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I’m looking at you Cider House Rules… Damn you John Irving!

Issue Date: Monday, Dec. 18, 2006

Oy, what an awful evening. I mean, the evening itself was nice and all and I got half a day off yesterday for Christmas (For me? Just what I have always wanted!) so I did some shopping (but mostly lugging around 40 pounds of cat litter… yes, I live the cherished life), tackled the post office (hoo-ah!) and got dinner on before 5 o’clock in the pm… but after that? Well, it was still pleasant, yes, but after the movie and the snuggling and the puppy “loading up” perfectly. After that? It blew.

I am not sure (searching archives now) if I have ever mentioned this particular fact to you all but I love to read… and let me simplify that by saying fiction. I love to read fiction.

Well, the previous two sentences were brought to you by the letter W… as in What the fuck have I been doing? I started writing this entry last Thursday.

Let’s see if we can even begin to wrap this little story about fiction up like a nice neat little Christmas package… nay present. For you.

And, as an aside, if you haven’t seen the comments from the last post… the robe (in my size) showed up in the mail on Friday. It was not wrapped and had no embroidery, but it is mine, all mine and I love it like a fat kid loves cake.

So the fiction. Yes, I love it. And yes, I have mentioned this many times and even went on a rant about the Gunslinger series from Stephen King (the shame). But the entry that I was thinking about only mentioned the novel that I have obsessed about (I’m looking at you Cider House Rules… Damn you John Irving!) only in passing. See? It is in this entry right here.

I went into a period of mourning when I finished that book. Lord, I was all melancholy and moody like some teenager with an unrequited crush on the cool emo kid with the hair that hangs just so.

So, I should have known better than to read The Hotel New Hampshire. Seriously. It was right there, in big bold letters. “Hey, Sue. Do not read this book. It will take completely abnormal things and make them seem normal, and make you feel all crazy like when you are about to sneeze and you hiccup instead. It will be days upon days of that.” It had all of the ingredients that make you internally cringe. Incest? Check. Death? Check. Rape? Checkity check check bitches.

And The Hotel New Hampshire wasn’t even as bad as The Cider House Rules. Ya’ll, that book made me cry. Outloud. Sobs and shit. Snot and heaving chest and all of that.

Yeah, I’m sexy. You can tell me about it later.

So with the drama surrounding these two and all of the other John Irving books I have read you would think that when NetFlix showed up on Thursday I would open up the first envelope and (note to self: Mister and I never finished Spanglish… did we send it back?) see the title and immediately put it back in the envelope, seal it and put it back in the mailbox. But did I do that? No. No, I did not do that. And I would like to submit my judgment for… well, for judgment.

The first envelope from NetFlix did, indeed, have inside it the DVD for Cider House Rules. I put the movie in our queue last year when I was still in mourning over the book. I should have removed it. I should have. But when I told Mister about the movie showing up he was interested in seeing it. I should have read another book in the living room. I should have watched one of my DVR’d (knock off of Tivo) episodes of Grey’s Anatomy or Giant Squid: Caught on Tape or some shit… but Noooooooo. I waltzed right into the bedroom, got all situated, cleared the business off of my side of the bed, applied hand and lip balm and settled in to watch the movie.

Snuggled up with Mister, the movie playing on the TV suspended in the northwest corner of our bedroom hitting pause every seven minutes or so for us to talk about, “What do you suppose he meant by that?” I read the book, supposedly I was the expert and remember… Mister talks to movies and worries about the characters. (And he says he doesn’t like fiction. Ha.) We only watched about twenty minutes of the movie and then we went to sleep.

Well, Mister went to sleep and I went into screamy nightmare territory. One in which a dear friend was getting an abortion and I had to hold her down and the only way I could comfort her was to give her a chaste kiss on the boob (?) and then the machine gun fire started and the picket line (on top of a twenty-four story building?) was picking off snipers from their hiding places and bodies were falling into the street below.



That? That right there? Was just wrong.

So what have we (Mister and I) been doing almost every night since? We get situated, get all snuggled up and then watch a goodly portion of the movie that we have already seen (Here’s Mister, “I don’t remember that part.” I sweetly reply, “THAT IS BECAUSE YOU WERE DOZING OFF! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, QUIT GOING TO SLEEP! WE HAVE TO FINISH THIS MOVIE!”… Actually, I am not all that screamy… more high pitched and anxious really.) and then pausing in each sequence to talk about it. (GAH! Stop dragging it out for the love of Pete!)

And my favorite (Warning: Sarcasm forthcoming.) part is where Mister says sweetly, “He’s going to fall in love with her isn’t he? I just know it.” I want to yell, or screech that, “This, my love… is a John Irving movie… it is not all puppy dogs, dandelions and kitten paws. There is death and bereavement and pain.” But I can not do that to him. He is so hopeful, and if the writers of the film do the book any justice at all there will be death and bereavement and pain, and you will be uncomfortable and you will like it because it was beautifully written (AHEM, White Oleander anyone?) and there will not be a happy ending. This is not fucking Disney. It is scary and real. Well, not real real… just “Hey, this is the world real.”

I totally forget it is fiction.

And Lord… my sister wants me to go see Running With Scissors with her over the holiday.

I may have some issues I would like to deal with.

Or some booze to drink.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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