Ah, sweet vindication! In science news reported this week, Steven Reppert, a neurobiologist at the U of Mass. medical school, has been conducting experiments with monarch butterflies to determine if they can "sense" the earth's magnetic field. The results are promising and his team is postulating that people too may be able to sense the field.
I have been trying to tell charming husband for years that there is something to this spatial orientation stuff and that some of us have a sixth sense about direction. Charming husband is very dismissive of this theory because
(a) it annoys him like crazy that at any given time (i.e. on road trips) I know where we are and what direction we are facing even if it is pitch dark. My dad and grandmother also share this sense and are equally adamant that is exists. [Notably, charming husband is always lost and never able to admit it. Rather late in life I have learned not to be right (that being right stuff a very annoying habit) and further to try to enjoy getting side-tracked. This is a metaphor.]
(b) it annoys him even more that I am extremely picky about the orientation of any bed I sleep in as if my head is not north I feel as though I am going down hill (I know I know this is completely illogical even if one does have a strong spatial sense and is able to feel the pull of the magnetic field.). [This little quirk drives charming husband completely bonkers and no hon, he argues, this neurosis is not evidence of OCD. If you had OCD our house would be clean.]
Now, back to the main road and the topic of the day—escape at the movies:
As a kid I couldn't get enough of John le Carré's cold-war novels and thus it is with great anticipation that I await Tomas Alfredson'sTinker, Tailor, Solider, Spy(Nov. 2011 US release date) with its fabulous British cast including Gary Oldman as Smiley and Tom Hardy as Ricki Tarr.
This is your spoiler alert: If you are one of the few people who have not seen The Good Wife and, if you have any intention of doing so (which if you are over the age of 35 you should), do not read beyond the visually titillating part of this post (you will know when you get there). Consider yourself warned (about the spoiler, not the titillating).
When you beg/borrow/steal seasons one and two, DO NOT allow yourself to watch it all in one sitting; in fact, pretend (and you will be able to do this if you are over 35) that the only way available to you to watch a television show is to wait from week to week (and sometimes longer taking into account holiday and sports interruptions) to see each new episode. It is extremely important that you display self-control—that you allow yourself to be seduced very slowly—that you live your normal boring life in between episodes—that you tend to your pet, your kids, your spouse, your hobbies, your job, your in-laws—that you prolong the a n t i c i p a t i o n so that you have the satisfaction of existing in a constant state of arousal for the entire duration of the two seasons. [This is a good state in which to exist; we are used to satisfaction; we do not appreciate this hopeful expectant state any more.]
If you must have instant satisfaction and, of course you century straddler, you must:
a) rent/download/borrow the season of 24 that you have somehow missed and watch it in one 8.8 hr (22x24÷60—If you have to ask you are not Canadian.) longest-day-of-your-life frenzy.
While my favourite rant seems to be "why it sucks being a girl," I do think the tables have turned for the current generation.
Recently I got to rehash this subject on a gift of a 2 hr+ drive alone with just-turned-20 first child [Aside: who took my baby and left this adult in her place?].
I was dropping first-child off at Y-Camp so that she can spend the remainder of her summer (in lieu of getting a job at which she could make actual money—'cause what are parents for) doing, as cliché as it may sound, a job she loves. Said job (for which first-child has somehow managed to write her own job description—something to do with the unforeseen benefit of being paid $200 a week for a 164 hr work week) being that of sailing instructor slash canoe-trip trail leader slash impart-er of wisdom to young teens, and especially to young girls. The "imparting of wisdom" involves a good deal of tossing out of make-up and inappropriate clothing, confiscating of electronic equipment, and provision of general "stop whining and get over yourself " advice. I should mention that this is a child who could pretty much live outdoors 24/7 and was seemingly raised by wolves (rather than by the geeky, citified people who are her parents).
I kinda think that I'm not a big fan of poetry (which is a sweeping generalization made from the standpoint of someone who hasn't taken the time to read very much of it), just as I think I am not a big fan of self-serving blogs such as this one. So it is with some surprise that lately I've stumbled on some uncommonly good poems self-published (presumably, 'cause what else are blogs for if not a mass-frenzy of self-promotion) on the 'net. A couple of these deserve mention and publication:
It sucks being a girl. Correction: in the generation to which I reluctantly belong, it sucks being a girl.
