Smithsonian) have rich, delicious photographs that just don’t translate well on the Kindle. Sure, I could read them online but then there’s no satisfying tha-whick! when I flip pages like there is with the real thing (though I suppose I could just make that noise myself).

Point is: I’m not inherently biased against print media. If anything, I’m still a big fan… provided the publication’s print format offers something pleasurable, something that can’t be replicated online. When it comes to newspapers I just can’t think of one that’s not better enjoyed in its digital format. For one thing, reading a paper online means I don’t have to wash my hands when I’m finished. Also, I can sit down to read it whenever I’m ready, without having to first comb my hair, change out of my bunny slippers and grab a jacket to hide the fact that I’m still in pajamas at 11 a.m. as I shuffle to the driveway to hunt for today’s issue where, invariably, one of my neighbors will see me.

Even with all of that hassle to go through to get my paper, I’d stayed a weekend subscriber until this morning. That’s when, confronted with 6 unread papers still soggy in their plastic bags, I realized I’ve just been wasting money because I’m not reading the things. And the truth is, I hadn’t subscribed to actually read them, anyway: I subscribed so I could get the Sunday coupons, the savings from which easily covered the cost of the paper plus another $12 or so per week.

Until my husband took over the grocery shopping again, that is.

Back when that chore was mine I’d spend a couple of hours or so every Sunday combing the coupons, clipping out the relevant ones, cross-referencing them with the sale flyers from our local grocery stores, compiling a store-by-store shopping list based on where coupons and sales would give us maximum savings, and then I’d spend a full afternoon running from one market to another until I’d picked up everything on our master grocery list for the week.

Yes, it was as much of a pain in the ass as it sounds, but at the end of the day I could shake my wad of receipts in my husband’s face and say, “Look how much money I saved!” Of course, I never managed to have a wad of cash equivalent to our savings to show him because a day like that was invariably capped off by a trip to the liquor store where I spent every penny we’d saved… and then some.

So, today I called the newspaper to cancel my subscription. That, too, was a pain in the ass because, like many businesses’ customer service departments these days, our paper doesn’t get the service part… particularly when you’re about to stop being a customer. The conversation went something like this:

VK: “I’d like to cancel my subscription effective as of today.”

Rep: “I’d be happy to help you do that. May I ask why?”

VK: “I don’t read the paper. I’m not interested in reading the paper. I only subscribed for the coupons, and my husband won’t use them. So it’s a waste of my money.”

Rep: “Well, then, you understand you could be saving (some outrageous amount of money) every week with the Sunday coupons, right?”

VK: “No I can’t. See, you’re assuming I’m going to use every single coupon which, even if I still did the grocery shopping wouldn’t be the case.”

Rep: “Okay, maybe not quite that much but, still, you could still be saving money with coupons each week.”

VK: “Except I don’t do the shopping anymore. My husband does, and he won’t use coupons. Period.”

Rep: “Does he know he could be saving money?”

VK: “Yes, though I sometimes suspect he’s not a very smart man that, at least, is something even he can understand. He just won’t use them. So, cancel my subscription, okay?”

Rep: “So why don’t you do the shopping yourself?”

VK: “It’s none of YOUR business why I don’t do the shopping anymore, okay? Cancel my subscription!”

Rep: “I’m just saying that if you did the shopping and used coupons you could save money every week. With this economy it seems like doing the shopping so you could save money with coupons is a small effort that can really pay off.”

VK: “Do you even realize what you’re saying? Basically, you’re trying to convince me to subscribe to weekly delivery of coupons! Not the paper itself — which I’ve noticed you haven’t mentioned at all — but just the coupons. And on TOP of that you want me to rearrange my life and my household routines so we can use those coupons which, obviously, we aren’t that interested in or we’d be using? Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?”

Rep: (Pause) “Okay, ma’am. I’ll process this cancellation. Now, would you mind completing a survey about whether you found the coupons in the Sunday paper a good value?”

VK: “AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGH!” (*click*)

I know, I know. It’s been, what, forever since I updated my blog. And, yes, I owe you Caption Contest winners. (Will you take a check?)

It’s not you. It’s me. Or, rather, it’s this damn novel I’m writing. I finished the first draft and gave it a rest while I did some major advance Spring Cleaning of the Venomous Homestead. (Hey it’s not MY fault winter won’t surrender its icy stranglehold!)

There’s something dispiriting about revisiting one’s “inspired” creative efforts and trying to rework them so… well, so they don’t suck.

The very process of revision had sapped my self-confidence, my crotch-tingling certainty I had thought up a tale worth being told. Ergo, I have the shiniest, most fresh-smelling toilets this side of the Mississippi. You read that right: lately I’ve found deposits of poop and dribbles of urine FAR more fascinating than whatever I could churn out at my computer.

Today, though, I finally sat down to (re-) write. According to my calendar, I haven’t done that since December 13. Yeah, I hate re-writing and revision THAT much.

Then I remembered: even God’s first draft was a disappointment to Him, the ultimate Creator. Thus He took the bare bone of his first draft and perfected it.

And that, boys and girls, is how we got Eve.

So, the blogging will resume shortly. Meanwhile, I’m off to investigate this strange crotch-tingling sensation. Send antibiotics if you don’t hear from me by the end of the week, m’kay?

I need to find a new signature drink. Martinis are so passé, not to mention I can’t make a decent one and therefore have to rely on the skills of others. Suggestions?

Some caveats:
(1) No “shot” type drinks. Only sippers!

(2) I want something simple, as in: open bottle, pour, enjoy.

(3) If it costs more than $25, VH will “accidentally” forget to buy it. Even if it’s a sure-fire Get Lucky drink.

(4) Don’t suggest red wine (it gives me headaches) or tequila (I give other people headaches).

(5) Nothing too sweet. Yep, I’m STILL dieting. (Down 27 pounds now, thanks for asking.)

That said – heh – what do you suggest?

What is it about some people who feel the need to sneer at fundraising efforts like last night’s Hope for Haiti Now concert? “A bunch of self-serving celebrities”, they’re saying on Facebook and elsewhere today. “How much did THEY give?”

News flash: celebrities, like the rest of us, probably had other plans for how they were going to spend their Friday night and, being celebrities, they probably made their plans far more in advance than the rest of us. So the very fact they canceled said plans — and whatever money-making was involved — is still more than the average TV viewer, sitting at home on a Friday night shoveling Munch-os into their mouth, did to help Haiti.

Meanwhile, here are a few of the names and the numbers: George Clooney, $1 million. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie matched him with $1 million of their own. Madonna pledged $250,000. Leonardo di Caprio’s giving $1 million, too. Supermodel Gisele Bundchen wrote a check for a cool $1.5 million. And, although there are probably plenty others, perhaps some celebrities just don’t think it’s anyone’s business what amount they give. Kind of like some non-celebrities I know.

But, naturally, the nattering nabobs are now whining that million dollars is a drop in the bank to someone like George Clooney. Then they pat themselves on the back for having taken a break from Facebook to donate $10 by text messaging the word ‘Haiti’ to 90999 on their cell phones. Because, you know, apparently that ten dollars combined with the interruption of their annoying Facebook status updates (“I just ate cereal!” “My kid just sneezed on my monitor!” “It’s cold and rainy here!”) deserves SO much more recognition.

And the worst part — the really, terribly annoying worst freaking possible part — is this grousing about celebrities not donating enough, or that their appearances were self-serving, is coming from REPUBLICANS who have just spent the past several days complaining about DEMOCRATS telling people how to spend their money.

Hypocrites, all.