Category Archives: Really?

Movie Theater Etiquette


If there is one thing that I love to do, it’s going to the movies to see the latest blockbuster or a little-known indie film. But inevitably there is going to be someone who steals the show with their theater antics. I never thought sitting in a dark room quietly for two hours would be so difficult.

And you thought the Transformers series was getting long…

This weekend Steve and I decided to see The Avengers, which we were both excited to see having followed all of the previous movies. Not surprisingly, there was a whole host of moviegoers bound and determined to drive me crazy; at least I didn’t react like this guy did.

Here is a list of what I think are common courtesy rules of a movie theater that no one else seemed to be aware of on Saturday night:

1. When in a public place, you should keep your shoes or sandals on your feet.

And you should also refrain from putting bare feet anywhere but the floor.

I understand that some theaters have next to nothing when it comes to legroom. I’ll admit it: I am one of those people that puts my feet on the back of the seat in front of me, but only when there is absolutely no one around that seat.

I was amazed when the woman sitting in front of my removed her sandals and propped her legs up on the seat in front of her, directly next to another man’s head. In disgust, I searched for others appalled as me, only to see the couple next to me doing exactly the same thing.

I shuttered.

2. When drinking a carbonated beverage and the cup is empty, it truly is empty.

More pop will not come out no matter how loudly you slurp.

Once again, this was the group directly in front of me, which consisted of the shoeless mother and her young daughter (definitely too young to be in a PG-13 movie). As the daughter polished off the extra-large pop in the first 10 minutes of the movie, she slurped and slurped and slurped, all while looking at her mother to get a reaction. Her mom just laughed.

Oh dear. This is going to be a LONG movie.

Throughout every fight scene and dramatic music sequence, the daughter would leave for a refill, only to do the same routine 20 minutes later. It took all of my inner strength not to take the cup and throw it across the theater.

3. When you spill your candy during a quiet time in the movie, it should all spill onto the tile floor at one time.

Not over the course of the next 15 minutes.

As if the crinkling of the plastic container wasn’t enough, someone in the back row slowly poured their candy onto the floor — 7 Reese’s pieces at a time.

4. Cell phones do not equal flashlights in a movie theater.

First of all, the screen is pretty bright, so you should have no difficulty finding an open seat in a relatively empty theater. There are also lights illuminating the walkways so that you will not surprisingly trip over someone or something.

But when you come to the movie 30 minutes late and decide to sit near the front, please don’t light up your incredibly bright cell phone, shining it on the tops of the seats.

Maybe she was looking for the boogie man hiding behind her seat? I am still not quite sure.

5. If you eat popcorn so loudly it can be heard over the movie soundtrack, you lose your right to eat it behind me.

Loud eaters are one of my pet peeves to begin with, so when someone is munching popcorn in my ear right behind me, there is nothing else that I can focus on.

I turn into The Hulk and it is not a pretty sight.

Who eat so loud?!?

I do not look good in green.

6. Talking has never been acceptable in movie theaters. Don’t start now.

I shouldn’t even have to put this.

It would be too difficult for me to point out all of the examples people talking in normal voices during the movie. Or yelling in the case of the young girl in front of me.

Even though I had all of these distractions during the movie, I still liked it. Quite a bit, actually. There was enough action to keep Steve happy (especially since I didn’t make him go see What to Expect When You’re Expecting instead) and enough humor to keep me from completely losing it.

The best part: I was uber excited to see that Robin Scherbatsky landed a role in the movie.



Moon over Minnesota


For some odd reason, growing this human has been the best diet I have ever been on. After 15 weeks, I’m still down 4 pounds from my starting weight, even though I’m quite positive that the jiggle is simply redistributing itself to my front, top and bottom.

Well, I was under that impression until a few days ago at work, when I was reminded that my massive assive still follows behind me no matter where I go.

The weather was warm, so being in a summery mood, I decided to put out more effort than I normally do and shave my legs—for the first time in so long that I am definitely not putting it out into the universe for everyone to see. I’m married. Who am I impressing anymore? Plus, it insulates in the cold winter months.

