Movies!

A couple weeks ago I had a few days off all to myself (yay!) and hit the road to visit friends in the NJ town of my ute. I love a road trip to visit friends, though I'm looking forward to our next car, whatever it turns out to be, to put the love back in the road part. Our current commuter econobox is over 250K miles with no problems whatsoever (Toyota? I'm ready for my close-up...) except that the a/c crapped out just in time for summer. But summer's all but done, and cars are another thread.

We saw some movies!

Casino Royale is holding up to repeated viewings. I am beginning to shake my head a bit during the underwater action near the end of the movie, but I still love it. I had never heard of Daniel Craig (somehow -- dang children! -- I missed Layer Cake; Netflix should be fixing that for me shortly) before learning he was the next Bond. Any apprehension I had about him (I did like Pierce Brosnan in the role) evaporated early on the first time I saw this movie. I am accused of just liking his, um, bathing suit. Not true -- the man rocks a dinner jacket as well ;). But most importantly, he nails the Bond character. According to IMDb, the next Bond movie, coming in '08, is reported to be a direct sequel to Casino Royale, so that'll be interesting.

The Simpsons Movie was good fun. All kinds of Simpson cleverness, many laughs. At 87 minutes, it didn't try too hard, which is key for a TV show-made-movie. There were lots of allusions to/pokes at other films. I caught just a few, so there had to have been lots that I missed entirely or couldn't quite place then forgot about.

Did you know you can make yourself a Simpson character? S'fun.
That's me, sorta. I can never find the right hair with those things.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, I think I mentioned below somewhere, was really, really good. Visually great, well-paced, and having read the book, I have to say the movie folks are doing a great job deciding what to leave out, what to keep in without making a four hour film. We saw it at an IMAX theater in a shopping mall... is this a great country, or what?


Seen at home long after the rest of the world has forgotten all about 'em:

It took me a long while to get around to Mrs. Henderson Presents (2005). The title put me off. Shallow of me, but if the title is ugly, awkward or silly, I can't help but be less interested in the film, no matter how many Oscar nominations it gets. Anyway this awkwardly titled movie is based on a true story of a wealthy widow in 1930s London who buys a theater for something to do because she can't stand the idea of embroidery and charity work for the rest of her days. Shocking the aristocracy (including a stuffy Lord Somethingorother played by Christopher Guest), Mrs. Henderson's productions feature -- horrors! -- naked women. Judi Dench is fab, of course, in the role. Bob Hoskins both produced the movie and costars as the theater manager (and if you've ever wanted to see Bob Hoskins naked, here's your chance). No, wait! See it anyway! It's a lovely drama, both funny and poignant.

Looks like I haven't shuffled my Netflix queue in a while and we're in British Drama mode. Thankfully I can recommend this one as well: last night we saw A Good Woman (2004), based on Oscar Wilde's 1892 comedy "Lady Windemere's Fan." Scarlett Johansen stars in the title role as the young bride of a wealthy financier, brushing off advances by her husband's dashing friend (cad, or good guy?). Meanwhile, having run out of other people's husbands to seduce in New York, the mysterious Mrs. Erlynne (Helen Hunt) arrives in Amalfi, and the serious gossip begins. What's Mrs. Earlynne doing spending so much time with Mr. Windemere? Where's her money coming from? Things are more complicated than they appear. It's a nice movie with beautiful costumes and scenery, entertaining secondary characters, and top-notch dialogue... it's Oscar Wilde after all, what's not to like! Except: Scarlett Johansen's bee-stung lips sort of get on my nerves. I don't know why. Hers are too much, Helen Hunt's not enough, and they both look a little odd. But the hair! The shoes! The dresses! Beautiful.

Larry "wide stance" Craig

Well, well, well. Larry Craig, U.S. Senator from Idaho, joins the growing list of Republican "traditional values" crusaders to hit the news for trying to blow/be blown by/otherwise get off in the company of another man in a public restroom. Ordinarily -- because why should tapping one's foot in a public restroom be a crime? -- I'd wish him happy cruising, or whatever, (providing consenting partners of legal age, &c.) and turn my attention elsewhere, maybe after noting that, um, some soul-searching appears to be in order for the Craig family. Or something.

However. This illustrious Senator:

Voted YES on constitutional ban of same-sex marriage. (Jun 2006)
Voted NO on adding sexual orientation to definition of hate crimes. (Jun 2002)
Voted NO on expanding hate crimes to include sexual orientation. (Jun 2000)
Voted YES on prohibiting same-sex marriage. (Sep 1996)
Voted NO on prohibiting job discrimination by sexual orientation. (Sep 1996)

The hypocrisy! -- man. It's just not funny.

But he almost makes up for it with the "wide stance" claim. That's how his foot touched the man's in the next stall, doncha know. The Senator has a wide stance on the shitter.

Snort!

Enough with the spiders, m'kay?

We are having a heck of a year for spiders. Sure, over the season you see some spiders in the house. What's normal, a few a week? Something like that. Some weeks more, some weeks fewer.
This year, though, man. Yesterday I killed a half-dozen spiders, representing at least four species.

I watched the biggest one, the kind more associated with woodpiles than upstairs bathrooms, for quite some time before launching my attack. To do battle, I'd sent the girls out of the bathroom, and armed myself appropriately. This was no mere square-of-toilet-tissue spider. This was a two-paper-towel carnivorous arthropod, scuttling sideways up and down the wall along the corner with the mirror over the sink. It was in a state of high agitation, and get this: sparring with its image in the mirror. I was not imagining this. I observed for several minutes, hoping it'd get somewhere more accessible than just behind the outlet with the toothbrush and hair dryer plugs obstructing attack. (I prefer to handle these unpleasantries in one mighty blow.) And I swear, this one was fighting, rearing up on some back legs and waving some front ones around.

