Major Awards
I'm not one to let a chain letter die. (Are you surprised considering all this anxiety? I can't risk death by steamroller, exploding gas pipes or break-ups for failing to do something as simple as send a letter. P.S. Sorry e-mail contact list!) And while the "major award" is not a chain letter, I still feel like I have to keep it going.
Thank you, Tina, for bestowing this blessed honor upon me. I haven't won anything in a really long time -- unless you count the $20 Omaha Steaks gift card I received for all my coke rewards points, which I don't -- so I'm going to have to milk this one for all it's worth. Let me say that Tina is just one of the most awesome people I know. When we worked together at Lipstick, people used to ask if we were sisters. I took it as a huge compliment.
Now, on to the first requirement of the award: I will now share five random facts about me. (I know, I know, as if you all don't know too much already. Is it hard to sleep yet?)
1. When I was little, I wanted to be an actress. I read biographies of Katherine Hepburn and Tallulah Bankhead for school projects. I attended drama classes, and I wrote and starred in my own plays. Then, I realized that I didn't like people looking at me. (Kind of an obstacle in that career trajectory.) Plus, I decided I couldn't deal with all of the rejection. So, I decided to be a writer. Great call on that rejection nonsense, right?
2. What I miss most in the Great Recession is my bi-weekly pedicures. I take great pride in my toes, and seeing them without color makes me sad.
3. I don't like brushing my teeth. (Don't worry, I still do it.) I find it to be the most boring part of my day. And knowing that I have to do it, at least twice a day, with no discernible change in technique or pattern, for the rest of my life, just makes me sigh. Every day, as I brush my teeth, I think, "Really? This? For the course of my natural life?" Bleh.
4. I love chocolate-covered cherries -- the cheaper, the better. I see a red box in the Walgreen's, and it takes all of my self-control not to buy in bulk.
5. My temper may not be short, but my memory is long. Too long for my own good at times. I carry the memory of insults and slights far longer than necessary. Some people might call it a grudge ... I prefer to think of it as "a history."
For the second requirement, I will now bestow the major award on five other bloggers. Here goes:
1. In the first grade, I fell madly in love with a boy named Chris Knight. I nursed a crush on him for the next seven years -- except for a brief break in fourth grade when I decided his Webelo uniform was "dorky." My love was unrequited, but by ninth grade, when we both reached high school, we were very good friends, and we've remained that way since. He's an incredibly talented, smart and funny guy, who also happens to be a Jeopardy! champion. (And perhaps the smartest thing he's done is pick Julie Bryan Knight for his wife.) A movie buff, he maintains a flog (film blog) that is witty and insightful. I could not agree more with his thoughts on the greatest Christmas movie of all time, Die Hard.
2. I can't play sports, and I know next to nothing about them. This hardly matters when I read John Bagby's blog. A true sports aficionado, he's also laugh-out-loud funny when commenting on everything from bowl games to a life without gluten. His dead pan delivery and to-the-quick observations get me every time.
3. In Nashville, I met Phil Thornton, who I worked with at ReZoom.com, andhis lovely wife, Mindy. There were many, many days that co-workers likePhil got me through the job.A funny, talented guy with an awesome, talented wife, they are both wedding photographers, and I consider their blog a visual feast. It's gorgeous, real and intimate -- a true stunner -- like the couple themselves.
4. I love food. I like to cook, but when I can't find the energy, time or ingredients, I still like to look at recipes and other people's culinary creations. When it comes to food blogs, I'm a glutton (coincidence, I think not). Here are just a few of my favorites: Food Revival, Simply Recipes, Cookthink and Foodimentary.
5. I only recently discovered Jamie Golden's blog, but I'm enjoying it immensely. She understands my love of shiny things, what else can I say?
5.5. I can't end this post without mentioning the website of one Arik Sokol. Talented, sweet, kind, professional and incredible behind the camera, I just can't say enough about him. His portraits are compelling and insightful. The perspective he brings to each and every subject is unique and considered. Color and light seem to perform in front of his lens. I'll stop now before I begin gushing ... As if I haven't already.
