25

Let's admit it.  Haven't we all been at the grocery store sometime, and seen an infant perched in a shopping cart that reminded us we hadn't been down the pet food aisle yet? 

 

I read somewhere that all babies are born adorably cute so that their parents will instinctively love them and nurture them to adulthood, instead of just leaving them in a box at a mall.  It's just part of the human evolutionary process to keep us reproducing successfully so we don't go extinct. 

Well, once again, the theory of evolution takes a hit.  Because not all babies are cute - sorry, but they're not.  All a parent can do is hope that the baby's eyes uncross and its body catches up to its bowling ball head.  Either that, or pray the kid grows up to be a genius, as a trade-off.

Luckily, the new baby in my life is beautiful (not just when she's sleeping!), and perfectly proportioned.   Of course, I'm a little biased – I'm a new aunt, since Baby Girl finally put in an appearance in May.  The best part is that I got chosen to be part of her family, rather than being forced on her by blood relations.  Honourary relatives know they're wanted because they're hand-picked.

Babies are not great conversationalists, but they do make lots of weird noises, which you can entertain yourself for hours trying to interpret.  Any they have no qualms whatsoever regarding screaming, belching, farting and sleeping in public.  Parents everywhere (except those who have appeared on, or have ever watched, the Jerry Springer Show) must pray every day that their child outgrows these tendencies at some point. 

Other firsts come with the territory of being a new aunt.  Furniture shopping, for one thing.  I'm just lucky this thing fit in the back of my car.  Which is information I have stored for future reference.  Because now I want one of these things.  It's a glider.  It makes a rocking chair seem like a medieval torture device by comparison.  All moving parts are above floor level.  Baby Girl's household contains 3 cats and 1 dog, complete with tails - all 4 sent lovely notes of gratitude to me and my co-auntie. 

Next was the crib.  Thank you, IKEA! (Swedish for 'delivery is $99 extra' – totally worth it though).  New Dad is to be congratulated for putting it together without cursing even once.

And definitely not to be forgotten - baby clothing.  Unlike all babies, all baby clothes are cute.  You can get hooked on buying cute, little baby clothes faster than crack.  Shopping for this stuff requires reading tags.  For newborns, avoid anything with a label that says 0-3 months.  A baby will outgrow that size within moments of its birth.  Go straight to 6-9 months.  And limit your visits to Baby Gap, unless you've just won the lottery.  The cuteness factor is just too much to resist.  Think garage sales.   

I'm really looking forward to watching Baby Girl grow up.  Especially as she approaches the age where she realizes her parents are mortal creatures who impose rules, dispense punishment and cause embarrassment with their terminal lack of coolness.   That's when she'll come running to Auntie Gillian who, by contrast, will seem far more tolerable.

I recently spent an afternoon with my new niece alternately sleeping and bottle-feeding in my lap.  We enjoyed some wonderful bonding time.  

And yes - she peed on me.

 

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

Speaking of feeding - a person's taste in food can change radically over the years - I know mine has.  So we should not shy away from trying something that we've avoided like the plague since forever.  As an adult, we may eat things we never touched as kids.  (But not Brussels sprouts.  If you hate them as a child, you will always hate them.)

24

Here it is – the building I spend almost every Sunday morning in.  (If God is everywhere, why do I have to drag myself out of bed at 8am every Sunday, make myself reasonably presentable, and drive here?)
 

 

 

 

 

There are actually multiple answers to this question.  Fellowship.  The music. Passing the Peace. Chancel (fancy word that means helping to clean up afterwards).  The Eucharist.  The fact that I'm a church warden and people will start asking questions if I don't show up, plus I have to sign cheques.  And of course the sermon.  In this church, that's a very good reason to show up – because the priest here gives sermons that are worth a much longer drive in than the one I have to make.

But today, it was me giving the sermon – my very first.  Which isn't a big deal at all, because public speaking is my most favourite thing to do.  (Good thing I'm not in church right this second – telling a whopper like that would get me struck by lightning for sure.)

I'm not sure what inspired me to put this 'first' on my list of 50.  I really have no clue, because almost every Sunday, I glance up at the pulpit, I take in the message that is meant for me as the priest speaks, and at least once, I think to myself, "I'm glad that's not my job".

I wonder why it's so intimidating.  Is it because you're working for God while you're doing it?   The same God that sent the flood?  The same God who sent locusts and poisonous snakes?  The walls of Jericho, Sodom and Gomorrah, pillar of salt, etc., etc.   This is one job I did not want to screw up.

