I used to be a Fatalist.
I believed everything that happened was governed by fate. If I stubbed my toe walking to school then I was meant to stub my toe--most likely because I was being punished for thinking impure thoughts about Scott Baio.
When third world countries were hit by hurricanes or tsunamis, they too were being punished for thinking impure thoughts about Scott Baio.
Eventually I got tired of being punished for my impure thoughts so I became a Determinist. I was the master of my own destiny and if I stubbed my toe it was simply because I wasn't looking ahead.
Now that I'm a grown up my philosophy on life is fully developed.
I'm a Trumanist.
That's right, I ain't no dummy. I can see the forest through the trees. If I stub my toe, I know perfectly well it's because someone put a pebble in my path--probably the set director or the producer, or maybe even the prop guy.
I am so on to them. I know all about their hidden cameras and cue cards. And I know about the little men that slip into my house when I'm not home and hide things--important things, like my daughter's Seven Peaks season pass and my puppy's registration papers and the check I got from Citibank because I overpaid my credit card bill. Those little men hid my bank card and my daughter's learners permit and my son's Duty to God booklet and my hub's fishing license. They even hid his other fishing license--the one I bought at Walmart to replace the first one they hid.
Yeah, I'm pretty sure My Truman Show is trying to drive me coo coo for coconuts. For entertainment purposes, of course.
I think my hub is in on it too because every time I mention the little men that are hiding our important papers, he rolls his eyeballs and tells me I need to get more organized.
I suspect Lulu is a plant too. Remember the time she chewed up my How To Train a Perfect Puppy book?
Well last weekend my son gets a replacement Duty to God booklet, right? He spends hours re-filling it all out, right? Then Little Lulu eats it. And spits it out at his feet. Don't even tell me that wasn't scripted! Thank goodness I figured out where those little men hid his original D to G booklet!
(I bet the viewing audience got a real kick out of the dramatic irony in that episode.)
Seriously though, raise your hand if you've noticed that for two weeks of every month the entire cast and crew of Your Truman Show conspire to do little things to annoy you. Your kids start asking you dumb questions while you're on the phone or your hub keeps reminding you to get gas. Or your MIL starts making even the most mundane bits of information sound undercover.
"Can you believe it," she leans in, drops her voice and narrows her eyeballs, "dinner is finally ready." And then, as if the two were correlative conjunctions, she adds, "And grandpa has to go to the restroom. Again."
It's the way she italicizes as she gives the secret head shake that makes me wag my tongue rudely at the hidden cameras.
Sometimes I wish I was one of the writers on the show rather than the protagonist. Especially when I get their jokes and imagine them up late drinking Mountain Dew and eating crunchy Cheetos and LOLing over their plot twists and turns.
I can imagine them giving stage directions to Lulu. "Okay, you think dog food is DISGUSTING. Got that? Under no circumstances do you eat dog food!!!" And then they would all crack up and slap their legs. "Decaying rodents, fecal matter, vomit and tampons, on the other hand . . ."
But as Gad as my witness, I will not be intimidated by the executive directors of My Truman Show. In fact yesterday, I stuck it to the man (the TRUman) while walking through the park. A black cat had poked her head out around the the corner in front of me and was just about to cross my path, when I stepped right into her space with my calm assertive energy (learned that from Caesar Milan in How to Train a Perfect Puppy).
I was like, "Oh no you don't, sistah!"
She bolted like a cat outta helk.
Pretty bold move for a Trumanitarian like me, don'tcha think?