Romance
You would be hard-pressed to find a copy of Love Story or The Bridges of Madison County in my house. The only romance novels I have would fall under the category of gag gifts, and while I know many people who love the books, I don't read Nora Roberts. I'm also not touchy-feely, I don't hold hands and sing in the round and I've never been a fan of Grey's Anatomy.
That being said, apart from Nights in Rodanthe, I have seen every movie ever made from a Nicholas Sparks book. In the theater. Multiple times. And cried.
It's easy to see why I'd like The Notebook. I think Rachel McAdams is awesome, and I think we all know that Ryan Gosling is hot. I also have a not-so-secret old man crush on James Garner. Judge me if you want, but that man is still darn charming. And if you doubt me, find some pictures of Mr. Garner circa 1962.
In a few words: Hubba. Hubba.
I didn't know what to expect with A Walk to Remember, but something in my gut told me that this was a movie I needed to see. At the time the movie was released, I had two male roommates (platonic) and was living in D.C. While one of my roommates had accompanied me to Legally Blonde and Unfaithful, I was still pretty sure that A Walk to Remember would be a hard sell. So, one Saturday afternoon, I snuck out of the house without telling anyone where I was headed and made my way to the movie theater at Union Station.
I started seeing movies by myself the summer after my sophomore year of college. I was going through a bad break-up and was worried that what I would miss most about my relationship was not having anyone to go to the movies with. I figured a head-long dive into one of my biggest break-up anxieties would help with the heartache. It didn't, but I discovered a new favorite past time.
I like sitting in the dark by myself while a fantasy unfolds on the screen. I find it relaxing. When I'm very stressed, I try to find time to escape and see a movie by myself -- cell phone off and no thoughts beyond those related to the story in front of me.
"Most people go to church for that," a friend of mine once said. Maybe they do, but I prefer the movies.
As I took my seat in Union Station that day, I noticed that most of the crowd was women about my age either in small groups of two or three, or also by themselves. There wasn't a man in sight. The theater went dark, and we all watched as Mandy Moore and Shane West fell in love.
As the movie progressed, we, as a crowd, also got girlier and girlier. We aaw-ed during particularly touching moments. ("You're in two places at once. Scratch if off your list!") There were audible sobs during the important reveals. ("I'm sick, Landon.") And when Shayne West proposed to Mandy, a woman in the back yelled, "Yes!" and we all clapped. A bunch of jaded, city-dwelling 20-somethings fresh off The Rules and too many Cosmopolitan articles about dating like a man letting their inner eight-year-olds (complete with drugstore bride costumes and teddy bears filling in as the minister) out for a few hours.
It was the most fun I've ever had in a room full of strangers.
Where am I going with all this? Dear John comes out soon, and I can't wait. So, if you find yourself at the theater, sitting next to a mysteriously veiled woman who travels with a lot of Kleenex in her purse, I may not acknowledge it in public, but we're both there for all the same reasons.
This photo: because it's relevant, and because I can.
You Need Us, You Really Do
A few months ago, I shared some thoughts on the movie The Hangover. While I completely stick by what I said then, I also don't want to give the impression that I was only dogging on women. By no means is the other gender off the hook.
I love movies like Old School, Knocked Up and The Hangover. I saw Old School twice in the theater, and both times, I laughed so hard that I was crying. To this day, listening to Kansas can always make me smile.
And one of the tried and true archetypes in these films is the girlfriend/wife who always gets in the way of fun. She nags. She's skeptical. She's forever anti-guys' weekend. And in all of these films, she's also absolutely right.
Taking The Hangover as an example, let's look at just a few of the situations the male characters get themselves into when left to their own devices (and in case you haven't figured it out yet: SPOILER ALERT):
1. Theft of wild, dangerous, big-teeth-baring animal from the home of a convicted rapist and possible cannibal, a.k.a. Mike Tyson.
2. Quickie marriage to a prostitute -- not to mention consummating a marriage to a prostitute that could lead to potential STDs, etc.
3. Theft of cop car. Stealing is never good. Stealing from cops is worse.
4. Misplaced friend. They lose a person. AN ENTIRE PERSON.
5. Near-complete destruction of very expensive hotel suite.
When I saw The Hangover in the theater, three what I assume to be only-recently-of-legal-drinking-age men sat in the row in front of me. After the movie, their conversation went something like this:
"Dude, that was so awesome," Guy #1 said.