Anyway, the entire reason for de-hairing was so that I could wear one of my all-time favorite dresses:

Circa June 2011, with a smaller behind (apparently) and my short friend

It has pockets.

So, no explanation needed on why I love it.

I weighed myself at work and shockingly I discovered I was still down those few pounds. I instantly decided that I would celebrate by having pizza for lunch. Obviously.

As I went to sit down, I felt a slow tear move its way up in the rump-region.

My eyes widened.

My mind raced.

What underwear am I wearing?

Oh crap.

I slowly stand and turn so that no one would notice the blinding sight of my pasty patooty, but as I felt around, I was relieved to find that it was only the lining of the dress that had torn.

I still ate an entire pizza for lunch.

Like a slightly torn dress is going to stop me.

How to liven up a Tuesday.


I had a variety of different titles that I contemplated using for this post:

  • And the Wife of the Year Award goes to…
  • Wife deserts Husband. Inflammation ensues.
  • Oh, my achin’ appendix!

I settled with the current title because it doesn’t make me seem like the bad person that I am. It just took a surgery and hospital stay to make me realize this about myself.


Our story starts on a Monday evening, with the lovely young couple at home watching their routine television shows while being howled at by The Beast.

Steve was mildly complaining of some stomach pain, like he had done the week before. He hadn’t really eaten anything unusual, so these pain were quite intriguing.

Steve: Oh wait. I ate some flax seed. Do you think that’s it?

I googled flax seed side effects.

Rae: Possibly. I bet you’re just backed-up.

We retreated for the evening, only to be awoken at 1:30 AM to increased pain accompanied by Steve emptying the contents of his stomach.

Then, just as we had settled back down, the heaving starts again 30 minutes later.

This pattern continued on until 8:00 AM, when the decision was made that Steve needed to go to urgent care. Trying to drive himself there, I felt like the most sympathetic and helpful wife by offering to drop him off at urgent care on my way to work. There were a few appointments that I had to go to and I’d have someone else cover the rest. I would leave work early to pick him up and he’d have the laptop with him to keep him occupied while he waited. He was just having some minor intestinal issues. It’s not like it was anything serious…

So, I dropped Steve off and hurried off to work. Throughout the next hour, Steve kept me posted on the happenings of urgent care.

“Long wait. Erg”

“IV drip. Ultrasound soon. Maybe catscan. Maybe appendectomy?”

These messages made me a little nervous, but I knew that everything would be okay. It was just the flax seed rearing its ugly head.


During her second to last appointment, I received the most worrisome voicemail I have ever heard:

“Rae. It’s Steve. Um, you need to come get me and take me to the hospital. I need to get my appendix.”

Now I am in high-gear, running around to get everything in order so I can jet out and save my poor, abdominally-enflamed husband. All the while, I can’t stop calling myself a moron.

“You know medical things. Why didn’t you pick on this? And who just drops off their husband at urgent care?!?”

Walking through the clinic and hospital’s emergency department, I couldn’t help but feel all of the nurses glaring at me for deserting Steve in his time of need. (Actually everyone was UBER nice. I really couldn’t have asked for a better group of people to be taking care of Steve, especially sine I was a tad bit absent.)

The ride to the hospital was quick and within and hour, his appendix could do no more damage. The surgeon came out to tell me that everything went really well and that he should be out of recovery in an hour. The nurses would call for me at that time.

An hour goes by.

I play Wheel of Fortune on facebook and update the families on the situation.

Another hour goes by.

Okay, now I’m getting nervous.

I ask the desk what Steve’s up to and if he’s out of recovery yet.

“Oh. Oops. We told that other lady that your husband was out of recovery about an hour ago.” Turns out that there were two Steve’s having surgery on that day. At the same time. The lady at the desk felt really bad about it, but I told her not to worry; I kept myself plenty occupied with buying vowels.

What really got me, though, was that the other Steve’s wife never said anything. My Steve that she went upstairs, walked into his room, said “Oops. Wrong Steve.”, and then went back to sit in the waiting room without trying to find this other Steve’s wife at all.

Seriously, lady?

But I was soon reunited with Steve and we watched TV until I had to go home to let The Beast roam the yard. Just like we would have if we were at home.

