Have you seen the commercial for this movie?  No, neither have I.  Because every time it comes on, I close my eyes (tight) and plug my ears nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah until someone with the remote changes the channel and notifies me of same.

But I do always….just…catch that one glimpse of Annabelle’s completely banged up doll face before my eye-squinch commences.  And it’s the WORST doll face that ever came out of Doll Land.  Yet the woman receiving the doll as a gift from her husband (yes, this is still all part of that one glimpse of the commercial which is permanently BURNED into my retinas) acts like it’s the loveliest dream-gift-come-true.  Oh, Honey, THANK you!

Which makes me think, “Ok, chick.  You’re a moron because I and the million other people who wish we hadn’t caught that glimpse of the commercial can clearly see the ring of gore all around the doll’s mouth which makes it a complete certainty that it’s been feasting on hapless victims since it rolled off the gore-mouths-r-us doll assembly line.  Also?  Your death wish husband is an a$$ for giving you a gift like that.”

Now I’m the first to admit that there are some banged up dolls; Dolls that have been loved beyond their limits of endurance.  For example, my daughter’s dolls from back in the day?  Loved beyond their individual thresholds of loveliness.  Let’s see….there was Tuna Fish Binky Baby.  She had a binky permanently stuck in her mouth that Sissy would endlessly try to pull out and suck on, and when that failed, would resort to tandem sucking sessions.  (All the tugging – and sucking – does take a toll on one’s face.)  And then there was Browny Brown Tuna Fish.  She was…er…African American.  (I hesitated there because I didn’t want you to think Sissy was a racist when she was three.  The doll WAS brown.)  Sissy tried too many times to brush that doll’s hair with the wrong brush and it just went way wonky after that. 

And on and on and on.  [And as a fun side note, apart from the Creep Factor Five Thousand doll twins named Nancy and Fancy, every other one of my daughter’s dolls had “Tuna Fish” as a key component of its name.  I’m not sure why.  We’ve never figured it out.  And then Sissy conveniently “forgot” why she named all the dolls Tuna Fish once she became a sentient being.  So the mystery remains.] 

(And no, for you in the corner with your hand raised, no, Sissy actually HATES tuna fish and always has.  But nice try.)

Despite all that, Sissy never, EVER had a doll as ratchet as Annabelle.  Annabelle is not one of those dolls that got all ratchet-y because she was LOVED too much.  She’s all ratchet-y because she KILLS PEOPLE too much with her MOUTH. 

So really, according to all known doll naming conventions, wouldn’t a better name for Annabelle be: Tuna Fish Death is Coming?  Or how’s about: Gore Mouth Tuna Fish??

Who knows?  Who cares.  Hopefully we’ll never find out.  Because Husbands of the World?  Ok, really just my husband, If you EVER bring a doll like Gore Mouth Tuna Fish into our house?  And GIVE it to me as a PRESENT?!?  I will absolutely let it eat your neck.  Now change the channel already.   Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah

My Son Michelangelo

One of my son’s teachers stopped my husband in the school hallway yesterday to pass on this sculpture she had recently confiscated from Sonny.  She thought it was super creative and that it took a lot of work, so she didn’t want to throw it away.  But at the same time, she needed to remove it as a “distraction.”

So I ask you now, can you guess what it is? 

Naw, me neither.

But more importantly, can you guess what it’s made out of?  No?!  How about if I tell you Sonny has this teacher’s class right after snack time.

Still no??

Ok, we could go on all day with this, but quite frankly I need to go wash my hands, so let me tell you what it’s made out of…

Those red wax skins that come off of Mini BabyBel cheese wheels.

Creative right?  But Sonny doesn’t like those little cheeses.  He doesn’t eat those  little cheeses.  I never buy those little cheeses nor send them in with him for snack time.

So let’s title this sculpture something like “Unsanitary Red Wax Number Three” and then you can go wash your hands too.

Captain Caveman Alive and Well in My Bathroom

I’m pretty sure Captain Caveman lives in my house…and uses my downstairs bathroom quite frequently.

