Archive for January 2011
black swan: the movie (not your cousin)
Forget that I'm clearly schizophrenic. My plastic surgery will give you nightmares.
For those of you excited about my review of Darren Aronofsky’s critically acclaimed, award winning “Black Swan,” need I remind you that writing something of value and helpfulness would go against the whole spirit of this blog. Plus, it might imply that I possess a skill with the potential for gainful employment. And really. None of us want that.
So I’ll just point out a couple observations in case you’re one of the three people left who hasn’t yet seen this thriller or is waiting for it to come out on NetFlix:
- I was shocked by the casting of Mickey Rourke as Natalie Portman’s mother. Her performance, I mean blepharoplasty, was chilling.
- If you’re having a hard time convincing a man to accompany you because he heard the word “ballet,” you need only mention an explicit girl-on-girl scene between Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis.
- Try not to see the film at Muvico Baywalk. In addition to the Biggie Smalls lookalike three rows back narrating the masturbation scene with “Oh yeah” and “Touch it,” you’re at risk for having to wake up the homeless man in the front row because he was snoring.
- If you do wake up the man smelling of pickle jars in the front row, please do not touch him unless you want him to threaten to call the police because you’re “assaulting him.” Also, it’s probably in your best interest to ignore that his pants are down.
Baby millipede on board. Amazingly, I'm not gay.
- If you mistakenly thought Natalie Portman’s baby daddy was some bearded hippie musician from the Village named Devendra or something equally absurd, you’re so 2008. The guy who knocked her up in real life is Benjamin Millepied. He portrayed her Swan Lake co-star and is a principal dancer at New York City Ballet. Despite his last name suggesting that he is a thousand-legged arthropod, this guy is yummy.
- It is confounding that Portman could ovulate without eating so much as a Saltine the entire length of filming. But even more confusing? That a principal dancer at New York City Ballet is sleeping with a woman. Go figure.
They did not procreate. There is a God.
apparently…
Barbie finally agrees to anal sex with Ken. WTF Mattel? This new product launch is a bit inappropriate for your target audience of 4 to 8 year olds.
throwbacks and sour milk
- i’m going to need a coaster and an amnestic agent
I never met Banana Flowers, my friend Singamajig’s recent fling. But as someone who wants to ensure she never sees Banana again (unless I need book fodder), I did look into him on paper. To protect his and her anonymity, I will not get into the shaved nuts and bolts. But suffice it to say, Singa can do better if she put on 50 pounds, ignored her roots for a month and developed a severe case of incurable foot odor.
Singa is making her way out of a marriage and venturing into a world of throwbacks. Used, discarded return items taking up shelf space waiting to convince a newly detached (can you tell I despise the word “single”) woman to disregard what he looks like on paper because he remembers her favorite song or holds her hand during sex. At what point do we toss out the paper?
My friend Patty Melt looks like she hails from Pixie Hollow. She’s beautiful and delicate like a fairy, and reminds me of a Cadbury egg. Outfitted with a hard shell that warns you she’ll scratch your eyes out if you cross her, but all soft and gooey inside. Two children and five years of marriage to an arrogant, unfaithful re-introducer (you know – the guy who introduces himself to you even though you’ve met him 12 times before because he wants you to feel irrelevant) later, Patty Melt has moved on to someone I hope will make up for the lost years of love and light in her life. My concern is that her new love is not new, but rather “recycled.” An old boyfriend whose timing just wasn’t right. Is he her soulmate or sour milk?
Enter Lucas Lightning. Way cheaper than my therapist, although somewhat less qualified. His theory of spoilt milk maintains that if you take the milk out of the refrigerator and it smells sour, you don’t put it back. If I want to discredit him, I will point out another couple I know who seemed to wait long enough to reinvent and let their spoilt milk turn into delicious cottage cheese. Their relationship was less milk carton and more chrysalis. But when you recycle, how do you know whether your head is going to snap back if you take a whiff? I guess some of us take the chance and get sick. Some get a delicious side to their salad. And others? Maybe they put the milk back and wait for garbage day because they know they need to throw it out, but don’t want their trash to stink.
Lucky for me, I don’t drink milk unless Starbucks froths it into my latte.
When Patty Melt and I attended the Bucs Throwback game this season, we tore our closets apart looking for retro jerseys or Tees to no avail. I can only hope that was symbolic. I usually don’t consider myself a throwback. I was the one who said “uncle.” And even though I struggle with whether trading in the monogrammed family Christmas footies was strong or weak, I’m not sure I could know that answer for many years to come.
It seems though that for now, if I start feeling like a throwback, sitting in a Target return bin next to wrong-sized screwdrivers and broken dollhouses, I hope that I’ll still have the confidence not to BananaFlower. Or recycle. I think I can still order the Christmas footies too. I’ll just have to monogram: Copper Monkey. Patty Melt. Lucas Lightning. Scrabble. Penelope. Singa…
relationship revelations
“It’s not catastrophes, murders, deaths and diseases that age and kill us; it’s the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.” Virginia Woolf
Some of us totally decompensate in times of crisis. Others rally.
