About the New Girl Scouts Cookie: Savannah Smiles

The movie was better than the cookie.*

 ≠

Thank you.






*Disclaimer: I haven't actually eaten the Savannah Smiles Girl Scout Cookies, nor purchased any Girl Scout Cookies of any type in the past 18 months (broke,) and while I usually prefer Samoas and Thin Mints (who doesn't, Trefoils,) I can't tell you definitively that Savannah Smiles are delicious or not delicious, but that the name does offend me as someone who saw Savannah Smiles approximately one million times in the early 80s and considers that movie a wonderful example of the "bumbling kidnapper" genre, which genre name I just invented, and as a movie that still functions as a time capsule view of the area surrounding my hometown, I simply find it annoying that no one, especially not respected journalists, has even mentioned Savannah Smiles as being a movie FIRST and not a cookie.

Amen and pass the Oreos.

Rio Movie Premiere for Today's Mama

I went to the Rio movie premiere for Today's Mama this past weekend, and you should go read all about it.

It was an OK weekend, I guess, if your idea of a good time is 4 star hotels, room service, HDTV, sleeping-in, dinners out, and meeting movie stars.

And the picture above? That's a shot of Peter Farrelly. I was so surprised to see him that I just said, "HEY!" as if I knew him. To which he answered, "HI!" like he thought he should know me. We do not know each other.

Mom It Forward: Scary Movies!

I wrote about scary movies for Mom It Forward.

Yes, I wrote about scary movies.

Yes, I understand the irony of disliking scary movies, and yet, also writing a recommended list of them for your Halloween enjoyment--if your idea of sick Halloween enjoyment is having the crap scared out of you. (You're so weird.)

Caution: I haven't even watched some of the movies I recommended because I am too scared to watch them!

14 Items of Varying Importance

1. It's "Oy vey". Not "Oi veigh". Not "Oy Vay". Not "Oi Vaee", nor any other unholy combination thereof.
2. Shiny is something. Shinny isn't, unless you're aware of someone with freakishly out-sized shins (please take picture.)
3. It's "über". If you can't stomach umlauts (bad summer with the Crüe?) then you may write "uber". "Ober", no. "Oober", no for the love of berliners, no (unless you are TAMN.)
4. Speaking of, Der Himmel über Berlin is still as beautiful today as it was in 1988. And it will make you want to throat-punch Nic Cage and Meg Ryan for starring in City of Angels. Well, throat-punch them more.
5. Half of you will be bored if you really decide to watch Der Himmel über Berlin, the other half will cry and fall in love. You already know which group you fall into.
6. Alan Thicke from Growing Pains is hawking diabetes supplies on TV. His on-screen qualification is "Famous Television Dad."
7. Know who else was a famous television dad? Frank Costanza. I'm not buying anything from either of them, except for a manzier of course.
8. Manziers all around.
9. Someone let a mancold in here.
10. That someone will be summarily fired.
11. Currently reading the archives of Andy's We Are Luck. We Are Fate. I vote that he harbors an unreasonable love of Christopher Hitchens. Andy, defend yourself.
12. Also currently reading: East of Eden, Memoirs From Antproof Case, and Eugenides' short story in the New Yorker.
13. I have a bit of a thing for masculine-driven fiction lately.
14. The drive to Logan takes 1.5 hours. The drive home takes 2.5. Explain.

Rated What?

I'm over at Segullah today, talking about how I watch R-rated movies.

SPOILER ALERT: I feel conflicted about that.

October Surprise

Last week our ex-nanny, and still cousin extraordinaire, M, asked our family to be in a movie on Saturday.  OK, so it was just a student film, but we couldn't say no to M.

Friday night was just marvelous.  I wasn't sleeping, which was good, since Proximo wasn't either. I had the distinct privilege and honor of cleaning El Guille's throw up from where he missed the bucket, changing his sheets, cleaning him off, all three kinds of delightful! I woke up to a call from M reminding us of call time. 

I got up so tired that I thought I would throw up. And then I did. And did again. Yet, a promise is a promise. I know what a hassle it is to plan a shoot and then not have people show up, or have something go wrong. I managed to get into full makeup, get everyone dressed, and all of us out of the house. I rode shotgun, armed with a bucket.

