I've had one of those days where I needed a good cry. So I rented The Time Traveler's Wife.
Even though the wage for the rental was meager*, I would like to demand a timely and complete refund from Redbox because I was duped into believing this was some cute, romantic movie reminiscent of The Notebook. Less all the forgetfulness and plus some travel through time.
WRONG. What I got was a screwed up story of a sub-teen falling for a grown man** who has this irritating habit of dropping every bit of clothing in the blink of an eye and showing up in another time and place naked as a jay bird***. Oh. And the supposed love story between the two.
NOT.
I couldn't believe the audacity of the girl/woman in this story. First, let me just say that any movie that portrays women in love as completely and utterly stupid and blind is probably right. And this character was S.T.U.P.I.D.
As I'm prone to do, I had to analyze the stupidity, starting with this: she's known this guy since she was little and she's the only one aging. STUPID WOMAN. Can't you do the easy math and figure out, eventually, he's going to look the same and you are going to look like a prune?
Or this: she actually has the nerve to gripe at this guy when he time travels after they get married. STUPID WOMAN. Your first clue should have been that the very first time you met him he appeared out of nowhere and disappeared in front of your eyes. HMM.
In a stunning reversal of fortune, she is the one woman on the face of the Earth that got EXACTLY what she dated. And she is gritching about it??? THINK, WOMAN, THINK.
Or this: She's desperate to have kids with this guy because SHE really wants a child. Can you say "life of a single Mommy?" STUPID WOMAN.
Any of us with children can attest to the importance of having a husband to remind us that murder is in the Top 10. With a hubby who has this annoying habit of dropping drawer and taking off, she was destined to become the single Mom with absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt, NO REASON to complain.
Rarely will I ever cheer when I find out a character dies in a movie. But I was so glad when I found out the traveling dude was dead. Now we were cooking with gas. The complaining, stupid woman and her time-traveling-daughter**** could get on with their lives.
But, NO. He comes back. Like Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street. Except with fewer clothes and an ending that proved, once again, this woman is utterly daft.
OH.MY.GOSH. There were so many times I almost turned this movie off. It made me mad that Hollywood spent money to convince me I was going to either a) enjoy this piece o' junk in a gushy, romantic way or b) ball my eyes out and, thus, fulfill my purpose for renting in the first dang place.
Wait just one cotton-pickin' minute. Who's the stupid woman here?????
*$1.08 too much.
**My EWomter was OFF the friggin' charts. I don't give a rat's rear if a young girl is attracted to you, time traveling man. She's off limits. Period. Even when she is older. EW.
***Note to producers: after the first full-moon played by Eric Bana's butt, I was so over it. I didn't need to see it over and over and over again. I got it the first time. He's naked. Let's move on.
****Really. Genetically inherited time travel genes. The next designer baby should come standard with this option.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
It's Worth It???????!!!!!!
It's Day Three of THE DIET, PART XXI. And I have hunger pains.
I keep reminding myself that everyone gets them. Right?! This is a normal part of the process. Something I have to work through and get past.
But, tonight, I have hunger pains with the munchies. I would take just about anything crunchy, sweet, salty, chewy or covered with a bottle of Tabasco. I'm that desperate.
Instead of eating, I'm writing to you, my dear readers, because you are the biggest reason I won't be grabbing the entire bag of Lay's and munching until I puke.*
I've tried drinking away my problems.** Not working.
I've tried ignoring my stomach. Which sounds like something has crawled into it and is making very sad, low, moaning sounds.
I've even tried to appease my tummy by reminding it that we'll get another meal in less than 12 hours. And that our snack was heavy in protein and was only an hour ago.
But, nothing, and I mean NUTTIN' HONEY***, is helping my situation.
I told you I was going to get hungry. I'm just not cranky.
Yet.****
*See, I know you. If I fail at this little task of losing weight, you won't let me forget. And, when I succeed (don't you like that I'm using encouraging language with myself?), I'll be too ashamed to continue my tradition of buying Little Debbie Nutty Buddy Bars and eating two packages before getting home, for fear I'll have to admit I gained all the weight back.
You are my Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers all rolled up into one big ball. And, bonus! You, unlike other weight-loss programs, provide all the shame for FREE!