"I wish our trip to Vegas had been like that," Guy #2 said.
"That's what Vegas should be," Guy #3 added.
I nearly leaned over their row and slapped each and every one of them. For starters, I think it's pretty important to keep in mind that all movies are fantasies. Men don't like it when women think dating should resemble When Harry Met Sally or Sleepless in Seattle. Tit for tat, let's be careful what models we pick for our bro-mances.
Secondly, if the events in The Hangover had actually occurred, there would have been three possible outcomes:
1. Death.
2. Prison.
3. Financial Ruin. (Those Vegas chalets aren't cheap. Repairing the structural damage alone would wipe out most people's worldly assets.)
No one would have gotten married. No one would come home with the greatest Facebook photo album ever, and at least one member of the group would have needed years of intensive psychotherapy.
It's no wonder the female characters in these movies are suspicious of guys' trips. They have every right to be. I'm amazed they allow their fictitious partners to walk to the mail box, let alone drive a car or operate the can opener.
When it comes to the battle of the sexes, I'm forever on the side of living in a world with plenty of both men and women (and plenty of all types of men and women, clearly I'm discussing mainstream gender designations and assumptions here, but I recognize the many, many exceptions to the rule). Whenever I hear cries for "an all-female world without war or sports" I'm just as terrified as when guys talk about "getting rid of women and only focusing on fun." I like the balance that comes with varied viewpoints and gender perspectives. After all, my need for a good cry can be just as strong as my love of baby back ribs.
And when it comes to planning weekend away for either gender, let's all remember that it's all fun and games until someone loses a finger -- or the bridegroom.
What the Heck
I'm not sure whether or not I believe in a hell. I grew up Methodist and Episcopalian, and truth be told, even if I remembered the views of those two churches on the subject, it probably wouldn't matter much. I tend to like to make up my own mind. (I have issues with authority. I really can't imagine this as coming as much of a surprise.) I also attended a Catholic university, and even though I'm very sure where it stands on the issue, I also tend to disagree with the Catholic church. Stances on womens' roles and birth control are only the beginning of our failure to see eye to eye.
The bottom line is that my theology can be somewhat fluid, and I'm not always sure eternal damnation fits in with my conviction/hope of a benevolent God.
Despite my somewhat ambivalent stance on possibilities for the afterlife, I am fond of using the phrase "that sounds like my idea of hell." This started as a way to let friends know which activities I was and was not interested in participating in, e.g. "I'm in for the Ryan Adams concert but The Creed show sounds like my idea of hell." With time though, the phrase has really come to encompass what I do and don't value in this world.
(Also, if there was a hell, I kind of do think it'd be personally tailored, almost like a "Far Side" cartoon -- James Frey would be in a never-ending Oprah interview while Rush Limbaugh would find himself mute and unable to change the channel from "The Daily Show.")
So, I give you just a few of the items in my idea of hell:
1. A crowd. I do think if I had to go to hell it would be crowded -- most people I know like their cocktails and profanity -- but this makes the list because of how much I dislike crowds. More specifically, my idea of hell would be a spandex-clad Six Flags crowd constantly jostling one another to get closer to a corn dog that never materializes.
2. A drum circle. Drum circle. Ivy League acapella group. Barbershop quartet. Call it what you want, but amateur music performed with way too much gusto just doesn't work for me.
3. Conference calls. If you've ever been on one, you know what I mean. Each one already feels like an eternity, I can't even imagine the rage I'd feel if they actually were.
4. "Vanilla Sky." I disdain this movie. I used to stand in front of it in the video store and beg people not to waste two hours of their life. I considered it a public service -- my roommate considered it "an embarrassment." In my hell, it'd play on rotation with "Cold Creek Manor" and "Fear Dot Com."
5. The Gosselins.
If you're weird like me and spend any mental energy on the same subject, please let me know what makes your idea of hell in the comments.
Avoiding The Hangover
I saw The Hangover a few months ago, and I thought it was hilarious.
However, as I was leaving the theater, I couldn't help but comment that the movie never could have been made with women as the leading characters.
