Mary Mott's Podcasts

Have you noticed that when you go out to dinner with friends now, you spend the evening talking about what you’re watching on Netflix? iTunes? Amazon? Hulu?  Trading show ideas like we used to trade baseball cards.

 

The industry refers to these shows as “episodic viewing”.  Shows geared to keep you engaged over eleven episodes.  Or eleven years.

I admit I’m hooked.  At night, we can’t wait to get to the next episode in whatever we’re watching.  And when we finish, like true addicts, we crave another fix.

I’m completely smitten by “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel”.  Terrified by the crazy serial lady of “Killing Eve”.  Shocked by the entitled children of  “Succession” and “Yellowstone”.

There’s nothing like sinking into the couch and being swept up into one of those worlds with a bowl of coffee toffee ice cream. After the dinner dishes are done.

47% of people prefer watching movies at home.

Compared to 30% that prefer the movie theater.

I admit, I still like going out to the movies.   But I’m old.  It’s part of my heritage.

I saw the “Blob” when  I was eleven. Steve McQueen was in it.  I didn’t know who he was then.  No one did.

There was nothing like being in a dark movie theater with all your friends watching a horror movie.

There was a bouncer in our movie theater.  To toss out stupid, teenage boys.  Yell at them during the movie.

I always bought a box of Good & Plenty.  Sometimes mixed with my popcorn.   Didn’t like Necco Wafers though.  My girlfriend’s still hooked on them.

That’s how we spent Saturday afternoons.

These days, going to the movies is date night for my husband and me.  Early movie.  Sushi. Home.   We’re in our own world in that dark cinema.  No one can get to us.  It’s just us… and the screen.

It’s not quite the same at home.  Your daughter calls.  Your dog has to go out.  The dishwasher buzzes.  You decide to learn to knit while you’re watching.

But you do get to follow your favorite character and their story long after the episode is over.  Night after night.  Week after week.

And that’s pretty cool.

So I think we don’t choose.  We keep both.

Movie date nights at the cinema in town.  Where a story is played out before your eyes in it’s entirety.  In the dark.  And they still sell Good & Plenty.

And couch nights at home where you can watch your favorite characters wander in and out of their lives as you mentally wander in and out of yours.

Once you’ve finished the coffee toffee and the knitting, of course.

To stay up-to-date on all of the Mary Mott Podcasts, download iTunes here – Search for Mary Mott in the Podcasts section, and “Subscribe”.

If you already have your favorite Podcast App downloaded, simply search for Mary Mott and “Subscribe”.

Listen to a Podcast of Couch Potato:

Splat.

Everything changes.

I wasn’t even considering an accident.

Splat.

We were on Nantucket.  Favorite place. Old, wonky sidewalks.

I fell over a brick, pushed up by an ancient tree root.  Flat on my face. I thought I was channeling poor Natasha Richardson.

My head was ok, but my shoulder got in the way and broke in four places.

Life as I knew it, screeched to a halt.

It hadn’t been going so well anyway.  But this?

What had I possibly done to deserve this?  Of course, as we know, life’s little tricks aren’t exactly fair.

Life is an ocean.  Learn how to surf. Apt for this little island I was on.

Me, and my puzzle piece appendage, had to get off the island.  On a ferry. In a pre-hurricane storm. Followed by a pothole-littered journey home, and a swaying, shaking Amtrak jaunt to New York. And my surgeon.

Trauma surgeons look like Marvel movie stars.  Young. Athletic. Bursting out of their skin with enthusiasm for the job they’ve chosen.  At least mine did.

I wanted him to like me.  Want to save me. And remember that resolve when the lights got turned up in the operating room.  I’m not good in harsh light.

The next thing I know, I am in the recovery room, looking out on the East River and the city beyond. With a beige foreign being lying next to me.  Looked like my arm. Chubbier. Attached to me. But it had no feeling. At least not to me. I couldn’t control it with my mind. Totally creepy.

I freaked out.  They explained that they had put a block in it.  To ease the pain. Like that permanent pimple you get on your nose when you’re thirteen, I was sure this was permanent.  I would never feel my arm again.

That was two months ago.  

Now I’m haunted by the trauma of the fall.  I keep reliving it. Afraid to walk anywhere.

I survey the ground ahead. Only wear sensible sneakers.  And take giant steps when I’m walking. Like an R. Crumb character.

Normally, I have a good attitude about life and longevity.  Forever young.

But now, in my mind, I have aged ten years.  I am different now. Uncomfortable in my skin.  

I have to wear oversized button down shirts I can maneuver my arm in.  And pants with an elastic waist that I can pull up with one hand.

I can now wash my hair.  Sort of. But no conditioner.  Takes too long. And no drying it with a dryer.  With one operative arm, I can only do one side.

I feel like wallpaper.  I’m just there. In my corner.  Icing the errant shoulder.

Friends sweetly come to “pay a visit”.  Like they did when people actually used wallpaper.

The summer has come and gone.    Pain, pills, physical therapy. Repeat.

There is something about an accident.  The shock of it. Blindsiding you. Changing everything.

It frightens you. Like you somehow deserved it.

You feel unsafe.

And now as I face many more months of physical therapy…an arm that can’t reach up for a can of beans… I realize that I won’t go back to whom I was.  

My guard is up.  My naivete down.

I realize that life can change in an instant.  A blink.

Am I better off knowing there could be another tree root in my future?

Probably not.

To stay up-to-date on all of the Mary Mott Podcasts, download iTunes here – Search for Mary Mott in the Podcasts section, and “Subscribe”.

If you already have your favorite Podcast App downloaded, simply search for Mary Mott and “Subscribe”.

Listen to a Podcast of SPLAT: