No, I'm not talking about him again. You can quit rolling your eyes. The ghost who I refer to tonight is my second favorite celluloid specter...Beetlejuice!Beetlejuice!Beetlejuice! Ok, so I know it's not like a cinematic masterpiece or anything, but I think the AFI needs to come up with a new 100 best list for movies like this. I'm not sure what it would be called exactly. Something alluding to the fact that there are certain films that, no matter how many times you've seen them, are impossible not to watch when you find them on TV. Beetlejuice would have to be near the top of that list, along with the Kurt Russel/Goldie Hawn masterpice Overboard. If you have not seen these movies, you are only cheating yourself. I'm sure one of Oprah's make your life better books has a chapter about these films, because I just don't think you can say you're living your fullest life if you deprive yourself of Beetle and Goldie. Anyway, I was feeling a little bah-humbuggish tonight (or whatever you would call it this time of year); but then I found Beetlejuice on TV Land, and all is right in the world. Seriously, I have Beetlejuice on the tube, an ice cold glass of water in a special cup to make it taste more delicious, and two purple and red tootsie-pops which I am saving to eat until my favorite scenes so that I can have the most optimal sensory experience...could a Friday night be any sweeter? Well, probably yes, but I don't care right now.
I think I'm going to marry the freecreditreport.com jingle guy. I don't really think that, but whatever. It's fun to play make-believe. I find him very appealing, and if we do end up getting married it would be awesome to show this to him on our wedding day. I think we'll have a long engagement; the wedding date will get pushed back a few times because he'll be so caught up with his latest job...composing Beetlejuice! The Musical! "B-Double E-T-L-E. That spells beetle, yeah baby." Can't you hear it? Then there would be the scandalous love theme entitled "Juice of my Love." We're gonna have such an amazing life together. I wish I knew his name.
Well kids, Winona is getting ready to shake shake shake to Harry Belafonte, and my purple tootsie pop awaits.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Sorry, I'm Awake
So I've had a little run of bad restaurant karma these days. I don't know if I even believe in karma, per se, but if I did I would think the universe was punishing me for eating out too much or something. Maybe that's not what it is, though. Perhaps God has sent down some of his table-waiting angels to teach me a lesson about speaking up for myself.
It started one morning a couple of weeks ago when my sister and I went out for breakfast. I was so excited by the prospect of devouring something smothered in hollandaise sauce that I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head. It's a big deal for me to be that excited about anything so early in the morning. Generally, I don't like to speak or really acknowledge anyone's existence until I've been awake for a good couple of hours. It seems the promise of hollandaise sauce is enough to cure my morning misanthropy, which was lucky for the kind-looking gentleman manning the host's station that day.
In the most pleasant tone of voice I could muster up, I said, "Good morning. Two, please, for a booth if you have one available."
The gentleman replied, "Are you trying to sleep?"
Uh, what?
"I'm sorry?" I said.
"Are you trying to go to sleep on me here?"
I was slightly thrown, but had a sinking feeling I knew where this little exchange was headed.
"No," I replied, "I'm not trying to sleep. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's just that your eyes are so small. I thought maybe you were trying to sleep."
Yes, that is why I asked for a booth, sir. I need a soft cushiony place to rest my ridiculously tiny eyes. Constant sleep is the only way to preserve the strength of these little slits in my head.
Do you think that's what I said to him? Hell no! Apparently the presence of small eyes is correlative to a complete lack of back bone, because all I could say in response to his ridiculous statement was, "Oh." Guess I told him! Snap! This little convo probably doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but if you're reading this you have probably heard at least a few stories through the years about how strangers have displayed their shock/disgust over my small eyes. I think people are like dogs in many ways; they sense your areas of weakness and know exactly how and when to pounce. As the years go by, it bothers me less; frankly, as much as it has hurt my feelings from time to time, I just think it's really kind of a weird and stupid thing for people to comment on. I've never heard anyone say, "Are you trying to be, like, really awake? Your eyes are so big, I just thought you were trying really hard to be awake." I'll have to stick that one in my back-pocket in case some mo-fo ever tries to dis my slits again.
My ma likes to tell me I have a way with words, but I'm never able to say what I mean to say when I mean to say it. Even for dumb things, like placing an order. Last week I went to another restaurant (tsk tsk) and tried to order a salad. WHAT?! Maude ordering a salad?! During lent, no less? (For those of you who don't know, I have a long-standing tradition of giving up greens/veggies during lent) Anyhow, this salad I ordered came with pieces of steak on top of it and had some goofy name. Well, what I got when the kind waiter-in-training returned was a big slab of meat with steamed veggies on the side. Do you think I could say, "Sorry, sir, you're doing a great job but it seems you misunderstood my order." Hell no! I said what I always say when I'm given the wrong thing at a restaurant, "This looks great! Thank you so much!" Damn! For reals, what is my issue? The upside of this story is that I actually ate the slab of meat and it was quite delicious.