Maybe that's old news to people who know more about spiders than I, which is to say, nearly everyone. I had never seen a spider do that before -- kittens, yeah, but not spiders -- and found it distinctly unsettling.

Glossing over the embarassing events that followed (I admit the hair dryer came into play), I will just say this megaspider's last stand wasn't nearly as swift or clean as I'd have liked. I had to go back and clean up a leg. No, not my leg. Grrr.

The Sound of Freedom

We just had an airshow here on Cape Cod. That phrase, "the sound of freedom," has been bandied about even more than usual.

To be honest, the airshow itself... huge crowds, earsplitting noise, bad food, impenetrable traffic, searing heat from sun and pavement... sounds like hell on earth to me. Planes just aren't my thing, though I do appreciate in a detached sort of way how cool they are, how amazing the technology, how deeply impressive their thundering overhead, especially in those tight formations (wow). Given a chance to check them out up close without the crowds, noise, traffic, and heat, I definitely would, and it would rock.

But here's a question. Please know I'm not trying to be coy. Though disinclined to air shows, I'm not anti-military. I'm proud of those who defend our country, and truly admire their strength and skills. I just wonder, because every time I hear the phrase, something about it rings kind of naive to me...

How are military aircraft screaming overhead the sound of freedom?

I know... "freedom isn't free," and this is how we ensure it. But that's why it strikes me more as a sound of grim necessity. Wouldn't true freedom be not needing it to be heard?

When the aircraft pass overhead, I am certainly impressed. It can be exhilerating. But I don't associate it with freedom, because there's something terrible (in the old sense of the word) about it as well, that makes me feel distinctly less free.

Just thinking out loud.

Different kinds of freedom, I suppose... freedom to, and freedom of, and freedom from.

You (yes, *you*) are the Peanut Gallery.

In talking with people about blogs, blogging, and this blog, I've been made aware that it wouldn't necessarily be talking down to people to explain the bit about commenting.

If you browse blogs, you'll often see a link that says "[some number] comments" beneath each post. Bloggers sometimes call 'em something else -- mine currently says "0 shouts from the peanut gallery." Click on it. You'll see that some readers have left comments about the post, and sometimes it can lead to whole conversations being had between commenters, and friendships between people who've never met. The Internets are cool like that. Famous bloggers get hundreds of comments on each of their posts. Unknown hacks such as I get a couple here and there, and savor each one :).

The famous blogger I linked to has an amusing, sometimes even laugh-out-loud funny blog (the downside: it runs to the self-congratulatory). Oddly, he has banned me from leaving comments. (You'll have to take my word for it that I'm not one to make obscene, threatening or otherwise ban-worthy comments. My story, and I'm sticking to it, is that There Must Be Some Mistake.) Which brings me to another point about commenting: bloggers can disallow comments entirely on certain or all of their posts. Some blogs allow anonymous comments, others don't. Some bloggers preview, or moderate, comments on their blogs before allowing them to appear to all readers. Others don't bother.

I allow everything. So far, so good.

So comment away, beloved Peanut Gallery. It's cool to hear from you.

Harry Potter Immersion

At a chapter a night, Mr. Sandy and I are about a third of the way through Deathly Hallows. Hopefully we'll keep up the pace as bedtime gets earlier with school starting next week (!).

I saw Order of the Phoenix on Friday -- at an IMAX theater. WOW. It was awesome.

I am having Harry Potter style dreams lately.

And I took a silly Harry Potter quiz:

Which Harry Potter Character Are You?

Hermione Granger. You are very smart, very clever, bookish, a loyal friend, loving, you fight for what you believe in, and can be pretty when you dress up. However, you are obsessed with school and rules, can sometimes take your projects overboard, you're a know-it-all, and you can be easily offended and overly cautious. But your friends stand by you and you totally got to date a professional quidditch player.

Playdate

We had one of the Bean's friends over to play this morning. A nice little girl, tiny thing, very quiet, probably because she'd never been at our house before.

Out of the blue, she announced to me, "sometimes at home I sit on my brother's soccer ball and pretend it's an egg."

"What kind of bird do you pretend to be?" I asked.

"Not a bird. A cat." she said.

Okey-dokey.

Then we baked flaxseed muffins. Ha!

No we didn't. I made chocolate cupcakes from a box and used frosting from a tub, and the girls dumped their own rainbow sprinkles on the top and thought it was the greatest thing ever.

I did make 'em eat carrots with their lunch first.

Overheard in My Kitchen

Bean, to Peanut: Why are you not afraid of Great White sharks, but you are afraid of leopard sharks?

Peanut: Hm. That is strange.

"Goodnight Nobody"

After Nineteen Minutes I went for shameless fluff reading, hold the difficult issues. Jennifer Weiner's Goodnight Nobody fit the bill.

Our heroine is Kate Klein, who has just moved with her husband and three toddlers from New York City, which she loved, to a stultifyingly dull Connecticut suburb. With her sense of humor and (horrors!) interests beyond her home and family, not to mention unruly hair, some extra weight, and clothes that aren't silk, suede, or spotless, she feels totally out of place and is losing hope of making any friends among the sleek, high-heeled, pedicured, flaxseed muffin-baking, Pilates-sculpted Perfect Mommy set.

Things get interesting when one of these perfect mommies invites Kate over for lunch, and upon arrival Kate discovers her body facedown in the kitchen, knifed in the back. Kate latches on to the mystery and with the help of her old friend Janie, she starts finding things out. Needless to say the mommies aren't all that they seem.