Today I preached on the Book of Revelation.  (Hopefully the fact that it was me in the pulpit is not one of the signs of the apocalypse.)  Specifically, John's greeting to the 7 churches.  Talk about a dedicated guy.   In those days, you just did not go around irritating the Romans, because they owned everything.  John was lucky that all they did was ship him off to prison to work in the mines at age 90.  Which does not sound at all like good luck, but telling people that Jesus was the Son of God was a great way to end up nailed to a cross.  So prison, especially with a fabulous sea view, doesn't sound too bad in comparison.  Although I don't much like any situation without electricity.  No movie nights.  There's a plus side to that though – somebody always gets shanked as soon as the lights go out.

No sooner had John got himself settled in to prison life on the island of Patmos, God started to talk to him, dictating the Book of Revelation – presumably shortly after sending him pen and paper (which should have been a cinch, after the locusts). When John was done, he put the Book and some letters  in Asia Minor Post, and they were delivered to the 7 churches, thus beginning the 2000 year-old tradition of lucky number 7.

For someone who does not have to go to all the trouble of being rejected by Toastmasters to find out that speaking in front of a crowd is never going to be my forte, I think I did a passable job.  My congregation members were very supportive and generous with compliments.  (People have to be nice to each other in church.) They were each probably so thrilled that they had not been the one who was dumb enough to try preaching with no experience.

If you're ever feeling like it would be enlightening – or hilarious – to hear me speak about the Apostle John, here's a link to the sermons page of our church website:  http://www.stsaviours.ca/sermons (April 3, 2016).  Yep, I allowed myself to recorded.  In for a penny, in for a pound...

Thank you God, for letting me live in a country where I can worship openly, in complete safely.  And please Lord, from now on, let me leave the preaching to those who know how to do it.  AMEN!

 

[Thanks, Dad & Margaret for the photos!]

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

I just had this argument again with someone recently, and I keep hoping it's the last time, because I just don't get it that everyone (with access to modern plumbing) does not know this. Hand-washed dishes get rinsed in COLD water. Not hot - full stop.  Rinsing a soapy dish in hot water just promotes more suds.  And it's more expensive.   So if you want your plates to squeak (I don't personally know anyone who cares about that, but it seems impactful on the TV commercials), remember – cold water.

 
You know what I haven't learned?  All these dishwashing liquids rave about how gentle they are on hands – but why would anyone care about that?  Doesn't anyone with even a half a brain wear rubber gloves to wash dishes?

23

Recently I pondered what kind of a painter I would make.  I decided to find out, and I came to two conclusions.  1) I will not be quitting my day job to become an artist.  2) I need a better laundry detergent.

 

My recent visit to an art gallery where I chatted with the resident artist made a definite impression on me.  She suggested art as a form of therapy.  I liked that option, perhaps because I've seen way too many movies and TV shows where the shrink is a complete psycho.  Also, painting is cheaper.

 

 

Close to home, I found this wonderful place – Fresh Paint.  It is a painting studio and also a café.  The proprietor, Roxanne, is a charming lady, and an extremely talented artist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things got off to a messy start before I even sat down before my canvas.  I had a tendency to press the pumps on the paint containers too hard.  By the time my palette was full, I had Jackson Pollocked all my clothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I chose an easel by the window, facing the street.  Why not let a bunch of strangers walking by outside stare over my shoulders at a physical manifestation of my twisted thoughts?

I am not known for making the best choices in colour.  My laundry room looks okay at night, but in natural light, the colour is something only a Smurf would love.  And I have a guest bedroom that is such a shade of green; it practically glows in the dark.  "Cappuccino"  sounded like a nice relaxing shade of brown for my sitting room – yep, the walls look pretty much like what you'd guess they look like.  At least all the ceilings look good.  Even I cannot get into too much trouble with white.  (But have you ever noticed how many shades of white are available?)

It took forever for me to actually touch the canvas with the brush.  But once you get going, it's fun.  I get to make a mess, nobody's grading me on it, someone else cleans up after me, and just steps away, there are cookies.  I highly recommend visiting this place.

I think I did pretty well at this new experience, considering that the right side of my brain is generally never called upon.  (Every time I've tried to come up with a really convincing lie, it has failed me completely.)  Its main job seems to be just preventing that side of my head from caving in.

 

When I was finally done swirling various blobs of paint around, mixing colours as though I had even the faintest clue what I was doing, Roxanne used a sophisticated technique for drying my magnum opus (hair dryer).  She then placed it in a large brown, paper bag, concealing it in the much the same fashion that winos on the street hide their bottles.  I was grateful. 

