Here's what I did today instead of writing. Yoga class with Coraline. Church. (I know it's hard to believe I go to church, but there really are churches for people like me.) Lunch with Coraline and getting her ready to go swimming with her dad and other grandma. Nap. (Fuck me, but 4 hours of sleep isn't enough.) Texted. (Unlike talking on the phone, texting requires complete dedication. I used to get so much more done while I was talking on the phone. Nobody does that any more though.) Scrolled through Facefuckingbook and felt like total shit. Three-plus-mile hike with Drake and Montana and the dogs over rocky terrain that was all uphill while listening to a marching band practice in the near distance. Washed the dog. Picked 200+ burrs out of the dog's hair. (A 90-pound poodle can collect a lot of burrs.) Poured a glass of chardonnay, popped some popcorn and sat down to write .... but turned on The Danish Girl instead because it's overdue from the library. Put clean sheets on the bed. Showered. Made notes for this week's blog posts. Nurtured the self-loathing that is endemic to all writers, regardless of their talent or output. And here I am at almost 3:00 am finally writing. The Danish Girl was gorgeous, poignant, horrifying, tragic, and heart-breaking. I don't want to write any spoilers, because if you haven't seen it, I want you to rent it or check it out from the library and watch it for two reasons. First, the cinematograpy is brilliant. I wanted to pause the action and just gaze at the screen as if it were a painting in a museum. And that's ironic, because it's the story of two artists. The colors are so rich and vibrant, you could watch this movie simply for the images. But there's also the tragic story, based on the life of Lili Elbe, a transgender woman who was born around the turn of the 20th century, and who was one of the first transgender people to undergo surgery. Of course it's terribly relevant today, not because such things are any of our business. Really, the gender of other people is not our business. But we have to pay attention because some people have made this an unsafe world for transgender people -- mocking, bullying, diagnosing, and even killing them -- and that's not something we should ignore. I've known several people who were in various stages of transitioning, and here's what my experience has been: In every case, I could honestly say, "Now you are yourself. This is you. I can see this is the real you." It's like a terrible tension is broken. Something has been set right. The movie captures both the inevitability and the difficult journey most transgender people travel to get there. Lili's story is not easy to watch, even with the gorgeous imagery, but I highly recommend that you do watch it. And also read this article about the real Lili Elbe, which is possibly even more interesting than the movie, although not more beautiful. And now that I've given you something to watch, here, in no particular order, are the posts you can expect to see here this week. Or maybe next, depending on what weirdness catches my eye.
Art and Miss Serendipity
More Coralinisms
If we were sharing a glass of wine (or coffee or bourbon or name the potion of your choice)
Why I don't go bare-chested in public, but I want to
Shit I saw on Facebook
The weight of a little girl
Something about vaginas
The disturbing world of the Craigslist platonic-only personals, and why you should check there before you go on a date (I know! I know! I shouldn't look there, but sometimes somebody sends you a listing that you simply have to look at.)
That's it. I'm out of here for tonight. Do make sure you see The Danish Girl, and let me know what you think. Or, if you have seen it, post your own review in the comments.
I rode my bike downtown today to meet a friend for lunch and a movie. We ate at a locally owned restaurant that uses local produce and meat, often from their own garden. I've been eating lunch there once or twice a week lately, not just because the food is as good as what I could cook at home, but because I feel good about eating there. OK, and because it's like Cheers. They know my name. Today I ordered the Tuscan grilled cheese (balsamic marinated mozarella, local tomatoes, house-made pesto, pancetta on chiabatta), fennel/mushroom/shallot soup, and salad made from greens from their garden. I rode 14 miles on my bike today, and I'll need to ride another 50 to balance the calories, but it was worth it. I have another lunch date there Thursday. I should probably buy bigger jeans. After lunch we strolled around a little two-block area of (again) locally owned stores, bars, and porn shops. A used book store captured us for a while, and then a silver jewelry store. It's much safer to shop when I'm riding my bike, because I travel light. No bulky paniers for me. We got to the movie at our little (locally owned--sense a theme here?) art theater just a tad late, damn it. If only I hadn't had to go to the bathroom and then buy Junior Mints, we might have caught the first 60 seconds. No matter though. Once we blindly groped our way to a pair of seats, sat down and started watching, we were entranced. If you haven't seen The Untouchables, please go see it right now. No, really. Go now.
I didn't realize it was a French movie with subtitles or I might not have gone. I've never seen a French movie what wasn't fucking insane, and frankly, I've never known a French woman I liked, but that's another story. The subtitles didn't matter at all, and this movie wasn't what I expect from a French movie. It actually had a plot and characters I could understand. And one of the leads, François Cluzet, looks so much like Dustin Hoffman I felt like I was watching an American movie. Like any story, a summary doesn't do it justice, but I'll give it a couple of sentences. I doubt you'll be persuaded by them though. It's the actors who bring this story to life. Summary: A rich white quadrapalegic hires a poor young black man, played by Omar Sy, to take care of him, and of course both of their lives are changed by the experience. The contrast between their lives and personalities makes the story of their bond sweet and poignant, but definitely not sticky. Omar Sy is hot, hot, hot. Just watching him dance to Earth, Wind and Fire's "Boogie Wonderland" is worth the price of a ticket. (Of course it's on youtube, so here it is, but only as a teaser. You have to see the movie.)
Doesn't that make you want to dance your ass off to some old disco? I wish I knew a locally owned disco where I could do that. But go see it for the story, because the final bit of coolness is that this is a true story. And you will feel joyful after you watch it, because people can be happy even after they've had cosmic shit rain down on them in torrents. And all the money in the world won't innoculate you from shit storms, but you can still be happy (if you have enough money. I'm not fucking Pollyanna). This afternoon gave me a few hours of reprieve from the shitstorms in my life. If you do see The Intouchables, let me know what you think. When is the last time you played hookie on a beautiful summer afternoon?
I had this idea to write a weekend update every Sunday night starting with the first week of the year, and I didn't get 'er done. Reticula, you ignorant slut. In my defense, Rock Dad came over to hook up my new Wii; then Elvira and Coraline stayed for a girls' night of Dean Supernatural and Desperate Housewives. They left late--remember trying to watch TV with a 5-month-old? It takes three hours to watch a 50-minute show, even with booby breaks. That's my excuse. Watch for more as the year progresses.
I'm not sure how I'm going to do these just yet, so I'll develop some kind of format as I go. Local readers, if you want to read something interesting about yourself here, you'd better help make my weekends rock. And then send me text or email reminders of the things we thought were funny or clever or bizarre because I do tend to forget a lot.*
So I missed writing this Sunday night, but so fucking what. I'm going to sit here with a glass of wine and a bowl of Lay's potato chips, write it and post-date it to Sunday night. By February, I won't even remember any of this. My weekend, in review.
Elvira, Coraline and I went shopping for stuff for their new apartment, my big Christmas gift to Elvira. Coraline was suffering her first cold, poor baby. She was so stuffed up Elvira couldn't get anything out with the nose-sucker. So she stuck her boob in Coraline's nose and sprayed milk up it. Pretty soon all the gunk drained out and Coraline's nose was clear for hours. Next time I get a cold, I know whose boob will go up my nose. It's kinda crazy, but I wish Elvira and I could be friends raising our babies together.
First bike ride of the year! Who would imagined the temps would creep up above 50 degrees in January, and I'd be able to get out and ride a few miles with our local, monthly courteous mass bike ride. I missed the last two because of plays so I was jonesin' to ride my bicycle. It was a beautiful night to get out and hit the streets of one of our historic neighborhoods with some friends I mostly only see on the bike rides. I was glad to see Kerry, the guy who originally invited me to join the group way back in June, right after I bought my bike. We met at a pre-opening menu-tasting for a local restaurant. I told him then I was too new to cycling to join a bike group. I'm glad he insisted and didn't let me get away with my insecurities.
In any case, the courteous mass ride is supposed to show people how cyclists can ride in big groups and obey traffic laws or something like that. I think maybe I broke the rules just a tiny bit this time when two guys turning left in a rusty old tuna boat classic 80's sedan met the last three of our group at a yellow light. I could see they were trying to turn into the far right lane instead of the appropriate left lane. So I slowed, but the guy ahead of me rode on. As I suspected, the car turned into my lane, and as they squealed through the light and careened very close to me, the passenger yelled, "Blah blah blah, you crazy sons of bitches." As courteously as I could, I yelled back suggested, "Go fuck yourself." For all I know, they took my advice because they roared off in a blaze of glory, leaving behind a noxious cloud of exhaust. I didn't call them assholes or get kicked off the ride .... this time. I only rode a total of seven miles, but it was wonderful to get out and wrap my legs around my bike.
The ride ended too soon, and my friend the Diplomat and I rode back to my house so I could change out of my sexy cold-weather cycling tights and eat a quick bowl turkey soup before we headed off to a local art movie theater to meet some friends and watch Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I read the book decades ago, so I didn't remember the specifics, but it was typical of those 70's cold-war spy thrillers. The pace of the movie was slow, plodding almost, and there were dozens of long, loving close-ups of Gary Goldman's face as he delicately teased out the identity of the double-crossing double agent. By the time it was over, I had explored every pore on his face and counted every nose hair. About halfway through the movie I started to regret the bottle of water I drank on the bike ride, and the soup and milk for dinner, although I was glad I hadn't given in to a glass of wine from the concession in the lobby.** By the end of the movie, I had to pee so bad I had unbuttoned the top button of my jeans to relieve the pressure on my bladder. I have to recommend the movie simply because my back teeth were floating and I still refused to leave the theater for three minutes and risk missing anything. If you like spy movies at all, go see it. If you think Gary Oldman is sexy, you might be disappointed.
Without a plan for the rest of the evening, we said goodbye to some friends and joined up with some others who had been sitting behind us in the theater. (OK, to be fair, they were Diplomat's friends when we joined them, but I don't know a stranger, so they're my friends too now.) We found a rather empty bar with a pool table in the back and settled in to play pool and drink. We had to all share one stick because most of them didn't have tips, and the ones that did cried when we touched them. A couple of us wanted wine so the bartender ran out somewhere and brought back airplane bottles of Riesling for us. I don't think they get much call for wine. A group of four young men came back and took over the pool table for a while. They only played one game for some reason. I helped each of them with their shots throughout their game, and I suspect they learned so much they wanted to go home and let their brains rest. I'm sure they appreciated my help. Or maybe they left because they've got their own moms who tell them how to do every little fucking thing and they didn't need me doing it too. I couldn't really tell.
Want. Probably wouldn't help my game.
Saturday morning I met my friend Sunrise at the local market, which is now packed with people even in the winter when the farmer's market is closed. We drank tea in the sunroom and talked for 3 1/2 hours while a duo played jazz in the next room. The tea was loose, served in little reusable muslin bags. I brought both of ours home with me because I could hardly stand their fucking cuteness. And I get 10% off if I bring my own bag next time.
I got home just in time to rehearse with Chicken Grrrl for a last-minute special music gig at church. I haven't touched my guitar much in the past few months. My fingertips aren't even ugly any more. But we played through some songs we've done before and finally decided to sing "Let It Be." We got a new sound system a few weeks ago at the church, and this was the first time I'd sung or run Miss Gibson through it. It felt good to have strings under my fingers and a mic in my face, and Martini running sound back there in the booth. I need to keep my fingers on the strings even when I'm caught up in a play. I missed it.
I guess I'm back to Sunday night. Most teachers don't really get weekends off. Ask one. I had lessons to plan and papers to read Sunday afternoon. And napping. Tell me I'm not the only one who loves a nap.
If you've read this far, here are a couple of recommendations to start your week Tuesday.
This video made me laugh this week. (Have I ever mentioned how much I love a man in a kilt? I do love me a man in a kilt.)
* Some of you already do this, and I'm grateful. Often my textbox gets full and when I go through to delete most of them, I see a text that says "circle jerk" or "licking a frog" or "cookies in my pants," and I just know I meant to write something about that, but ..... too late. Maybe I should just write found-text poetry.
** I know! How fucking cool is it that you can buy wine to take into the theater and drink through the movie? This is how the smart, sophisticated people live.