We drove down to the park with Proximo screaming in the back seat because I had not let him buckle his own belt. All we had to do was sit on a blanket and pretend to be a happy family enjoying the park.  I got out of the car, walked two steps, and retched into the bucket. At some point, just holding the bucket wasn't enough, I had to fall onto my knees, in the middle of the park, in a skirt, cardigan, and full makeup, and empty the contents of my already empty stomach. I just like attention.

I walked a little wobbly to where our blanket was set up and laid down with the rest of the family. Proximo clung to me like he always clings to me, but this time with anger and loud noises, apparently annoyed with my inconsiderate illness. The crew did a couple more takes of the scene they had already set up and then turned to us. Just as we were ready to roll, I motioned to M to bring me the bucket. You know, with a cinematographer, a director, a sound guy, production assistants, rolling film, in a city park. I guess I can't run for office anymore without some really fantastic and perfectly lit YouTube footage ready to make an October surprise.

There's just something really funny about looking at yourself in the mirror after throwing up and seeing yourself in all that makeup. I thought about washing it all off, but decided that if models have to do it with perfect cat-eyes, so could I. The rest of the weekend was just as lovely. I may have even forgotten to feed the children one day, who can keep track? Solid food is for suckers.

I'd Like to Thank...

source

Just so you know, if I ever won an Oscar, and to be perfectly honest I never will, I won't be one of those people who uses their Oscar as just another shiny door stop.

My Oscar wouldn't be kept in the cupboard behind the salt. My award wouldn't be in the oven with all of my off-season sweaters or upside down as an emergency tub plug. 

I'm pretty sure that if I ever won an Oscar, I would put it on its own shelf with a single spotlight on it. I'd probably refer to the Oscar in every day conversation, trying for casual or oblique mentions and failing at subtlety, "The other day as I was making dinner I noticed my Oscar on its Swarovski crystal ledge and noticed that I hadn't given that round head a polish in at least two hours!"

"This curry reminds me of the time I accepted an Academy Award."

"When you come in the house please remove your shoes and notice the Oscar."

"I sewed some curtains the other night, and also I have an Oscar in my formal living room."

"Does this Lemon Pledge work on Oscars?"





"I need to pick up a few things at the grocery store, oh, and I WON AN OSCAR."



Tell me, where would you keep your Oscar?

Charming Loses to Transcendent

Once upon a time I was a movie critic.

I did movie critic-ish things, like watch movies all the time, debate those movies endlessly, and write analyses. I wasn't a great movie critic, but I liked it. After I started blogging and had El Guille, I shed that part of me; it sits in the corner occasionally popping out when I want to make Uwe Boll jokes. (Besides, there are hundreds of better critics out there than I ever was or could have ever been.)

Today was a rare day, I got to see two movies and actually see them in a theater.

I thought this movie was delightful. I'd recommend it. I took my mom. It was a Nora Ephron movie that I actually liked (the hardcore movie geeks understand that statement.) Meryl Streep was absolutely marvelous. Was it the best movie ever? No, but it was charming and likeable. I wonder if I'd of liked it had I not read the book.

And then I saw (500) Days of Summer

(The tagline is "This is not a love story. This is a story about love.")

And then my world turned upside down, which is what a film should do. I fell for this movie hard. It's movies like (500) Days that make me want to go back and watch movie after movie just to have another experience like that one. That's WHY we watch The Proposals of this world, why we watch Failure to Launch, How to Lose a Guy, Hitch, The Wedding Planner, and a zillion other pathetic, awful excuses for romantic films because every once in a while they make a movie like this, and it makes movies worth seeing again.

I'm 32! Again!

As I close out another year of successfully existing on this planet, my thoughts turned to goals for the year ahead. I’m not normally all about goals. Sure, they’re great, and we’re always making goals, but what purpose do they really serve other than to upset you at a specific time that you yourself set in the future?

I read about this woman who started a blog chronicling her goal to read 50 books a year. Really? 50 a year? That doesn’t seem like a lot. I once read 5 books in 3 days when my TV was broken. Clearly, the solution was to make sure the TV was never broken again. During my years as a history major we were required to read about 3 books a week, sometimes far more. All I’m saying is that 50 seems to be a little slacker-ish as far as goals go. What’s that saying? If you aim for the stars sometimes you’ll reach the moon? Yes, that’s it. Why not promise you’re going to read 5,000 in one year? That’s only slightly more than 13 books a day. You could end up reading 11 books a day. Go for it!