[This, I think, is not the case now. I could be wrong, but by all accounts, nowadays it sucks being a guy, but that's another post.]
But. . .for my generation, it still sucks being a girl.
A few weeks ago I had this once again confirmed. Charming husband and I were attending a funeral (for the parent of a college friend) that attracted lots of old friends from out of town. The night, as these nights tend to do, drifted to a bar, at least for the usual suspects (meaning me and the guys—pretty much the story of my life—something to do with growing up always being the "new" girl, andbeing the only girl on the high-school math team, and not really ever being too sure how to be a girl, none of these situations ever materializing into what one would imagine would be a gift of an opportunity to sleep with nerdy sex-starved but eventually-to-be-cool Steve Jobs' type geeks due to the pretty much universal rule that EVERY teenage girl of my generation believed she was the most un-datable, awkward, ugly girl to ever grace the school hall [Note to parents: it is your job to ensure that girls of every generation continue to feel this way.] plus me being the only girl because all other couples we know, but charming husband and me, have young kids (hence the rest of the "it sucks being a girl" wives having to go home and tend to kids).
It struck him that if he could have sex with this girl for one second he could face his parents confidently, and that if he could keep on having sex with this girl once every minute for as long as his parents were in town he could survive their entire visit.
from The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen
She no longer remembers clearly when the visitants became rooted . . . became the host . . . stayed, but what she does know all too well is the guilt-ridden, heart-torn, angst-filled insistent (persistent) inner voice that forever upbraids yet silently wishes (oh so selfishly wishes) that they had not stayed, wishes, in fact, that they still traveled from afar leaving her innocently blithely free of the inevitable weighing decisions.
It is eating away at her—the waiting, the watching, the knowledge—the expectation that she, the first born, will step forward, take care, solve the unsolvable problem, provide the necessary relief. It is, after all, what she has always done. But this is Loyd's mystic square—impossible to resolve—the Manhattan distances insurmountable.
I am fairly certain that at this very moment charming husband is plotting to kill me.
Likely this murder is being carefully premeditated and would be accomplished by some slow and painful means such as poisoning, or smothering with a too soft pillow. That in itself, the slow and painful part, being enough to make my blood boil as I, naturally, would go all Lizzie Borden on him depriving myself of any extended satisfaction and hastening the state of remorse/regret assured to follow—remorse and regret being quite familiar territory—whilst charming husband would be hoisting a beer regaling someone about his cleverness.
Just yesterday charming husband and I were little-kid-gleefully remarking on the fact that we have been married for more than half our lives! We are kinda prone to these gleeful observations. Lots of days we sit on our couch watching our (what we think is a large screen) 32" TV with 11 whole channels from the basic cable package, looking around at our actual furniture (well, there are still a few post-student decor crates acting as end tables that I really should have hauled out of here a decade ago), marveling that we have 4 teenaged kids (where are they again?), and that we own a house and car(s) and, quite frankly, we cannot fathom how the heck we got here. It all seems quite impossible when aren't we like 25 years old?!
[Dear young dismissive disdainful people: barring poor health, this is pretty much a constant for the rest of your life—you will think you are 25 a good deal of the time (or at least until you walk by a store window and see a reflection and wonder who the heck is that short squat old person and why is she/he staring at you.)]
So I am at a rare evening out with charming husband at charming friends' home for a last minute dinner party for about 10 of us.
[When these things are planned I make up lots of excuses to avoid them at all costs: I think I prefer my own company, I think I am in no way social, I think I just want to stay home and read books, watch movies, hang out with the kids, blah blah blah. In fact, charming husband, being terribly prescient (and very social), asked me when proposing—even though he knew I would marry him—if (requiring so much time to myself) I was sure I would be able to actually live with him (and, wtf, now there are 6 of us in that house). 99% of the time, I do choose to just stay home...but, when things happen spontaneously, I somehow never fail to burst out of the proverbial phone booth and become the most out-going, garrulous, ridiculous, trouble causing party girl (and, inevitably, am forced to retreat into my shell again for another few months).]