I'm seriously not gonna go on and on about restaurants and food and stuff, but I just have to share one more story from a few years back that really illustrates the ridiculousness of my issues and is sure to make you chuckle. Ok, here's the scene: I'm in my office cafeteria, going through the part of the line where they prepare certain featured dishes of the day. The selections are grilled cheese with tomato and bacon, a stuffed pork chop, or some fish thing. I thought the grilled cheese looked pretty mouth-watering. The cook greeted me with a smile. He was a super nice guy who spoke in broken English and made a mean grilled cheese.
"Hi," I said, "I'll have the grilled cheese today."
"What's that?" he replied. "You want the stuffed pork chop special?"
"Yes please."
What the eff?! Yes please? Seriously, girl, all you had to do is say, "No, actually the grilled cheese." It's not like I would have offended the man by just asking for what I wanted. Damn! I've got probs. If only I could keep my teenie-weenie eyes open long enough to take a good look at them.
To switch gears completely, I know I've neglected to deliver my Swayze Sunday entries. I'm sure you are all extremely disappointed by this, and I pray that someday I will win back your favor. So, continuing the theme of being awake, tonight I have decided to pop in Waking Up in Reno. I'll die of shock if you've already seen it. It was basically a straight-to-DVD feature...sadly, because it's actually really sweet and funny. I know I'm biased, but I've shown it to non-fans of Swayze who couldn't believe it didn't have a longer life in theatres because it's so enjoyable. Swayze stars alongside Charlize Theron, Billy-Bob Thornton, and Natasha Richardson; they play two couples who are best friends on the road-trip of their lives. There's infidelity, laughs aplenty, a dance scene between Swayze and the cameo-appearing Penelope Cruz, and Tony Orlando singing "Knock Three Times." I know, I can't believe it got snubbed at the Oscars either. It seriously is good for some silly laughs if you're ever in need of them, and who would be so foolish as to turn down a good laugh. It's probably not the last time you'll see me write this, but seriously, give it a peep and you won't be sorry.
Another work day is, sadly, just a few hours away. As much as I'm trying to fight it, these pin-holes of mine are wanting to close. I've also completely lost my will to go back and correct all the run-on sentences I know are there. Do you mind if I say goodnight? I hope not. I'm sorry :)
It started one morning a couple of weeks ago when my sister and I went out for breakfast. I was so excited by the prospect of devouring something smothered in hollandaise sauce that I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head. It's a big deal for me to be that excited about anything so early in the morning. Generally, I don't like to speak or really acknowledge anyone's existence until I've been awake for a good couple of hours. It seems the promise of hollandaise sauce is enough to cure my morning misanthropy, which was lucky for the kind-looking gentleman manning the host's station that day.
In the most pleasant tone of voice I could muster up, I said, "Good morning. Two, please, for a booth if you have one available."
The gentleman replied, "Are you trying to sleep?"
Uh, what?
"I'm sorry?" I said.
"Are you trying to go to sleep on me here?"
I was slightly thrown, but had a sinking feeling I knew where this little exchange was headed.
"No," I replied, "I'm not trying to sleep. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's just that your eyes are so small. I thought maybe you were trying to sleep."
Yes, that is why I asked for a booth, sir. I need a soft cushiony place to rest my ridiculously tiny eyes. Constant sleep is the only way to preserve the strength of these little slits in my head.
Do you think that's what I said to him? Hell no! Apparently the presence of small eyes is correlative to a complete lack of back bone, because all I could say in response to his ridiculous statement was, "Oh." Guess I told him! Snap! This little convo probably doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but if you're reading this you have probably heard at least a few stories through the years about how strangers have displayed their shock/disgust over my small eyes. I think people are like dogs in many ways; they sense your areas of weakness and know exactly how and when to pounce. As the years go by, it bothers me less; frankly, as much as it has hurt my feelings from time to time, I just think it's really kind of a weird and stupid thing for people to comment on. I've never heard anyone say, "Are you trying to be, like, really awake? Your eyes are so big, I just thought you were trying really hard to be awake." I'll have to stick that one in my back-pocket in case some mo-fo ever tries to dis my slits again.
My ma likes to tell me I have a way with words, but I'm never able to say what I mean to say when I mean to say it. Even for dumb things, like placing an order. Last week I went to another restaurant (tsk tsk) and tried to order a salad. WHAT?! Maude ordering a salad?! During lent, no less? (For those of you who don't know, I have a long-standing tradition of giving up greens/veggies during lent) Anyhow, this salad I ordered came with pieces of steak on top of it and had some goofy name. Well, what I got when the kind waiter-in-training returned was a big slab of meat with steamed veggies on the side. Do you think I could say, "Sorry, sir, you're doing a great job but it seems you misunderstood my order." Hell no! I said what I always say when I'm given the wrong thing at a restaurant, "This looks great! Thank you so much!" Damn! For reals, what is my issue? The upside of this story is that I actually ate the slab of meat and it was quite delicious.