I have decided to not see any Cuba Gooding Jr. movies this year. It will be hard (what if he releases Snow Dogs 3: Search for the Lost Tundra Paws of Gold?) but I think it will be worth it.

I will continue my one woman fight against the abominations that are harem pants. Trust me on this one: I have lived through one harem/genie/Hammer pant era and you will live to regret your foray into the puffy pant. Especially if you sew them yourself out of gold fabric.

I will cease my recent Woody Allen-esque preoccupation with the specter of my own death. No one appreciates a third of a life crisis, it's too silly to even contemplate.

I think I can stop getting choked up when I hear the strains of All Along the Watchtower and wondering what Gaius Baltar is up to lately.

There will be a no holds barred clean out of the closet and shoe box. I mean it. This time for real. Seriously.

This is the point of the piece where an author would normally review the goals of the previous year and hold them up to scrutiny. I guess not having made any birthday goals last year pays off in less writing this year. I love when past self helps future self like that, good work everyone.




Mysuestories had a great idea! (and Hi!)
How about a delurk day?


You wouldn't have to get me anything else, although I'm not turning down extravagent and inappropriate gifts of any sort.

A Few Suggestions For The Easily Scared

Yesterday I terrified my baby.

No, I didn’t dress up as an aggressive Tooth Fairy, or turn on the blender, I did yoga. You should have seen the display that ensued. He sobbed with terror when I down-dogged. He hit me and tried to pull my hair when I up-dogged. He sat himself on the mat, reclined and refused to move. I’ve honestly never see anything like it..

I’m thinking I should show Proximo what it means to be really scared.

For example, we could watch the 28 Days Later running zombie movie in Park City at a midnight show, have to drive down the deserted canyon at 2am, and then have to sprint across the parking lot to get into the house while you can hear the zombies barreling to get you.

Instead of reading about fuzzy barnyard animals for a bedtime story we could read Treasure Box and become too terrified to sleep in case there was a succubus about the house.

We could go see the original The Eye in Cantonese and then every time we got up in the middle of the night we could see an ancient Chinese man hanging from the ceiling in the bathroom with the side of his head bashed in.


I could make him watch Rock of Love 3.

I mean come on, get a little perspective!

The Jet Set Twilight Review

I went to a movie called Twilight tonight with some friends. I was really surprised; it was all about this amazing house. The house is perched on a hillside and is built partially into the landscape. The planes and intersections of the different materials used were gorgeous: galvanized steel, warm woods, cedar, and glass. I couldn't get over the design. The house emphasized harmony with its natural surroundings, incorporating passive solar heat and an obvious eye for wind movements.

To top off the design, the place was decorated to perfection. The art complimented the surroundings, yet provided foci of color and movement. One piece was a collage of graduation caps--so unique! I must try! My favorite room had floor to ceiling windows that opened to the trees surrounding the house, no deck, no balcony, so chic. In that same room the owners had placed a Mies van der Rohe Barcelona day bed. Be still my heart! I'm in love!

Some other things happened, I think, but it was mostly about the house.

Two thumbs way up!

Just Calling it...

El Guille happened upon a showing of The Wizard of Oz on TV.

The Cowardly Lion was about to do his big number. El Guille said, "What's that?"

I answered brightly, "It's a lion! It's the cowardly lion!"*

"Uh, that's just a person. It's a person in a costume. That's not a lion, that's a person," he said, like I was some kind of idiot for thinking it was a lion.




*Why is it that we insist on trying to make everything that we consider a classic, from food to movies, into something really super exciting for kids? Even if we don't think it's that exciting? It's like we have a compact with the rest of the human race to indoctrinate them with whatever tradition we've all decided is important for kids. "It's a tilt-a-whirl! You'll love it!" "Just try it! You'll like it!"

In which I run afoul of the law not once, but twice

It was Susie's birthday so a few of us hit the town for churrasco and a movie.

Susie, I love her, but when she picks the movie I just go, even though it's assuredly something I never wanted to see (Chuck and Larry) because that's what you do for friends. And to get out of the house before you lose your mind.

Susie picked The Changeling.

