Well, it's a good thing I'm not headed to med school any time soon...
When my son was born almost twenty-one months ago, a sweet nurse told me that all I had to do was kiss his forehead to gauge whether or not he was running a fever. This was a relief to me, because I have bad luck with thermometers. I can never seem to get a correct reading and always end up with a number below what I think sounds normal (though this could explain why I'm always freezing...)
Anyhow, my husband and I were fine with the "kiss test," but of course bought several different thermometers to keep in the house just in case. We tested them on ourselves (orally and ear!) to make sure they worked, and both got readings in the 96 degree range. So that means neither of us can work a thermometer. I'M kind of slow, but my husband enjoys writing computer code, studying algorithms (not that I know what those are), and reading historical non-fiction; so that makes me feel a LITTLE better that he is just as baffled by such a simple device. We're perfect together!
Fast forward to this week: my little angelic ball of dough woke up on Tuesday sweaty and miserable. He had a rough situation in the diaper region, too, and didn't feel like eating or drinking. But the most alarming part was that he was incredibly fatigued, and if you know my son (or any toddler) that's just not normal. BUT I did the "kiss test" and confirmed that he was not running a fever.
I took him to the doctor, and she thought he seemed okay (no fever, ear, nose, or throat issues). She prescribed a special ointment for his "diaper situation" ($60 WITH insurance. I'm assuming it's made of gold leaf... but naturally it's worth every penny if it makes him feel better). We went home, I called out of work, and we spent most of the day curled up together on a Thomas the Tank Engine bender.
Today he seemed a little better, eating and drinking and even playing a little, but I was worried because he was still exhausted. I called the pediatrician's nurse line, which I've always had good experiences with. A woman called me back a couple hours later. I immediately detected that she was an older woman and DEFINITELY from New York, possibly Queens.
From the beginning, she seemed impatient with me. She asked me if Grant had a fever. I tried to explain that I had felt his forehead and it was cool, but I might as well have said, "My psychic believes he's fine." Now to her credit, I probably sounded like a moron. But I can't take Grant's temperature! Besides the fact that I can't work a thermometer, that kid often won't stay still long enough for me to do it. This nurse was appalled. In a high-pitched, Fran-Drescher-like voice, she insisted that I take it immediately and she would "cahwl" me back in ten minutes.
Eleven minutes later, Nurse Fran called back and boy did I get it. I felt like my grandmother from Flushing was yelling at me."I just can't seem to get a reading!" I whined back. "He won't stay still!"
"YOU'VE got to make him stay still! You're BIGGAH than him, and he needs to learn! YOU'RE bigg-aaah!"
Oh, really? I'm bigger than my 21-month-old son? Thanks, Nurse Fran. I can take it from here... What is it with strong-accented women pointing out my son's size lately??
Nurse Fran finally gave up, exasperated with my parental ineptitude. She told me to keep taking his temp throughout the day and monitor his eating, drinking, and general behavior. She might as well have told me not to shake him vigorously; she clearly thought I was THAT much of a dunce. I guess I can't really blame her..
BUT... as soon as I hung up, I used all my big-person force and finally held the thermometer under Grant's doughy arm long enough to get a reading. I eagerly brought the thermometer up to my face to read it and discovered that the freakin' thing was in Celsius.
That's it; I'm cancelling my plans for pre-med.
")
P.S. Grant is doing much better this evening, thank goodness.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Martinis on Me!
Recently my husband and I had a night out in Bath, England, while my in-laws took care of our son. We walked all around, eventually ending up in a pub where a seemingly friendly local began telling us about some places to check out. He then asked us what we "do" back in America. Howard gave a brief description of his job, then told him that I was a "childcare provder." The man laughed condescendingly, looked at me, and said:
"Ah. So you spend HIS money."
Wow. What a completely accurate description of my day-to-day endeavors. Why, just earlier that morning I had asked my "hubby" for some cash so I could go to the martini bar, purchase a new fur coat (I don't have one that matches the Manolos I bought last week), and test-drive the Ferrari that I was planning on making him buy for me. I rubbed my ears, which were weighed down by the 15-carat diamond earrings I had just purchased with Howard's credit card, and smiled. It was like this stranger had known me my whole life...
