I've never been one to say "I need a feel-good movie." Comedy, thriller, drama ... the sheer act of GOING to the movies uplifts me. (And seeing a GREAT film exalts me.) Fart joke fare and frilly pop montages of OTHER people having the times of their lives don't make me forget my troubles. You know what, gimme "In the Bedroom" or "Precious" on a grey day. Knowing I can leave those troubled landscapes and return to my silly everyday problems cheers me up. A quick jolt of welcome perspective for $11.50 plus salty snacks.
And then there's a film like "The Road." The day after Thanksgiving, when we had rare, free babysitting (my in-laws were staying with us), why on earth did I suggest we see this doomsday doozy-- a 2 hour gray-and-beige toned post-apocalyptic tale in which humans hunt and eat each other? Maybe I WAS trying to escape my own reality (did I mention my in-laws were staying with us? Just kidding). Actually, it was the other age-appropriate option at our local theaters (I'm discounting not one, but two vamp films here). All that was left was 2012--not a space odyssey--but an end-of-the-world epic, starring, um, Lloyd Dobler.
Oh, and the preview for the Road? That would be Denzel Washington's new film, "The Book of Eli," -- a, you got it, "post-apocalyptic tale, in which a lone man fights his way across America in order to protect a sacred book that holds the secrets to saving humankind." From the looks of the preview, cannibalism also ensues.
These movies make "Precious" look the feel-good movie of the year (Sure, she gets sexed up by her father at age 15, but at least he doesn't try and eat her).
Film has been a reliable gauge of our zeitgeist. And, with cover of last month's Time Magazine reading, "The Decade from Hell," all indications point to "we're worried." But this decade from hell--with its elective war, unrelenting unemployment and lack of health care--is looking far cheerier than the offerings at your local multiplex.
When times are tough, we look to Hollywood for escapist fare: fantasy. Fantasia. A little mouse going rogue. Lately, Hollywood is heavy on the fantasy, but giving us the grotesque over the fanciful. We're being transported to worlds of colorless sunrises, cannibalistic gangs and Me: It's What's for Dinner.
Futuristic movies aren't just getting tough on our collective psyche -- they're unrelenting. We kicked ass in "Independence Day." In District 9, we kick their ass, sure, but we also murder their young and go after our own--we stop knowing the difference.
Then there's the more realistic fare: "Up in the Air" has no traditional cannibals, but stars a guy who can't get enough of criss-crossing the country firing people. He loves his job so, so much he doesn't make time for any personal attachments. The sky, his only friend.
But while my husband emerged inconsolably depressed from "Up in the Air" and reconsidering his 2010 business plan, I thanked heavens that we had full bellies and a home to return to. (Either way, no one got any that night.) And at least it didn't leave me flattened (or craving Dole peaches) like "The Road."
Considering what's out there, it's no wonder a badly reviewed film like "the Blindside" is top of the charts. It's one of the only films out there starring the American dream and Sandra Bullock. Personally, I refuse to see it. She looks like a wannabe Julia Roberts in "Erin Brockovich"--save the tits--and I could pinpoint it's heartstring-pulling-plan-of-attack from the previews.
True, I don't need a feel-good movie, but I wouldn't mind fewer feel-BAD (and, well, bad) movies to choose from.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
The First Birthday
I decided that since she didn't know how her foot from her face, a fancy affair would be wasted on our one-year old. We had been to a first birthday party at one of those fancy playgyms a few months prior and the guest of honor slept soundly through the first three-quarters of it. When he finally woke up, unceremoniously, to a rousing edition of "Let's Get it Started" with disco lights, he had such an enormous tantrum, his grandmother had to take him to the (peppy) employee break room to calm him down. Our daughter was the only other infant invitee, so she frolicked in the ball pit by her lonesome and the parents of the birthday boy snapped away, stealing pictures of OUR daughter enjoying THEIR son's pricey party. I wondered how they'd photoshop that one.
