Don't wanna, can't make me

At least that's what I think he said. The varied rantings of a nearly 32 month old human. I have better luck understanding the Vietnamese girl who does my nails. At least she doesn't appear to be vomiting venom at me. The problem stems from trying to keep young eyes from being aimed at spouse's questionable movie picks (not those kind of flicks) that he garners from Netflix. Sometimes they are entertaining, but usually they are just to be "got through" and I really don't mind; I have my knitting. It's the embarrassing, bordering on soft-porn crap that causes the flailing and wailing from the peanut gallery. I ask Herr Becher to stop the show when Eli toddles in and the Mr. gets shitty with me, because I am obviously morphing into an intolerable prude who doesn't want her two-year-old to see animated weiner-dogs packing fudge with other smallish fur-bearing creatures. Keep in mind, this is the same man who thought it would be jolly fun to watch "Talladega Nights" with his terrifically Catholic, seventy-something father... yup. (And we're in the deep end of the gene pool.) Tonight's viewing pleasure was entitled "The Ten". It has a boatload of would-be and has-been stars in it, there is sex with Jesus, prison sex, murder, death by radiation, sex with a puppet... the movie consists of ten "featurettes", each taking a stab at one of the ten commandments, so there's something for everyone. I need to go wash, or pray, or put the Netflix returns closer to the door. I have control of the telly now, since the movie buff has to be up at four A for work. There's a second sock in Koigu wool (for the pain in my husband's ass) on needles now, and a second "LotusYarn" sock nearing completion. Enjoy your evening... I'm going to try and catch "House". C