I don't think I need to defend what it is I "do," since my family and friends already get it. That said, there are many jobs more stressful and difficult than looking after my sweet baby boy and taking care of an equally sweet six-year-old in the afternoons. Like the man in the pub's job, which apparently required him to drink beer and grade papers. He was also waiting for a wife who never appeared while we were there. I just assumed she was running around town on a shopping spree, like so many of us wives are wont to do...
")
"Ah. So you spend HIS money."
Wow. What a completely accurate description of my day-to-day endeavors. Why, just earlier that morning I had asked my "hubby" for some cash so I could go to the martini bar, purchase a new fur coat (I don't have one that matches the Manolos I bought last week), and test-drive the Ferrari that I was planning on making him buy for me. I rubbed my ears, which were weighed down by the 15-carat diamond earrings I had just purchased with Howard's credit card, and smiled. It was like this stranger had known me my whole life...
I don't think I need to defend what it is I "do," since my family and friends already get it. That said, there are many jobs more stressful and difficult than looking after my sweet baby boy and taking care of an equally sweet six-year-old in the afternoons. Like the man in the pub's job, which apparently required him to drink beer and grade papers. He was also waiting for a wife who never appeared while we were there. I just assumed she was running around town on a shopping spree, like so many of us wives are wont to do...
")
Monday, June 4, 2012
Wubs on a Plane
Boy, do I love my son Grant. He is sweet, funny, active, and affectionate. His little smile and voice melts my heart, and his curiosity of the world around him is a adorable. I love my son. That said, I will not be taking him on another airplane until he's old enough to vote.
A few weeks ago, my in-laws treated us to an incredible trip to the UK. We had all been talking about it for months and eagerly anticipating seeing my husband's extended family and introducing Grant to his Welsh great-grandmother. But alas, there was an elephant in the room. And that elephant was "How is Grant going to hold up during a 7.5 hour international flight when a ONE HOUR flight to Boston is difficult?"
Funny how not many of us wanted to address this proverbial elephant. My mother-in-law, who travels internationally like most people ride subway cars, insisted that taking a 20-month-old boy on a long flight was incredibly doable, adding that she had taken my husband and his brother many times when they were young. This was my first red flag, as it is common knowledge that my husband was THE MOST PERFECT BABY TO EVER LIVE and could sit still and quietly entertain himself. According to my mom, I was similar. And according to Grant's mom, ME, he is the exact opposite. Perhaps some recessive genes from my rebellious brothers? Who knows...
We arrived for our night flight with Grant already in his pajamas, PRAYING that the sheer hour of the day would knock the kid out and he would sleep through to when we touched down in bonny England. We ran into another couple waiting to board, and remarked on how their young son already looked sleepy. They leaned in and let us in on a little secret: BENADRYL. "Oh no!" I thought, reacting less to the fact that they had drugged their child out of convenience and more to the fact that I hadn't had the common sense to do the same.
After dinner and a couple hours of Grant of sprinting around the terminals, we boarded the plane. The lights were off, and Grant was showing signs of grogginess. My mother-in-law had scored my husband and me some bulkhead seats, so we had extra room. "Maybe this won't be so bad, afterall!" I figured.
We asked the flight attendant for a bassinet to put Grant in. She returned with one and I tried to ignore the fact that it was about three-quarters of his size. That fact became harder to ignore when a different, heavy-set Scottish flight attendant stopped short when she saw us and gasped, "YUUUU CAAAN'T UUUUSE THAT! HE'S FAAAAHR TUUUUUU BIIIG!" My husband and I agreed immediately, but she didn't seem to think we were getting it and continued. "Yuuu seee, that seeeat is fer a young baaaybeee and yur child is faaaahr tuuu biiig to yuuuuse it!" Yup. Roger that. We read you loud and clear, m'am! And yet she went on for the next five minutes to prove her theory, demonstrating some obvious points related to size. Grant was starting to lose it. And the plane was still on the ground.
We soon got a bigger seat to strap to a fold out table in front of us, but by then the lights had been turned back on and Grant was overtired and furious, having already rejected the toys that my mother-in-law had thoughtfully packed and spilling two drinks. When I had to strap a seat belt around him for takeoff, his cries and whines were promoted to full-on SCREAMS. I should also mention that the baby in the next row from us was behaving perfectly, making our son look like even more of a loose cannon by comparison. Perhaps the other baby was my husband's illegitimate child...