Some relationships end because of tragic circumstances. Betrayal. Infidelity. Mental illness. Substance abuse.
Others dissolve because of leaving crumbs in bed or humming the theme song to “Greatest American Hero.” My mom recently reminded me of a scene in the “Bridges Over Madison County” where the protagonist Francesca, after enduring years of her husband’s annoying screen door slamming habit, sees her photographer beau’s silent door close as a sign that he appreciates and respects her. They are soulmates. I don’t remember this scene because I wouldn’t watch that movie if you paid me in Jimmy Choos. But I can appreciate Francesca’s moment of clarity.
After witnessing relationships unravel around me at an alarming rate, it seems that more often than not it’s the screen door that has us calling it quits. It’s a symbolic gesture that means, “I’m not sure I care about you enough to respect your wishes, let alone wipe your ass down the line should you get rectal cancer.”
I have a dear friend who has been in the throws of a passionate, fast-paced love affair for the past six weeks or so. She was shocked to hear her lover express some concerns about moving forward. His explanation?
“When you returned to bed the other night with a banana…you didn’t ask me if I wanted a bite.”
For the record, I wish it was my torrid love affair to which I was referring. I laughed for 10 minutes straight after hearing her post-mortem, so I cannot imagine how much more amusing it would be to witness him actually try to explain that not offering up what seems like a pretty unshareable fruit would serve as his dealbreaker. Even after my friend, um, “shared” an unprecedented amount of herself.
I clearly have no idea what comprises a successful romantic relationship. But I’m beginning to think it probably lies somewhere in between the banana and the betrayal.
what’s annoying me this week (and why i may need midol pms)
- The people who swear off caffeine because they are “naturally hyper,” but then later admit to being on Ritalin and amphetamine-like appetite suppressants.
- Jeggings
- Anyone replying to a text with “Teehee.”
- The Starbucks customers who after 10 minutes of waiting in line, say, “Ummmmmm…” followed by a long pause when asked for their order.
- My mother’s electrician who made me feel like an imbecile for not knowing the difference between xenon and halogen undercabinet lighting, but then proceeded to walk into her sliding glass door.
- Laser hair removal machines who discriminate against fair-haired women, cursing me with blonde fur forever while my black-haired, ape-like friends become hairless.
- The mall kiosk people who commit borderline assault with flat irons, fairy wings and dead sea salts when I just want to cash in my Gymbucks. Can’t I file a restraining order?
- My ass in these yoga pants.
- Anyone who is cold. All. The. Time.
- Sun Chips bags. Apparently being “100% compostable” means they are loud enough to be 100% annoying.
- Use of the word “Jeggings.”
top 10 reasons to boycott busch gardens
10. The Tap Out/Affliction to non-douchebag ratio is alarmingly high.
9. There is a 100% chance you will eat something that has you running an extra mile tomorrow morning or at the very least to Walgreens to buy Prevacid.
8. You will spend $50 on games and still come home empty handed.
7. You will play one game and end up winning a husky the size of Winnebago that you are then forced to carry on your back through the park.
6. You will have to explain to your 6-year-old daughter at least three times why some boys think it’s appropriate behavior to spit on the sidewalk.
5. No drink lids may help save the environment, but they will not save your Badgley Mischka purse from lemonade spills.
4. Amazingly, all the sex offenders seem to congregate in the Jungala area where your daughter just crawled out of sight into a tunnel.
3. Thanks to the overabundance of tourists and popcorn, the odds of a bird pooping on you are about 80%.
2. The turkey leg concessions are scattered throughout the park, but concentrated in areas where you are already most nauseated from smelling the elephant excrement.
1. Public flossing.
sparkling citrus and the ephemerality of life
Between high school and leaving for UF, I worked in the radiology department of Naples Community Hospital. When most girls my age were serving Monte Cristos at Bennigans and earning 10 times more, I was appreciating the sterility of the hospital environment and working in a place where no one wondered about my mental health as I wiped down phone surfaces with alcohol preps. Plus, I just couldn’t bear the thought of washing the chipotle chicken sandwich stench out of my hair each night.
My job was fairly simple. I was to do anything the radiologists asked me to. Often it was hanging x-rays or grabbing bagels from the cafeteria. But sometimes it was just lounging around in a dark reading room, regaling them with stories of what my friends and I did over the weekend.
“Your generation is the generation of useless conversation,” Dr. Napoleon once quipped.
I don’t think I realized at the time that this midget (sorry, little person) was insulting me, and instead went on to debate the merits of hosting the “Billy Can’t Hang” beach volleyball tournament on Saturday instead of Sunday because we wouldn’t have to wait until 11 am to buy the keg.