The night is fun (why again do I avoid these things?), the company good, a little bit of footsy going on under the table, husband a huge charming hit, old stories re-hashed and the wine flowing. Invariably we get to "before kids' days" and start missing the friends who now live elsewhere and it suddenly feels necessary and right (and there are story details we need corroborated) to call some of charming husband's private school frat boy type friends. C is out 'cause just recently on a trip to TO we got him into way too much trouble and are collectively persona non grata in that house for awhile (but that's another story). CS is a distinct possibility but we actually like his wife and kids and are sober enough to realize that he does live in a later time zone. So, F it is. (Okay F we love your wife and kids too and do realize that you live in that same late time zone as CS.) But...
It is decidedly not summer in this here northern clime, but that is a-okay as I am on my usual roller coaster ride vacillating between reckless crazy enthusiasm on sunny days and being broodingly in my element on the dark days.
What the day promises (Sally Brompton you are damn sarcastic lately):
[Disclaimer: I am no way and not into astrology but, 'cause I am a huge waster of time and read pretty much every thing I can get my hands on every day (and that Quaker Oat Bran Square box ain't yielding much anymore), I can't help but read the old horoscope—actually gotta read two, being on the cusp, plus one of those cusps is "those Gemini twins"—so, man, no wonder I'm messed up—and which likely, if I were a believer, explains the schizo (no PC apologies) personality.]
'Scope 1: Steer clear of anything that might depress you today. (Yeah sure, why get out of bed and all. Wouldn't it work better if these things provided hints for the next day?)
'Scope 2: The approaching eclipse suggests you will be tempted to take on someone who is, to be frank, out of your league. (Yeah right, that might mean encountering actual people and, btw, love that "to be frank" Sally, and, as above, why get out of bed.)
Neither prediction being quite as scary foreboding as the one for you unfortunate Taurus people: If you make changes today it's unlikely you will be able to change back again later. (You should definitely not get out of bed.)
And definitely my whole problem in life: “I might possibly be a murderer with multiple personalities but gee whiz, I just want to surf like the boys!”
In our house (as I suspect in lots of homes) I am good cop and bad cop and, in fact, pretty much the entire law enforcement unit. And while it used to irk me that charming husband always gets to strut around in his role as best buddy all 'round good guy, I thought I'd gotten over this and learned to live with the status quo. But. . .then the kids hit their teenage years.
Now I am the first to admit that I have the most inconsistent parenting skills (having inherited my discipline techniques from my military dad whom it took me close to 16 (just in time for trouble) years to realize is the biggest most kind-hearted loud-mouthed softy that exists. I like to think (as I am sure my dad did) that by oscillating between being a total push-over to inexplicably ranting and losing my temper keeps the girls on their toes and makes them shake in their boots with respect, but, I suspect, they just secretly roll their eyes and silently think "here she goes again, blah blah blah" or have long since tuned me out and are plotting how to get the car.
Charming husband, on the other hand, has always been consistent in that he has rarely gotten involved in the day-to-day discipline (ironically previously a point of contention). Thus it is very disconcerting for me (and I am now quite stubborn and ungenerous about the "help") that all of a sudden he has begun to randomly crack the whip. He is quick and swift with the consequences whereas I am oh so wishy-washy (secretly rationalizing that isn't it punishment enough that they are forced to listen to my endlessly themed woe-is-me harangue). The problem too is that I over think everything and, thus, though I lose my temper easily, I am not quick to dole out consequences until I am sure of exactly what the punishment should be because I am all too aware of how said consequences must be well-thought out lest they make my own life more difficult. And that's where the problem lies because charming husband's most recent favourite punishment is to ban offenders from using the car for weeks at a time. This, of course, really only punishes me as (because charming husband works all hours of the day and night) I now have to abandon my cherished and newly found (having only recently begun to enjoy the freedom of having driving-aged children) TV/reading time to chauffeur kids to a myriad of activities.