Do you remember Captain Caveman – or Cavey to his friends?  Ooooh, Cavey!  He appeared quite frequently as a key member of the “Scooby Doobies” team on Hanna Barbera’s Laff-a-Lympics cartoon back in the late 70’s and 80’s.  He also had his own show where he was joined by the Teen Angels (who looked scary-similar to The Pussycats minus Josie) and they would solve mysteries.  In case you need further remembering, Cavey was the dude with the big schnoz, whose face and body was covered by a caveman-fur-tunic-which-also-completely-covered-his-face fur tunic thing.  He could fly and would sometimes accidentally consume large non-food items like bicycles and lamps.  But he would mostly “help” the Teen Angels by pulling an assortment of crazy crap out of his caveman-fur-tunic-which-also-completely-covered-his-face fur tunic thing.  You never knew WHAT was stashed in there until it came OUT.

[As a side note, this cartoon sounds completely, completely moronic.  Yet you remember it, right?  Which means you watched it.  And the state rests, Your Honor, in the case of Society vs. What’s Wrong with Today’s Youth.]

But the reason I think Cavey’s in my house now, somewhere in the vicinity of my downstairs bathroom, is because when I went to clean it last time, I found floating in the toilet bowl: a twist tie, three leaves, and a bee ON a cranberry-sized crabapple.  All floating – completely formed and undamaged – in the toilet.

So unless the kids have the most AMAZING intuitive eating skills followed by the most incredible digestive track (which would allow things to POP out the other end completely unscathed), then my vote is for Captain Caveman.  Captain CAAAAAVEMAAAAAAANNNN!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I hear the dog drinking out of the toilet yet again and I have to go stop him before Cavey accidentally gobbles him up.    

It’s Foolproof!

Because I find it completely hilarious, and this is my blog, I’d like to take this opportunity to once again offer insightful comments and recommendations on the crochet patterns I just received in yesterday’s crochet newsletter.

I know, I know.  It’s gonna be fun.  But shhh, shhhhh!  It’s starting, so quiet down.  And for those of you who are still wondering WHY I’m receiving crochet patterns automatically in my email, you can just SHUT IT!  But thanks for stopping by and here we go…

1. Foolproof Infinity Scarf  This pattern name implies that there are a lot of fools in your life.  So many that you should proof against them with this scarf.  In fact, this scarf is to fools as garlic is to vampires.  It repels them.  Makes them stay away.  Wear it.  I dare you.
Back to School Dress Heavens to Murgatroyd!  This pattern involves crocheting AND sewing.  In addition, it will NOT help your child fit in the first day of school.  So please, no.  Absolutely no.
3. 30 Minute Beanie This pattern is actually for a baby boy.  But since my family has fairly tiny heads, I’m now having visions of making color-coordinated ones of these for the whole gang for our next skiing trip.  Oh.  Wait.  That’s right, we all HATE skiing and I don’t think tiny homemade hats will make it any better.  So I guess not.
Pumpkin Spice Cowl   Don’t let the name fool you.  It’s only called “Pumpkin” because that’s the color of the yarn, not because that’s the type of head you’ll look like you have if you wear this cowl.  Because it’s not your HEAD that will look huge if you wear this cowl, it’s your body.  You see, the cowl is actually a tiny poncho look-alike.  So it either gives the impression that someone accidentally shrunk your once normally fitting poncho…or you’re HUGE.  But if you can pull off a Fat Man in a Little Poncho look, then go for it!  Also, there are pompoms.  Just fyi on that.
Bubblegum Baby Leg Warmers  Because really?  The ONLY one who could “do” bubblegum colored leg warmers would be a baby.  Who sleeps most of the time.  And can’t talk (or walk) yet.  And while the instructions state that the pattern is easily customizable for adults, do not be fooled.  If you can read words and dress yourself, you should not be wearing pink leg warmers.  End of discussion.
Jingle Bells Holiday Scarf  Ooooh, yes!  You won’t have a fun holiday without this scarf.  Make several of them right now.  Even make one for each of your children’s teachers for Christmas gifts instead of that boring yawn money envelope.  They’ll thank you much more heartily for the love that goes into this scarf than they ever would for cold, hard cash.  Ha ha.  Just kidding.  They’d actually cut your heart out and wrap it up in this red-and-green yarn clusterbomb.  So skip that whole plan.
Fashionable Poncho  If you click-through to the pattern, you will discover that this creation was originally named the “Fling Ponchini.”  I personally would have named it “Looks like a hairy squirrel died recently on your shoulders” but I suppose Fling Ponchini will do.  Please note you can wear the dead squirrel two ways.  How fun.
Sexy Leg Warmers  If by “Sexy” they meant “Bulky, Lace-up Lederhosen” then yes.  Yes, these are they.  Do it to it!
60 Minute Cowl  Did you see that expose on Cowls?  It was great.  They used a black light for some of it.  I think it was on 48 Hours.  Or maybe it was 60 Minutes?  Either way, this pattern isn’t half bad.  It gives off a pretty cool Katniss vibe.  Not bloody, fighting-for-her-life Katniss, you understand, but more of a Katniss-hunts-prey-in-the-woods-to-feed-her-family Katniss.  As a side note, this is TOTALLY what I would wear if I had to go hunting in the woods to feed my family.  Hey, Creep!  Of course I’d wear a warm winter coat too and not JUST the cowl.  Creep.
Fall Fashion Leg Warmers  What’s with all the leg warmers?!  Leg warmers better not be back in fashion!  Because, really, there are certain words that should never, EVER be combined with “Leg Warmers.”  “Fashion” being one of them.  They are mutually exclusive.  In addition, Flashdance called and they want their total crap looking leg thingies back.