After we were in the air, I was both relishing the fact that we stood very little chance of being kicked off the plane AND wishing I could trade places with anyone else for the next seven hours. ALL OF THE LIGHTS stayed on for the entire flight. When poor Grant's exhausted tantrum hit its peak (he wanted to run freely down the aisles of the plane) we finally had to strap him into the seat. After an amount of effort that compares only to that of a circus performer, my husband FINALLY got him to fall asleep, lights glaring and all.
Twenty minutes later, we hit some mild turbulence and our favorite flight attendant told us we had to take him out of the seat. Yes, he woke back up. Yes, he screamed. He fell back asleep. He woke up. More screaming. It pretty much continued like that until we mercifully touched down at Heathrow hours later. My husband and I had aged about fifteen years, and it was then that I decided that I was moving to England, because there was NO WAY I was making my son do that flight again.
All in all, we survived and ended up having a wonderful visit. And I kept telling myself that at least the plane didn't crash. And on the flight back, I tried to keep that in mind...
")
A few weeks ago, my in-laws treated us to an incredible trip to the UK. We had all been talking about it for months and eagerly anticipating seeing my husband's extended family and introducing Grant to his Welsh great-grandmother. But alas, there was an elephant in the room. And that elephant was "How is Grant going to hold up during a 7.5 hour international flight when a ONE HOUR flight to Boston is difficult?"
Funny how not many of us wanted to address this proverbial elephant. My mother-in-law, who travels internationally like most people ride subway cars, insisted that taking a 20-month-old boy on a long flight was incredibly doable, adding that she had taken my husband and his brother many times when they were young. This was my first red flag, as it is common knowledge that my husband was THE MOST PERFECT BABY TO EVER LIVE and could sit still and quietly entertain himself. According to my mom, I was similar. And according to Grant's mom, ME, he is the exact opposite. Perhaps some recessive genes from my rebellious brothers? Who knows...
We arrived for our night flight with Grant already in his pajamas, PRAYING that the sheer hour of the day would knock the kid out and he would sleep through to when we touched down in bonny England. We ran into another couple waiting to board, and remarked on how their young son already looked sleepy. They leaned in and let us in on a little secret: BENADRYL. "Oh no!" I thought, reacting less to the fact that they had drugged their child out of convenience and more to the fact that I hadn't had the common sense to do the same.
After dinner and a couple hours of Grant of sprinting around the terminals, we boarded the plane. The lights were off, and Grant was showing signs of grogginess. My mother-in-law had scored my husband and me some bulkhead seats, so we had extra room. "Maybe this won't be so bad, afterall!" I figured.
We asked the flight attendant for a bassinet to put Grant in. She returned with one and I tried to ignore the fact that it was about three-quarters of his size. That fact became harder to ignore when a different, heavy-set Scottish flight attendant stopped short when she saw us and gasped, "YUUUU CAAAN'T UUUUSE THAT! HE'S FAAAAHR TUUUUUU BIIIG!" My husband and I agreed immediately, but she didn't seem to think we were getting it and continued. "Yuuu seee, that seeeat is fer a young baaaybeee and yur child is faaaahr tuuu biiig to yuuuuse it!" Yup. Roger that. We read you loud and clear, m'am! And yet she went on for the next five minutes to prove her theory, demonstrating some obvious points related to size. Grant was starting to lose it. And the plane was still on the ground.
We soon got a bigger seat to strap to a fold out table in front of us, but by then the lights had been turned back on and Grant was overtired and furious, having already rejected the toys that my mother-in-law had thoughtfully packed and spilling two drinks. When I had to strap a seat belt around him for takeoff, his cries and whines were promoted to full-on SCREAMS. I should also mention that the baby in the next row from us was behaving perfectly, making our son look like even more of a loose cannon by comparison. Perhaps the other baby was my husband's illegitimate child...
After we were in the air, I was both relishing the fact that we stood very little chance of being kicked off the plane AND wishing I could trade places with anyone else for the next seven hours. ALL OF THE LIGHTS stayed on for the entire flight. When poor Grant's exhausted tantrum hit its peak (he wanted to run freely down the aisles of the plane) we finally had to strap him into the seat. After an amount of effort that compares only to that of a circus performer, my husband FINALLY got him to fall asleep, lights glaring and all.
Twenty minutes later, we hit some mild turbulence and our favorite flight attendant told us we had to take him out of the seat. Yes, he woke back up. Yes, he screamed. He fell back asleep. He woke up. More screaming. It pretty much continued like that until we mercifully touched down at Heathrow hours later. My husband and I had aged about fifteen years, and it was then that I decided that I was moving to England, because there was NO WAY I was making my son do that flight again.
