An Open Letter to My Oldest Son

Dear Oldest Son...

As I write this, you are sleeping soundly. Even though you now dwarf me, in size, I can still see you as a little boy, doing things like "helping" me sweep the floor, or brightly saying, "Cookies!" when the oven timer goes off.

You talked early, and well, and I took that as a sign of things to come...an indication of intelligence.

And you are very, very smart.

But you're not that smart.

For instance, when you casually mention a new video game, and offhandedly remark about how it includes references to the inventions of Leonardo da Vinci, and takes place during the Crusades, don't think that I don't see where we're going.

Don't think that telling me how you'll have to probably use higher order critical thinking skills to figure out effective ways to kill your enemies will cause me to rub my chin and think, "Hmm...maybe Assassin's Creed is the missing piece of the puzzle I've been trying to solve, about "Peep" #2's education..."

I know you believe that you've figured Ol' Mom out, and you probably chuckle to yourself at night, rubbing your hands together and envisioning how I'll blink blindly the next time you toss out a factoid that perfectly illustrates the educational merit of Assassin's Creed, and stagger, zombie-like, for my wallet.

You're wrong.

And having your charming friends tell me things like, "Religion figures in big, in Assassin's Creed" won't help your cause. It only alerts me to the conspiracy. (In fact, if I hear "Assassin's Creed" one more time, I think I'll become an assassin, myself.) I'm just waiting for Grandma to tell me that she read a newspaper article about how Assassin's Creed probably accelerates brain development. Because I don't doubt your skill, your cunning...I only know that your premise is flawed.

Because you believe that you CAN figure me out. And I know that to be impossible.

Many other boys and men have tried to understand me, through the ages, and failed. The workings of my mind remain a mystery to the male of the species. If your father, an intelligent man who probably has more reason than any other person alive to want some shred of a clue as to what goes on in my head, can't get close, then I don't think you should take it personally that you haven't totally succeeded yet.

But you gave it a good try.

Love,

Your Mother

He's Just Not That Into You

Hmm. Well, it's Tuesday. Do you know what that means?

The Good Wife is on tonight!

The reasons why I love this show are manifold.

First...

Julianna Margulies is not twenty years old. (Thank you, Powers That Be.) You can actually see the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth. (Granted, she still looks like a million bucks, and is way beyond the pale of "Average Middle Aged Woman", but...still. She's representin', that's all I'm sayin'.)

Second...

This show actually has intelligent dialogue, some humor, and reasonable plots. It does not suffer from what my friend A. calls "Written By A Ninth-Grader Syndrome". (I saw Ridley Scott's name listed as a producer, and I'm betting that has something to do with it.) The emotion they evoke with some of the smaller scenes (a wife that has been stung by public adultery finding a tape and tensing up before watching it...only to find that it's a home movie of her husband and kids) is achieved through an element that's in short supply these days...restraint. Just good stuff.

Third...

During all of the various political scandals involving cheaters, everyone watching, I'm sure, feels horrible for the wife. During the Good Wife's pilot, you get to see a dramatized wronged wife smack her philandering spouse right in the kisser. I don't condone violence (often), but sometimes it just scratches an itch, you know? They get big style points with me for taking this (unfortunately) oft-repeated situation and giving (a portion of) the public what they would really like to see.

And last but not least...

Titus Welliver is a guest star.

Mr. Welliver is a...well, a particular favorite of mine, on the Ol' Flickering Screen. Go Google him, and tell me that he doesn't look like he could be Jakob Dylan's mean older brother. And then tell me that's not totally awesome.

He's even more of a favorite since he's turned gray. (More on why it's so unfair that men are completely HOT when they grow old and get gray hair later). So it was especially exciting to find a well-written, nicely produced television show...and discover that he was going to be on it, from time to time. With his gray hair.

Because while I have been guilty of watching something simply because he's on it, occasionally, that's not a hard and fast rule.

I will not, for example, start watching Lost again, just because he might be on it, now. (I will, however, look at the totally hot photo stills, like the one linked above. Is that so wrong?)

I mean, I tried to watch Lost, when it first started. But when they got too convoluted for ME to get interested in, then I had to quit them. (And I'm generally all about the cryptic and the crazy, so that's saying something large, when you can lose me with a twisted plot.)

Mr. Crib Chick, of course, was never interested in the first place. I provide more than enough puzzlement in our everyday lives, leaving no reason for him to seek it out in his entertainment. (His comment on Lost: "Yeah...that's a good name for it. Lost. Because that's exactly what you'll be, if you try to watch it.")

For crying out loud, one character can't even ask another one to pass them a coconut without Lost fans hopping on the Internet and dissecting it!

"What does that mean?! What does the coconut represent? Eternity? Doesn't Kafka talk about coconuts in Metamorphosis?! No?!"

Anyway. What was I saying?

Oh yeah...Titus Welliver.

You know, I had a dream about Mr. Welliver, once. Don't worry, this isn't going to be R-rated--although it was certainly MY intention for it to be that sort of dream.

No, it didn't turn out like that because even though I was sitting at a table with Mr. Welliver, and recounting what I thought was one of my more scintillating anecdotes for his benefit...he got up and left. Without explanation or polite pretense. Just left.

Now, when your celebrity crush gets up, in your own fantasy, and walks off...that says something. Maybe it says that yes, you really do talk too much, if you can bore a man in a DREAM SEQUENCE. Perhaps it hints at some deep rooted self-esteem issues. Or a failed fantasy might be God's way of helping me stay bonded to my husband, who will at least pretend to listen to some of my long-winded stories, some of the time. (If they're new, and not reruns. Or if I'm wearing that one sweater...)

Or maybe I should just cut out the Ho-Hos before bed.

Nah. It can't be that.

See y'all later.