It's all highly improbable, but who cares. This novel, like Weiner's others (she also wrote Good in Bed, Little Earthquakes, and In Her Shoes, of which was made the movie w/Cameron Diaz), is totally fun. Earthquakes (about a group of pregnant friends and how their lives change as the babies come) and Nobody are more specific to mothers in their funniness, but they're all a riot. Perfect beach or hammock reading.

We're done, right? Right.

Mr. Sandy is cleaning out the garage, and things are going in three general categories: to the dump, to be donated, to be kept.

He came across the baby stroller. "We really are done, right?"

We really are done. A third child would tip us into precarious territory financially, emotionally, and physically (a pregnancy at 40 isn't a no-brainer). I also have strong feelings about there being plenty of people in the world already. I know that large families living simply can leave less "footprint" than smaller ones living carelessly, as so many do, but still. There are enough people in the world already.

So, we're done. Really.

Still, we both think about it sometimes. That door is hard to close. I don't think I want to hear it latch behind me.

Pet Peeve

I like dogs as much as the next guy. No more, if I'm totally honest, but no less. Doggies can be fun. They can be cute. They can be good friends. They can be good for our health, they can protect and defend us, they can even save lives.

They can also shit all over the damn place. And many of them appear to be owned by people who don't give a shit about the shit, so to speak. I hate that.

Please do not let your dog shit at the beach*, and then neglect to pick up after it. Hello? People lie on the beach. Children dig in the sand. They can get very seriously sick from touching dog poop.

Same goes for the playground, for the sidewalk, for my yard, for Chrissake. Did you think I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't care?

I often see people walking their dogs, toting a plastic bag for the inevitable chore. I stop and thank those people for making the effort, and they say "you're welcome." I think most dog owners are probably considerate about it. So what's the matter with the rest of them?


*By the way, what part of "No Dogs Allowed May 15 - Sept. 15" is unclear? Don't like the law, then take it up with the town. But it IS the law, until it isn't.

"Nineteen Minutes"

My not-so-serious book group met at sunset yesterday, with beach chairs, blankets and wine and a cake decorated like the Texas flag as a sendoff for one of us who is moving there. I felt like blowing Taps for her. The prospect of moving to Texas for anything but an absurdly lucrative short-term gig would fill this heat-dreading, socially liberal-thinking New Englander with despair. But she seems in good spirits, and will be back for summers.

We relaxed and gabbed for three hours or so, relighting candles often in the humid breeze and passing drizzle. Somewhere in there we spent considerably less than 19 minutes discussing Nineteen Minutes, by Jodi Picoult.

The novel (Picoult's 14th, but the first I've read of hers) is about a small town high school shooting. The story is told from several characters' perspectives, in present and in flashbacks. Peter Houghton is an odd boy, cruelly and mercilessly bullied since earliest childhood. His parents are gifted in their work, clueless in their parenting. One day, Peter packs his backpack full of loaded guns. He goes to school and kills ten people, injures more. Some of his targets make sense revenge-wise, some don't. When apprehended, he says, "they started it."

Josie Cormier is Peter's only childhood friend, who eventually drifts away from him in favor of the popular kids, and struggles with losing herself in that group and particularly in a relationship with a scarily controlling boyfriend. Alex Cormier is Josie's mother, a newly appointed judge, thriving in her career but missing some things at home. Patrick Ducharme is the detective whose case this horror becomes, and Jordan McAfee, the attorney for Peter's defense.

It's a messy story, and it needs at least as many perspectives as Picoult provides, to provoke the right questions. Who to blame? Who to forgive? Where is our empathy -- can it be in many places at once?

I found my own to be spread like frosting, thicker in some places than others.

We did touch on some of the writing issues: Picoult's characters are very well-drawn, but is her Sterling High too full of cliches? (maybe, but it mostly works.) Is the ending too contrived (not necessarily, but I would've liked more from Josie's perspective), its promise of new life too hokey (yes, and as a reader, I resent having my chain so obviously yanked)?

But as a group of mothers, we focused mostly on the fears this book brought out. How do we raise* our children not to become the kinds of people that do these things? More importantly (by the numbers, at least -- there are far more bullies than murderers in the world), how do we raise children that won't be horribly mean people, if not killers?

How do we keep from raising children we one day don't know or recognize?

Scary stuff, as I ready my eldest for kindergarten in a few short weeks. I know that school can sometimes be a cruel place, and that she'll have to navigate some of its cruelty on her own.

I'm curious what high school students who read this book think of it. And of course I'd like to hear from you, if you did.


*I was always taught that one raises livestock and rears children, but when I put "rear" into the above paragraphs, it reads strangely. So I capitulated. Grrr. When did we start "raising" children instead of "rearing" them?

stupid computer games

From time to time I go through phases of being completely absorbed in stupid computer games. I'm in one now. Self-loathing is starting to set in. And yet... I can't quite stop. Must... get... best... score.

Stupid.

Church

It's true, I did go to church this morning. I brought the Bean, who had a great time playing with the child care person (a lovely older woman who drives a Jeep with fake flowers twisted around the antenna, and turns out to be the senior church warden) during the service. Peanut stayed home with Daddy to do a "project," designed to keep her from being too upset that her sister got to wear a pretty dress and Go Somewhere.

I have mixed feelings about church, which could probably fill many more paragraphs than any (either?) of my readers here would want to give time to. I grew up going to an Episcopal church: went to Sunday school, sang in the choir, attended confirmation classes, and served as an acolyte. Though it was just luck of time and place, I am proud to have been confirmed by Bishop John Shelby Spong, of whom Wikipedia says "his views are so radical that some more conservative Christians consider him not Christian at all." That is to say, he believes that women and gay people and people of color are as fully human as straight white men. He believes a lot else about Christian theology that I'm unqualified to discuss, and in fairness it is probably more that kind of thing, rather than feminism, that makes him a radical. In essence, he seems to be saying that much Christian doctrine is rooted in a world that no longer exists (pre-Newton, pre-Copernicus), and that we could use another Reformation. Sounds good to me -- sign me up. Or to put it bluntly, "well, duh."