I grimaced inside but it's birthday law: you have to see what the birthday girl wants to see, end of story. First of all, The Changeling is a Clint Eastwood joint which means it should be just as full of sunshine and blue birds as Million Dollar Baby and Unforgiven. Oh, they are excellent films, some of the best, just not warm and fuzzy. Second, The Changeling is about a mother whose little boy goes missing. Third **minor spoiler alert** the movie takes place against the back drop of a child serial killer (draw your own conclusion) and explores themes of how marginalized women could be without a male protector during the time period.** Corrupt cops, mental institutions, and missing children, you know, fun!

The tension was relieved by our audience. There was the lady who kicked my chair, during the PREVIEWS, for texting Tiffany once to tell her in which row we were seated. Sorry, the previews are fair game, because they're ADS not movies. The large fellow two seats down from me who belched repeatedly, started counting the big time swears, and then informed his wife, "Well that's why it's rated R," and proceeded to get huffy every time someone swore. Here's an idea, if you're offended by things in a rated 'R' movie, don't go to rated 'R' movies. Our favorite was the lady several rows down who thought she was at an Adam Sandler movie; she whooped, hollered, and clapped the whole time. She was the only one. So, disturbing movie, funny patrons.

The three of us spent the hour after the movie chatting in the parking lot to get the freakies out of our heads. Susie apologized profusely. I made fun of her for picking a movie about a mom searching for her lost, possibly dead son when we each have little boys. Good one Sus!

Just as we were starting to feel warm and fuzzy again, a mall security SUV pulled up to my car. The guard inside said, "I'm so sorry, I'm supposed to ask you to leave the lot. I'm so sorry." We all giggled. Nothing like crossing Johnny Law to celebrate a 30th birthday. I guess now that we're in our 30s our law bending days are pretty much over, so we complied.

I called T right away on her phone to finish our conversation while I drove towards home. We were in the middle of laughing about Susie's taste in movies when I saw the flashing lights in the rear view.

What? I checked my speed: four over the limit.

The officer approached my car.

"Good evening. Did you know you have a headlight out?"
"Oh, no, sorry, this is my sister's car (true.)"
"You also crossed the center line."
At this point I'm freaking out. I'm wondering if I'm actually going to have to get out of the car and perform a sobriety test. A sobriety test! Like on Cops! Or Reno 911!
"I did?"
"Yeah, have you been drinking tonight, Ma'am?"
Ok, I have never in my entire life had a drink. I once stuck my tongue into a daquari I ordered on my honeymoon cruise (I was pretty sure that the server didn't remember that I ordered it virgin,) felt the old-fashioned Benedryl burn, and promptly sent the drink back.
"No, sir," I said as he pointed his flashlight at the center console and then at the passenger side, where the light landed on an empty Minute Maid Lemonade.
"Lemonade, huh?"
"Haha! Yeah, you know, the hard stuff," I blurted out and immediately regretted.
"What have you been out doing?"
"We just got out of a movie."
"Which one?"
"The Changeling."
"Oh, was it good or bad?"
How do I answer this question? Technically the film has some merits even though it's directed in such a ham-fisted way, although I didn't care for the filters the DP used and for how skinny Angelina was, but Amy Ryan was great (isn't she always) and Malkovich is wasted and don't get me started on the storyline--well OK, there are cops that don't believe a woman and subject her to terrible things while her boy is still G-O-N-E. So I said,
"No."
"I heard it's about a missing kid and corrupt cops," said the cop.
"Uh, yeah, it is, and we're all mother of little boys so it was probably not the best idea. Haha."
"License and registration please."


I texted Tiffany and waited nervously. Corrupt cops. Mental institution. The officer sauntered up to the car.

"Well, your headlight is out, but since this is your sister's car, I won't give you a ticket."

And also because you have nothing on me, copper.

I drove home very carefully and tried to stop giggling from nerves. I was so wired when I got home that I attempted something I should not have attempted, but I will save that story for tomorrow, stay tuned.

Today's Gear:

Orange merino sweater with a shawl collar, zebra print corduroy skirt, gold and black stone necklace, black fishnets, and the same flats I've been wearing every other day because they were the same height as my post-op boot. I did get to wear both shoes today (hooray!) even though I still walk funny. No heels. Sigh.

