“This is my favorite light setting. When I die in my sleep, change the setting to this so I look my best for the coroner.”
“Also, wipe the drool off my face before they get here to collect me.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Mmhmm. I’ll do that.”
He broke their promise.
I needed more time with him.
They will forget him.
“Did you use deodorant?”
“No, but last night I used enough to last all week.”
“It really doesn’t work like that. You put deodorant on every morning like it’s your armour. Only instead of it protecting you, it saves the rest of the family from the stink bullets that shoot out of your armpits.”
“Ewww. That’s disgusting.”
“It is if you don’t use deodorant.”
She: “Don’t step in front of the camera if you are going to run around the house like that.”
Ten minutes later, child dancing in underwear has no memory of the camera conversation.
She: “Don’t forget the camera.”
He: “If I don’t care about open windows, why would I care about our cameras?”
I can’t argue with that level of commitment.
The Guardians sequel is lighter and sillier than its’ predecessor. The cold, sharpness of the film’s antagonist is softened like metaphorical vaseline on a camera lens. Everyone on the screen seems to be having fun and that mood was reflected by the audience. Nobody exiting the theater was fruitlessly trying to explain to a companion about the connections to the broader Marvel Universe. People were smiling. Maybe we were all psychologically starving for comic book escapism. Maybe we were all dedicated fans who would have cheered for anything with a Stan Lee cameo. Whatever the reasons, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 is a laugh out loud, fun movie.
Instead of one big scene at the end of the credits, there are four or five tiny scenes during the Grootified credits. One of them deals with the Ewok situation that Vol. 2 embraced in the title sequence. Another end credits scene name drops a future movie character so the canon nerds can squabble amongst themselves. Everyone else should be excited at how the character could be interpreted and the potential for some spectacular CGI battles.
Go to the movies this weekend. You need the stress relief and the economy needs your support.
P.S. Always imagine good hair in your personal flashbacks.
P.P.S. The Blu-ray/DVD release should include a Guardian brand condom.
Dad: “Siege towers sound like fun.”
Mom: “He has an after school activity every single day next week and I don’t know when we’ll have time to do the written report OR the model. Hadrian’s Wall or an aqueduct seem easiest to build.”
Child: “Let’s do a bathhouse! They’re not bathrooms. They’re swimming pools.”
Mom whispering to Dad: “If you agree to him googling bathhouses, I WILL add graffiti to the walls of his model.”
He: Takes to the bed at the first sign of illness and sleeps for 24 hours.
She: Drags herself to the nearest sitting spot. Stares blankly into the distance. Mumbles that this is bs and she doesn’t have time for it. Gets up and drags herself to the next spot that may or may not actually be a chair. Stares. Mumbles. Repeats this process all day except for half a dozen unplanned catnaps.
He: Sleeps the entire day and night, waking only to loudly slurp soup several times.
She: Can’t rest because every dish in the house is dirty and the laundry is becoming sentient. Easily mistaken for a zombie.
He: Nap. Eat. Play on Phone. Repeat. Repeat.
She: The crankiest human on Earth until she takes a two hour bath and drinks her body weight in coffee.
The back of my brain tickled at having the time to do a load of laundry and dishes between the children’s taxi deliveries and pickups, but I ignored it. I clinked the stack of plates like some parody of a functional housewife as my phone hummed a familiar melody and I realized my crime. It finally happened. After years of the middle child teasing me for almosts…
I forgot a child. I was blissfully checking things off my to-do list while one of the children stood on a school sidewalk looking for me.
Add “my mom forgot me” to that child’s complaints for her future therapist.
At least it wasn’t the middle child.
“One of the gloves is spinning too fast. I hear it clicking.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. I think you’re asleep.”
“I’m not talking. It’s the gloves.”
Either my child is a spy and I don’t understand her secret code or she’s experiencing Color Guard withdrawal.
I’m going with spy. Spying is the new hotness.
He: “I’m turning the water off and draining the old tank now.”
She: “Everybody shower. Quickly! We won’t have water for a week. Fill the water bowls. Move it!”
I love home repairs and improvements when they are complete enough for the tools to go back in the cabinets. Getting to that stage is somewhat less than satisfying. Because we live in an old house, there is no such thing as a simple repair or project. One repair ALWAYS means at least three repairs.
“After I got in there, I found out __ was broken, too.”
“I can’t fix it until I re-work the wiring because…”
“Our pipes are too old for this, so…”
As the problems stack up, the monstrosity known only as the “project” bleeds money. So. Much. Money.
The project area has to be cleared of normal contents, so every room in the house ends up cluttered with extra stuff. Supplies and tools are on every surface in the house. Nothing can be found. Nothing can be put away. Can’t sit in chairs because they are full of displaced things. It’s like drowning in clutter. The clutter is covered in layers of construction dust. The sunbeams sparkle with clouds of it. The humans are covered in grime.
Coughing. Sneezing. Headaches. Nosebleeds.
When the project gets to a point that it is functional, work on the project ceases. The huge amount of time that has been spent on the project means that other things are too far behind schedule. Something else is at the top of the urgency queue. No project is ever fully completed, but I always leave a bite of food on my plate and one of the children always leaves a few drops of milk in the carton instead of emptying it, so that’s basically the same thing. Right?