Now, this has nothing to do with sexism or that I think women aren't capable of such large-scale debauchery and stupidity. (Lindsay Lohan, anyone?) Women can easily go wild, drink too much, hire strippers and think that stealing is a great idea. It's the conversation that occurs in the lobby of the hotel when the guys check in that would have destroyed the trip for women.
Check-in Clerk: So, I have you in a two-bedroom suite on the twelfth floor. Is that OK?
Doug: Sounds perfect.
Bradley Cooper: Actually, I was wondering if you had any villas available?
Ed Helms: Phil, we're not even going to be in the room.
Bradley Cooper then accepts the $4200/night villa on behalf of the guys and has Ed Helms put the room on his credit card. Here's where this would have fallen apart with women:
Woman 1: Why should I put it on my card? What's wrong with your card?
Woman 2: I'll get you back later. It's no big deal.
Woman 1: No big deal? That's what you always said in college. You know I was the only one who ever bought peanut butter. But did I ever get to eat my peanut butter? No, of course not. You always ate all of the peanut butter, and whenever I asked you to buy more, you always said, "It's just peanut butter, I'll get you back next time." But you never did.
Woman 2: Are you really still not over the peanut butter?
Woman 3: It's OK guys. I'll put the room on my card for now.
Woman 2: Oh no, you won't. This is about whether or not one of our supposed best friends trusts me. Do you trust me, Lisa? Do you?
Woman 1: I think that's what you said to me after you fooled around with Tom Jenkins, too. You knew I had a crush on him!
Woman 2: You had a crush on him, but you'd never even talked to him. Was I supposed to avoid all men you had seen and thought you might want to talk to one day?
Woman 1: He was special.
Woman 3: Guys, really. We just want to have a good time this weekend. Can we all relax?
Woman 2: I can't relax knowing I'm traveling with someone who doesn't trust me.
Woman 1: And I don't think I want to take a trip with someone who can't appreciate me ...
And, thus, the trip is ruined, and The Hangover never happens ... for better or worse. You can doubt me, but as a female, I feel like I've got this one right.
What Makes Me Cry
We all have our emotional hot-buttons.
A close friend of mine is particularly moved by stories of the mentally challenged as well as tales of children being taken away from their parents. These are the two topics most likely to turn him into an emotional wreck -- and the reason I Am Sam is his kryptonite.
I'm a complete sucker for reunions (adoptive family members, long lost loves, foster children who just want to see the one woman they ever called "Mom"). And I cry like a baby whenever a man shaves his head because the woman he loves has lost her hair to chemo. (Bald heads break me.)
But, what probably gets me the most are stories of the "I am Spartacus" variety. I find myself in some bizarre emotional plane of joy/despair over the world's shortcomings/touched by the human condition whenever a group or mass stands up with someone who is usually at his or her end in a fight against corruption, greed or evil.
I blame this on two main components:
1. There's no hero I love more than the lone individual doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. The higher the cost of doing the right thing, the more I love the hero -- To Kill a Mockingbird, One Good Cop, Radio.
2. I absolutely love the moment in a film or story when the bad guy, who is usually quite smug about his ability to abuse the system or get away with evil, realizes that s/he is, pardon my French, completely f$%*ed. (Think of the warden in The Shawshank Redemption when he hears the sirens coming for him.) I almost went to law school because of how much I love this moment when it occurs in a court room -- The Accused, A Few Good Men.
For me, there's absolutely nothing else like that moment when a hero, convinced s/he is going to meet his death and overwhelmed by the futility of his fight, finds that others are there to support him and stand with him. (A hero triumphs and a bad guy is screwed = Awesome.) Because of this, I'm most likely the only person who ever cried during Thunderheart, but I just can't help it. (SPOILER ALERT) When the members of the Native American tribe rise up along the edge of the canyon to defend Val Kilmer against corrupt members of the FBI, I just lose it.
When I was younger, my father was always trying to teach me that "life wasn't fair." I may be almost 30 years old, but it's still my hardest lesson. I want the world to be fair. I want good guys to be rewarded and bad guys to be punished. I want the most creative and original ideas to succeed. I want equality.
But equality is hard to find, it seems that the mediocre often trumps all, and it can even be hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
I think I'm fated to spend my life in a constant struggle with what I deem to be fair and learning how and when to let go. And as long as that is my cross to bear, I'm glad there's at least something that represents the fantasy of what I want the world to be like -- even if that is Thunderheart.