I'm seriously not gonna go on and on about restaurants and food and stuff, but I just have to share one more story from a few years back that really illustrates the ridiculousness of my issues and is sure to make you chuckle. Ok, here's the scene: I'm in my office cafeteria, going through the part of the line where they prepare certain featured dishes of the day. The selections are grilled cheese with tomato and bacon, a stuffed pork chop, or some fish thing. I thought the grilled cheese looked pretty mouth-watering. The cook greeted me with a smile. He was a super nice guy who spoke in broken English and made a mean grilled cheese.
"Hi," I said, "I'll have the grilled cheese today."
"What's that?" he replied. "You want the stuffed pork chop special?"
"Yes please."
What the eff?! Yes please? Seriously, girl, all you had to do is say, "No, actually the grilled cheese." It's not like I would have offended the man by just asking for what I wanted. Damn! I've got probs. If only I could keep my teenie-weenie eyes open long enough to take a good look at them.
To switch gears completely, I know I've neglected to deliver my Swayze Sunday entries. I'm sure you are all extremely disappointed by this, and I pray that someday I will win back your favor. So, continuing the theme of being awake, tonight I have decided to pop in Waking Up in Reno. I'll die of shock if you've already seen it. It was basically a straight-to-DVD feature...sadly, because it's actually really sweet and funny. I know I'm biased, but I've shown it to non-fans of Swayze who couldn't believe it didn't have a longer life in theatres because it's so enjoyable. Swayze stars alongside Charlize Theron, Billy-Bob Thornton, and Natasha Richardson; they play two couples who are best friends on the road-trip of their lives. There's infidelity, laughs aplenty, a dance scene between Swayze and the cameo-appearing Penelope Cruz, and Tony Orlando singing "Knock Three Times." I know, I can't believe it got snubbed at the Oscars either. It seriously is good for some silly laughs if you're ever in need of them, and who would be so foolish as to turn down a good laugh. It's probably not the last time you'll see me write this, but seriously, give it a peep and you won't be sorry.
Another work day is, sadly, just a few hours away. As much as I'm trying to fight it, these pin-holes of mine are wanting to close. I've also completely lost my will to go back and correct all the run-on sentences I know are there. Do you mind if I say goodnight? I hope not. I'm sorry :)
Saturday, March 15, 2008
People Who Need People
Ok people, I swear I'm not gonna turn this into a strictly Swayze zone, because I know it must be sickening for most of you...or should I say both of you. I just have to say, though, the article in People Magazine is lovely and there are some beautiful pictures inside as well. So do me a proper and go out and buy it. Alright, that's that for now.
I'm faced with the difficult decision this week of which reality show is going to get demoted from my viewing schedule. It's just too much and something needs to go. The new season of Top Chef started this week, and they've added a spicy new flavor...lesbian. There's a romantic girlsome twosome that's in competition. Who smells some drama cooking?! That show makes me want to douse everything in a port wine reduction, and I don't even know what that means. Dancing with the Stars is getting ready to kick off as well. Ordinarily I would say I could do without that show, but I love Marlee Matlin and I'm thrilled that Marisa Jaret Winokur will be representin the larger ladies on the dance floor. Plus, I want to see how long it takes before Priscilla Presley's face melts off altogether. American Idol is finally getting good, and Big Brother is still on too. Ahh! It's too much. I suppose the wise thing to do would be too get off my ass and just step away from the TV, but I think we know that's not about to happen. I'll just have to quit my job; it's the only reasonable solution.
Speaking of the job, it's spring break week bitches! WooHoo! Not so fast, Maude. No spring break for you! I don't mean to whine, it just blows to listen to everyone counting down the days until their fabulous vacations knowing that I still have to work. I really shouldn't complain; in the grand scheme of things, this matters not. But DAMN! I could use a little break. Oh well, all I can do is try to maintain a spring break attitude when I'm stuck at work. To that end, I plan on flashing my coworkers (you're welcome!) and suggesting body shots as a team-building activity at our next staff meeting. I think it will be a huge success.
Happy Spring Break, y'all!
I'm faced with the difficult decision this week of which reality show is going to get demoted from my viewing schedule. It's just too much and something needs to go. The new season of Top Chef started this week, and they've added a spicy new flavor...lesbian. There's a romantic girlsome twosome that's in competition. Who smells some drama cooking?! That show makes me want to douse everything in a port wine reduction, and I don't even know what that means. Dancing with the Stars is getting ready to kick off as well. Ordinarily I would say I could do without that show, but I love Marlee Matlin and I'm thrilled that Marisa Jaret Winokur will be representin the larger ladies on the dance floor. Plus, I want to see how long it takes before Priscilla Presley's face melts off altogether. American Idol is finally getting good, and Big Brother is still on too. Ahh! It's too much. I suppose the wise thing to do would be too get off my ass and just step away from the TV, but I think we know that's not about to happen. I'll just have to quit my job; it's the only reasonable solution.
Speaking of the job, it's spring break week bitches! WooHoo! Not so fast, Maude. No spring break for you! I don't mean to whine, it just blows to listen to everyone counting down the days until their fabulous vacations knowing that I still have to work. I really shouldn't complain; in the grand scheme of things, this matters not. But DAMN! I could use a little break. Oh well, all I can do is try to maintain a spring break attitude when I'm stuck at work. To that end, I plan on flashing my coworkers (you're welcome!) and suggesting body shots as a team-building activity at our next staff meeting. I think it will be a huge success.
Happy Spring Break, y'all!
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Canada, the Beautiful
Until last night, I thought there must be no place on earth less intimidating than the grocery store on a Saturday night in America. My sister and I went to pick up a few staples in preparation for a family birthday party. I was feeling a little sluggish and looking a little disheveled, but who cares, right? It's Saturday night at the supermarket. It's not like you have to worry about a flock of beautiful hipsters lounging about the chip aisle, right? Wrong! I have never seen a higher concentration of such aesthetically pleasing and physically perfect human beings in my entire life as I did last night, and I'm not even kind-of kidding. Navigating our way through each aisle became a difficult task, like going through an obstacle course of supermodels. They all had the perfect hair, the perfect body, the perfect ensemble, the perfect handbag...perfect, perfect, perfect! Honestly, is nothing sacred? Can't a gal count on being able to buy some pop and napkins in peace on a Saturday night without feeling bad about herself for not having a posh-bob and designer duds? Apparently not. I was so intrigued by where all of these gorgeous creatures must have come from. Were they angels sent from Heaven? Was it a supermodel night-school field trip? Were they from Canada? Ok, Canada was not the first thing that crossed my mind, but it became clear when I heard the adorable way they were up-talking...and when I heard them tell the cashiers that they were from Canada. "We're here from Winnipeg. In Canada. We're here for a track-meet. It's all day tomorrow." Seriously, the last word of each sentence was like an octave higher than every other word in the sentence. What's that all aboot, eh? Anyway, it's official...I'm never going to Canada.
My usual Sunday sulk session was cut a little short by said birthday party. I suppose it's for the best. Although I am still reeling over this week's troubling Swayze news, I'm trying my darndest to remain optimistic. I am sad to report, though, that my will to eat is almost completely intact. I was hoping to shed somewhere around 50 sympathy pounds, but the way things are going it'll probably end up being about .50 pounds. I'm just joking; you've got to find something to laugh about in the midst of such heart-ache.
So I had been planning on devoting Sundays to watching my favorite bad movies and giving little mini-reviews, with the hopes that you would watch these movies and hate to love them as much as I do. This week's selection was going to be Mannequin, which is one of my all-time faves. I've decided to put Bad Movie Sunday on hold for the time being; instead, my Sundays will be spent revisiting my favorite Swayze classics. Don't you worry, Mannequin will get the props it deserves; it'll just have to wait until Swayze is back in action. That's how long I intend to continue this Swayze Sunday tradition.
This evening's selection is One Last Dance, a tale of three aging dancers who reunite to perform the piece that drove them apart years ago. This is the film which I have the strongest emotional attachment to, even more so than Dirty Dancing. Any fan of Swayze the Man and not just Swayze the Movie Star would probably tell you the same. I'll spare you the long history, but the short version of the story is that Patrick and his wife/costar Lisa Niemi spent many years trying to make this into a film. It was born out of a play they conceived and performed in the 80's entitled Without a Word, which won several theatre critic awards. There were many starts and stops in getting this film made before Lisa decided to write/direct it herself. Although it never made it to the big screen (except for a few festivals and industry viewings) I'm happy to say it is available to rent or own on dvd. In honor of him, or to appease me, you should give it a peep. The dancing is beautiful; and even if you're not a huge fan, hopefully you can appreciate the love that was put into the creation of this project. I especially enjoy watching it while listening to Patrick and Lisa's commentary; it's fun to hear their banter and the familiar way they interrupt eachother and finish eachother's thoughts. OK, I'm stopping myself there. You should really see it, though.
Can I just say that my love for blogging defies description. I'm serious. I don't understand why, but carrying-on about the insignificant details of my life and talking about movies that you'll probably hate is satisfying in a way that is completely unexpected. So, mucho thanks to the one who suggested I do this in the first place. I'm so glad you decided to blog it forward.
My usual Sunday sulk session was cut a little short by said birthday party. I suppose it's for the best. Although I am still reeling over this week's troubling Swayze news, I'm trying my darndest to remain optimistic. I am sad to report, though, that my will to eat is almost completely intact. I was hoping to shed somewhere around 50 sympathy pounds, but the way things are going it'll probably end up being about .50 pounds. I'm just joking; you've got to find something to laugh about in the midst of such heart-ache.
So I had been planning on devoting Sundays to watching my favorite bad movies and giving little mini-reviews, with the hopes that you would watch these movies and hate to love them as much as I do. This week's selection was going to be Mannequin, which is one of my all-time faves. I've decided to put Bad Movie Sunday on hold for the time being; instead, my Sundays will be spent revisiting my favorite Swayze classics. Don't you worry, Mannequin will get the props it deserves; it'll just have to wait until Swayze is back in action. That's how long I intend to continue this Swayze Sunday tradition.
This evening's selection is One Last Dance, a tale of three aging dancers who reunite to perform the piece that drove them apart years ago. This is the film which I have the strongest emotional attachment to, even more so than Dirty Dancing. Any fan of Swayze the Man and not just Swayze the Movie Star would probably tell you the same. I'll spare you the long history, but the short version of the story is that Patrick and his wife/costar Lisa Niemi spent many years trying to make this into a film. It was born out of a play they conceived and performed in the 80's entitled Without a Word, which won several theatre critic awards. There were many starts and stops in getting this film made before Lisa decided to write/direct it herself. Although it never made it to the big screen (except for a few festivals and industry viewings) I'm happy to say it is available to rent or own on dvd. In honor of him, or to appease me, you should give it a peep. The dancing is beautiful; and even if you're not a huge fan, hopefully you can appreciate the love that was put into the creation of this project. I especially enjoy watching it while listening to Patrick and Lisa's commentary; it's fun to hear their banter and the familiar way they interrupt eachother and finish eachother's thoughts. OK, I'm stopping myself there. You should really see it, though.
Can I just say that my love for blogging defies description. I'm serious. I don't understand why, but carrying-on about the insignificant details of my life and talking about movies that you'll probably hate is satisfying in a way that is completely unexpected. So, mucho thanks to the one who suggested I do this in the first place. I'm so glad you decided to blog it forward.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Always in Your Corner
I come to you tonight with a heavy heart and a mind full of thoughts that I can't quite organize, so forgive these words if they don't come together the way they should.
By now I'm sure you've seen the TV reports or read the headlines with some variation of these three words that made me lose my breath for a moment today:
Patrick. Swayze. Cancer.
I know what you're thinking, and it's okay because I'm thinking it too. How could she be so thrown by a piece of news about a person she doesn't even know? A piece of news that, let's be honest here, will probably be forgotten in a few short weeks to come. Not by me though. When the stories stop rolling and the headlines change, I'll remember this day and how it made me different somehow.
It started when I was about eight years old. I idolized my sister, and I wanted to like everything she liked. My parents were always open about us seeing "grown-up" movies; so at the behest of my teenage sister, we planned an entire Friday night around the first family viewing of Dirty Dancing on VHS. She had seen it before, and assured us all we would love it. I remember the details of that evening quite vividly. There was shrimp cocktail with cream-cheese, barbeque meatballs, and the four of us. A better Friday night I couldn't imagine. I'll never forget my dad, yes my dad, rewinding the final dance scene three times because he thought it was so great. As for me, something else took over and I was literally in a daze. For many Fridays following this one, the first words out of my mouth at the end of the school day were, "Can we go to StarLand and rent Dirty Dancing again?" These were the days before each bedroom had its own entertainment system, and before VHS tapes were cheap enough to buy the day they were released. Our movie-watching was one-for-all and all-for-one. My parents were sweet enough to indulge in this all too frequent request...most of the time. I remember the first time my request was denied; I spent the evening crying in my room.
I can't articulate why or how this spark was ignited. I don't understand it, even now. I suppose it started as a purely physical response to him, but it grew into something different. I just know he's been an unwitting participant in many of these moments in my life. Moments filled with laughter and shared with the people I love most. Moments when a bad day has been turned around by seeing his face on my TV screen. Moments spent revisiting each picture and article that's been lovingly collected through the years. It sounds crazy, I know; but when you invite someone in like that, even a stranger, they become woven into the fabric of you.
Call it devotion, or call it obsession, my fondness for him has been unwavering. I have seen each film, listened to each song (there is more than one), and read each article. I have always believed in his talent and his goodness. What I find most endearing about him, though, is how much he loves his wife. Thirty-two years they've been married, and he still goes out of his way to talk about how great she is. I think that's pretty amazing. I am feeling for her tonight.
I don't even know how to end this. I feel like I could go on and on, but I'm not going to. Not now. I don't want to think about the statistics or all the speculation. I just want to hold on tight to all the happy moments he doesn't even know he's given me. I'm sending my prayers, and hopefully you will do the same.
Stay strong, Buddy! God bless!
By now I'm sure you've seen the TV reports or read the headlines with some variation of these three words that made me lose my breath for a moment today:
Patrick. Swayze. Cancer.
I know what you're thinking, and it's okay because I'm thinking it too. How could she be so thrown by a piece of news about a person she doesn't even know? A piece of news that, let's be honest here, will probably be forgotten in a few short weeks to come. Not by me though. When the stories stop rolling and the headlines change, I'll remember this day and how it made me different somehow.
It started when I was about eight years old. I idolized my sister, and I wanted to like everything she liked. My parents were always open about us seeing "grown-up" movies; so at the behest of my teenage sister, we planned an entire Friday night around the first family viewing of Dirty Dancing on VHS. She had seen it before, and assured us all we would love it. I remember the details of that evening quite vividly. There was shrimp cocktail with cream-cheese, barbeque meatballs, and the four of us. A better Friday night I couldn't imagine. I'll never forget my dad, yes my dad, rewinding the final dance scene three times because he thought it was so great. As for me, something else took over and I was literally in a daze. For many Fridays following this one, the first words out of my mouth at the end of the school day were, "Can we go to StarLand and rent Dirty Dancing again?" These were the days before each bedroom had its own entertainment system, and before VHS tapes were cheap enough to buy the day they were released. Our movie-watching was one-for-all and all-for-one. My parents were sweet enough to indulge in this all too frequent request...most of the time. I remember the first time my request was denied; I spent the evening crying in my room.
I can't articulate why or how this spark was ignited. I don't understand it, even now. I suppose it started as a purely physical response to him, but it grew into something different. I just know he's been an unwitting participant in many of these moments in my life. Moments filled with laughter and shared with the people I love most. Moments when a bad day has been turned around by seeing his face on my TV screen. Moments spent revisiting each picture and article that's been lovingly collected through the years. It sounds crazy, I know; but when you invite someone in like that, even a stranger, they become woven into the fabric of you.
Call it devotion, or call it obsession, my fondness for him has been unwavering. I have seen each film, listened to each song (there is more than one), and read each article. I have always believed in his talent and his goodness. What I find most endearing about him, though, is how much he loves his wife. Thirty-two years they've been married, and he still goes out of his way to talk about how great she is. I think that's pretty amazing. I am feeling for her tonight.
I don't even know how to end this. I feel like I could go on and on, but I'm not going to. Not now. I don't want to think about the statistics or all the speculation. I just want to hold on tight to all the happy moments he doesn't even know he's given me. I'm sending my prayers, and hopefully you will do the same.
Stay strong, Buddy! God bless!
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
A New Dimension
Tonight finds me popping SweetTarts and contemplating the twenty-nine dimensions of compatibility. I don't really know what this means; it's just something I heard on an ad for one of those love connection websites. I think it's called mymomisgivingmeshitfornotgivinghergrandbabiesandpeopleare
startingtothinkimightbegaycauseimtoooldtobesingle.com or something like that. Anyway, seeing this gave be a better understanding of why each day brings me another inch closer to eternal spinsterhood. I mean, I can't imagine I have twenty-nine dimensions, or even twenty-nine different things to talk about. God, family, friends, work, Swayze, SweetTarts, TV, Movies, TV Movies...these are pretty much the elements that comprise my dimensions. Not even close to twenty-nine. Damn. Maybe I should start my own service, I'd call it dontsayyouonlylikeathleticgirlswhenwhatyoureallymeantosayisthatyou
dontlikechubbygirls.com
Seriously, call a spade a spade, gentlemen. Enough of this, "I'm really into the athletic look," bullshit we always hear on dating shows. Oh really, you're into the athletic look? You should meet my friend Ulga von Hogstein, world-class female Greco-Roman wrestling champ from your favorite non-armpit-shaving European country. You think you'd like to give it a whirl with her? Yeah, that's what I thought. Say it. Own it. You don't like chubby gals; it's cool, we don't like you either.
I was watching Millionaire Matchmaker tonight. For those of you who have never seen it, it's a reality show which follows socially-inept entepreneurs in their search for love. One of tonight's gentlemen asked his lady prospect, "What's something I haven't asked that you'd like to share about yourself?" To which the beautiful athletic girl replied, "I really like, like, stud earrings. I usually have, like, a cupcake in one ear or maybe a frog." For reals. I'm speechless, but enlightened, for this little exchange led me to the following selfishly hopeful conclusion: Maybe I have spent too much time trying to fill my dimensionless void with purple and green SweetTarts, and maybe I'll never look "athletic," but I have this. This here. My own little corner of the blogosphere, where I get to prove to the world (and by world, I mean the five or six of you out there) whenever and however I choose that I have something to offer other than cupcakes in my ears. So thank you. Thank you for adding a new dimension to my life.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I did go back for that last Samoa. Zip-lines be damned; you know I'd never ride one anyway. Life is short, and Girl Scout Cookie season only comes once a year.
startingtothinkimightbegaycauseimtoooldtobesingle.com or something like that. Anyway, seeing this gave be a better understanding of why each day brings me another inch closer to eternal spinsterhood. I mean, I can't imagine I have twenty-nine dimensions, or even twenty-nine different things to talk about. God, family, friends, work, Swayze, SweetTarts, TV, Movies, TV Movies...these are pretty much the elements that comprise my dimensions. Not even close to twenty-nine. Damn. Maybe I should start my own service, I'd call it dontsayyouonlylikeathleticgirlswhenwhatyoureallymeantosayisthatyou
dontlikechubbygirls.com
Seriously, call a spade a spade, gentlemen. Enough of this, "I'm really into the athletic look," bullshit we always hear on dating shows. Oh really, you're into the athletic look? You should meet my friend Ulga von Hogstein, world-class female Greco-Roman wrestling champ from your favorite non-armpit-shaving European country. You think you'd like to give it a whirl with her? Yeah, that's what I thought. Say it. Own it. You don't like chubby gals; it's cool, we don't like you either.
I was watching Millionaire Matchmaker tonight. For those of you who have never seen it, it's a reality show which follows socially-inept entepreneurs in their search for love. One of tonight's gentlemen asked his lady prospect, "What's something I haven't asked that you'd like to share about yourself?" To which the beautiful athletic girl replied, "I really like, like, stud earrings. I usually have, like, a cupcake in one ear or maybe a frog." For reals. I'm speechless, but enlightened, for this little exchange led me to the following selfishly hopeful conclusion: Maybe I have spent too much time trying to fill my dimensionless void with purple and green SweetTarts, and maybe I'll never look "athletic," but I have this. This here. My own little corner of the blogosphere, where I get to prove to the world (and by world, I mean the five or six of you out there) whenever and however I choose that I have something to offer other than cupcakes in my ears. So thank you. Thank you for adding a new dimension to my life.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I did go back for that last Samoa. Zip-lines be damned; you know I'd never ride one anyway. Life is short, and Girl Scout Cookie season only comes once a year.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Just One
I think it's the Scandinavian way...never eat the last of anything! Perhaps it's embedded in our DNA, some kind of Norse survival skill that dates back to Viking-ship times. Or maybe it's just some kind of twisted Minnesota-nice; you can consume the majority of something, but if you leave the last one you can still feel good about yourself for being so generous. Whatever it is, something inside just won't let me eat that last Samoa, even though I'm pretty sure I ate every other cookie in the box. You know how it goes; or maybe you don't, so let me tell ya. It always starts with the same internal monologue: "I'm just gonna have one...row. One row really isn't that much, it's only like three cookies. Alright, I'm only having three...rows." You see where this is going. Not pretty. Does anyone know why the outside of these boxes are littered with images of young folks engaging in aerobic activities? Maybe it's to remind us that if we eat too many cookies, we'll never know the joy of riding zip-lines.
So I tried to watch that bit on 20/20 about the Royal Family, but I ended up falling asleep. I guess there weren't enough teasers of Wills and Harry without their shirts on to keep me going. There was one part, though, that I found tragically amusing. The Queen was having lunch with George and Laura Bush. Laura was carrying-on about the history of the plates they were using, while George hung spoons off his face. Ok, the spoons part is false, but you have to admit it's a funny image. Anyway, I was really kind of feeling for the Queen in that moment; she looked so bored, and I wonder how many moments like that she has to endure in a single day. She is just a person too, after all, and you know she can't find plates that interesting. I wonder how many times a day she feels like saying, "Bitch, please! Are we still talking about plates? Have you seen the new trailer for the Sex and the City movie? I'm totally a Samantha; I even have a t-shirt that says so. By Jingo!" If I were British, I would end every thought with "By Jingo!"
I woke up just in time to catch the end of John Leguizamo on HBO performing his one-man show called "Freak." Man, it takes a crazy kind of talent to be able to do something like that. You should check it out if you've never seen it. It's funny, dirty, and really very moving...what more could you want? I'm not sure if it's on DVD, but I think you can see most of it on YouTube. Seek it out, and try to watch it in its entirety. Even if you're not a big fan of his, I think you'll still take something away from it. He is really quite an amazing story-teller and a genius performer. So that's my plug for the evening.
Good night, and God Save the Queen. By Jingo!