Up next?  “12 Church-Approved Crochet Patterns.”  That’s EXACTLY what today’s email title said.  God’s honest truth.  heh, heh, heh  It seems mind-boggling to me that the church would get involved in approving crochet patterns, but I guess they must have.  Maybe they penciled it in between the Saturday morning baptism and the afternoon wedding: approve crochet patterns. 

Just you wait.  Crochet in CHURCH??  By all that’s HOLE-y (that is a pun in more ways than one.  And that?  Just rhymed!  No applause please, just tens and twenties.), it’s gonna be fun!

Under Where?

One day, when I was like seven years old (so really just a few years ago) unbeknownst to me, my older sisters dumped the entire contents of my underwear drawer out the bedroom window.  My bedroom was on the second floor of the house and faced the street, which means my underwear landed all over the bushes in the front of the house and was therefore visible to anyone in the neighborhood who had eyeballs.

When my father came home from work that evening, he walked in demanding to know WHOSE UNDERWEAR WAS ALL OVER THE FRONT YARD?!?

Uhhhh, not mine.  I had been playing in the BACK yard and hadn’t been anywhere near the FRONT of the house.  And I sure as snot hadn’t been strategically draping my Carter Spanky Pants ANYWHERE, so I quickly denied ownership.  That’s when the sheepish looks exchanged by my sisters clued EVERYONE in to the fact that it WAS my underwear – as punishment for some “messy room” infraction – that had been sitting out front for the better part of the day.   Noooo, that’s not incredibly awful and monumentally embarrassing! 

I’ve told my kids this underwear story a time or two.  Ohhh, no reason.  But messy rooms are ANNOYING as CRAP!  And “family lore” works in achieving “clean room” results.  Don’t even tell me YOU’RE above threatening your kids about their messy rooms.  Don’t even.  ‘Cause if you do, I’m on my way over to your house RIGHT NOW to start flinging your flea-bitten Underoos where all the neighbors can get a good look-see.

So imagine Sonny’s horror when he called me on my cell phone the other day to let me know he had found a pair of my underwear on the lounge chair on the back patio.  Like someone had begun Operation Underwear on me YET AGAIN or something. 

Me to Sonny: Accck!  What?!  WHAT?!?  How did my underwear get out there?!?  Are my sisters at the house by any chance??  Anyway, that’s embarrassing.  Did you at least bring them in?!