Update: Sweater - Banana Republic. Skirt - Target, maybe three years ago? Shoes - Nine West from Endless.com

Dear Summer,

We’re through, you just don’t get it, and it’s over. You were lovely in June, tolerable in July, tiresome in August, and now? It’s like you’re the new Meredith, I’m so over you. You can’t be here when October starts, that’s just rude.

Speaking of over, I had Grey’s on notice until two things happened: Christina told Meredith to shut up, and Kevin McKidd showed up, oh, happy day. Things are looking up around Seattle Grace! If I had to live through one more Denny/Izzie/Meredith/Rose/I-want-to-punch-you-in-your-rebuilt-face-Ava/Lexie, I was going to have to find Shonda Rimes and give her shaken baby syndrome.

What a relief to finally have my DVR filling up; the harvest has arrived, with or without the weather.

Enjoying:
Gossip Girl (“From now on, everything goes through me”)
Privileged (Anne Archer!)
Smallville (At last! Lois has dark hair!)
The Rachel Zoe Project (I die.)
Tabatha’s Salon Takeover (Say “that’s disgusting” again, T!)
It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (The worst people on TV)
Gavin and Stacey (Love!)
The Office (Duh)

On the Bubble:
90210 (Silver? Your arms scare me, and so does the porcelain man-child)
Heroes (Def Con 5! You’re taking yourself too seriously)
Top Design (Wisit? More terrifying than Kelly Wurstler)
Life (Sigh)

Waiting Not so Patiently:
30 Rock
Dirty Sexy Money
Amazing Race MCXVII

You Decide:
Lipstick Jungle (One plot twist and everything is solved?)
Grey’s Anatomy (Can Kevin McKidd save the show?)
Pushing Daisies (Too Amelie? Too ...?)

Push comes to shove, I have Hunt for Red October waiting for me in tube storage. I love that movie.

Sundays and Annie

I decided to introduce El Guille to one of the classics of modern cinema: Annie! We had a brief conversation about what orphans are and got down to watching the movie. In the opening scene Annie was singing about what she hoped her parents were like "Bet they collect things/Like ashtrays, and art!" when all of a sudden something happened...

Did you know that the children in that movie were all ORPHANS?

That none of them had PARENTS? And they're all at this orphanage with no one to clean their clothes, comb their hair, put them to bed at a reasonable hour and to LOVE them? That my children have a MOM and aren't they LUCKY? I started sobbing for the poor orphan children who had no one to love them. I think I covered it up pretty well by wiping my eyes on a t-shirt I'd just folded. El Guille was too engrossed in Hard Knock Life to notice my tears for the grubby girls of Hudson Street Home (which is an ORPHANAGE.) Nice one. Realizing that the girls were all orphans (with no MOMS) almost took the spark out of Miss Hannigan's brilliance. Almost.

My one request for Mother's Day is that I get breakfast in bed. Other Half's request is to buy all the ingredients and leave the recipe on the counter. I almost reconsidered my request when the smoke filled the hallway. I guess french toast isn't foolproof.

My breakfast was delivered by Other Half, one child who kept hitting the siren button on his new fire engine, and one that cried the whole time because I CAN'T BE PUT DOWN IT'S A HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATION--I NEED TO BE NEXT TO YOU ALWAYS, EVEN WHEN YOU ARE EATING, COOKING, SLEEPING, NEED TO USE THE FACILITIES, OR BREATHING.
"I found out that french toast is better when you use more butter," Other Half says in wonder.
"More butter is always better," I say under my breath.

The rest of the day passed like any other Sunday: wrestling with the children in church to pretend we have some semblance of control. My church uses the little paper cups for the sacrament. I have fond memories of undoing the pleating on the paper cups as a child and using the expanded 3" circle to make some sort of paper craft. I undid the pleating for El Guille, to see how his imagination would take flight. He immediately put the flat paper on his head like a hat, turned around in the pew, and showed off for the little red-headed girl two rows back. He put the paper at a rakish angle, he crumpled it up, he undid the paper, put it back on his head like a yarmulke, all for the benefit of the giggling girl behind him. I didn't know whether to laugh at his attempts to impress her, roll my eyes because he's 4.5 and already a ham for girls, or become more flustered because my children are practically bouncing through the air during the service. I settled for a combination of all three.