No, you don't get to see what I painted – that's way too personal.  This was just for therapy and stress relief.  Plus I have a feeling that if I showed it to an actual therapist, it might get me locked up.

 

 

 

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

Sydney Smith once said (sorry - I have no idea who Sydney Smith is, but I'm sure Google does), "It is the greatest of all mistakes to do nothing because you can only do a little.  Do what you can."  This made perfect sense to me the second I first read it, and I have tried to follow it as inspiration.  Then I discovered as a single homeowner that there was no choice but to apply it.  After getting home from a long day at the office, there is often no way to complete a large task in one evening – it has to be broken up into sub-tasks, and then hopefully it's done by the weekend.  If the only way that you can paint a room is one wall at a time, then that's what you do.  Making a job manageable by slicing it up into pieces makes it far more likely that you will start that job, and that you will eventually complete it.

22

When I started this project, I necessarily assumed that every new experience would be a positive one.  Who'd want to try something that makes you feel beyond awful?  But sometimes, life (or maybe our lifestyle) chooses negative experiences for us.  No pictures for this one, folks.  You want to see what it looks like?  Google it.

 

I sit here, generally behind on doing everything, as I recover from my very first (and dear God, please let it be my last) case of shingles.  If you've never had it, and you're wondering what this condition feels like, I recommend a simple, 3-step plan:

1. select at least 8 square inches of skin;
2. set fire to it;
3. catch the flu.

That pretty much covers it.

I'm grateful for the 3-times-a-day horse pills that are working to kill the active virus, but one should not necessarily take it as a personalized guarantee when the doctor says a medication is "generally well-tolerated by most people".  In my case it meant "will kind of make you feel like barfing, yet not quite, for the entire duration".

To add to the fun, this bug attacked my face, starting around my left eye – which eventually swelled shut, so at least I didn't have to look at it anymore.  But of course, the rest of it is so creature-from-the black-lagoon'ish, that I have not left the house in days for fear of large crowds bearing lighted torches and pitchforks chasing me.

One exception – night-time, with its glorious cover of darkness.  That's the only time I can sneak out to get some fresh air.  I suppose I could have some fun with it – pretend I'm a spy or a vampire, only able to venture out at night, lest my secret identity be discovered.  But I doubt too many spies or vampires use darkness to quickly run outside just to put their garbage bins at the curb for pick-up next morning.

Housebound, I look for distractions.  I have my work laptop, so at least I can work all day until I run out of energy (which I don't have much of in the first place).  Not much else to do except television and watching the groceries deplete.   (Most important thing is cat food, but I would never be stupid enough to let that run out.)

Perhaps I should be thinking of ways to avoid this condition in the future.  One of the most common triggers for shingles is stress.  Should I take up meditation?  I just can't picture it.  I'm not sure sitting cross-legged on the floor is a position I can even get into anymore. Or if I managed it, could I get out of it?  But if I could meditate lying down, I might just be willing to go shopping for a mantra.  (Whatever that is.)

One thing's for sure – I will definitely be looking into the shingles vaccine.  What's that, Mr. Pharmacist?  You don't know if my health benefits plan covers it?  Or how long it actually lasts?  And it costs how much?  You know what, Mr. Pharmacist?  Hand it over, and no one gets hurt.

 

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

The 2 most abused forms of technology are mobile phones and email.  While they may be wonderfully useful communication devices, let's be brutally honest – their existence has made our working lives much, much harder.  We're all now expected to generally be productive every waking minute of the day. And certainly for white collar workers, these technologies have increased the volume of our work exponentially.  But they're here to stay, as possibly the greatest evidence of the law of unintended consequences we could imagine.  Let's at least all try to remember one very important rule about them though, shall we?  If a matter is urgent/time-sensitive, text or email should NOT be used.  For goodness sake - TELEPHONE THE PERSON!

21

I spend very little time east of home town.  To me, it's just this place I drive through on the way to my parents' house.  I think many Torontonians feel about Oshawa the way many Americans feel about Rhode Island.  We know about it;  we just don't care.
 

I don't recall ever having even driven through Oshawa.  It's quaint (i.e. filled with one-way streets, signs that can only be read if you're traveling at a 90 degree angle to the way you're actually going, and stores closed on Sunday).  And it's home to the Robert McLaughlin Gallery.

