janradder: (crying)
My kids can start a fight over which cartoon to watch . . . even when they both want to watch the same damn cartoon.
janradder: (godzilla)
Why is it that people think just because they're at a horror movie, it's okay to talk whenever they want about whatever they want. Last night, I went to see Drag Me to Hell (which was very good, by the way), and my friend and I seemed to be the only two people not having a conversation, and I'm not just talking about talking to the screen or announcing to the theater the blatantly obvious such as "It's coming up the stairs!" (of which there was definitely a lot of). I'm talking about conversations that had absolutely nothing to do with the movie. Here's a sample:

"So when did you change your hair color?"

"I didn't -- it's always been like this."

"Really? I like it, but I swear it used to be a different color."

This was not at the beginning of the film, as the credits were rolling. This was halfway through the damn thing.

I have to say, the best experience I ever had at a theater watching a horror movie was when I saw 28 Days Later and I was the only person in the entire theater because I was at a 1:15 screening on a Tuesday afternoon. I really need to find a way to get to more of those.
janradder: (Default)
Is there any music worse than Christian pop? I'm talking about the kind you hear on the all Christian radio station, where every song sounds exactly like the last one and all the words are exactly the same -- the kind where between songs, you'll hear that gentle male preacher voice lulling you to sleep with the love of Jesus. Someone in our neighborhood has been blasting it to the neighborhood, perhaps in the hopes that doing so may save some of us sinners (or perhaps it's being done in an effort to finally drive us to the devil once and for all, in an effort to escape that horrid, horrid sound). Dear God, please deliver us from your devotee and shut off that infernal racket . . .
janradder: (Default)
I came downstairs from my shower to find that Éiden, who has been only wearing socks and underwear since tiring of his Superman costume, was covered -- and I do mean covered -- with glitter from his eyes all the way down to his ankles.

"Éiden, how did this happen?" I ask while futilely attempting to remove the glitter from his skin.

"I wanted to see which picture was mine."

On Sunday, the boys both made glitter pictures which were placed up high on a shelf to dry.  Apparently, finding out which picture was his involved carefully removing as much glitter from the pictures as was humanly possibly and then reapplying it to every inch of bare skin.  Arrrghhh!

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janradder

March 2012

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