When it was time for the children to go up front to sing for the mothers, El Guille was at the very front. He lazily leaned on the stand, making no attempt to sing the songs (which he had been singing to himself in the car all week.) Pretty soon he leaned to far and fell down with a THWACK. He recovered before the verse was over, back to dangling his arms over the side. Other Half leaned over to me and said, "You realize we have the worst behaved child up there, right?"

I just smiled.

This is All Just a Little Too Much for Me

I am a complete ‘fraidy cat. I can’t help it. I have an overactive imagination that horribilizes everything. I’ve been scared of the dark since I can remember, that is until my first kid was born. One night, as I prowled the house in the wee hours, I realized that my home is not scary and that now that I have a child, I pretty much have to be the adult. By extension that meant I could no longer be scared of the dark (mostly.)

Scary movies, songs, books, TV or radio shows are all still too much for me. The X-Files was about as creepy as I could get. These days Medium is as creepy as I can get. I think I really like Medium (it helps that Medium has new episodes.) The only thing about Medium is that, well, the theme song is really scary. The rest of the show is interesting and fun to watch. I particularly like the relationship between Alison and her husband. The theme song freaks the crap out of me. The insistent strings and some weird percussive accents don’t do my imagination any favors.

Tonight I had my most expensive recipe book/movie and TV show player/laptop in the kitchen while I fixed myself a snack. I clicked the icon to start streaming the latest episode of Medium while I cut a piece of bread. The commercial started right away; I hummed along with the Beatles/Target theme song. I was coring a pear when the Medium theme song started. It creeped me out, especially since I was the only one awake. As soon as the theme song stopped, the Beatles/Target theme played, again. “Huh,” I thought, but I was happy to hum along, again, “You say goodbye/buy, I say hello…”

Then the Medium theme song restarted. I nervously put a glass of water into the micro. Just as quickly the Target song played “Hello, hello, hello…”

“DA duh duh duh”

“I say hello, hello, hello”

“DA duh duh duh”

Every time one song finished, the other would start in its place, never advancing to the actual show. I would be assured and pacified with one; my blood pressure would rise and heart palpitations start with the other.

My friends, it was epic. The forces of good (Target) battled the forces of evil (overly-scary theme music) in my kitchen tonight. Oh, and the forces of streaming stuff online, wireless routers, and old laptops. I guess it was more of a melee than a black and white battle.

At some point (when I’d mixed the Pero into the water) I gave up and moved to the living room. Time to leave the scaries in the kitchen where they belong (Amy.) I turned on Medium from the DVR and assumed my regular defense of scary position: curled up in a chair, a phone, a cell phone, a laptop, an iPod, and a big blanket. All the better to…ward off a Luddite? You’re right, I probably DO need a transistor radio as well.

Then again, did you see White Noise? Maybe a radio isn’t such a good idea.

Cocoa and Violence

Lately there hasn’t been much to blog about, unless you want to hear about my incredible desire for more baked goods and good chocolate.

It seems I got spoiled back on Valentine’s Day when a box of very fresh, very delicious Belgian chocolates arrived on my doorstep. I started the box while watching the movie Eastern Promises; the chocolate was better. Ever since then I’ve harbored an enormous desire to eat more very good chocolates (thwarted by every awful supermarket brand) and an even more bizarre desire to watch fewer ‘R’ rated movies.

Eastern Promises has a fantastic plot, driven and engaging performances, but the throat slitting (nothing by Sweeney Todd standards) has kind of put me off of film violence. I think I’m over it all, which is new. I think I was over Hershey’s chocolate from birth, but even Lindt isn’t doing it for me anymore. Lindt is what I buy my kids to eat, it has become ‘kid-level’ chocolate. My biggest problem is that my Belgian chocolates are, on sale, $27 a pound. Ouch. Also, you can’t just run down to the corner grocery to buy them; tack on another $14 for 2-day refrigerated shipping. I’m guessing that when you’re looking into refinancing your home to keep you in chocolates, it might be time to reevaluate.

So the time for reevaluation has arrived: fewer ‘R’ movies and less substandard chocolate, even if that means less chocolate. I wonder if this self-reflection will begin to preclude baked goods. Heaven forfend, I don’t think I can get over baked goods:

Exhibit A - Mini donuts I made for a party last week.