Prosthetic Hands, Shower Heads and Niki Taylor's Restraining Order
As most readers have probably figured out, when it comes to celebrities, I like to read about them, judge their choices, and generally discuss anyone who has been on television, in movies or on the radio like I actually know them or have any idea what they're like outside of an interview or movie role.
Every so often, I even have an in-person run-in with a real-life, living, breathing celebrity. (Although, I do use the term "celebrity" pretty loosely.) I've already written about the times I saw Little Richard, Richard Townsend and Juliette Lewis.
When I lived in Chicago for the summer, even though it was only for two months, I was hoping for at least a handful of celebrity encounters -- Vince Vaughn, John Cusack or Oprah, maybe. (After all, I come from Birmingham. The best we can hope for is running into Charles Barkley at Tiki Bob's every so often.) Alas, I didn't see a single famous person in the Windy City.
My life would almost suffer from a dearth of "celebrity" encounters if it weren't for my time in Nashville, Tennessee.
In the Music City, I say Cowboy Troy at an Oyster Bar. (For those unfamiliar with the Cowboy's work, he was at the forefront of a movement known as Hick-Hop, a stunning collaboration of country music and hip-hop. His most famous song, "I Played Chicken With the Train," featured the lyrics "I played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train y'all.") He wore a cowboy hat, lots of bling and was surrounded by some, uh, interesting ladies.
I ran into former model Niki Taylor at the Target. (Side note: Niki Taylor is covered in tattoos. And not just Japanese symbols and delicate butterflies. Niki Taylor has some deep ink on her, which I take as a real testament to the power of Hollywood concealers.) Niki Taylor seemed nervous around me. I think she thought I was following her because she was famous. In fairness, I was following her, but it was because she had the attention of the one Target employee in a 100-foot radius and apparently both the super model and I needed shower heads that day. Who knew?
And last but not least, I saw Christian Kane at Joey's House of Pizza. (Yes, I used to eat at Joey's House of Pizza. It was located in a strip mall, had a soup Nazi-esque calzone maker and I don't think I could have loved it more.) For those of you wondering who Christian Kane is, I will acknowledge that unless you were obsessed with a certain vampire slayer and her true love vampire-with-a-soul who got his own spin-off show, you probably wouldn't recognize the name. Christian Kane was lawyer Lindsay on the first two seasons of Angel -- his character's main attribute was a prosthetic hand. I think today he's best known for bad hair and TNT's Leverage.
So, I'm in Joey's House of Pizza kind of staring at Christian Kane because while I think I recognize him, I'm not quite sure. (I have no idea his name is even Christian Kane until I go back to the office and IMDB him.) And Christian Kane is looking back at me kind of like he wants to be recognized. (I do imagine it's an exciting event for smaller stars.) And we're both trying to avoid leaving covered in tomato sauce.
In the end, I never approached Christian Kane. I just didn't think, "Hey, aren't you the guy from the vampire show with a girl's name and a fake hand?" was an appropriate lead-in to conversation. Oh well.
Haunted
One of the movies I decided I absolutely had to see as a child was Ghost. Unlike most everyone else my age, I didn't have a crush on Patrick Swayze. (I couldn't bring myself to ask my mother's permission to see Dirty Dancing as I was sure lots of really awkward pauses and questions like "Why do you think boys would want to dance like that?" would ensue, so I didn't see that movie until high school.) It was something about the storyline and the relationship between the two main characters in Ghost that did a real number on my little girl notion of romance and love.
Since the movie was rated PG-13 (and, perhaps more importantly, since I didn't have a car or money), I clearly had to ask my mother's permission on this one, too, but I was willing to risk it over Ghost like I hadn't been over Dirty Dancing. After all, I was an incredibly mature ten-year-old this time around (and Ghost had a far more innocuous title.)
Despite her reservations about a certain well-known (and pictured) scene -- how do mothers know about these things without having seen the movie? -- she consented.
I could barely take the excitement of waiting to see Ghost. I even prepared to cry because I was sure that crying at sad, doomed love stories was a very adult thing to do. Waiting for my trip to the Friday afternoon matinee screening seemed an eternity.