One of the daytime assistants who was a dead ringer for Laverne of Laverne and Shirley was a bit resentful of me showing up to relieve her each afternoon, five minutes late with sand from the beach still caked on the bottom of my flip flops. Her favorite pastime was reminding me about the dress code policy. More often than not the radiologists (yes, all men) would defend my mini-skirts and sundresses while Laverne shot 45-year-old, single-mom daggers in my direction.
I distinctly remember Laverne making a snide comment one day about how well the doctors treated me. “What kind of perfume do you wear that has these guys under your spell?” she snorted.
Amazingly, this remark, meant only to imply I wasn’t worthy of their attention, actually had me considering my perfume.
I was a loyal user of Victoria’s Secret Sparkling Citrus body splash. Just the right blend of fresh lemon to leave you smelling clean, without any Lysol undertones. I contemplated whether I had hit on some powerful pheromone that had professional, educated, married men trying to talk me into undressing for test films on the CT scanner. Ignoring the disturbing fact that my mother wore the same scent, I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of olfactory influence Sparkling Citrus was having on my ability to attract the opposite sex.
It wasn’t until much later that I realized what was attracting them: I was 18.
Nevertheless, I maintained my loyalty to Sparkling Citrus for many years. It had become my “signature scent.” That was until about 1995 when I discovered Victoria’s Secret was discontinuing it due to lack of sales. I tried to boost their revenue by snagging every bottle from Jacksonville to Key West, but supplies eventually were depleted, leaving my mom and I bitching about how only products we like are discontinued. And not seeing myself as a sun-ripened raspberry kind of girl, I embarked on a mission to find my new scent with the same dread one approaches her GREs.
When I got down to my last bottle of body splash, I began to ration my usage. I’d reach for it before heading out on a date and actually wonder, “Is this guy really Sparkling Citrus-worthy?”
More often than not I’d decide to save it for a “special occasion.” Because I had already lost my virginity, very few Citrus-worthy occasions cropped up between 1995 and my wedding in 2001. It wasn’t that I didn’t have an enormity of “special occasions,” just that there always seemed to be something “more special” coming down the pike. It’s like the radio station phenomenon: you’re listening to a song that you love, but change the station halfway through confident there is a song on another station that you’ll like even more. This is either a common occurrence among most people, or a debilitating character flaw for which I should seek therapy.
As years went by and it became evident Victoria’s Secret never was resurrecting my body splash, my lone bottle was used less and less.
It survived a honeymoon in Italy in 2001, an anniversary trip to the Bahamas, six moves, the premature labor of my daughter (I remember splashing some on my elephant-like neck before heading to the hospital at 3 am), and just a handful of moments in between.
Recently, I caught a glimpse of the nearly empty bottle amidst a rather vast collection of runners up. With great reverence and nostalgia I unscrewed the cap, closed my eyes and took a big whiff. Waiting to be transported back to a time when I counted sit ups, not crow’s feet.
I was horrified at what I smelled. An acrid mix of turpentine and nailpolish remover without a single trace of lemon fresh.
In this last decade or so of me waiting for that “special occasion” my Sparkling Citrus had withered away, leaving behind something closer to my mom’s Jean Nate perfume from the 70s that came in an umbrella stand sized bottle.
And all those missed opportunities to sparkle were lost because I was too busy waiting for something more.
It’s clear to me now that when you change the radio station and find that the next song is no better than the first, you can always turn back. But sometimes…the song is over.
not the most cost effective way to untangle your christmas lights
Shortly after I busted out the kitchen shears, I began calculating the cost of another few tangled strands of lights versus my sanity and decided they needed to be thrown into the trash with the angry force of Godzilla hurling a building. After awhile, it was like playing Tetris. I knew eventually I’d have nightmares if I didn’t stop.
Maya Angelou is quoted as saying, “I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way s/he handles three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.”
When it rains, I shop (and wear white, natch). When I lose my luggage, I buy new clothes. And when my Christmas lights are tangled, I toss them out, not caring if they are recyclable or not. So, I’m not sure what that says about me, but I really hope my living poor life coach skips this blog.
In my defense, about seven strands still survived my Chuck Norris-like attacks. Ripping off branches and cursing, I managed to unwind a lucky few twinkling white lights as dried-out tree needles flew into my nose and every crevice of my marble floors. They’re now neatly coiled away in Ziploc totes, smug as Buzz Lightyear and Jessie, happy to survive another year.
Of course half of them will be burned out next year. Since when did Christmas lights become a one-season use item anyway? Doesn’t anybody remember their grandmother carefully unwrapping strands of bubbling candle lights that have survived four children and as many decades? Well, I don’t either. But it seems somebody should.
Throughout this process, especially while I dragged the 12-foot tree out the front door and down the steps by a leash of tangled lights, I wondered why in the hell I don’t just get a faux Frasier fir from Frontgate like everybody else. But de-Christmasing is like childbirth. You get caught up in all the excitement and forget how bad it fucking hurts.
Surgical gloves are a great way of avoiding sticky tree sap. And letting people know how bat ass crazy you are.
i only wear white when it rains 