Prior to the Appendix Fiasco of 2011. Little did we know what would happen in just a few short days.

An open letter to the current occupants of my backyard


To the slithering inhabitants of my lawn:

Moving out to the middle of nowhere has had its perks: less traffic, quieter nights, and all-around peacefulness.

That is, until we invaded your space by building a house you moved in.

For three years I lived in blissful ignorance to your existence, believing that the most terrifying occupants of our property were the occasional wasp or grasshopper. I would walk through the yard without a care in the world, sometimes even barefoot. I considered the overwhelming scent of our dog to be enough repellant for you to not even think about sliding over into our grass.

Silly me.

My utopia came to a crashing halt this summer with the discovery of your thin, discarded shell, laying on the rocks by the front door, serving as a threat to my outdoor afternoons. I refused to go out the door for days without sending out Feta the snake-hunting dog before me. Eventually I worked up the courage to be able to walk through the yard again.

Over Labor Day weekend, my parents came to town for a visit, but only gave me more bad news: my mother had found a home of yours. Next to our house. Luckily Steve promptly filled it and I had a vivid dream that night of you being trapped down there for eternity. I considered our yard cured of you, especially after cutting the grass myself and seeing no sign of you on a hot autumn day.

But then yesterday happened.

The day that I will not soon forget.

Yesterday was the final straw.

It hadn’t been a tough enough week with Steve having surgery and mostly being out of commission. You had to startle all three of us on a leisurely walk through the neighborhood. I found it fitting that you scrambled back into the yard of the most ridiculous neighbors on the street.

But, no, that wasn’t enough for you.

As Feta was grazing in the yard, you slithered through the grass, leaving your scent to intrigue her, luring her to ignore the many attempts to call her inside. Since Steve was passed out from our stroll earlier in the day, this meant that I had to walk into the den of despair known as our backyard.

And then there you were.

Coiled and waiting to scare me and live in my dreams for weeks.

I ran.

And now I refuse to go into my own yard.

Steve tried to find you and bring you to an untimely end with a shovel, but you were no where to be found. I’m sure that you were back in your lair, informing your compadres of the girl who lives in the house and how you don’t even need to move to make her scream.

So, now, garter snakes, I am asking you to leave.

This is your only warning.

If you choose to not heed this warning, you will be found and you will be destroyed.

By my ferocious, reptile-chewing Beast:

On second thought, maybe I’ll just run you over with the lawn mower.

Master of the House


It’s been a busy few weeks here at the casa de Rae and Steve, including weddings and football and working and surgery, but I won’t go into that now.

Instead, for a sunny Sunday morning like this, a story about The Beast seems more fitting.

Without totally giving away the basis of future posts, Steve had a rather unexpected surgery this week which has led to him being sore and needing to rest. He’s been off of work since Tuesday and I’m pretty sure that Feta has gotten used to having him around the house. She now has someone to fill her kongs on demand, someon to open the front door for her, and someone to howl at randomly.

It was on Saturday morning, however, that we truly learned who was the Master of the House.

After an eventful Friday evening of the Tigers game being rained out, bring our record of watching Detroit sporting events to 0-2, the three of us retired for the night, excited for a Saturday full of nothingness and sweatpants.

The morning sunlight cracks through the curtains. The Beast has had enough rest, anxious to find the empty kongs she dreamt of throughout the night.

Feta: HOWWWWLLLLL! HOOOWWWWWLLLLL!!! (Scratches the bedroom door.)

Rae and Steve: (No movement in fear of Feta realizing they’re awake.)

Feta: RRRROOOOOOWWWWRRRR! ROOWR. (Jumps around at the end of the bed.)

Steve: She’s gotta go outside.


Steve: I’ll get up.

Steve: (Gets out of bed. Puts on sweatpants. Opens bedroom door for Feta.)

Feta: (Jumps up and steals Steve’s spot in bed.)

Steve: Seriously?

Feta: (Lifts head, glances at Steve, then puts head back down on pillow and closes eyes.)

This clearly shows who’s in charge, but with a face like this, how can you be mad at her, even when she kicks you out of bed after you’ve had surgery?