But I digress, about Spong. Point is: my religious foundation is Episcopalian, so we had our girls baptized in the local Episcopal church, and that's where we go on the three or four Sundays a year that I get the urge. Now that Bean is Sunday school age, we'll probably go more often. Maybe. Or not.

Because I went so often as a child and teenager, the rhythms and cadence of the service, the music, the language, and the social church experience all have made an imprint that is at once irksome, comforting, and amusing.

The stuff that ranges from irksome (church busybodies) to infuriating (institutionalized condescension) is a whole other essay. Today -- possibly because our regular priest is on vacation! -- I noticed positives.

There is comfort in confession, in asking for forgiveness for unspecified (Episcopalians don't have to visit a priest and come clean individually) things done and left undone, for not having loved our neighbor with our whole heart. There is comfort in the exchange of "peace be with you" with those seated nearby. There is comfort in watching the priest blessing the Bean at communion, and in the blessing delivered to all at the end of the service.

In the amusing category, I've found there is always one person in the congregation... you could plop me in any church in the world and this would happen... invariably seated one or two rows behind me, who insists on singing harmony to all the hymns. She can't quite manage it, but she'll never stop trying. Loudly.

"Off the Map"

Off the Map (2003) is an odd little drama about an odd little family. It's a coming of age story for precocious, homeschooled 11 year-old Bo ("my real name is Cecilia Rose"), and a "finding oneself" story for several of the other characters.

Bo and her parents live in the New Mexico desert without phone or electricity. They grow and kill their own food, and whatever else they need they barter for or find at the dump. Her father Charley (Sam Neill -- one of those seen-him-before, can't-remember-where actors, very good, wonderful voice) is suffering from debilitating depression. He barely speaks or moves. Her mother Arlene (Joan Allen) is holding up as best she can doing everything that needs to be done, which in a self-sufficient household is a ton. There is both depth and simplicity in Arlene's character, which Allen plays masterfully. Bo's godfather, George, is around a lot but doesn't say much himself.

One day a hapless IRS agent arrives at their door filthy, sweaty and on foot -- his car long since abandoned as he got lost and disoriented trying to find the place. His mission was to track down unpaid taxes, but he is stung by an insect and collapses, feverish, on the couch. He recovers in a few days; he stays for eight years.

New Mexico itself -- Land of Enchantment -- plays a strong role in the film.

I squirmed a bit at the slow pace of this movie, but strongly recommend it overall. I enjoyed all the literal and figurative meanings of its title and how they played out in the characters' lives. In retrospect there are some loose ends, some bits that didn't quite fit, but no fatal flaws.

See it, tell me what you think.

Musical Abuse

I have been suffering, my friends.

Two days ago I had the refrain from that Depeche Mode song "Blasphemous Rumors" stuck in my head like chewing gum underfoot.

Yesterday, it was "Edelweiss." I tried to spread the misery to Mr. Sandy, who, (although German!) professed never to have heard it before.

This morning I went to church to confess my sins, just in case it'll help.

...for God's sake, grease your shingles.

Apologies to everyone who has cable and already watches the Daily Show, but when I come across stuff like this, I gotta share:



Now excuse me, I'm going to go hide the Advil.

Grail movies.

This weekend ended up being Holy Grail themed (movie-wise, that is, unless sand art is the Holy Grail of birthday party crafts). It had been far too long since we asked the eternal question, "how do you know so much about swallows?" so Friday night brought a viewing of Monty Python and the Holy Grail while frosting the Bean's birthday cake. Genius, as ever. Of course it's a good idea!

Saturday we revisited Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, which I'd forgotten is also a grail movie, and not bad at that (and quite a relief when it came out, because Temple of Doom sucked eggs). Best line: "I said no camels, Sallah. That's five camels. Can't you count?"

Too bad we didn't have The DaVinci Code for the trifecta, though that movie always makes me want to give Tom Hanks a haircut.

Homogenization

There is a new-ish radio station on Cape Cod called "Frank FM." They have a good playlist, for commercial pop radio, and relatively few ads. I'd found myself listening pretty often, in the car. Until I realized: they have no DJs. It's just this prerecorded growl of a voice that makes generic transitions between tunes, touting the station in a few canned phrases that they rotate through, or randomly generate, or something. However they do it, it's kind of creepy, and now that I've noticed it I don't like the station anymore.

It reminds me of box restaurants. Chili's, Uno, Friday's, Tuesday's, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse, Applebee's... not that any one of them is particularly bad (though I'd rather have a day-old vending machine sandwich than set foot in a Hooters), but must every flat, numbered state highway business district in America look exactly the same? Cape Cod is truly lovely in so many ways. But if you were driving down Route 132 in Hyannis and suddenly went into a fugue or something, you'd have no immediately obvious way to tell if you were in Cape Cod, Massachusetts or, say, greater Kansas City. Which is sad for both places.

Another Dunkin' Donuts just opened in my little town. That makes FIVE.

How many is enough?

Sad Girl, II

I saw Sad Girl again this evening, at a sub shop with her brother and father. She was... sad. I smiled and said hi, but didn't stop to chat, as the father looked straight at the floor, and Sad Girl doesn't seem to remember who I am (no reason she should; she and my Bean went to the same preschool, but Bean wouldn't recognize her mother, either). Sitting down with my dinner (ALONE! with a BOOK!), another family passed my table on their way out, and the mother was saying to her husband, "I decided to get it to go because that man with the two kids is INTOXICATED..." Hm. Maybe Sad Girl really has something to be sad about.