This building was donated to the city by Mr. McLaughlin's grandson, in memory of Grandpa who moved his carriage business from a little town south of the eastern tip of Lake Huron to Oshawa in 1877.  It became the largest carriage business in the British Empire.  According to the plaque at the front door, anyway.  I'm not sure what happened to the business, but I don't know anyone with a McLaughlin parked in their driveway.

The gallery seems to be dedicated to Canadian art.  No complaints.  I can be just as confused about what a Canadian painting is trying to express, as I can about a painting from anyplace else.

 

 

Sometimes, even for those who know zilch about art, it's easy to tell how a painter was feeling when they created a particular piece – I won't insult anyone's intelligence by suggesting here what mood the creator of this work was probably in at the time...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don't like to judge (and yet I do, all the time)...Is this art?  I assume it is.  It's framed and hanging on a wall in a gallery.  But I think I could come pretty close to an authentic reproduction using 4 cans of paint, 4 brushes and a couple rolls of FrogTape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is definitely not something you'd find hanging in my living room.  The giant eyeballs creep me out.   But I'm sure there are plenty of people who do like this style (and who are very well adjusted or have good therapists), so no disrespect meant to this, or any other, artist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More to my taste were surreal pieces like this one.  I love black and white photography.  True, I'm not sure what it means – a stark, almost desert-like landscape with lots of butterflies rising – but I stared at it for a very long time.  And still couldn't figure out a way to sneak it out of the building into my car.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Check this out – you'll remember it the next time you call CAA for a boost.  Charles A. Atkinson started his business in Oshawa.  Hard to believe at one point that the city was even more "quaint" than it is now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lots more photos to be seen.  Currently, the gallery has an exhibit dedicated to the National Film Board.  No, they don't just produce sophisticated short films like "The Logdriver's Waltz".  In fact, up until 1941, they didn't produce any moving pictures.  "Film" referred that old fashioned stuff that used to be loaded into a camera.  But when the organization started making movies, they created the National Film Board of Canada's Still Photography Division. 

 

 

From 1941 through 1984, this

Division commissioned freelance photographers to travel all over Canada taking interesting/important photographs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like the ones for this article.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's one of some young ladies who worked at a munitions plant in Quebec City.

This amazing collection of photographs is worth the visit, if you're at all interested in Canadian history.  (A subject I found very boring in high school, because the only thing we ever studied was the Hudson's Bay Company – which isn't even Canadian anymore.)

The greatest portion of my time in the gallery was actually spent downstairs, visiting with their current artist-in-residence, Janice.  I wish I could show you pictures of her and her extremely colourful paintings, but I didn't think it would be appropriate to take pictures of material that was clearly so personal to her (and I don't think it was allowed anyway – what with the "no photography allowed" signs on every wall).   But Janice was absolutely fascinating, and one of the most spiritual people I've ever met.  Also incredibly intuitive.  I put it down to a powerfully functioning right brain, which I'm envious of, because, as an organizer, the right side of my brain barely functions.  It's a miracle that I even manage to express myself in words.

I wonder what kind of a painter I would make?  I'm guessing it's likely that I haven't progressed much beyond kindergarten - yellow blob in the upper left (sun), square with triangle on top (house), and stick figures (dysfunctional family).  But if I ever decide to give it another shot, I'll lay in a supply of bright colours and FrogTape...

 

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

Using a credit card ensures you never need to carry around large amounts of cash, which generally isn't considered safe.  But that little piece of plastic is not a device for supplementing your income.  If you can't pay your balance at the end of every month, you're spending beyond your means.  Bank credit cards charge currently almost 20% interest.  Store credit cards are more like 25%. These rates are practically usury.  So don't spend more than you can pay.   And if you're paying an annual fee, you're probably committing an additional wrong.  Banks already make tons of money off credit cards.  Charging you a fee on top of the minimum 3.5% merchant fee they get for every purchase transaction is adding insult to injury.

20

I'm not the only one who turned 50 this year!   Guess what else did?!   Superbowl!!  Yes, folks, for 50 years now, football fans everywhere have been using this over-hyped event as an excuse to binge on junk food, ignore stuff around the house that needs doing, and, since 2004, hope for another incredibly obvious wardrobe 'malfunction'.  And for 50 years, Americans have been watching the cool, award-winning commercials, while we Canadians watch boring, stupid ads...

I had not only never watched a Superbowl, I had never seen any football game – ever.  AFL, CFL, college ball – nothing.  (I have seen the movie "Rudy", but that doesn't count.  It's an adorable coming-of-age, live-your-dream picture, but as far as I know, Sean Astin signed no endorsement deals afterwards.)  This presented a bit of a problem – I knew zero about football.  I realized in advance that having absolutely no idea what was going on might affect my enjoyment of the game.  What to do?...

