• I was going to write a post about how I’m taking a break from blogging, but I’ve decided not to take a break.  I’m just not willing to give this up even for a few weeks because, to me, my blog is my own personal space.  You know, the “room of one’s own” of which Virginia Woolf spoke.  (Finally, after 18 months, I’ve managed to work Virginia Woolf into a blog post.  It’s all downhill from here, people.)

• My 19 year old cousin is staying with us, and she’s been an enormous help in every way.  Still, she makes me feel like… a “square,” sometimes.  Just the fact that I used the word “square” should illustrate how much of a “square” she makes me feel/act like.  When did I become a grown up?!

• My darling friends, Mr.  Britt, Miss Britt, Adam, Hilly, Clown and Carolina came over on Friday night to watch Om Shanti Om.  We had a great time, they were just disrespectful enough to Bollywood culture to be funny, but not so much that I had to throw them out of the house.  A fun time was had by all.  Except Adam who came up with exactly 4,321,972 different variations of the phrase, “Why can’t Indian movies be more like American movies?”

• My SIL’s baby shower is on Saturday at my place.  We’re doing a Victorian theme complete with full tea service.  I just hope I don’t ruin the shower by going into labor.  And, just so you know, SIL tried her best to discourage me from having it at all, but I told her I’d kill her if she asked me one more time not to throw her a baby shower.  And she believed me.  I’m not sure if she realized I meant “kill” in the metaphorical sense.

• Also?  I’ve surmised that Victorian tea is the direct result of the turn of the century British not allowing women to vote or own property.  As a result, Victorian women had no outlet for constructive behavior and were forced to concoct crazy rules like, “It is entirely inappropriate and quite common to slice a scone in its entirety.”   Furthermore, I am highly disturbed by how incredibly appealing I find the the prospect of enforcing these rules upon other people.  By the way, that thing about scones?  Totally true.  I could not make up something like that even if I tried.

• If you’re going to BlogHer, I hate you.  I hate you for getting to go to Chicago.  I hate you for getting to learn all the little things you’re going to learn about blogging and writing.  Mostly, though, I hate that you’re going to get to go to dinner and hang out with my friends (yes, I do own you, didn’t you know?), and meet her, and her, and her and her and possibly him and be completely scarred for life by him.  I hate that  you’re going to be obnoxious and twitter about it all day.  I hate the stupid updates that your going to plaster all over my Facebook account.  I hate that you’re going to get yelled at on the flight over for being obnoxiously loud and I will miss yet another opportunity to kick the back of the seat of the yeller in a well intentioned, yet highly passive aggressive bid to avenge you.

• I realized that I’m pretty much done preparing for the arrival of this baby.  I thought I was behind, but it occurred to me this morning that I actually had less to do than I imagined.  I was way too prepared for N.’s arrival.  We bought way too much stuff and made way too many plans.  If I’ve learned anything, it’s that every kid is different and that we should wait and gauge the temperament of this child before assuming that he will happily sleep in his own room within two months of being born.

• I feel so huge right now that it takes every ounce of what are the remnants of my self esteem about my body to keep from crying myself to sleep every night.  I literally despise looking in the mirror.  And?  Of course, I think pregnant woman are beautiful because, helllo, they’ll take my rabid feminist card away if I don’t. I just don’t feel like I look very beautiful.  My skin is all ashy, my face is puffy (read fat) and I can’t even bear to look anywhere below my neck.  Every time someone takes a photo of me, I want to burn their camera.

• And in a variation of the classic LeSombre and NYCWD bullet post,  I’m saving this last bullet for the first person that says, “Sweetheart, you’re not fat, your pregnant.”  Thank you.  I know this.  And that doesn’t help.  At all.

Saw Harry Potter on Wednesday. I’m meaning to write a review defending my stance that I didn’t like the movie at some point, but, until then, I’d like to discuss something else that I saw during the movie.

Being vastly superior in our planning skills to those who waited to find seating five minutes before the movie, we sat at a comfortable distance from the screen at the very end of our row. The end of the row, as far as I’m concerned is prime seating because, hi, I’m about to have a baby and I have to use the bathroom every three minutes.

A (presumably) father with his two kids, about seven and nine decided they were going to sit in the seats next to me.

The two seats next to me.

They were really polite, saying the requisite, “Excuse me… sorry…” as we all engaged in that scrunch up your legs and move sideways little jig that those of us who are awesome enough to occupy the end seats have come to know and love.

Here’s a math equation.

How do three people sit in the two seats next to me at Harry Potter?

Answer: The nine year old sits down, dad sits down and then seven year old sort of shares the seat with his dad and brother for the next two hours and forty five minutes.

Personally, I thought it was really nice that they would rather be together than comfortable.

Oh, wait, did I mention that on the other side of them were two people, an empty seat and, then, two more people?

Did you read that? An empty seat.

The woman who was sitting next to the dad and seven year old had an empty seat next to her companion and did not ask him to mover over, or move herself.

My heart also sort of broke because the dad and his kids were too sweet, nice, shy, dumb, or whatever to ask her to move over.

(Actually, I heard one of the kids translating certain parts of the movie to his “dad” in French, so I think the “dad” didn’t speak English very well).

Years ago, I would have undoubtedly leaned over and asked that woman to move down, so that man and his children could be comfortable.

Yes, I was that self righteous and nosy.

Years of being burned for meddling in other people’s business has taught me that my version of the way things should be are not necessarily …. well, the way that people want them.

And, people, sometimes get mad when you stick up for them. Even if you’re completely right and they are much better of now because of me.

So, I just sort of sat there waiting for this woman to get a clue.

Move. Over.

For-God’s-sake-man. Ask. Her. To. Move.

I was hoping some kind of psychic connection would arise between me and the dad or me and the seat camper so that all would be right with the universe and I could get on with being disappointed in the screen writers of The Half Blood Prince.

But, she didn’t move.

And he didn’t ask.

Maybe her companion has a fear of being more than twelve inches away from any other human being.

Maybe she was so excited to see the movie that she didn’t notice.

Maybe she thought, “He arrived five minutes before the movie, I got here twenty minutes early, why should I have to move, at all?”

I don’t know. But, whatever the reason, this situation has been bugging me ever since.

I want to know why people do this.

Why do people ignore people who don’t get in their face and demand to be acknowledged?

Why do people ignore the weak guy? The guy who, for whatever reason, doesn’t say, “Hey, do you mind scooting over?”

I definitely believe that being assertive about what you need is an important trait. You should tell people to scoot over if you see an empty seat so that you and your children can sit comfortably.

But, if you lack that confidence and strong sense of self, why can’t other people just scoot over, anyway?

Why can’t this be a world where once we’re settled in our own seats, we can look to the left of us and the right of us and think, is there anyone that needs me to engage in a small, random act of kindness?

In my faith, there’s a saying that the smallest act of charity is a smile. And that one of the smallest acts of faith is removing harm from someone’s way.

Whether you believe in God or not, this illustrates that kindness resides in the ability and the desire to think of the welfare and comfort of other human beings in addition to your own.

Interestingly, neither of these examples, the smile, the removal of harm or even the moving one seat down at the opening night of Harry Potter requires anything that would diminish one iota of our own abundance or comfort.

The requirements of basic charity and demonstrations of faith are painlessly simple.

A look to the left, a look to the right, and simply asking, “Is there anything I can do?”