So, it would be a no muss, no fuss birthday. Then I got an email from my oldest friend, a Martha Stewart reincarnate with 2 kids, who now lives out west. "Have you gotten the stuff for Z's party yet?"
What "stuff?" Stuff? I wasn't aware stuff was required. I thought we'd sing "Happy Birthday" while she threw yams across the room and then we'd all eat turkey and down beers while I begged people not to partake in seconds.
I asked and she answered.
"it's called a smash cake made especially for one year olds to smash and grab and stuff in the face. you need it for the pictures that you should be taking. that and the frilly, glitzy one year old birthday hat."
No response from me. Then another email from her...
"And a banner. Those cute ones you hang above the highchair. You'll need it for the pictures you should be taking."
Note to self: I think someone thinks I should be taking more pictures of my baby. Just b/c I don't send pictures out to my distribution list every 3 weeks, doesn't mean we aren't taking any. Just that we aren't bothering to upload them. Like ever.
Also, what the hell is this smash cake? How is it different than a regular cake. I scoured the internet. No luck. Really, you try. I called three NYC bakeries. They had no clue what I was talking about. I would have emailed my friend again, but a dittering mother must reserve her "help me" emails for real emergencies. The smash cake conundrum was bordering one, but not quite there. So, I decided on a cupcake (a small cake she can smash, hurl, maybe even eat). But 4 days before the big non-event, I realized that in addition to a cupcake not really being a cake, we could probably use the extra doughage a proper cake would provide for leftovers for the new parent-friends! Ta-da! But, wait, not if she smashed her face into it. So, for the four nights before Thanksgiving, I'd turn to Ben and ask, "Cake or cupcake." And every night he'd grunt "cupcake" and turn the volume up on whatever we were watching.
Let her eat cupcake.
Then the day before, as I was leaving my husband's office, on my way to the cupcake place to pick up my decision (er, her birthday treat), his employee Jessica asked me the question: "Are you ready for Zoe's birthday?" Yes, I'm ready. "Did you get one of those Number 1 candles?"
Fuck me.
As the entire city of New York raced around to pick up their preordered turkeys, pick up more celery for their stove-top assisted stuffing, make their car, train, plane home, I went hunting for those oversized number 1 candles.
And hoped, the whole time that it wasn't too big for the fucking cupcake.
So, it would be a no muss, no fuss birthday. Then I got an email from my oldest friend, a Martha Stewart reincarnate with 2 kids, who now lives out west. "Have you gotten the stuff for Z's party yet?"
What "stuff?" Stuff? I wasn't aware stuff was required. I thought we'd sing "Happy Birthday" while she threw yams across the room and then we'd all eat turkey and down beers while I begged people not to partake in seconds.
I asked and she answered.
"it's called a smash cake made especially for one year olds to smash and grab and stuff in the face. you need it for the pictures that you should be taking. that and the frilly, glitzy one year old birthday hat."
No response from me. Then another email from her...
"And a banner. Those cute ones you hang above the highchair. You'll need it for the pictures you should be taking."
Note to self: I think someone thinks I should be taking more pictures of my baby. Just b/c I don't send pictures out to my distribution list every 3 weeks, doesn't mean we aren't taking any. Just that we aren't bothering to upload them. Like ever.
Also, what the hell is this smash cake? How is it different than a regular cake. I scoured the internet. No luck. Really, you try. I called three NYC bakeries. They had no clue what I was talking about. I would have emailed my friend again, but a dittering mother must reserve her "help me" emails for real emergencies. The smash cake conundrum was bordering one, but not quite there. So, I decided on a cupcake (a small cake she can smash, hurl, maybe even eat). But 4 days before the big non-event, I realized that in addition to a cupcake not really being a cake, we could probably use the extra doughage a proper cake would provide for leftovers for the new parent-friends! Ta-da! But, wait, not if she smashed her face into it. So, for the four nights before Thanksgiving, I'd turn to Ben and ask, "Cake or cupcake." And every night he'd grunt "cupcake" and turn the volume up on whatever we were watching.