Sonny to Me:  No.  I just called you.

Me to Sonny:  Ok.  Thanks.  But can you please BRING THE UNDERWEAR INSIDE SO THE NEIGHBORS CAN’T SEE IT?!? 

One minute later Sonny calls back to report the following:

Sonny to Me: I brought the underwear in and guess what?  There were Lego pieces on top of it!

Weirder and weirder.  Couldn’t be my sisters; They live in Virginia and I live in Colorado now.  So either the wackiest underwear thief has visited my house and left evidence…or the DOG got ahold of all the most verboten stuff he could find and created a pack rat stash in plain sight on the lounge chair.  I’m voting for the dog, because otherwise?  The Lego piece component is inexplicable and greatly, greatly concerning.

Oh!  Before I forget!!  The other thing I wanted to say was: Look UNDER THERE!

Under where?

My point exactly.  Heh, heh, heh.

The Burning Heart

I was cleaning out last year’s school supplies in preparation for the new school year, when I found Sonny’s old Language Arts notebook.

It contained exactly one page of spelling words and…this drawing.

I’ve mentioned before that my son is obsessed with zombies, right?  He kinda – loves them – while hating them.  As a result, he’s become somewhat of a world expert on zombies.  And this picture typifies EVERYTHING there is to know and to love/hate about zombies.

First off, the zombies only come out at night.  It’s not clear where they stay during the daytime (Under the bed?  In a poorly lit closet??  California?!?). 

But come nighttime?  They can ALWAYS be found.  In your bedroom.  Standing quietly.  Right beside your bed.  Where YOU are, enjoying a good night’s sleep on your weird, round bolster pillow.  Haahhhhnk zhoooo.  Haahhhhnnnk zhooooo. Zhoooooo.  Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzhhooooooooo.

You are off in La-La Land, completely unaware that a zombie has been drawn by the smell of your rancid snoring and your…no, not brains.  All the experts know that zombies don’t eat brains anymore since the whole Mad Cow Disease thing a while back.  Instead, the zombie is drawn by the smell of your…HEART!


What?!?  Wheeeeee!!!    GAH?  Guhhhhhhhh!  Gulllulululululululgggggg.

And just like that, the undead has its arm elbow-deep in your thoracic cavity, rummaging around in there for your burning heart.  It’s curtains for you; Curtains I tell ya! 

See??  What’s not to LOVE (ok, hate.  Mostly hate.  Well…all hate, all the time actually) about that?!?  But?  I fear my story has become tiresome.  In which case, now is ze time vhen ve dance!

So many 80’s songs, which one should we dance TO?? 

We’ll settle on the blatantly obvious one: Survivor’s “Burning Heart” (which appeared in the 1985 movie Rocky IV and on its soundtrack album).   

In the burning heart just about to burst
There’s a quest for answers an unquenchable thirst
In the darkest night rising like a spire
In the burning heart the unmistakable fire

This round of the “80’s song for every moment in life” goes to…ME!  I know, I know: Eat your heart out. 

Heh, heh, heh.  Or better yet, have a zombie do it.  In the middle of the night.  While you’re off in La-La Land.  Nummy, num, num.  ME LOVVVVE HEARTS!  <–That was the zombie talking, not me.  But that part where I said ‘not me,’ that WAS me talking.  But this isn’t really about ME, it’s about you.  And how you never, ever win any rounds in our “80’s song” game.  Just sayin’.  And yes, that WAS me sayin’.  But I’m really done sayin’ stuff now.  

Hand Jive

We’ve already discussed how that one softball mom thinks I look like Mary-Louise Parker, which I find absolutely mind-boggling.

But then just recently?  Recently I was poolside at the country club where I met the husband of a tennis teammate who told me I look like that actress…

At which point I chimed in with “Mary-Louise Parker!  You wanna buy some weed?!  Har, har, har, harrr!!”

Turns out the guy I was talking to was campaigning for State Senate at the time.  And he was looking at me warily, like I might be on the verge of producing some paparazzi to take our picture in front of a Pot R’ Us step and repeat.  So he had to get ready to…run.  Quick like.