All in all, we survived and ended up having a wonderful visit. And I kept telling myself that at least the plane didn't crash. And on the flight back, I tried to keep that in mind...
")
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
The Desperate Month of May
Today is the first of May, which reminds me of "The Lusty Month of May," a song from the musical Camelot. Ah, CAMELOT! While the word may conjure up images of brave knights sitting around a table and fair damsels in distress, to me it only brings back glorious memories of epic high school humiliation. You guessed it-another DON story!
If you're not familiar with "Don," he's a boy I obsessed over for a year in high school and showed my devotion to by doing subtle, romantic things like rigging a Mystery Match and wearing a crown with the word HO on it. Y'know, classy stuff like that. And this next story I might have forgotten, if it wasn't for that song always popping into my head this time of year.
About fourteen or fifteen years ago (WOW), our school was doing Camelot for its annual spring musical. Since our theatre guild was pretty hard up for semi-good looking straight male participants (except for ALL my male friends from high school, who to this day are still ridiculously attractive), Don landed one of the lead roles as the strapping, gallant knight Sir Lancelot du Lac. Sure, Don had a very mild lisp and couldn't hold a French accent for more than twenty seconds- but that didn't seem to bother anyone (especially me).
I NEEDED to get into this musical, and there was only one thing standing in my way: a complete lack of singing and dancing ability. But since I had established myself as a psycho-stalker who wasn't below any attempt to get near Don, I had a two-part plan. Part one: AUDITION (insert hysterical laughter here). Needless to say, I did not get in. Part two: sign up for EVERY CREW AVAILABLE. Done and DONE. I literally walked up to the board by the chorus room and scribbled my John Hancock on every single sign-up sheet there was. Set Crew? SURE! Scenery Painting? WHY NOT? Heraldic Insignia? I didn't know what that was, but you can bet I signed up for it!
Each rehearsal I toiled both on and offstage. The head of the building crew was a LITTLE miffed that I didn't know how to use a drill... or a hammer... but once I had a paintbrush in my hand I was slightly more useful. There I'd be, on the floor fixing something as Don would stride onto the stage with his sword. I had "Officer and a Gentleman-like" images of him sweeping me off the stage and carrying me away. Instead, he stopped mid-scene, looked straight down at me, and said "Um... would you mind moving? You're kinda in the way." Sparks flew. He actually talked to me, man...
In the end, I had the last laugh (not really, but whatever). They wanted gymnasts in one scene and I enthusiastically volunteered myself and two of my teammates. For the record, I was (and am) 5'8" and WELL over a hundred pounds. But I made it into the show in the eleventh hour, cartwheeling and back-handspringing across the stage to the best of my ability (they should have had a structural engineer come and make sure that I wasn't endangering the rest of the cast).
Don did not ask me out. And the following year, the director decided to use gymnasts again and I was, um, not invited back. But who's laughing NOW? Nevermind- don't answer that.
Happy Freakin' May!
")
Monday, April 30, 2012
Secret Agent 23 Skidoo
Last week I traded cars with my husband. He took my 2008 silver Jetta with the missing hubcaps (thank YOU, North Chelmsford potholes) and I borrowed his new black Kia, a car that my first grade buddy refers to as the "Batmobile."
Though I usually fear driving new cars (TOO MUCH PRESSURE! Plus I'm not an ambi-parker), I was definitely enjoying the Sirius XM radio and took a break from my usual NPR binge to catch up on Howard Stern. Sure, Howard Stern is a bit of a... what's the word... "self-worshipping jerkface," but I still find his show pretty entertaining.
After a few days I finally decided that maybe my toddler shouldn't be listening to interviews with, um, ladies who get paid to "hug" a lot of people on camera. So I found a kids station called Kidsplace Live, and let me just ask: WHAT is going on in the world of children's music these days? I remember Raffi and I worked in a preschool so of course I know the Wiggles, etc... but I just wasn't prepared for the barrage of modern hits by artists with names like "Casper Babypants" and "Secret Agent 23 Skidoo." Plus a lot of the tunes, though they had great beats and talented vocalists, just ended up giving me the CREEPS.