The office where I work contains some outstanding people.  Luckily for me, it contains a football expert, in the form of my buddy next door.  I enlisted her help to enroll in "Football for Dummies", a week-long, daily, 20-minute course on the basics of the game, followed by a quiz just to make sure I was listening, despite my eyes glazing over upon hearing terms like 'wide-receiver', '2-point conversion' and 'incomplete pass'.  (My buddy also bakes and knits, but those are advanced courses.)

Sunday arrived, and I assumed I was ready.  Just to be sure, I did something else I'd never done – I cooked chicken wings.  Isn't that what you're supposed to eat during the Superbowl?  I read somewhere that America consumes approximately 3 billion chicken wings on Superbowl Sunday.  That's just over 9 wings for every man, woman and child in the USA.  Maybe the President should do like he does at Thanksgiving – before every Superbowl, pardon a chicken!

The game started at 6:30pm EST (pre-game show starting around 6:30am). It is separated into quarters – four units of play at 15 minutes each.  So the game should take roughly an hour to watch, right?  Not quite. Here's the breakdown: 1) about 45 minutes of actual play, 2) about 15 minutes of watching players, coaches and referees wandering around the field, 3) 30 minutes of half-time break, 4) 2½ hours of commercials.  Finally around 10:30pm,  we see one bunch of guys jumping up and down pouring Gatorade on each other, and another bunch sitting on a bench crying.  

I'll say this about football – or at least, the Superbowl.  It's not boring.  You never have to watch the game long enough to get bored.  Because there's a commercial every 3 minutes.  And it's all very colourful - lots of blue and orange and green, Lady Gaga in a red tuxedo.  And lots and lots of penalties, particularly for 'unsportsmanlike conduct'.  I don't know why this would be unexpected.  Look at the way they're dressed – helmets, mouth-guards, padding, cleats.  They did not come here to display a gentlemanly countenance – they came to crush skulls and insult the other guys' mothers.

My football education helped somewhat.  I did remember that the team in possession gets 4 chances to advance 10 yards.  That's really not very far, but I understand now that it's much tougher than it sounded.  Mostly because every time some guy got the ball, 8 other guys jumped on top of him.  Then a whistle blows, and play stops while somebody checks to see whether the quarterback/running-back/whoever is still breathing.   Either he gets up, or they bring a gurney out.  This happens again and again and again, until half-time/game over.

Basically, the ball goes this way, then it goes that way.  Kind of like tennis.  Except way, way, way, way more complicated.  Plus there's the half-time show.  After a miraculously quick set-up of a stage in the middle of the field (that crew should be somewhere building new subway lines – they are FAST!), out comes Cold Play, Beyonce, and some guy with dark hair and sunglasses whose name I can't remember, along with lots of dancers.  Normally I hit the mute button when exposed to...I'll just politely refer to it as 'today's popular music'.  But I decided, in for a penny in, for a pound.  I've got Advil upstairs; I might as well listen.  The stadium crowd seemed to enjoy it very much.  It was all part of the Superbowl extravaganza experience, so I will go so far as to rate it, 'meh'.

Anyhoo – congratulations to the Broncos.  If this was indeed Peyton Manning's final game before retirement, I'm glad I got to see it.  And commiserations to the Panthers – there's always next year.  Unless at some point during the regular season, you suffer a serious, possibly career-ending, injury.  But I hope not.  That would be unsportsmanlike.

The BFF came over to watch the game with me.  She says she's going to force me to watch the next Grey Cup.  Apparently, on our side of the border, they only get 3 chances to make 10 yards.  That should make the game shorter, right?  RIGHT?  When is it?  November?  And it's probably going to be hosted here in Toronto?  Oh, geez...I'm going to be out of town.