So I tried to watch that bit on 20/20 about the Royal Family, but I ended up falling asleep. I guess there weren't enough teasers of Wills and Harry without their shirts on to keep me going. There was one part, though, that I found tragically amusing. The Queen was having lunch with George and Laura Bush. Laura was carrying-on about the history of the plates they were using, while George hung spoons off his face. Ok, the spoons part is false, but you have to admit it's a funny image. Anyway, I was really kind of feeling for the Queen in that moment; she looked so bored, and I wonder how many moments like that she has to endure in a single day. She is just a person too, after all, and you know she can't find plates that interesting. I wonder how many times a day she feels like saying, "Bitch, please! Are we still talking about plates? Have you seen the new trailer for the Sex and the City movie? I'm totally a Samantha; I even have a t-shirt that says so. By Jingo!" If I were British, I would end every thought with "By Jingo!"
I woke up just in time to catch the end of John Leguizamo on HBO performing his one-man show called "Freak." Man, it takes a crazy kind of talent to be able to do something like that. You should check it out if you've never seen it. It's funny, dirty, and really very moving...what more could you want? I'm not sure if it's on DVD, but I think you can see most of it on YouTube. Seek it out, and try to watch it in its entirety. Even if you're not a big fan of his, I think you'll still take something away from it. He is really quite an amazing story-teller and a genius performer. So that's my plug for the evening.
Good night, and God Save the Queen. By Jingo!
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Call me Maude
Ok, so hello? I guess.
I'm banking on the fact that this opener will be to blogs what "Call me Ishmael" was to American literature. Ok, maybe not, but if I can't dream that big in life maybe I can do it on this blog. Guess what? I don't even know what book that line is from. Ok, fine, that's not entirely true either. I will admit, though, that I wanted to make a clever reference and I had to wikipedia "Ishmael book" to make sure I was thinking of the right thing, just in case fate (or an internet search of "Ishmael") happens to bring some crazy Moby Dick fans my way. Full disclosure to all those Moby Dick fans (or Moby and Andy Dick fans) that may have stumbled here by accident: I've never read the book. I only know like two of his songs, and I think he owns a tea store. He seems funny in interviews, but I never really got into watching News Radio. Did I cover all my bases? Thanks for stopping by; I hope you find what you're looking for. Damn, I keep ending stuff with prepositions. I hope you find for that which you are looking??? Fuck it, let them dangle! I hope you find what you're looking for.
So what's this thing all about? Dangle Well, I don't know. For now I'm just typing words and waiting to see where they take me. There's no real theme, and that kind of suits me.
It's Sunday. Too late to still be in my pajamas, but here I am wasting another weekend's end watching movies so terrible I can't help but love them. Today's showing is Big Trouble in Little China. Have you seen this John Carpenter masterpiece? It has Kurt Russell in a tank top, a creepy martial-arts guy who floats and wears lots of white makeup and Lee Press-On Nails, and Kim Cattrall before she got all ultra-horny. I mean, really, how could you not love this film? If this won't cure my paralyzing case of the Almost Monday Blues, well I just don't know what will.
I hope you come back soon, blogger friend, but this is where I end it for now. I think Kurt Russell's tank top is about to get wet. I gotta go.
I'm banking on the fact that this opener will be to blogs what "Call me Ishmael" was to American literature. Ok, maybe not, but if I can't dream that big in life maybe I can do it on this blog. Guess what? I don't even know what book that line is from. Ok, fine, that's not entirely true either. I will admit, though, that I wanted to make a clever reference and I had to wikipedia "Ishmael book" to make sure I was thinking of the right thing, just in case fate (or an internet search of "Ishmael") happens to bring some crazy Moby Dick fans my way. Full disclosure to all those Moby Dick fans (or Moby and Andy Dick fans) that may have stumbled here by accident: I've never read the book. I only know like two of his songs, and I think he owns a tea store. He seems funny in interviews, but I never really got into watching News Radio. Did I cover all my bases? Thanks for stopping by; I hope you find what you're looking for. Damn, I keep ending stuff with prepositions. I hope you find for that which you are looking??? Fuck it, let them dangle! I hope you find what you're looking for.
So what's this thing all about? Dangle Well, I don't know. For now I'm just typing words and waiting to see where they take me. There's no real theme, and that kind of suits me.
It's Sunday. Too late to still be in my pajamas, but here I am wasting another weekend's end watching movies so terrible I can't help but love them. Today's showing is Big Trouble in Little China. Have you seen this John Carpenter masterpiece? It has Kurt Russell in a tank top, a creepy martial-arts guy who floats and wears lots of white makeup and Lee Press-On Nails, and Kim Cattrall before she got all ultra-horny. I mean, really, how could you not love this film? If this won't cure my paralyzing case of the Almost Monday Blues, well I just don't know what will.
I hope you come back soon, blogger friend, but this is where I end it for now. I think Kurt Russell's tank top is about to get wet. I gotta go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