For the most part, the movie was all that I hoped it would be. There were funny parts, and sad parts, and Demi Moore's character wore some knit jumpsuits I totally wanted to emulate in my own wardrobe. But, for as much as I enjoyed the film, there was a scene that bugged me even in my preteen days.
As everybody knows, Patrick Swayze's character Sam never tells his girlfriend how much he loves her. Instead, every time she says that she loves him, he just says, "Ditto." Then, in the final moments of the film, just as Sam is about to head off into the afterlife and all of the rules of life and death are askew so that he and his soul mate can have one last moment together proving that love can be immortal and true love can make miracles, he says to Demi, "I love you."
She answers, "Ditto."
Now, I get that this is the cute answer. I also get that this brings certain elements of the movie full circle. But, it still seems to me that the last time you get to see someone, especially if that moment comes at the cost of all you've come to accept about mortality and the laws of the universe, is not the time to be cutesy.
Is her answer a tad witty? Sure. Funny? A bit. What you should say knowing you'll never, ever be able to lay eyes on your beloved again? Probably not. Just say "I love you" and skip the jokes, Demi. I kind of imagine a higher power smacking his or her head in disgust that of all the people on earth, you're the one they bent the rules of the time-space continuum for.
Of course, I still cried, but it has bugged me ever since. And God forbid I let something like this go after a mere 19 years.
My Day
Well, I've been unemployed for three days. So far, I haven't gotten much done. According to What Color is Your Parachute, I'm allowed to sleep, apply for unemployment and check on my medical coverage in the first throes of unemployment, and that's it!
Check, check and check.
In the "absolute proof that God has a sense of humor" column, the lady handling my unemployment claim is a big Lipstick fan. She even had the February issue on her desk and verified my old position by checking the masthead.
Sigh.
Other than that, I've spent most of my time watching Law & Order, tinkering (successfully) with my washer/dryer connection and ordering weight loss drugs online. (Hey, if I'm going to be out of a job, I might as well be thin, too. Plus, hopefully I'll save money on grocery bills this way. It's time to ration, and a smaller stomach would make that much simpler.)
Truth be told, I want to take some time to figure out what I really want to do next. Life is short, after all, and I want to give my dreams my all, and yadda, yadda, yadda. While I know this is best for me, when I'm home during the day it's really hard for me to get the mental image of Goldie Hawn from Death Becomes Her out of my head. Not the svelte, gorgeous Goldie Hawn, but the obese one watching game shows, eating frosting from the tub and ignoring the police trying to fight their way into her apartment.
Double sigh.
Chick Flicks
Based on a friend's recommendation, I decided to rent Waitress this weekend. For those of you who haven't seen it, Waitress is Adrienne Shelly's last film. (She was murdered in her New York apartment shortly after finishing the movie.) Waitress revolves around a pregnant, pie-making waitress (Keri Russell) trapped in a bad marriage. When she meets the new doctor in town (played by Nathan Fillion, my new future husband), things start to look up. I'll try not to give too much away, but if you're especially concerned about spoilers, I might not read any further.
For some strange reason that probably involves me not paying attention or some level of denial, I thought that Waitress was a happy movie. I might even have considered it a romantic comedy. Now, it is a lovely movie with wonderful performances, but I would not describe it as "happy."
At the movie's conclusion, I cried -- or sobbed, depending on your perspective -- and continued to cry for about 20 minutes after the credits finished rolling. sure this wasn't quite as bad as The Way we Were incident of 2001 (in which my former boss asked me two days later if I was going to be OK) or The Ring debacle of 2002 (in which I didn't sleep for four days out of sheer terror), but it wasn't good.
Am I a little too sensitive when it comes to movies? Obviously. But when they get to me, they get to me. And Waitress certainly touched a nerve.
In the last six months, I have helped launch a magazine, negotiated a car purchase, bought a house and learned to replace screening. Of course, I've had help from those around me and some good advice, but I've done a lot of it on my own. I don't worry about being independent, and I have faith in my ability to take care of myself. What I need faith in right now is romantic relationships. I'd like to know that true partnerships exist and that it is possible to be happy with oneself and with someone else.
And again, I'm trying not to give too much away, but let's just say that the movie didn't help me with that.