When I had a cat and no kids, I used to read the cat shelter column in the local paper, every kitty story in the news would catch my attention, and every cat in a parking lot made me wonder if she had a place to go home to. I used to have a recurring dream about abandoned kittens following me home. Now, of course, it's little girls that pull my heartstrings.

Happy Birthday Bean!

Our Bean is 5 years old! We had her party on Saturday though, because, you know, the hottest, most humid, least pleasant day of the summer seemed like a good time to grill a ton and a half of marinated chicken for a thousand sweaty kids and their wilting parents. (Sunday, of course, was stunningly beautiful -- a lovely, comfortable temperature with a perfect breeze, yet not a cloud in the sky. Sigh. You get what you get, weather-wise.)

Luckily, since most of the responses I had to chase down were regrets, we were able to move the party indoors to air conditioned comfort. Mr. Sandy was a good sport about manning the grill. He noted later that although the only part of the food prep I did NOT do was the actual grilling, and that all the rest of it took hours and hours, he got all the atta boys for the 20 minutes he spent cooking the chicken. I'm OK with that. I'd have passed out.

Shameless self-congratulation for the most excellent birthday party activity ever... not that it was an original idea, but it was a big hit: SAND ART. You need baby food jars, spray paint, art sand in a bunch of colors (2.5 lb bags for $2.50 at craft store), cups and spoons, table, drop cloth if it'll be indoors. In advance (at least a day ahead, to let things air out and dry) clean the jars and get the labels off 'em (mineral spirits work great). Spray paint the lids (I used white, but something sparkly would've been cooler). On party day, put colored sand into different (clear is best so they can see the colors) cups, spoons into each cup, cups on table. Use enough cups so that everyone can get to all the colors. Kiddos then spoon layers of different colored sand into their jars to make pretty patterns. As long as they don't shake the jars, they can't go wrong. Have them fill the jars all the way to the top so there isn't room for the sand to tip and mix after you put the lid on. Make sure they put an initial or something on the jars, they're easy to mix up when they're all done. Ribbons around the jar would make a cute final touch but of course I didn't think of it till afterward, so whatever.

I had boys and girls aged 2 to 7, and either they all loved this or their parents were discreetly jabbing them with sticks and telling them to fake it or else. Everyone made birthday presents for unsuspecting grandparents who will end up with jars of sand they have to keep forever. But that's not my problem :).

So yeah, the Bean is 5. And she starts kindergarten in a month... and when I think about that I cry, so this post was about sand art instead.

I'm so proud of her.

The 40 Year-Old Virgin

Briefly: A comedy not as bad as I'd feared, not as good as I'd hoped.

The title character works in the stock room at [insert generic name for Best Buy], the secret to his dorkishness gets out, and his coworkers spend the rest of the movie working on getting him laid -- until he starts working on it in his own way, on his own terms, with a predictable happy ending (and a not-so-predictable, bizarre musical sequence that should've been cut, cut, cut).

It starts out just bad (awkward loner keeps action figures, plays video games... we get it. Clumsy attempts at hooking him up with drunk women... not funny). But it does become kind of cute, and there are some amusing exchanges. Jane Lynch (of Best in Show and A Mighty Wind, both MUST SEE movies... really, get those right now if you haven't seen them, don't bother with crap like Virgin) is pretty funny as the store manager. The cute guy who played Phoebe's boyfriend on Friends plays a cute guy here too. Catherine Keener is charming as the Love Interest.

That said... it's easily 45 minutes too long, and while I am willing to subject myself to that kind of fluff once in a while, I can't accept responsibility for letting anyone else do it. So here, sign this waiver. Now turn off your brain and watch this on cable if you feel like it, but don't come whining to me about all those minutes of your life you'll never get back. I tried to tell you.

RSVP. Please, please, PLEASE!!!!

Does anyone have any suggestions as to how to politely encourage people to respond to an invitation? I ask because a simple "R.S.V.P., [phone number]" appears to be completely ineffectual.

Pick up the damn phone, people, and give your hapless, well-intentioned, would-be hostess a frickin' clue. How hard can it be.

That is all.

Basic Instinct 2

In case anyone was left wondering... yes, Basic Instinct 2 is every bit as bad as everyone said it was.

Sharon Stone as novelist Catherine Tramell, this time in London, and in trouble with the law again, this time for the death of a football player who she might perhaps have saved from a watery grave were he not paralyzed by an illegal drug, and were his paralyzed fingers not in, ahem, use, while Ms. Tramell was driving through London in a snazzy sportscar at a hundred miles an hour. She's evaluated by a shrink who proceeds to go where Michael Douglas has gone before.

They should've kept more sex in the film and accepted an NC-17 rating. If they'd been honest about the premise, then it wouldn't have mattered that the plot was so campy, and those of us with some remaining allegiance to its purported "thriller" aspects wouldn't have had to strain to accept that everyone in Tramell's evil presence falls under her Sublime Spell o'Sexiness so that things can proceed exactly as she has forseen them, mwah-hahahaaa.

And, because this is what it was all about, really: Sharon Stone looked alternately ghoulish and great.

In short: an embarrassing film, hopefully more excusable for those with careers on the rise (are we ever going to see any of those British actors again?) than for those with careers in decline.

I just couldn't help myself.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Every night at bedtime, I ask the Bean "what was your favorite part of today?" Tonight, lying on her bed between her Daddy (home from his trip, hooray!) and me, she thought for a long beat before answering, "well, some days are so special that it's hard to choose a favorite part, because the whole day was my favorite."

