All About Us: A Dracut Weblog

I think we watch too many movies. Or TV. I’m not talking about the nation here, maybe just my family. Or maybe it’s just me. So I now have this quirk of relating what I’m doing as if I’m in the middle of some sort of action adventure flick.

For example, I’ve been playing Spider Solitaire a lot on the computer. It’s a little different from regular solitaire, but it still involves a mix of luck and skill. Mind you I continually play it on the easiest level possible (I think the level is called “Gutless ‘n Brainless”). Anyway, I get all wrapped up in the strategy of the moves. I’m contemplating whether to move that seven under the eight. OR - should I move the seven that’s covering the three, therefore releasing it to be moved under that four on the end, or should I move the first seven, which would turn over a new card. I have now stopped breathing. This is no longer a game of solitaire, matter of fact, I’m not even in front of a computer any longer. I’m on my back, under a 1968 GT350 Fastback Shelby Mustang, (all black, of course). I’m aware of a ticking sound, getting louder and more ominous. Sweat stings my eyes, as I mutter between clenched teeth, “red wire or blue wire, red or blue… red or…” SNAP, I decisively snip the black wire, and save the day.

Or, if you will, consider this scenario. A child is aimlessly shuffling back and forth in the living room, perhaps picking up a newspaper, or a couch pillow, mumbling something about the ‘remote’. He walks away, not willing to squander much effort on T.V. at this moment. Or at least, not in this room. The scene is hardly worth noting, but yet the husband has registered all details, and as the child moves out of frame, he begins his sweep of the room. To the untrained eye, his actions are cool and casual, perhaps taking inventory of all old magazines, humming a pleasant little ditty. Soon enough though, his movements become more urgent, his humming is tuneless, his breathing has become more shallow. The sensible wife and mother (me) turns her back on this, willing things to return to normal. However, as objects become tossed around in the next room with more force, she only knows too well what will happen next. And it does. Husband goes to phone, punches in a number previously buried deep in his subconscious, and then whispers into the phone. “It’s Foxfire. Yes, that’s right. Yes, you’ll have to alert the Joint Chiefs. Yes, you’ll have to wake them. Damnit man, the Remote is missing” !

Here’s something slightly different. Walking out of the theatre, having just seen a movie full of action like Triple X, or something with Ahhrnold. Going to the car, getting in… trying to shake the feeling of someone following me. (Of course, no one is, I’m just pumped up on adrenaline. I’m pretty sure the popcorn is buttered with testosterone.) I start the car, and slam it into gear, and chirp out of the parking lot. My kids are pinned to their seats from the G-Force, their mouths open in silent screams. I grab the cell phone, connect with husband waiting at home. I speak tersely. “We’re clear”. On his end, he guesses, “So, the movie is done, you want me to put in the casserole now”? I consult my watch and answer, “That’s a Ten-Four, our ETA is 1800 hours, and I’m out” After about two traffic lights, the vehicle has morphed back into the outdated Ford Escort, and I’m safely driving the legal speed limit. By the time we’re home, I’m Mom again, making the salad, having forgotten all about the afternoon’s adventure. Even Walter Mitty had to come up for air. But - sometimes, late at night, I look out in the driveway. In the moonlight, I swear that Ford is a Shelby.