Allow me to explain my new pet peeve with modern children's music: when full-grown adults sing lyrics as if they're children. For example, a 40-something man singing about his "mommy" and "daddy" and then asking for a "cookie" before "bedtime." Am I a horrible person to think that's WHACKED OUT?! Also, a sultry-voiced adult woman singing about how she wants to eat lollipops for dinner and pick out her own clothes... all I can think is, "What asylum is this chick confined to and why won't they let her dress herself?!" Yeah, maybe that proverbial fourth wall wouldn't be broken for children, but as a 30-YEAR-OLD WOMAN I'm just a little uncomfortable listening to a man with a deep voice talking about how cute the little girl sitting next to him is with the missing two front teeth. SOMEONE CALL THE POLICE!
But they're not all bad. Let's get back to Secret Agent 23 Skidoo. First of all: BEST NAME EVER. Second of all, this dude is like the Ludacris of children's music. I actually enjoyed some of his songs and my son was pop-lockin' in the backseat. This guy's THE MAN. And my favorite part? Some of his lyrics sound so dirty (something about a sword fight with Strawberry Shortcake-WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!) but they're not- it's just because he sounds like LUDA. Wait... am I cool enough to call him "Luda"? Now who's trying to sound young and hip?
")
After a few days I finally decided that maybe my toddler shouldn't be listening to interviews with, um, ladies who get paid to "hug" a lot of people on camera. So I found a kids station called Kidsplace Live, and let me just ask: WHAT is going on in the world of children's music these days? I remember Raffi and I worked in a preschool so of course I know the Wiggles, etc... but I just wasn't prepared for the barrage of modern hits by artists with names like "Casper Babypants" and "Secret Agent 23 Skidoo." Plus a lot of the tunes, though they had great beats and talented vocalists, just ended up giving me the CREEPS.
Allow me to explain my new pet peeve with modern children's music: when full-grown adults sing lyrics as if they're children. For example, a 40-something man singing about his "mommy" and "daddy" and then asking for a "cookie" before "bedtime." Am I a horrible person to think that's WHACKED OUT?! Also, a sultry-voiced adult woman singing about how she wants to eat lollipops for dinner and pick out her own clothes... all I can think is, "What asylum is this chick confined to and why won't they let her dress herself?!" Yeah, maybe that proverbial fourth wall wouldn't be broken for children, but as a 30-YEAR-OLD WOMAN I'm just a little uncomfortable listening to a man with a deep voice talking about how cute the little girl sitting next to him is with the missing two front teeth. SOMEONE CALL THE POLICE!
But they're not all bad. Let's get back to Secret Agent 23 Skidoo. First of all: BEST NAME EVER. Second of all, this dude is like the Ludacris of children's music. I actually enjoyed some of his songs and my son was pop-lockin' in the backseat. This guy's THE MAN. And my favorite part? Some of his lyrics sound so dirty (something about a sword fight with Strawberry Shortcake-WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!) but they're not- it's just because he sounds like LUDA. Wait... am I cool enough to call him "Luda"? Now who's trying to sound young and hip?
")
Sunday, April 15, 2012
No Strings Attached
Great news! I've just decided to add "Volunteer, Unpaid Movie Critic" to my growing resume that also incudes: "Quasi-Stay-at-Home Mom," "Part-Time Babysitter," "Artist Who Works for Condiments," and "Not-for-Much-Profit-but-for-Much-Rewards Children's Book Writer/Illustrator..."
THAT SAID, yesterday (Saturday NIIIIIIIGHT) I treated myself to the mental cotton candy of a chick flick called "No Strings Attached," which popped up in the New Releases section of our 'FLIX profile. I deplore most romantic comedies, yet still choose to watch them on my own time (not unlike sneaking into a closet and devouring a pint of Ben & Jerry's. It's something that feels right at the moment, though you kind of despise yourself afterwards).
Why do I deplore rom-coms? Despite some sharp exceptions (LOVE ACTUALLY, BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY, and most British joints) they all have the same underlying theme: You can be crazy/mean/nerdy/pregnant with another man's baby and it will all work out if you are attractive.
A FEW EXAMPLES:
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
10 Things I Hate About You
She's All That
The Back-Up Plan
But today I'm here to talk about "No Strings Attached." Here's a synopsis (I'm going to try and keep in PG for any young, impressionable readers):
Natalie Portman and Ashton Kutcher are impossibly good-looking and successful 20-somethings who keep running into each other due to happenstance and mutual friends (the "friends" in these movies are always what save them, aren't they?)
After finding out that his Hollywood mogul father is now, um, co-habiting with his ex-girlfriend, Ashton gets viciously inebriated and calls every girl in his phone. He presumably blacks out and wakes up the next morning passed out on Natalie Portman's couch. After a humorous attempt to piece the night's events together, Ashton goes into Natalie's room and they decide to have spontaneous, er, relations. Makes sense so far, right?
Thus begins an arrangement between the two, suggested by Natalie, that they keep their relationship strictly physical without the HORRIBLE HORRIBLE ANNOYANCE of a healthy, committed relationship (cuddling? hand-holding? Eating BREAKFAST together? Don't make me THROW UP!)
Anyhow, this will come as a complete shock, but Ashton develops serious feelings for Natalie and wants to be more than just hug-buddies. Natalie is very resistant, telling him that he should instead "hug" lots of other women. The following week, when Ashton reluctantly brings home not one, but TWO women, Natalie shows up in a drunken, jealous rage and kicks both ladies to the curb. Even I felt bad for poor Ashton-I mean, talk about mixed signals!
They rekindle their fling, only to have it all fall apart when Ashton has THE COMPLETE AUDACITY to plan a romantic Valentine's evening involving mini-golf, a shared milkshake, and the inevitable walk-through-a-pretty-place-with-lights. Even worse, he tells Natalie that he may be falling for her. I mean, he almost says the L-WORD! It's just too much for Natalie, and she tells him to buzz off. At this point in the movie I am PRAYING that Ashton recognizes this seriously unhealthy pattern and makes the conscious decision to move forward and find someone who reciprocates his affections. But alas...
Natalie realizes, on the eve of her SISTER'S WEDDING, that she let a good thing go and makes a desperate two-hour drive to Ashton's place, only to HIDE IN THE BUSHES when she sees that he's on a date with someone else. Yadda yadda Ashton's dad's youthful, partying lifestyle lands him in the very hospital where Natalie works, and the rest is history. Natalie gives in to love, and everyone lives happily ever- you get it.
First off, despite the sorry premise, extreme cheapening of morals, and predictable ending, I actually give the movie 2.5 stars based solely on the clever dialogue between the protagonists' friends (who include Mindy Kaling of The Office- how do you NOT love her? And Ludacris, but let's not talk about that). Natalie Portman, an actress who I think is very talented, is phoning it in a bit (perhaps pre-production of Black Swan was in the works during filming?), and Ashton Kutcher... well, I can't stand that guy post That 70s Show. He holds his own through most of the movie, but watching him deliver lines such as "I'm afraid that if you come any closer, I'm going to hold you and never let go," is BEYOND cringe-worthy.
And what girl takes off the NIGHT BEFORE HER SISTER'S WEDDING? The best part was, the sister was totally pre-occupied with Natalie's hot pursuit. Because, y'know, the night before your wedding it should be all about your sister reconciling with a guy she blew off months ago.
Also, unless you look like Natalie Portman, hiding in a man's bushes is an engraved, self-addressed invitation for a restraining order. Trust me, I've looked into it...
")
THAT SAID, yesterday (Saturday NIIIIIIIGHT) I treated myself to the mental cotton candy of a chick flick called "No Strings Attached," which popped up in the New Releases section of our 'FLIX profile. I deplore most romantic comedies, yet still choose to watch them on my own time (not unlike sneaking into a closet and devouring a pint of Ben & Jerry's. It's something that feels right at the moment, though you kind of despise yourself afterwards).
Why do I deplore rom-coms? Despite some sharp exceptions (LOVE ACTUALLY, BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY, and most British joints) they all have the same underlying theme: You can be crazy/mean/nerdy/pregnant with another man's baby and it will all work out if you are attractive.
A FEW EXAMPLES:
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
10 Things I Hate About You
She's All That
The Back-Up Plan
But today I'm here to talk about "No Strings Attached." Here's a synopsis (I'm going to try and keep in PG for any young, impressionable readers):
Natalie Portman and Ashton Kutcher are impossibly good-looking and successful 20-somethings who keep running into each other due to happenstance and mutual friends (the "friends" in these movies are always what save them, aren't they?)
After finding out that his Hollywood mogul father is now, um, co-habiting with his ex-girlfriend, Ashton gets viciously inebriated and calls every girl in his phone. He presumably blacks out and wakes up the next morning passed out on Natalie Portman's couch. After a humorous attempt to piece the night's events together, Ashton goes into Natalie's room and they decide to have spontaneous, er, relations. Makes sense so far, right?
Thus begins an arrangement between the two, suggested by Natalie, that they keep their relationship strictly physical without the HORRIBLE HORRIBLE ANNOYANCE of a healthy, committed relationship (cuddling? hand-holding? Eating BREAKFAST together? Don't make me THROW UP!)
Anyhow, this will come as a complete shock, but Ashton develops serious feelings for Natalie and wants to be more than just hug-buddies. Natalie is very resistant, telling him that he should instead "hug" lots of other women. The following week, when Ashton reluctantly brings home not one, but TWO women, Natalie shows up in a drunken, jealous rage and kicks both ladies to the curb. Even I felt bad for poor Ashton-I mean, talk about mixed signals!
They rekindle their fling, only to have it all fall apart when Ashton has THE COMPLETE AUDACITY to plan a romantic Valentine's evening involving mini-golf, a shared milkshake, and the inevitable walk-through-a-pretty-place-with-lights. Even worse, he tells Natalie that he may be falling for her. I mean, he almost says the L-WORD! It's just too much for Natalie, and she tells him to buzz off. At this point in the movie I am PRAYING that Ashton recognizes this seriously unhealthy pattern and makes the conscious decision to move forward and find someone who reciprocates his affections. But alas...
Natalie realizes, on the eve of her SISTER'S WEDDING, that she let a good thing go and makes a desperate two-hour drive to Ashton's place, only to HIDE IN THE BUSHES when she sees that he's on a date with someone else. Yadda yadda Ashton's dad's youthful, partying lifestyle lands him in the very hospital where Natalie works, and the rest is history. Natalie gives in to love, and everyone lives happily ever- you get it.
First off, despite the sorry premise, extreme cheapening of morals, and predictable ending, I actually give the movie 2.5 stars based solely on the clever dialogue between the protagonists' friends (who include Mindy Kaling of The Office- how do you NOT love her? And Ludacris, but let's not talk about that). Natalie Portman, an actress who I think is very talented, is phoning it in a bit (perhaps pre-production of Black Swan was in the works during filming?), and Ashton Kutcher... well, I can't stand that guy post That 70s Show. He holds his own through most of the movie, but watching him deliver lines such as "I'm afraid that if you come any closer, I'm going to hold you and never let go," is BEYOND cringe-worthy.
And what girl takes off the NIGHT BEFORE HER SISTER'S WEDDING? The best part was, the sister was totally pre-occupied with Natalie's hot pursuit. Because, y'know, the night before your wedding it should be all about your sister reconciling with a guy she blew off months ago.
Also, unless you look like Natalie Portman, hiding in a man's bushes is an engraved, self-addressed invitation for a restraining order. Trust me, I've looked into it...
")
Sunday, April 8, 2012
What a Long Strange Churchgoing Trip It's Been
You know what's classy? Rolling out of bed after a late night of karaoke* at Clare & Don's Beach Shack, stuffing your toddler into a starchy white shirt and dress pants, and forcing him to accompany you on your biannual appearance at church in honor of Easter.
I have a little complex when it comes to church. My family went pretty regularly for the first 10 years of my life. However, deaths in the family, divorce, and relatives moving away eventually dissolved our motivation to attend. I WAS proud that we still made it every Christmas Eve and Easter, until my devoted friend James (of ski weekend surprise fame) casually said that we were on the "C&E Plan," implying that we were, I don't know, fair-weather Christians?
Anyhow, my complex has nothing to do with not liking church. It's just that every time my family attended we were always bombarded by well-intentioned individuals handing us "Newcomer" packets and welcoming us to a church we had been attending for over a decade. I guess our biannual C&E appearances were not enough to make people remember us. I know they were just being friendly, but always being mistaken for a newcomer began to wear on me and make me feel like I wasn't attending enough church (which, I will admit, was an accurate assessment).
Later on, when I went away to college in Baltimore, I tried a few more churches. The highlight of my "search for a church" was walking into one and seeing a classmate of mine banging away at a set of bongos while wearing a Bill Cosby sweater. Especially entertaining was the fact that I had no idea he even attended that church until I saw him drumming away.
A few years later, a friend introduced me to a wonderful place back in Massachusetts after I moved back home. It's called New England Chapel and I would recommend it to anyone in the area. But then I moved to New York... then Maryland... then DC... and finally Falls Church, VA.
Today I chose the church pretty much based on the fact that its service didn't interfere with my son, Grant's, nap schedule (priorities) and the two of us ventured out while my husband took his visiting parents to see the Air and Space Museum.
I passed a very crowded (and stunning) Greek Orthodox church on the way and was a little shocked to pull into an ALMOST EMPTY parking lot at the Baptist church. Oh great, how did I screw this up? I wondered as I carried my bowling-ball-marshmallow-dough boy of a son through some low-lit empty hallways. I made it up to the main worship room place (clearly I am well-versed in church architecture)and found that I was the only one there who didn't work there. The room was almost EMPTY, despite that it was ten minutes before their Easter Service was set to begin.
Long story short, more people showed up and I was soon greeted and welcomed to the church by all of them. We stayed through most of the service as Grant ran around, tested some sound equipment, danced his spastic-toddler jig, and for the grand finale made his way to the stage and put his hand straight down the front of his pants. Ladies and Gentlemen, MY SON!
Fortunately, everyone was very laid-back and entertained by Grant, and I even ran into a mother I had met months back at our local library. It was nice, but I fear maybe a little out of our way to go to on a a regular basis. Plus, if I become a regular, I won't get the star newcomer treatment that I've grown accustomed to. Yes, better stick with my original plan: sporadic visits to churches where no one knows me...
")
*My husband and I graced everyone's ears at Clare & Don's with a lovely rendition of "Truckin'" by the Grateful Dead. A sweet, tipsy 22-yr-old made a point of telling us that he had never heard that song. Kids today!
I have a little complex when it comes to church. My family went pretty regularly for the first 10 years of my life. However, deaths in the family, divorce, and relatives moving away eventually dissolved our motivation to attend. I WAS proud that we still made it every Christmas Eve and Easter, until my devoted friend James (of ski weekend surprise fame) casually said that we were on the "C&E Plan," implying that we were, I don't know, fair-weather Christians?
Anyhow, my complex has nothing to do with not liking church. It's just that every time my family attended we were always bombarded by well-intentioned individuals handing us "Newcomer" packets and welcoming us to a church we had been attending for over a decade. I guess our biannual C&E appearances were not enough to make people remember us. I know they were just being friendly, but always being mistaken for a newcomer began to wear on me and make me feel like I wasn't attending enough church (which, I will admit, was an accurate assessment).
Later on, when I went away to college in Baltimore, I tried a few more churches. The highlight of my "search for a church" was walking into one and seeing a classmate of mine banging away at a set of bongos while wearing a Bill Cosby sweater. Especially entertaining was the fact that I had no idea he even attended that church until I saw him drumming away.
A few years later, a friend introduced me to a wonderful place back in Massachusetts after I moved back home. It's called New England Chapel and I would recommend it to anyone in the area. But then I moved to New York... then Maryland... then DC... and finally Falls Church, VA.
Today I chose the church pretty much based on the fact that its service didn't interfere with my son, Grant's, nap schedule (priorities) and the two of us ventured out while my husband took his visiting parents to see the Air and Space Museum.
I passed a very crowded (and stunning) Greek Orthodox church on the way and was a little shocked to pull into an ALMOST EMPTY parking lot at the Baptist church. Oh great, how did I screw this up? I wondered as I carried my bowling-ball-marshmallow-dough boy of a son through some low-lit empty hallways. I made it up to the main worship room place (clearly I am well-versed in church architecture)and found that I was the only one there who didn't work there. The room was almost EMPTY, despite that it was ten minutes before their Easter Service was set to begin.
Long story short, more people showed up and I was soon greeted and welcomed to the church by all of them. We stayed through most of the service as Grant ran around, tested some sound equipment, danced his spastic-toddler jig, and for the grand finale made his way to the stage and put his hand straight down the front of his pants. Ladies and Gentlemen, MY SON!
Fortunately, everyone was very laid-back and entertained by Grant, and I even ran into a mother I had met months back at our local library. It was nice, but I fear maybe a little out of our way to go to on a a regular basis. Plus, if I become a regular, I won't get the star newcomer treatment that I've grown accustomed to. Yes, better stick with my original plan: sporadic visits to churches where no one knows me...
")
*My husband and I graced everyone's ears at Clare & Don's with a lovely rendition of "Truckin'" by the Grateful Dead. A sweet, tipsy 22-yr-old made a point of telling us that he had never heard that song. Kids today!
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