Tough Choices: The Princess Diaries
But, the one question I know that I could answer without any hesitation is this one: Are you ready to be Queen?
Seriously, that one only needs two words - the first being "hell," and the second being "yes."
I tend to think that's the one role I've been preparing for all my life. Sure, my "preparation" didn't involve any sort of actual grooming for the position like I'm sure they do in Monaco or Norway, but I certainly have skills that translate. I like bossing people around. I like gowns and parties. I love tiaras. I can stand on a balcony and wave. Really, the fact that I have yet to be named the figurehead leader of a small European monarchy is beyond me.
Yet, every movie that deals with queens (and, of course, the movies I'm referring to don't have Helen Mirren as the star, I'm definitely in the Anne Hathaway/Julia Stiles terrain here) seems to end up revolving around a makeover sequence, a love interest and the question of whether or not the female protagonist is capable of being the queen. In both "The Princess Diaries" and "The Prince and Me," it seems to me that there's a lot of whining and even, dare I say, resentment of being asked to take on the princess/queen role, and this is something that I just can't understand.
Trade in my life of cramped office space, dirty apartment living and a dangerously low checking account balance for a castle and some servants? That really would be "living the dream." (As opposed to how I now use "living the dream," which usually also involves an eye roll and a heavy sigh while staring at the multiple spreadsheets piled on my desk every morning.)
Let's just say that the next time Anne Hathaway, Julia Stiles or any other twenty-something doesn't feel up to the job of royalty, I'm more than happy to step in.
I don't foresee a problem rising to the occasion.
Everlasting Love
I was absolutely enamored with Alex P. Keaton, and I never missed "Family Ties." (I'm pretty sure that the only time I voted for a Republican was in the 1988 mock presidential election held at our elementary school when I cast a vote for George Bush, Sr in our cardboard voting booth. Since I don't come from a family of Republicans, I can only assume that this decision was heavily influenced by the conservative viewpoint of one Alex P. Keaton.)
I have seen "Back to the Future" and its sequels more times than I can count (although I still prefer to think that "Back to the Future: Part II" wasn't part of the franchise), and I scoff at the very notion of Jason Bateman as a basketball-playing teenage werewolf when Michael J. Fox so obviously played the original and the best "Teen Wolf." (I also must unfortunately admit that I wished I too could hear dog whistles for a long time after that movie came out.)
My Barbies married Michaels, not Kens.
I even watched "The Frighteners" - and I liked it. I dare another fan of the Fox to make that claim.
So, you can only imagine my absolute joy on a cold day in 1989 when my mother dragged me to the denim haven that was County Seat and Courtney Cox walked in.
At the time, Courtney Cox was playing a psychology student on "Family Ties." And, this psychology student also happened to be Alex P. Keaton's girlfriend. As far as I was concerned, there could be no luckier lady.
With my mom's encouragement, I worked up the nerve to ask Courtney for her autograph, and since we had no paper, I ended up with Courtney's signature on some County Seat stationary. (I can only imagine how ridiculous this autograph would look if I still had it today. For those of you who can't believe I would lose such an important bit of memorabilia, I blame my uncharacteristic nonchalance on how often I move - it certainly wasn't for a lack of caring.)
And, while this was my first real "brush with fame," I think it might be better than all the rest. (I know, it's shocking considering the thrills that were Little Richard, Richard Townsend and Juliette Lewis.)
What can I say? That's just how much I love Michael J. Fox - even to this day. I shudder to think what would be the level of embarrassment, stammering and possible confessing to him some of these very details should I ever meet Michael J. Fox in person and not just someone who played his girlfriend on television about two decades ago.
(P.S. If some of this sounds familiar, I might have mentioned some of this before whenever Michael J. Fox was mentioned in my presence or when Rush Limbaugh attacked my first love, but I thought now was a good time to expand on the true depth of my very first celebrity encounter. Plus, I always have more to say about Michael J. Fox.)
The Perfect Audience
In many ways, I am the perfect audience.
I am more than willing to give up all pretense of plausibility or rationale in the name of being entertained. Aliens want to attack all of the U.S.'s major metropolitan areas? Of course. A serial killer who won't go down despite two rounds in the chest? Terrifying. Chris Klein as someone women are sexually attracted to? I'll give it a shot. (Please, I still think Rupert Everett and I have a chance at lasting happiness.)