After an awkward pause where he’s scooting back a foot or two to a safer location in case the cameras start snapping, and I’m trying to explain about “this softball mom I know,”  he begins again with, “You look like that actress…whatshername?  Stockard Channing.”

For a bizarre, heart-stopping moment, I thought he meant CHANNING TATUM and was horrified.  Yet oddly flattered.  I guess if I’m being offered young, buff dude lookalike, then I’ll TAKE young, buff dude lookalike.

But then I realize I’m being offered Rizzo, the leader of the Pink Ladies who’s a good twenty-five years older than I am in real life; not to mention a smoking, drinking, swearing toughie with a “reputation.”

Uhhh…gee, thanks.  Somehow?  Selling weed to Magic Mike seems a little more appealing.

But, coincidentally, in highschool I was actually IN “Grease.”  This is how I know alllll about Rizzo.  Of course I was in the total cringeworthy highschool play version of “Grease”; not the made-for-the-silver-screen version with big name stars like Stockard Channing.

played Cha-Cha DiGregorio.  They call me Cha-Cha ‘cause I’m the best dancer at St. Bernadette’s.  I was the one who went to the prom with Kenickie, but when Rizzo stole him away from me, I ended up partnering with John Travolta and we won the Hand Jive dance contest.  Yay!

But you know what all of that means, don’t you?  It means I know me some Hand Jive, Baby!

So while I may NOT have been born to sell weed, or be an actress.  Or even be a buff dude.  I was…BORN TO HAND JIVE BABY!  Slap, slap, clap, clap, over, over, under, under, fist thump, fist thump, thumb back, thumb back.  Born to hand jive, BABY! [big finale] BOOOOORN TO HAND JIVE, BAAABBY!!! 



Hey, don’t get me wrong.  I love Trader Joe’s as much as the next guy. 

Ok, maybe not QUITE as much as those of you who would be willing to skin it and wear a Trader Joe’s shrug around town.  (“It rubs the lotion on its skin!) 

But who DOESN’T love liver and fava beans served with a nice bottle of their Two Buck Chuck Chianti?!?  Sllllewllllssssllelelww.

What?  Why are you looking at me like that??  Did those Silence of the Lambs references veer into Creep Factor Five Thousand Territory??!  Well you shouldn’t be looking at me like that because YOU’RE the one who started it!  With your good bag and cheap shoes, Clarice. 

I?  I was NOT trying to go there.  Instead, I was simply trying to say that Trader Joe’s “crisp, caramelized cinnamon spiced Belgian cookies” are delish.  DELISH! 

But their name?  Speculoos?!  Awful.


I’ll just let that sink in for a sec.


Now you see it, don’t you?  And in the three times I’ve typed “Speculoos” (now four) in this blog, the system has tried three (now four) times to change it to “Speculums.”

I rest my case.

Two final words: Loose cups.  Your anagrams are showing, Doctor.  YOU STARTED IT!!!

To Chicken Out

My sister – who I’m pretty sure has met me a time or two (and knows I’m deathly afraid of heights) – gave my family a Heights R Us, Heightstravaganza gift certificate which provided us a set of high-up, hyperventilation-inducing activities at a facility called Cave of the Winds located in Colorado Springs.  [And no, this is an UNPAID shout out…up ‘til now hopefully.  I’m lookin’ at you here, Cave of the Winds.] 

What did these activities include?  The Windwalker Challenge (ropes) Course and The Bat-a-pult (two-person zip line).

Except during a call-ahead-for-more-information, we found out that the Bat-a-pult was down, had been down for a while, and was most likely NOT going to be fixed before they closed for the season.  So they were willing to “trade” our Bat-a-pult tickets for tickets to their newest attraction, something called The Terrordactyl (a freefall “ride” out into the canyon beside which Cave of the Winds is located).  Terrordactyl is  a great name, by the way.  Doesn’t strike fear into the heart or ANYTHING.

So we discussed among ourselves and decided we’d take the trade.  