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

And while we're on the subject of cars (see last posting)...If you really must have a car in the driveway full-time, think carefully about whether to purchase or lease.  I use to think that leasing was always a bad idea unless you were able to claim your car as a business expense.  That it was like renting for five years, and then you simply give the car back – they have your money, and you have no wheels.  But there are other particular situations where leasing could make sense.  If you're going to put almost no mileage on your car, driving mostly only on weekends and with very little distance driving, at least consider leasing.  Expensive repairs will come up, the longer you own the car, and more of them – low mileage notwithstanding.  If you hardly ever drive the thing, think about leasing the cheapest acceptable vehicle, and letting any unexpected, costly repairs be the dealership's problem.  If you lease a new car for 5 years, chances are pretty good that basic maintenance is all you'll have to pay.  But if you own, along with basic maintenance, there will a come a day when something big, like maybe your rear deferential, goes – that's thousands out of your pocket.  You may realize after 10 or 12 years, with all the money you've spent on major repairs, it actually would have been cheaper to lease.  If you do decide to go the leasing route, obviously don't take the buy-out option.  The whole point is to unload a potential money pit before it becomes one.  Another obvious point is that you must have a 10-star rating on your auto insurance.  If you're going to drive a brand new vehicle every 5 years, you won't be able to count on your insurance decreasing every year after the 5^th year, as the car ages.  A squeaky clean driving record and persistence in shopping for the best rate will go a long way.

19

I'm certainly feeling less than virtuous.  When I wish upon a star, it's usually for winning lottery numbers or for something bad to happen to someone I don't like...

 

Time to catch up on another old movie that it's very unbelievable that I have never seen, especially considering that film-watching is one of my favorite activities.  One major obstacle is that I never watch movies on network television.  TV edits movies for content and timing, and they never let you watch the credits.  Plus, they paste their station logo onto the screen, usually on the lower right, and it's always a major visual distraction to me.  I hate this practice.  Never once have I ever been watching TV, when, just as the identity of the murderer is about to be revealed, I suddenly think to myself, "hey, what channel am I watching?"  I don't care.  Nobody cares.

Thank goodness for TCM.   They occasionally put their logo up, but only for a moment and generally only twice during a movie – I can live with that.  Other than that, films are shown as originally seen in the theatre, as far as I know.   Recently, as part of their Movie Camp series, they broadcast "Close Encounters of the Third Kind."

How could I possibly have not seen a movie that came out in 1977, written and directed by a guy everyone over the age of 5 has heard of?   I don't know.  I was 12.  And probably head over heels for Luke Skywalker and Han Solo.  No offense to Richard Dreyfuss.

You have to admire the special effects in this movie.  They seem way ahead of their time.  Because that is one heck of a spaceship.  And this was back when Lucasfilm/Industrial Light and Magic was barely off the launch pad, so no help there.

I'm a very left-brained person – an organizer; analytical.  I like things to make sense, and everything in its place.  So this movie drove me bonkers.  I tried to hang in there; I really did.  But by the time we get to the mash potatoes, I'm really not getting what's happening in Roy's mind.  And when he starts throwing dirt and bricks in the kitchen window – that's it.  I would have done the same thing his wife did – load up the kids and drive away, never to be seen again.  Not that I missed them much – they seemed very exchangeable for any other family unit in suburban America.

Then, poof!  We're driving to Wyoming where Roy miraculously hooks up with Melinda Dillon's character, and everyone's wearing gas masks, and there are helicopters flying around chasing people.  And what's with the French guy?  Is he Canadian?  Like from Quebec?  He doesn't seem snotty enough to be from France. 

There just seems to be a lot of moving parts here, for a movie based on a Disney tune.

I did think the space aliens looked adorable.  But if you read one of my earlier blog entries, you know how I feel about space aliens.  They are not to be trusted.  No matter how cute they are.  (Okay, ET maybe.)

Of course, after the film ended, there were the two TMN Movie Camp hosts, who gushed over it like it was the Second Coming.  Everything about it was apparently brilliant and all film students should watch it 100 times over until they too have learned enough to become brilliant filmmakers.

I admit the finale made perfect sense to me.  Since Richard Dreyfuss spent the entire movie acting like a total space cadet, he might as well become one.  It's all for the best, because when his wife sees what he did to the house, she's going to be pissed...

 

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

Everyone should know how to change a flat tire.  Yes, you too, ladies.  Because if you own a car, or regularly rent one, chances are, you're going to get a flat at some point.  Be prepared for it to be raining, or dark, or in the middle of Nowheresville.   In one case, I wasn't exactly stranded alone on Mars, but I had a ton of baggage sitting directly over the space-saver compartment, and a screaming, carsick cat to deal with.  It was a major pain to change that tire.  But I was grateful I'd taken the time to learn.  So either know how to fix a flat, or hire a chauffeur-driven vehicle – guess which one's cheaper?  Sometimes you get lucky – I once made it into my own garage before my front driver's side sank into the pavement.  I'm now a legend with at least one CAA responder.  He nearly wet himself when he discovered I'd run over a spoon.