Our hearts swelled. Daddy's first day home was so special. She missed him so much! She's so happy he's home!

"Was today one of those special days, Bean?" I ask, smiling.

"Mmmm... no." (cracks up laughing)

Where does she get it.

Because I'm boring.

Someone asked why my blog doesn't have a cute name. I know what they mean. I've been surfing blogs, and a lot of them have very cute names. Puns. Witty plays on words. Excellent little gems of phrases I wish I'd thought of myself.

But I have no imagination, is why.

There's an old Star Trek episode called The Trouble With Tribbles in which Captain Kirk is being harangued over the intercom by an intolerably annoying person with a lot of complaints, and he signs off with something like, "as for [your concerns], they have been...(exasperated pause, Shatner style, and I type it rather than let you infer it because that's what he would do, no?)... noted and logged." At least that's how I remember it. Captain Kirk doesn't have time for that shit. The Enterprise is knee deep in tribbles, for cryin' out loud.

So, not knowing what kind of blog I'd be writing (it isn't a mommy blog, it isn't an issue or place blog, it isn't a hobby blog...), I went with Noted and Blogged, rather than be forever paralyzed because I didn't know what to call it.

There ya go... dull as dirt.

But I was a sedimentologist, in another life. Dirt is fascinating stuff.

Everyone talks about the weather, but...

...you know what I think? After years of quiet suspicion, I'm going to type it out loud: I think the summer weather forecasts here on Cape Cod are fucking LIES. I don't think they just get it wrong, I think they deliberately lie, to make people think summer on Cape Cod is constantly delightful. (In fairness, it is even worse everywhere else.)

Today for instance. A high temperature of 81F -- lovely, right? -- was forecast on the local news station (more rants about that bunch of morons are forthcoming) this morning. Well it was over 90 in the shade before noon, folks. And that happens routinely, every summer. I know, because my mood turns to poison (yes, I'm aware) when the temperature is over 90 in the shade and the humidity is so high that merely breathing outdoors is unpleasant. So I keep an ear out for forecasts like that. And they NEVER HAPPEN. Yet winter forecasts don't have that problem... when they say it's going to be in the 20s, it generally is.

It's a conspiracy, I tell you.

Must I do my own weather forecasting, too? Is there NOTHING IN THIS WORLD I can reliably leave to other people to do properly?

Signed,
Hot and Bothered, with Control Issues

Sad Girl

You don't have to live in a small town for long before everyone looks familiar. Took me a while to get used to that (let's just say I'm much more careful about, say, gesturing at other drivers than when I lived in slightly more crowded places, such as Los Angeles). With the girls' activities our circle of acquaintances has become huge and I'm rarely out and about without running into a friendly face. I spend a lot of time in the car trying to figure out how I know the person I was just talking to, and what the heck her name is, again.

Anyway, one of the girls we see pretty often gives me pause. She's four. In the two and a half years since we met, I've never seen her smile. Not at preschool, the gym, the library, the children's museum. Now, anyone who's run into us has a decent chance of witnessing an exchange that ends in "I don't listen to whining. Please stop it. Now. WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!" We are not all giggles. But this little one... shoot. I've never seen her scolded, she just always looks so profoundly miserable it takes me aback. It would be less unsettling if I saw her crying all the time (then she'd be merely annoying. KIDDING! sort of). But she doesn't make a peep, or change her expression. It makes me wonder what's up. I don't get the same sad vibe from her older brother. Poor little one. Cheer up, kiddo! It's not that bad. I hope.

Words I Love

nifty
snorkel
peplum
hypotenuse
noodle

LA LA LA I DON'T HEAR YOU

Wait! Don't go! This isn't a hissy fit like the compost thing yesterday. (Sorry 'bout that. I am myself once more. Not quite cheerfully tending the compost, but no longer swearing at it.)

This post is to confess that I am living in fear. Not because the Secretary of Homeland Security has a tummy ache. Oh no. This is serious. I am treading carefully online, skittishly avoiding certain conversations in person, because:

I am afraid someone will tell me what happens in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Why don't I just get my eager paws on a copy and plow through it? One sleepless night ought to do it, and the tots can make their own dang breakfast, right? Well no, but that's not why. Why is because I promised Mr. Sandy I wouldn't. Years ago, reading Chamber of Secrets, I could tell he'd love these stories, and knew he'd never read them. So I backtracked to Sorcerer's Stone and read a chapter a night aloud to him, and that's how we've read all the subsequent ones. (Evidently I do a good Hagrid voice.)

I was right -- he's hooked. Now not only do I have to wait till he gets home from Far Far Away to get Hallows, but I will then have to read it one chapter a night. That's a long time to avoid spoilers. I'm surprised and pleased at how considerate everyone's been about it, but it can't last, it can't last.

I'm not listening, though. I'm brushing up my Hagrid voice.

OK, I'll consider it: Ummm... no.

Your Mind is 86% Cluttered

Your mind is incredibly cluttered. You have so much going on in there, it's hard to think straight.Consider talking to a therapist. It's a good idea to sort through your thoughts, if only to see which ones are worth hanging on to.

Another title I considered for this post: No Shit, Sherlock.

Take this silly quiz and find out how cluttered your mind is.

Where the (sorta) Wild Things Are

We get the usual mix of suburban "wild"life at our house. Racoons eat the girls' playground balls if we don't bring them in overnight, and skunks do their stinky thing every so often. We've had a half dozen deer in the yard more than a few times. I'm sure that coyotes see us, whether or not we see them, although one day a big one loped down the driveway casual as anything, right as I was unloading the groceries. I yelled at it to scram and it just stared at me like "uh, you and what army?" Yikes.