**Unsweetened tea.
***OH, cereal. What I wouldn't give for just one bowl.....
****I guarantee that is coming. And my post when that happens? Gonna be a humdinger.
I keep reminding myself that everyone gets them. Right?! This is a normal part of the process. Something I have to work through and get past.
But, tonight, I have hunger pains with the munchies. I would take just about anything crunchy, sweet, salty, chewy or covered with a bottle of Tabasco. I'm that desperate.
Instead of eating, I'm writing to you, my dear readers, because you are the biggest reason I won't be grabbing the entire bag of Lay's and munching until I puke.*
I've tried drinking away my problems.** Not working.
I've tried ignoring my stomach. Which sounds like something has crawled into it and is making very sad, low, moaning sounds.
I've even tried to appease my tummy by reminding it that we'll get another meal in less than 12 hours. And that our snack was heavy in protein and was only an hour ago.
But, nothing, and I mean NUTTIN' HONEY***, is helping my situation.
I told you I was going to get hungry. I'm just not cranky.
Yet.****
*See, I know you. If I fail at this little task of losing weight, you won't let me forget. And, when I succeed (don't you like that I'm using encouraging language with myself?), I'll be too ashamed to continue my tradition of buying Little Debbie Nutty Buddy Bars and eating two packages before getting home, for fear I'll have to admit I gained all the weight back.
You are my Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers all rolled up into one big ball. And, bonus! You, unlike other weight-loss programs, provide all the shame for FREE!
**Unsweetened tea.
***OH, cereal. What I wouldn't give for just one bowl.....
****I guarantee that is coming. And my post when that happens? Gonna be a humdinger.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Take Me Out To The Dugout
"I'm not going to sugar coat it, folks. I've seen road kill with faster reflexes than that." Announcer Dog in Chicken Little
One thing I simultaneously love and hate about "G" rated movies these days is that the writers are intent on entertaining people of all ages.* Take the above quote. I played that thing over and over and over, until the under five-foot set started complaining. Something about that quote just a) inexplicably cracked me up and b) reminded me of myself.
I am the queen of the side lines. That, if I HAVE to attend a sporting event, is where I am most comfortable. Especially if the event involves some combination of Frito chili pie, a cold beer, ice cream or popcorn.** This makes baseball simultaneously the most boring, slow game on the planet but most definitely the best buffet of junk food in the universe.
Why, do you wonder, do I have such an aversion to group sports? It all stems from an experience I had when I was stupid enough to believe that playing sports with someone I loved was good for our relationship. And I joined a co-ed, "non-competitive" softball team.
First mistake our coach made was putting me on the field. I'm positive I didn't belong in any position on the infield because I would have become a human ball target. But the outfield was just as bad.
Literally, by mid-game, the other team was yelling to the batter "Hit it to right field!". I WAS right field.
For some insane reason, after countless balls weren't caught or they simply rolled past me or I threw them with all my might, only to make it about 15 feet in front of me, the coach decided to put me in another spot. Third base was my new home.
I guess this seemed relatively harmless. I traded spots with a young, athletic, strong-armed man who had been bored the entire game because no one had made it to third. He'd silence those jerks who thought I was a bad right fielder. Third should be a piece of cake, right?
WRONG.
First batter up? A lefty. Geometry, or some scientific theory that explains why balls and bats do what they do on contact, would dictate that I was totally, completely, irrefutably screwed.
It was a line drive. Straight up the third base chalk. Erring on the right side of my body, ever so slightly out-of-bounds. In fact, it would be called an out. But not because of the trajectory of the ball or it's proximity to the line. It was because of my hand.
Out of pure instinct, sheer idiocy, or embarrassment that I was the worst outfield player in the history of sports, I stuck out my ungloved hand. To catch a line drive hit by a MAN. And catch it I did.
I first realized I had actually caught the ball when I heard the entire group of players in the dugout go "EEEEEWWWWW". As if they had just witnessed a car wreck involving serious blood and guts.
Then I looked at my hand. Pride was the first thing I felt. Then pain.
Everyone was starting to crowd around me, asking about my hand. I still had the ball in it. I was afraid, if I unwrapped it, my hand would fall off my wrist and wriggle around on the ground like a gecko tail after its owner drops it out of self-defense. That or I'd discover that every.bone.in.my.hand.is.shattered.