Let her eat cupcake.
Then the day before, as I was leaving my husband's office, on my way to the cupcake place to pick up my decision (er, her birthday treat), his employee Jessica asked me the question: "Are you ready for Zoe's birthday?" Yes, I'm ready. "Did you get one of those Number 1 candles?"
Fuck me.
As the entire city of New York raced around to pick up their preordered turkeys, pick up more celery for their stove-top assisted stuffing, make their car, train, plane home, I went hunting for those oversized number 1 candles.
And hoped, the whole time that it wasn't too big for the fucking cupcake.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Buying Thanksgiving Leftovers
Our Thanksgiving was already pretty untraditional: it was 100% store-bought (stay away from Zabar's brandied chestnut stuffing--tastes like gizzard pate with a liquored kick). And our guests were a pair of lesbians from the Maine woods. (Realizing this sounds like the beginning of Deliverance 2010--not a holiday meal.)
It was our first Thanksgiving with baby (coincidentally, our little turkey's first birthday, but I'll get to that later). And I had invited the new parent-friends over for Thanksgiving leftovers the next day. Then, the day before Thanksgiving it hit me: We may not have enough FOR leftovers. I panicked. I made my husband promise not to gorge. He scoffed. At the big meal, I politely suggested to my mother-in-law that, just maybe, she didn't need a third helping of mashed potatoes. She correctly ignored me. Not only was I counting MY calories--but everyone else's.
I couldn't wait for Black Friday to come. Not so I could go hunting for for half-priced electronics, but stale pumpkin pie. And so, the next morning, with more than half a 13 lb. turkey sitting in the fridge, and a pissed-off husband and slightly annoyed mothers-in-law at home, I trekked to Whole Foods to buy leftovers. Not surprisingly, the place was desolate.
I blame my heritage: being a Jew, we are preternaturally concerned with food and forever anxious there won't be enough. But logic also intervened. Since, we only had six guests coming over (two under a year-old), I limited my purchases to a better stuffing and three anxiety-reducing slices of white meat. Unfortunately, they had an herb crust--our bird did not--so I wiped them clean with paper towels and scattered the new slices amongst the authentic leftovers and hoped no one noticed. When all was said done and eaten, we still had almost a half bird left after the new parent-friends came and went, and, being a Jew--preternaturally obsessed with food going bad and paranoid about giving anyone a food-bourne disease, I threw that half a bird out.
Oy.
It was our first Thanksgiving with baby (coincidentally, our little turkey's first birthday, but I'll get to that later). And I had invited the new parent-friends over for Thanksgiving leftovers the next day. Then, the day before Thanksgiving it hit me: We may not have enough FOR leftovers. I panicked. I made my husband promise not to gorge. He scoffed. At the big meal, I politely suggested to my mother-in-law that, just maybe, she didn't need a third helping of mashed potatoes. She correctly ignored me. Not only was I counting MY calories--but everyone else's.
I couldn't wait for Black Friday to come. Not so I could go hunting for for half-priced electronics, but stale pumpkin pie. And so, the next morning, with more than half a 13 lb. turkey sitting in the fridge, and a pissed-off husband and slightly annoyed mothers-in-law at home, I trekked to Whole Foods to buy leftovers. Not surprisingly, the place was desolate.
I blame my heritage: being a Jew, we are preternaturally concerned with food and forever anxious there won't be enough. But logic also intervened. Since, we only had six guests coming over (two under a year-old), I limited my purchases to a better stuffing and three anxiety-reducing slices of white meat. Unfortunately, they had an herb crust--our bird did not--so I wiped them clean with paper towels and scattered the new slices amongst the authentic leftovers and hoped no one noticed. When all was said done and eaten, we still had almost a half bird left after the new parent-friends came and went, and, being a Jew--preternaturally obsessed with food going bad and paranoid about giving anyone a food-bourne disease, I threw that half a bird out.
Oy.
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