Yesterday during breakfast, the Bean hollered that she saw a REALLY BIG BIRD! ON THE CAR! Given that she hollers like that when she sees so much as a moth on the screen door, my first thought was "sparrow." But sure enough, there was a big ol' bird of prey just hanging out on top of the car. Quick, to the window! We stood very still watching it for a while. The novelty of a hawk chillaxn (heh) on the sunroof a few feet from the house warranted a few moments of video (Mr. Sandy is away with the still camera, dang it! I can't post a pic!). It stood, sat, stood, sat, shifted its weight around, and settled in for a while. So long that the girls went back to their raisin toast and told me to alert them if something interesting happened.

People just don't say about me, "now there's someone who knows her raptors," and that's probably not going to change any time soon. Paging through my Peterson's guide to Eastern Birds, I now see that I noticed all the wrong things, if I want to be able to tell hawks apart. It had bright yellow legs! Yah. They all do. It had brown and white flecked belly and brown upper parts! Yah... all the immature ones do. It had a banded tail! Yah... they mostly all do. I failed to notice whether it had yellow or red eyes, a notched or rounded tail, a stripe over its eye, or any other critical identifying characteristic. I'm quite sure it was a young 'un, and I hope it was an endangered species, cause we have a family of four of them thriving right in our woods and it would be especially cool to see that. But it's probably the Exceedingly Common Cape Cod Woodland Hawk, or equivalent.

We are always glad though to see anything in our yard... hawks, snakes, owls, anything... that eats mice. Mice carry deer ticks, which carry Lyme disease, and if you live on Cape Cod, your risk of getting Lyme is many times what it would be if you lived most anywhere else -- greater even, I think, than if you lived in Lyme itself. Also, mice nest in the cars' air vents, then proceed to die a gruesome death there when the fan is turned on, then proceed to smell awful, then proceed to cost us $35 to get the air vent cleaned out. (Loathe to spend the $35 yet again, Mr. Sandy did this job himself once, and said it was the most disgusting task he ever did, no contest. Mike Rowe he ain't, but still.)

So bon appetit, birdie, whatever you are. But dude, no pooping on the car, I just waxed it.

The post that wasn't

I think Life in Hell was probably the funniest comic ever. OK, The Far Side was pretty damn funny. OK OK, Dilbert is also very good, though context matters. Once you leave the cube farm it loses some of its ooomph. I know a lot of people adore Calvin and Hobbes. It just never grabbed me.

This was going to be a longish post about "the culture wars," but I got distracted... hey look, something shiny!


BTW today's stuck-in-the-head song is Bob Marley's "Stir it Up."

Eeek! Socks!

After seeing the Bean off to day camp this morning, my Peanut headed down to the playroom for some quality time alone with her trains. I sat down to drink my usual 2/3 cup of tea (I swear one of these days I'll finish a cup of tea without having to reheat it). After about ten minutes silence, I got a frantic, near-tears summons: "MOMMY! There are some SOCKS in the playroom that are SOMEONE ELSE'S!" Hmmm, thinks I. Sometimes we get a spider, but invasive socks are definitely unusual. I shall investigate.

Sure enough! There is a pair of socks in the middle of the room, not even trying to hide. They look harmless, but one can't be too careful. I pick them up to examine more closely.

"Peanut," I say to my barefoot little one. "These are YOUR socks. Did you take them off when you got downstairs?"

Confused silence. "But they're big," she says.

Evidently she can't keep up with how fast she's growing, either.

Frangipani

So I joined another book group. Optimistic of me to think I might have time to read two novels a month, but what the heck. This group is a bunch of moms who like to read, and like even more to hang out at the beach (knocking back a few) discussing what they've read, and watching the sun set as the tide rolls in. Let's just say it's an easy fit for yours truly. (For any of my new friends who happen across this blog, this will explain why I took a picture of my shoes...)

We read Frangipani, by Celestine Vaite. It's the story of Materena, a strong, proud and wise Tahitian woman, and her smart, lively and challenging daughter Leilani. The novel explores themes of personal growth, conflict and love in mother-daughter relationships, family, change across generations both in Tahitian culture and for women in general. Its subject plops it squarely in the chick lit market, which I'm loathe to even acknowledge as such. Still, I found Materena an engaging character and Frangipani a charming if undemanding story. It made a lovely excuse to spend an evening on the beach talking (ultimately of other things). A teacher of English in the group recoiled in mock horror when I said it reminded me thematically of The Red Tent, so much a women's book group favorite that it essentially defines the genre. Red Tent is certainly a more literary, more ambitious work; Frangipani is maybe more suited for mature young adults. What do I know, I majored in rocks.

At any rate, as a mother of girls, it is always heartening to read strong mother-daughter relationship stories. I'll find it again in ten years and ask the Bean and Peanut what they think. Here's hoping they're still speaking to me.

"This-is-my-favorite-chicken" Chicken

I didn't intend to do back to back recipe posts, but evidently I'm batting a thousand with dinner this week. The Bean raved about tonight's chicken so much ("I love this! I would like to have it tomorrow night, too!*") that I wondered if she could be entirely sincere. Surely she's too young (4) to be playing me so masterfully ;). In any case this dish earned astonishingly high praise from her, so maybe you and yours will dig it too.

My Bean's Favorite Chicken
1/4 c. packed dark brown sugar
1/4 c. low-sodium soy sauce
1 T. lime juice
1/4 t. curry powder
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 lb. boneless skinless chicken thighs

Put everything together in a big ziploc bag and marinate for however long you've got.