A few minutes, a couple of Tylenol, and a few beers later, I was happily sitting back in the dugout. Where I belonged in the first place.
There I could relive my two up-to-bats, where the entire other "recreational, non-competitive" team took to taunting me by saying things like "Easy out" and "OUTFIELD! Move IN."
Yes, folks. It's true. There is crying in baseball.
*That includes immature 43 year old women who will cry buckets when her kids refuse to go to said "G" movies, all in an attempt to emotionally coerce them into compliance. Case in point: I got misty-eyed when I saw the first preview for "Toy Story 3". My kids thought there was something seriously wrong with me.
**Basically, sports are about the food experience for me. If the sport is synonymous with no food or bad food, I'm not going. Take for example, polo. I'm all for the champagne and caviar I hear they serve, but patting down horse dukey? NOT appetizing.
One thing I simultaneously love and hate about "G" rated movies these days is that the writers are intent on entertaining people of all ages.* Take the above quote. I played that thing over and over and over, until the under five-foot set started complaining. Something about that quote just a) inexplicably cracked me up and b) reminded me of myself.
I am the queen of the side lines. That, if I HAVE to attend a sporting event, is where I am most comfortable. Especially if the event involves some combination of Frito chili pie, a cold beer, ice cream or popcorn.** This makes baseball simultaneously the most boring, slow game on the planet but most definitely the best buffet of junk food in the universe.
Why, do you wonder, do I have such an aversion to group sports? It all stems from an experience I had when I was stupid enough to believe that playing sports with someone I loved was good for our relationship. And I joined a co-ed, "non-competitive" softball team.
First mistake our coach made was putting me on the field. I'm positive I didn't belong in any position on the infield because I would have become a human ball target. But the outfield was just as bad.
Literally, by mid-game, the other team was yelling to the batter "Hit it to right field!". I WAS right field.
For some insane reason, after countless balls weren't caught or they simply rolled past me or I threw them with all my might, only to make it about 15 feet in front of me, the coach decided to put me in another spot. Third base was my new home.
I guess this seemed relatively harmless. I traded spots with a young, athletic, strong-armed man who had been bored the entire game because no one had made it to third. He'd silence those jerks who thought I was a bad right fielder. Third should be a piece of cake, right?
WRONG.
First batter up? A lefty. Geometry, or some scientific theory that explains why balls and bats do what they do on contact, would dictate that I was totally, completely, irrefutably screwed.
It was a line drive. Straight up the third base chalk. Erring on the right side of my body, ever so slightly out-of-bounds. In fact, it would be called an out. But not because of the trajectory of the ball or it's proximity to the line. It was because of my hand.
Out of pure instinct, sheer idiocy, or embarrassment that I was the worst outfield player in the history of sports, I stuck out my ungloved hand. To catch a line drive hit by a MAN. And catch it I did.
I first realized I had actually caught the ball when I heard the entire group of players in the dugout go "EEEEEWWWWW". As if they had just witnessed a car wreck involving serious blood and guts.
Then I looked at my hand. Pride was the first thing I felt. Then pain.
Everyone was starting to crowd around me, asking about my hand. I still had the ball in it. I was afraid, if I unwrapped it, my hand would fall off my wrist and wriggle around on the ground like a gecko tail after its owner drops it out of self-defense. That or I'd discover that every.bone.in.my.hand.is.shattered.
A few minutes, a couple of Tylenol, and a few beers later, I was happily sitting back in the dugout. Where I belonged in the first place.
There I could relive my two up-to-bats, where the entire other "recreational, non-competitive" team took to taunting me by saying things like "Easy out" and "OUTFIELD! Move IN."
Yes, folks. It's true. There is crying in baseball.
*That includes immature 43 year old women who will cry buckets when her kids refuse to go to said "G" movies, all in an attempt to emotionally coerce them into compliance. Case in point: I got misty-eyed when I saw the first preview for "Toy Story 3". My kids thought there was something seriously wrong with me.
**Basically, sports are about the food experience for me. If the sport is synonymous with no food or bad food, I'm not going. Take for example, polo. I'm all for the champagne and caviar I hear they serve, but patting down horse dukey? NOT appetizing.
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