Exhibit B - The bread sticks I made for the family from Sarah K's recipe.

Exhibit C - The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (R) has been in my DVD player for more than a week.

(Red Box found its sucker.)

A Little Festival Coverage

This is the first year in five years that I didn’t go to Sundance, Slamdance, or any of the other satellite film festivals in Park City. I had some friends invite me up, and while I would have loved to have seen my critic friends, a sick baby and a job got in the way of the festivities.

Also, don’t tell, but I can’t take the Industry jerks. They are so pretentious, not in the self-deprecating way that I’m pretentious mind you, but honest to goodness indie hipster pretentious. They descend on Park City in black from head to toe, dark glasses optional. They stagger about, nose deep in Variety, gossiping about which film got a deal, and bad mouthing Utah. Don’t mess with Utah or I’ll kick your self-important attitude and bleach blonde hair back to the Universal back lot.

I’ve met some really fun and really great people at the festivals, but the hipster pretensions and the social snobbery wears on my patience. It’s so bizarre to be at a party mingling with people and when the doors open to let in another reveler, everyone turns their head like a tennis match to see if the entrant is either a.) important or b.) famous. A slight lull in conversation follows while everyone immediately judges the worth of the entrant, and then the party resumes. Of course, after 50 minutes, I’m the only one who is still sober.

I have a lot of great memories of festival times: fantastic movies, really bad movies, interminable movies, and shoestring movies. You meet really fun people in line, fellow film geeks who are just there for the shows as well as the professionals; it's a great place to network. You also tend to see some of the same folks from year to year, which makes for "Don't I know you?" reunions and "Same time next year?" conclusions. People beg you to come see their movie, screened in a bar’s basement on Main Street. I loved knowing about a film first and trying to convince your friends that they need to see it when the movie finally rolls around, 6, 7, 10 months later.

I’ll never forget the night that my critic friend Scott and I waited outside the Egyptian Theater for tickets to 28 Days Later. The temperature was in the teens and we were waiting in a cement bunker under the street level. The people that surround you are both your friends and your competition for seats; an uneasy camaraderie. I didn’t want to see the movie but I wanted to see it more than anything: 28 Days Later was directed by one of my favorite directors but the movie is a very scary film and I do not do scary (let alone very scary.) Scott and I scored the last two tickets of the night. I sat next to a girl I’d never seen before. We said “Hi,” before the movie started. She and I ended up gripping hands in complete fright as we both struggled to make it through the utterly terrifying but awesome film. Afterwards, we laughed at each other and said goodbye.

What you don’t realize is that attending the festival is very hard work.

You see a lot of movies when you are press for an outlet. You might think that watching 4-6 movies a day would be fun, but it begins to wear on you after 5 days. By day 6 or 7 you're getting sick if you weren't already. You also have to write up your reviews, talk about the deals being brokered, and provide any other content the festival or your outlet requires of you. It’s so much fun watching the great movies, but you really have to watch a lot of dreck to get to the good ones. You also have to be mindful that a bad word from you can hurt the chances of a film being picked up and distributed.

I’m so glad that my friends still do that work, being a film critic is hard work, often draining and thankless, with little to no respect accorded. I stayed home this year to comfort a fevered Baby Proximo. I am sad that I missed my friends and the little cinematic gems, but am somewhat grateful that I don’t need to do it all anymore.

For the inside scoop on all things festival related, check out these sites by my friends:

Scott Weinberg's great coverage for Cinematical.com

Eric D. Snider's coverage for Eric D. Snider.com, starting with Day 1 Diary.

My Baby Makes Me Want to Swear

Inspired by my own advice on Miggy's site, I decided to put Proximo to sleep awake instead of nursing him into oblivion. This was IT, I was steeling myself, he's going to cry it out. Or, at least, cry for a while. We let El Guille cry it out. It took four days. The first day was the worst, he cried for more than two hours. I remember going in an rubbing his back and talking with him every 10 minutes or so. It was terrible, but it worked.
I got ready for the same with Proximo. I put him down and he fussed. I left the room. Gird your loins! We're going to let that baby cry. Proximo let out a few small objections and fell asleep within three minutes. What in the...? I love that baby so much he makes me want to swear. Holy @#$%@#! &%$#!! He ROCKS!