The only hitch in the giddyup was that Terrordactyl has a weight restriction.  Max of 220 (Hubby was out by a hair) and minimum of 100.  Since Sissy and I were in grave danger of not weighing ENOUGH to partake of the terror (and when I say “Sissy and I” I mean “just Sissy”), we decided to stop at A&W Kentucky Fried Chicken (and no, STILL not paid and now I’m lookin’ at YOU, A&W) for lunch on the way there so that Sissy could drink at least five pounds of rootbeer and thus achieve the weight limit.  This is a completely safe approach to death-defying feats which include weight limits so SHUT IT!

For my part, I ordered two mini chicken sandwiches.  One to eat for lunch.  And one to save for later, after I blew the first chicken sandwich all over the canyon.  Except I forgot about my brilliant plan and ended up eating BOTH chicken sandwiches in one go.  This made me feel worse than ever about the upcoming “adventure” while forever linking chicken sandwiches with fear in my mind.

When we finally got to Cave of the Winds, we decided to “calm our nerves” by going on the Windwalker Challenge Course first.  The theory was that this would buy us some time to screw our courage to the sticking point for the Terrordactyl. 

What exactly IS a Windwalker Challenge Course you ask?  If you picture tightrope walking over the Grand Canyon in gale-force winds then you’ll have a pretty good idea of what I’m talking about.  Yeah, yeah, you’re strapped into a safety harness, blah, blah, blah.  But you’re still on a ropes course three stories tall and cantilevered out over a sheer-drop canyon. 

All this causes my Chicken Sandwich Plan to begin…repeating…on me.  So while Hubby and the kids go up all three flights of rickety rope hell, I go up one flight of stairs, across a beam thing, then go back down the stairs, all the while yelling, “Who is shaking the STAIRS??  STOP SHAKING THE STAIRS!!!”  To which the ropes course attendant politely replies, “Uh, ma’am.  No one is on the stairs with you.” 


Hubby and the kids were up there for an additional 45 minutes after I had abandoned hope (and decided that I now HATE chicken sandwiches).  When they finally came down, it was…duh, duh DUHN!  TIME time, time for the DACTYL dactyl, dactyl of TERROR!  TERROR! TERROR!!!

The plan was that Sissy and I would go first.  Sonny would watch us and see that it was super fun and that we didn’t sheer off and plummet into the canyon and/or accidentally crash into its opposing face and would then ride with either Sissy or I after that, depending on who was up for MORE fun after the first go-round. 

So Sissy and I get strapped in to what I can only describe as a bumper car but without the car.  We’re sitting in non-padded bucket seats and are secured with a total crap shoulder strap in preparation for having the base of the bucket seats pulled up and back until we’re facing straight down INTO the canyon before being released into a freefall that would last until we ALMOST hit the other side of the canyon.  At which point the operator would start winching us up again as we swung back and forth over open space.

Fun, right?

So I’m pantomiming “this is gonna be fun” and “I’m so excited” to Sonny while holding my blow-hole closed so the chicken sandwich doesn’t accidentally come out.  It’s about this time that I realize the ride is shaking in a weird, impromptu earthquake sort of way.  So I look over at Sissy to see if she feels it too.

And when I do, I realize she looks like a Littlest Petshop Puppy.  Her eyes are HUGE.  Huger than the rest of her face.  She’s shaking her head back and forth rapidly.  As I’m wondering how did you DO that;  how did you make your eyes five TIMES bigger than their regular size??  Sissy starts whispering, “No.  Nooo.  [then louder] Noooo! [until finally shouting] NOOOOOOOO!!!!”  Her fear is vibrating the entire ride.

Apparently “someone’s”  courage wasn’t screwed up…quite…high enough.  That elusive rat bastard sticking point!!!  So the ride operator let us out. 

After that, Sonny wouldn’t even LOOK at the contraption, much less go on it.  And me?  I must say that once I’ve screwed my courage to the sticking point, and that point has come and gone?  It never comes again.  Sayonara, Sticking Point.

