Being in bed all weekend with my knee propped up and carefully portioning out Oxycontin so I don't become addicted has left me with a lot of time on my hands.  Couple that with free HBO and Showtime this month, and you can imagine what I've been doing the past few days.  That's right - I've been watching a lot of crappy movies.  Watching Megapython vs. Gatoroid, with its insta-classic catfight scene between Tiffany and Debbie Gibson, has inspired me to make a list of my favorite horror movies.

Note: these are my favorite horror movies of all time, not necessarily what you believe are the best horror movies of all time.  Your gripes that The Exorcist is not included are not welcomed nor appreciated.  I didn't see it until I was 32 and I'd built it up in my mind so much that when I did see The Exorcist, it just didn't scare me that much.

10.  The Lost Boys (1987, starring Jason Patric, Keifer Sutherland, the two Coreys, and Alexander Winter)  Before there was Twilight, there was this original teen vampire movie, a drool fest for every teenage girl in the 80s.  Keifer Sutherland as David, the supercool vampire who tricks Jason Patric into becoming one of the undead?  Bite me...please!

9.  The Nightmare on Elm Street Series (1984 - 2003, Robert Englund)  I love it when the scary bad guy has a sense of humor.  Robert Englund hamming it up as the razor-fingered child murderer makes these films my favorite guilty pleasure.

8.  Frozen (2010, cast of unknowns)  What is your biggest fear?  To lose your loved ones?  To die alone?  Mine has always been to be eaten by wolves.  This movie delivers on my worst nightmare tenfold.

7.  Pet Sematary (1989, Fred Gwynn, Denise Crosby)  The book by Stephen King scared me so badly my hair went prematurely gray at the age of 11.  Why I thought it would be a good idea to then watch the movie is beyond me.  Forget the little kid with the knife - the mangled cat still terrifies me today.

6.  The Changeling (1980, George C. Scott)  This movie has little blood, gore, and absolutely no zombies, but it still made me jump out of my skin.  A simple ghost story about a man staying in a haunted mansion...still up there as one of the scariest movies I've ever seen.

5.  The Shining (1980, Jack Nicholson, Shelley Duvall)  I KNOW Stanley Kubrick butchered the novel by Stephen King, but the result was still a great movie.  Jack Torrance takes a job as the winter caretaker of a haunted hotel and drags his wife and son along.  As a writer, the idea of isolating oneself in a creepy hotel for the winter to work on the Great American Novel is definately appealing to me.  Going stir crazy (or just regular crazy) and hacking my family to bits...the scariest part of this movie is that it could happen.  Except for the creepy twin girls randomly apparating in the hallway.  That probably wouldn't happen in real life.

4.  Student Bodies (1981, cast of unknowns)  My BFF in high school, Laura, made me watch this movie, thus proving herself to be the best BFF ever.  This horror movie spoof about a killer named The Breather stalking a high school still makes me laugh out loud and wet my pants a little bit every time I watch it.

3.  Psycho (1960, Anthony Perkins, Janet Leigh)  Alfred Hitchcock is my favorite director of all time, and like many, many people, this is my favorite movie by Hitch.  Plus, I thought Norman Bates was just adorable.  A little too attached to his mother, maybe, but still a cutie pie.  

2.  The Silence of the Lambs (1991, Anthony Hopkins, Jodie Foster)  The most disturbing thing about this movie was that the bad guy...was someone you kind of wanted to root for.  Dr. Hannibal Lecter is brilliant, enchanting, entertaining, and a sadistic cannibal.  What scared me the most was that I would have definately dated that guy if I'd ever met him.  Then he'd eat my liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

1.  Poltergeist (1982, Craig T. Nelson, JoBeth Williams)  This movie has always scared me and continues to terrify me.  I first saw it when I was 9 years old at a sleepover party, and I still have occasional nightmares about kid-eating trees and possessed stuffed clowns to this day.  I watched it again when I was 30 and had to sleep over my parents' house that night because I was afraid to be in my house alone until I could verify with the assessor's office that it hadn't been built on an indian burial ground.  

Feel free to argue, rant, commend, or ridicule my list as you see fit.  I'm off to check my closets to make sure there are no portals to other dimensions in there.

Sunday was a beautiful, albeit bitterly cold day. Jason was excited about his latest reporting assignment, a feature on recreational ice skating. We headed out to the hockey arena, looking forward to an afternoon of skating before going out with my in-laws to dinner and a play that evening.

Apparently, we were too caught up in the excitement of the day to smell the stink of disaster that hung in the air.

We rented our skates, joked about needing padding for our behinds, and headed out onto the ice.  Twenty minutes later, I was surrounded by concerned staff (one who was looking a little sick), wondering how my kneecap had managed to make its way to the back of my knee.

The helpful doctors at the hospital ER confirmed something I had already started to suspect:  ice skating is nothing like riding a bicycle.  You do forget, it will not come back to you right away, and anyone over the age of 21 should not attempt it at home.

That’s right.  For my 38th birthday, I found myself on crutches, with my knee so swollen that the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man’s legs look like a Rockette’s compared to mine.

I’ve had better birthdays.

Nothing is broken (except my ego), but I won’t know if I’ve torn my meniscus until the swelling goes down, which has yet to happen. I’ve quickly realized how fortunate I was in the past to be able to do things like carry a cup of coffee on my own or go to the bathroom without asking my coworkers to help me with the doors (those locks on the stalls can be tricky with crutches!)  It’s very humbling to have to ask my friends to help me up the stairs or to microwave my lunch for me.  Poor Jason has had to help me dress myself, tie my shoes, and maneuver up and down the stairs.  My birthday was particularly tough, and when I hobbled home that night, I had a mild case of crybabyitis, followed by a bout of feeling sorry for myself. 