For those of you looking for advice on making your baby sleep through or sleep on his own, don't look this direction. This baby is sleeping and I had nothing to do with it. It's all Proximo. He rocks so hard. Party on!

**********************************

Other Half: Hey, did you know when you bought my green and blue tie that they matched this shirt and pants so well?

Me: Well, I do try to stick with a specific color palette for you.

OH: You do?

Me: Yeah, that way there’s a chance, albeit a small one, that you’ll match yourself when you leave the house.

OH: Get out.

***********************

On the recommendation of Sarah over at Hollywood Flakes, I tried Google Reader.

I love it. If you’ve got more than a couple blogs you check, it’s worth subscribing to them. Reader makes it easy to see when blogs are updated and takes you right to them. I usually take recommendations from Sarah, that’s how I got a fork stuck in my eye. She’s not kidding with that avatar. Thanks a lot, SF.

***********************

I was watching a little of that Adam Sandler movie Spanglish the other night. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what bugged me about it when I first saw it. Then it occurred to me: Sandler is supposed to be a chef in the movie. He’s supposed to be a fancy-schmancy chef who’s worked his way up and has a couple of Michelin stars under his belt. The central conceit of the flick is that Sandler can’t communicate to his Spanish-speaking maid/nanny/housekeeper/hottie. I can suspend disbelief for a lot of things: Battlestar Galactica, Amelie, that Clay Aiken is straight. However, a chef in a kitchen that can’t speak Spanish? HOGWASH. A step too far, James L. Brooks, a step too far.

Lovely Coping Mechanisms

Tiff-fay-fay and I like to watch bad movies. We love renting turkeys and seeing the awful unfold. Sometimes those movies turn out to be hilarious. Try Glitter, that movie might be one of the top ten comedies ever. Sometimes those movies turn out to be even worse than you imagined. Gigli, for example, went from bad, to good, back to bad, and ultimately crossed the line to abominable.

So it was with Swept Away. Swept Away stars Madonna, a big strike one (or plus one if you’re into laughing AT a movie.) It is directed by her husband, strike two (he’s actually not a bad director, but directing your pushy spouse can’t be easy.) It’s a remake of a movie that has a lot of political and social commentary, all of which were sliced away (naturally, it’s a MADONNA movie) from the finished redo. Swept Away also commits an unforgivable offense: a beautiful, gigantic diamond ring sinking to the bottom of the ocean. That’s one of my movie pet peeves. One of the worst, most horrible, shameful things to ever occur in a movie is to see a piece of jewelry tossed into the sea.

WHY? Why would you DO THAT?

Harming innocent jewels like that, it’s just inhumane! That is why the worst thing about Titanic (and there are many things) is that the old lady tosses the Heart of the Ocean into the ocean.

WHY? Why would she DO THAT?

I felt connected to that necklace. I think we were meant to be together in material splendor all my days. My precious. Instead, it’s hanging on some crag of rock near the ocean bed, taunting me with its glittering chain and deep blue loveliness.

Imagine my surprise when I was able to acquire my OWN Heart of the Ocean. I was working at the bookstore and Titanic was just being released on video/DVD. Accompanying every purchase of the movie was a Heart of the Ocean necklace. I snagged one of those beauties right away. I found that wearing the Heart of the Ocean made my days so much better.

In fact, the Heart of the Ocean became my defense shield during three retail Christmases. Spending the holidays in retail is, uhm, there are no words, but I will try. You know how you hate to do Christmas shopping at the last minute? Imagine having that experience 8 to 12 hours a day, 65 days in a row. It’s a picnic! No matter how crazy things got, no matter how rude customers became, I was always cheerful. I knew that as long as I was wearing the Heart of the Ocean, things would be better. “That’s ok!” I would unflaggingly tell myself after a particularly hairy interaction, “They don’t know about the Heart of the Ocean.”

So last week I decided that I needed a pick me up. What better than digging the Heart of the Ocean out of it’s place of reverence (bottom of the jewelry box) and donning it once again?

Now, no matter how many times El Guille dumps out the salt pot and runs his trains through the grains, no matter how many times Proximo eliminates so fiercely it runs in rivulets out of the containment device, I know that I’m wearing the Heart of the Ocean...

nothing can touch me.