So Littlest Petshop Puppy and her family left with their tails between their legs.  We did get a new gift certificate and we’ll be back to do the tame(r) Bat-a-pult next spring when the ride reopens. 

I will not be eating chicken sandwiches again.  Ever.  I have discovered a whole new meaning for the phrase, “To Chicken OUT.”

Thanks, Sis.

Bad Feet Seat

Over the Labor Day week-end, we went to see that new X-Men movie, Days of Future Past.  This is the EXACT type of movie I hate.  I don’t know ANY of the characters (not to mention they mostly all have English accents and/or are blue – as in the color blue – not “blue” in a sad sack, don’t-it-make-my-brown-eyes-blue sort of way; Although they have every right to be blue because their mutant race is on the verge of getting wiped out). 

And?  They travel back in time.  Gaaah!  I HATE time travel in movies-where-I-don’t-know-any-of-the-characters because it brings a level of math to the entertainment which makes the whole thing extremely unenjoyable.  Not to mention that the characters are endlessly smiling smug smiles at eachother over their remembered past, future, past/future-but-not-right-now, future together.  Annoying.

You know what else is annoying?  The fact that my movie theater seat SMELLED!  It smelled so BAD I spent most of the movie trying to figure out what it smelled like.  Other theater goers may have gotten the impression I had a sniffing tic:

Sniff.  SNIFF!  Sniffsniffsniff. 

Sniff.  SNIFF!  Sniffsniffsniff.

Good Lord!  Could it be FEET??  Bad, bad FEET?!?

I leaned left to ask Sissy if HER chair smelled like feet.  She replied, “No, my chair doesn’t smell like feet.  Just your chair smells.  In fact, you can pretty much assume it’s always, always just gonna be YOUR chair that smells.”

Wow.  Ok.

Then I leaned right, whereupon Hubby confirmed that no, no one else’s chair smelled like feet.  Just mine.  Then he added that my chair smelled because I’m a bad, bad girl.  Who DESERVES to sit in a smelly chair.  That smells like feet.  In the Bad, Bad Feet Seat.

Well, ok then.  In which case?  I’m gonna tell you about the WHOLE movie without so much as a Spoiler Alert.  So there! 

It’s set in the future and the X-Men mutants are on the verge of being wiped out.  I don’t know any of these future mutants’ names.  Because, instead of introducing eachother to the audience, they spend the whole time avoiding complete annihilation which is being doled out by a bunch of robot-y fellers.  But one mutant looks like the guy from that mid-90’s movie The Crow.  And another looks like the main chick from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.  One even looks like Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club and on the advice of an English accented gent from Star Trek, she helps Wolverine travel back in time to 1972.  And let’s pause right here so that I can say, “Uh huh.  Hugh Jackman?  Now THAT’S what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  Nummy num num.  We aren’t to the theee ay tuh yet, Hugh, but when we get there, don’t stop picking MY seat. 

There’s even this one part where Hugh Jackman as Wolverine has to show us FULL BACKAL NUDITY GGGGRRRROARRRR! track down Katniss Everdeen.  It gets super confusing here so stick with me.  Katniss is one of those blue people I was talking about earlier and for her part, she’s trying to track down Tyrion Lannister from Game of Thrones. 

Ultimately, that guy who drank the spit bucket in the wine tasting room in the movie Sideways saves the mutant population past, present and future by dressing up like an über homely Nixon and putting the kibosh on the robot-y fellers program (which would have destroyed all the mutants in the future unless the mutants had gone back in time E equals MC squared minus negative one). 

Then?  We’re back in the future where the half-fairy chick-with-the-gap-in-her-teeth from the True Blood series has a skunk stripe in her hair and says hi to Wolverine.  Phew!  There you have it, folks.  The end. 

Except for that part where I give Hugh Jackman a smug smile based on our completely non-existent past/future and say, “Hey Wolverine.  Are those some adamantium claws in your pocket?  Or are you just happy to see me?!”

Hmmm, maybe Hubby WAS right.  Maybe I AM a bad, bad girl.  ggggrrrroarrrrrr.