Things perked up quickly, though.  Jason had stopped by his parents’ house that day, and his mother sent him home with dinner for the two of us, which officially qualifies her as a saint in my book.  My mother called me and let me wallow in self pity for a little while, which was really all I needed – someone to confirm for me that the whole situation did indeed suck, but that this too shall pass.  And then Jason surprised me with my birthday gift – two volumes of Bloom County and a pound of Munson’s chocolates, which worked wonders to improve my mood.  I was going to be all right after all.

So the lesson for today, boys and girls, is that if you are even thinking that although you haven’t been ice skating in 25 years, it might be fun to try again, DON’T do it.  It won’t be fun and you will wind up with legs like the ones pictured below.  Sure, it will be amusing when your nephews want to bring in photos of your injury for show-and-tell at school, but other than that, it really isn’t worth it.

The other lesson is that good chocolates, funny comic strips, and great family and friends can cure any ailment.

Now where is Jason with my @!$!! coffee?

I have long since accepted the fact that my ancestors chose to settle in New England (why this was more appealing than, say, South Carolina, is something I will never be able to ask my great-great-popouli).  Hey, snow happens.  Usually I can just dust off my Uggs, pull on my wool-lined gloves, and deal with it.  But when the skies part and dump 26 inches of what the hospitals refer to as “heart attack snow,” I tend to get a little testy.

I was trapped in the house all day with my loving husband, and we were snapping at each other by 10 AM.  This was largely due to the fact that we couldn’t agree as to which one of us had the monumentally terrible idea to TiVo The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, which turned out to be a steaming dung heap of a movie (just for the record, it was his idea.)  We were outside by 11, trying to clear the front stoop, since the snow was now so high we were struggling to open the screen door.

Within three minutes of beginning to dig, the head on my snow shovel flew off, planting itself in the middle of the yard.  
“Do we have another shovel in the shed?”  Jason asked.  I looked out at the shed, with its roof barely visible in the drifts.
“Why don’t you go check?” I said, smiling sweetly, already heading for the house.  It was becoming evident that the two of use couldn't handle all of this togetherness during stressful times, and I wanted to rummage through the basement and see if I could find any alcohol.  (Sadly, the answer was no.)

I was baking cookies and humming a tune, feeling a little calmer at the prospect of freshly baked junk food, when Jason came in looking rather sheepish.  It seems he tried to move my car to see how bad the driveway really was, and it was now permanently stuck until Spring. Why he chose to experiment with my car, I do not know, and I might have screamed this at the top of my lungs.  He might have chosen this moment to hide all of the sharp utensils in the house in reaction to my reaction.  What I can confirm is that we immediately called someone to plow the driveway, rolled over a CD to pay for it, and it was worth every penny.  We settled in for an afternoon of warm chocolate chip cookies and cold glares at each other.

The good news is we made it through the rest of the day without calling any divorce lawyers, and once the snow stopped falling, we were even able to joke about the day a little bit.  And I was inspired to start a new short story called “Trapped” about a happy couple that has to try and survive a huge winter blizzard, much as we did.

Make no mistake, though. It’s a horror story.

The other day, while vacuuming, I had the song “Live Like You Were Dying” by Tim McGraw stuck in my head.  I paused a moment and thought about my day’s plans: clean the house, iron clothes, and go grocery shopping.  If I were to be hit by a bus tomorrow, was this really how I wanted to spend my last day?

The answer, sadly, was yes.

Cleaning the house was definitely on the list of things to do right before dropping dead.  I would be absolutely mortified if people started dropping off casseroles to Jason at the house and there were dust balls everywhere.

Ironing would also have to stay on my bucket list, since my mother would absolutely die of embarrassment if I was wearing wrinkled clothing in my casket.  Then there would be two funerals to plan, which would really be hard on my family.  Best to press my prettiest dress now, and spare my mother that humiliation!

My list of things to do on my last day of life wasn’t getting any spunkier.  Should I put off the grocery store and ride a bull named Fu Manchu?  Then I realized that I was being ridiculous – there was no way anyone was going to get me on the back of a bull.  I grew up on a farm.  I’m well aware of how nasty a bull can be.  No matter if I have thirty years or thirty minutes left to live – I’m not riding any bulls.  Best to go to the grocery store, since if people are going to be dropping off casseroles at the house, we should have cream and sugar in the house so Jason can offer them a cup of coffee.

I did decide to live it up a little bit, just in case that proverbial bus was going to hit tomorrow.  I noticed the car needed gas while I was driving to the store, and I decided to get a little crazy and let the gas gauge drop below a quarter of a tank.  And while at the store, besides picking up whole grains and healthy fruits and vegetables, I tossed in a package of Oreo® Doublestuf cookies.  That’s right – if I’mgoing to live like I was dying, I was going to toss calorie-counting to the curb and enjoy an extra helping of cream filling.

On the way home, I thought about other risks I could take before I died.  Perhaps I would skip an episode of General Hospital and see if I’d really missed anything.  I might wear brown shoes with black jeans.  And just once, I’d like to close a book without putting a bookmark in to hold my place.  I was heady with the danger of it all.  I was a wild woman!

Then reality kicked in – or survival instinct.  Chances are, I was not going to die the next day.  I would most likely be around to face the scorn of the fashion police after wearing brown with black.  And close a book without inserting a bookmark?  What was I thinking?

The good news is, I’m still alive.  And these Oreo® cookies sure are tasty.