I was going to wax poetic about dads today, but this blogging thing may prove to be way too much of a commitment, especially on busy days. So, instead, here's a look at ever prepubescent new dad, Neil Patrick Harris, who was a huge hit at the Tony awards and let's hope gets invited to host the Oscars:
So up until now I thought the best cure for a punch drunk hangover (or any hangover for that matter) was to go to the gym and run the hamster wheel (still not being able to do weight-bearing exercise due to that "oh body when did you betray me" ski accident a few years ago—but that's another story) at speeds fast enough to drown out thoughts while listening to the eclectic pedestrian playlist pounding on my newish iPod.
Best gift ever that iPod; thank you charming husband. [Aside: I still can't read the Latin inscription thoughtfully engraved on the back in a font so small that even my strongest sexiest reading glasses are useless. . . and, charming non-Latin reading husband can't remember what the inscription says and is not too sure he ever knew in the first place having perused the internet for something clever to say (yeah, that'll get you places). I have thought about asking someone I know to read it for me, specifically my can't-even-be-24-yet Latin summer study group leader with the twinkling mischievous eyes (whom I quite inexplicably have a crush on, inexplicably as I am never attracted to young guys always preferring aging balding men with old jaded souls—I am speaking to you, Javier, just as soon as you start balding and are ready to ditch that Penelope chick). But, knowing charming husband's warped sense of humour, think this inscription is best left unread and likely says something like "dear crazy wife, btw, normal girls want sports cars or girls' vacations or boob jobs (hint hint) for their mid-life crisis, not another university degree, but you're the one I love and married, merry Xmas." Which brings me to Hall Pass - the review.]
The first caveat is that I love stupid movies, so, if you don't, don't see this one. The second caveat is that it is nowhere near as clever as some of the Farrelly Brothers' previous stuff (and how does one top There's Something about Mary?), but it is cheese-ily endearingly romantic. The opening scene in which mid-life crisis dad is nostalgically showing his children pictures of when he and his wife were young is laugh aloud funny and includes a few great and memorable lines.
There are lots of things that don't work in Hall Pass—specifically the entire side-kick Jason Sudeikis sub-plot which was just unfunny and only a vehicle for the seemingly necessary gross-out scenes in this kind of flick. And Sudeikis's character was decidedly unlikable and his relationship with main character Rick, played by Owen Wilson, completely lacked any necessary good-buddy feel (as did most scenes with Rick's group of stock loser friends). Plus the movie lags at times.
But, that said, I still loved Hall Pass because
a) Owen Wilson's performance is superb—he simply nails the ever-loyal hapless romantic husband character, and you fall in love with him over and over again,
b) Jenna Fischer of The Office fame is understated and excellent as Rick's wife, Maggie, and,
c) writers Pete Jones and the Farrellys totally get that (despite the dumb summer movie vehicle) this is human nature.
(Also, great job of dressing these characters in the most geeky suburban dad clothes ever.)
I saw the trailer for Cowboys and Aliens the other night and haven't been able to stop thinking about this great idea for a film and am quite surprised no one has done this cowboys and aliens thing before. Iron Man's Favreau is just the guy to direct and aside/confession: I loved Craig as Bond—he nailed the cool man-of-few-words factor—so am looking forward to him in this.
Another one to add to the looks-like-a-must-see list is this incredibly cool indie film, Bellflower, also due out this summer.
And, because ever since Snatch I am a huge fan of Brad Pitt and this film Moneyball is going to knock it out of the park:
Sure most of us know it's not smart to make your password your spouse's/dog's/kid's first name nor your birth date, telephone number, or, duh, the word "password," but . . . in the "be wary what you may one day be required/coerced to reveal" vein, it might also be a good idea to ensure that whatever you do choose as that all powerful "word" won't one day come back to haunt you (even if you are old now and only able to remember just the one word for all your accounts/devices).
Albeit this little tale-of-the-day is pre-RIM's BM-me crackberry and Apple's iPhone#? (for the record I'm still using my "free" sexy-slick little Samsung slider [yeah yeah, I know, but it's just 'cause I'm holding out 'til Apple releases the iSext7 and then I'm first in line]). Plus, it, the story, takes places before we all had 24/7 wireless internet access (yes, Virginia, there was such a time).