Like I said -- I embrace the fourth wall.I will even get caught up in the most formulaic of plots. (Unfortunately, this led to a very uncomfortable moment for my friends when I started crying in the middle of "The Wedding Planner" and repeating the phrase "these two just aren't going to make it" -- in reference to Jennifer Lopez and Matthew McConaughey -- as a mystified theater crowd watched and shook their heads. I'd like to blame my reaction on a break-up, but I know that it just isn't true.)
I want everyone to survive the horror movie. I believe characters who say "I'm sure it's nothing" in reference to their health are right. I am genuinely surprised when my favorite soap characters either reunite or break up during sweeps.
Truth be told, if I'm questioning the logic of a movie, there's big trouble. (For this and many other reasons, the makers of "Basic Instinct 2" should be ashamed.) After all, I saw "Kangaroo Jack." (Actually, at least I watched that one trapped on an airplane. My paying to see "Reign of Fire" on its opening weekend is a whole different story...)
While my all-consuming spectator-ship means I have a much higher tolerance for television and movies than most, it also means that I get way too involved in what I'm watching. I watched years of "Who's the Boss" actually thinking that Angela and Tony were going to finally get together every single episode. (If you want to blame that on my age, trust that I did the same thing with Ross and Rachel on "Friends.")
And, while I thought I at least knew my own limits, I've discovered a whole new level of frustration in "The Office." Why can't Jim and Pam be together? Why? Of course, I know that the tension keeps me tuning in every week, and I know that crowds get bored when couples are happy, but I'm starting to worry that I really can't take it anymore. Jim is just too cute. Pam is just too sweet. She's not engaged anymore. I don't like the girl from the closed office. I need Jim and Pam together, and I need it now. (This might even be worse than my Pacey/Joey obsession. It's that bad.)Seriously, this time it's for my sanity. Let the letter writing campaign begin.
Not My Kind of White Wedding
I just don't think I can move on with my life until I get these feelings off of my chest. In short, I need to vent.
Here's my issue: This woman is ridiculously wealthy. Ridiculously. We all know this. Yet, even with what should be "the best that money can buy" she still seems to make so many missteps.Let's look at the facts.
Misstep #1: Her plastic surgeon. Tori has the most plastic looking breasts I have seen on a woman outside of a pink Mattel box. How did this happen? Her father owns Hollywood. Couldn't Daddy Aaron refer her to someone capable of not turning her chest into the equivalent of the upper half of a mannequin? After all, he found someone capable of covering up all of Alyssa Milano and Rose McGowan's tattoos on Charmed. He made Gabrielle Carteris popular for awhile. He even tamed Shannen Doherty briefly -- at two different points in modern history. He should be able to keep his daughter from play-doh boobs. Come on.
Misstep #2: Hair. It looks more crimped than casual, day-on-the-beach wave. If a passerby looks at your hair and even thinks "crimped," it's bad.
Misstep #3: What is going on with this dress? Why does it appear to have a strange, unnecessary cut-out in the back? Did Tori want to assure everyone that she was indeed wearing a bra by specifically setting it off from the rest of the dress? Is the wedding dress really just an elaborate cover-up for her swimsuit? ("We were lying on the beach in Fiji when I just tied this old thing over the front of my bathing suit and said, 'Dean, let's get married!'") And, what's with the explosion of eyelet in the front? I just don't understand. My eyes are overwhelmed. Do I look at the bow? Do I stare at the lace ruffles? Patch of exposed back skin? Tori's button nose? Wafting hair ends? It's too much. I just feel tired.
And, that was all before I saw the bottom half. Why is she encased from torso to knee and then outfitted with a rounded tuft of white? This picture clearly shows Tori dancing, but I have a hard time believing that with the style of this dress she can really move her legs in a way that is conducive to dancing or walking.In fact, I imagine much more shuffling.
Is anyone else reminded of Donna Martin's mermaid costume from the high school Halloween party where Kelly was almost date raped in her slutty witch get-up?
Anyway, all I'm saying is that I ever earn an income that lifts me into a decent tax bracket, I promise to use my money for fashion good and not evil.