Aside: I heard somewhere (NPR?) that someone (a chef?) experimented to see if marinating overnight really makes meat taste better than marinating it for much less time. If I remember right, the point of diminishing returns was something like 20 minutes. That made me feel better about all the times I'm "supposed" to have marinated something for most of the week or whatever, but didn't defrost it in time, so settled for an hour-ish and couldn't tell the difference.

Now that you're done marinating, empty the ziploc into a 13x9 dish and bake at 425 for 40 minutes.

Or grill the chicken, but if you do, boil the marinade on the stove for at least a minute, then use it to baste.

I served this with wild rice and peas, but I think it'd be better with mashed potatoes and carrots.

*I fully intend to call her bluff. Tomorrow night is Leftover Clearinghouse chez SandyShoes.

Black Bean Lasagna

Well, Noted and Blogged is going to have something for everyone. I've decided to post recipes for dishes that 1) are at least sort of Good For You, and 2) have gone over well with both kids and adults in the SandyShoes household. If the Peanut clears her plate without being told to Take Another Bite, then woo hoo! we have a winner.

The inaugural entry:
Black Bean Lasagna (modified from a Cooking Light recipe*)
2 c. chopped onion
2 c. chopped bell peppers; I like to use 2 different colors but it doesn't matter which ones.
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 t ground coriander
1.5 t ground cumin
2 c. chopped tomato
2 cans black beans, rinsed and drained (I use low salt beans)
3 T chopped fresh cilantro
8 oz. lowfat sour cream
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 16 oz. bottle salsa (I use mild so the kids will eat it)
1 8 oz can no-salt added tomato sauce
12 oven ready lasagna noodles
8 oz. Montery Jack cheese, shredded

Preheat oven to 375 F.
In a large deep skillet (or small Dutch oven), saute onion, peppers and garlic 5-6 minutes.
Add coriander, cumin and tomato, cook 3 minutes.
Add beans, cook 3 minutes.
Remove from heat, cool 10 minutes.
Stir in cilantro, sour cream, and egg.
Spread 1/4 of the salsa and half the can of tomato sauce in the bottom of a 13x9" dish.
Put in 4 lasagna noodles.
Top with 1/2 of the bean mixture, 1/3 of the cheese, and another 1/4 of the salsa.
4 more noodles.
Rest of the bean mixture, 1/3 of the cheese, another 1/4 of the salsa.
4 more noodles.
Top with the rest of the tomato sauce, salsa and cheese.
Cover, bake 30 minutes.
Uncover, bake 15 minutes.
Let stand 5 minutes.
Voila.

Not super quick, but easy, tasty, and loaded with vegetables. Bonus: Mr. SandyShoes gets a couple days' lunches out of the leftovers.

*Modifications:
1) Rather than follow the elaborate procedure for including jalapenos (cut, seed, flatten, broil, seal in plastic bag, let stand, peel, chop...I have time for this?), I eliminated them. But if you like jalapenos a lot, then do all that to 4 of 'em, then add them to the pot with the beans.
2) I added the little can of tomato sauce to ensure there's enough moisture to use the oven ready lasagna. Why cook lasagna noodles? Really.

A Tale of Two Jurors

This morning on the local radio news I heard that our Senator and fellow Cape Cod resident Edward M. Kennedy had jury duty today, and reported to the Barnstable County Courthouse accordingly. The news report said that Sen. Kennedy and others were excused, as enough jurors were empanelled before their numbers were called. All this prompted me to shake my head, half baffled and half grateful at what passes for news in these parts, and then forget about it.

Until: this afternoon on ABC national radio news, I heard that "a Cape Cod resident" angered a judge today by trying to get out of jury duty. Evidently he wrote of himself on the prospective juror questionnaire that he's a "racist, homophobe, and habitual liar."

Probably just a coincidence.


Edit: 1) CNN says that the racist homophobe juror thing happened yesterday, not today; 2) just in case I'm being horribly misinterpreted and need to type this out loud, I'm not calling Kennedy a racist homophobe liar. How I heard these stories today just struck me funny.

Word Wars (2004)

Some of my most favorite movies ever are the Christopher Guest "mockumentaries" This is Spinal Tap, Best in Show, Waiting for Guffman, and A Mighty Wind. (For Your Consideration, the sad exception, fell completely flat.)

Had I not known better I might've mistaken tonight's laundry-folding movie (Monday is wash day, dontcha know) for one of Guest's masterpieces.

Word Wars is a documentary about Scrabble competitions. Yes. The movie follows four players through some preliminary tournaments and to the 2002 nationals at a San Diego hotel. Apparently filmed without irony, it is wonderfully rich with phrases like "the Tiger Woods of Scrabble," and some excellent footage of players guzzling antacids, getting high, and practicing elaborate pre-game rituals. A gem: players burst out of the tournament room with a finished Scrabble board and plop down on the floor to conduct an animated "post mortem" of the match. A few yards away, a lovely bride, clearly waiting to make an entrance on her own big day, looks on in confusion. You can all but hear her say "wtf, Daddy?!" Whoever neglected to mention the Scrabble tournament being held the same day as her wedding is clearly going to pay. Other gems include a player showing the custom board he brought for "after hours action." Hoo boy.

The movie follows four competitors in particular. Joel is the acid reflux (among other things) guy. It is clear he has difficulty in social situations. It is unclear what he does in life besides play Scrabble. Marlon is from a tough East Baltimore neighborhood. He's rough around the edges and seems the unlikeliest entrant until you meet his grandmother, who takes no prisoners. Marlon spends time teaching elementary schools kids to play Scrabble, and takes a side trip to Tijuana during the tournament. Matt is a word fiend who also does stand up comedy. He takes fistfuls of supplements and talks about himself an awful lot. Joe is the defending champion and pregame Tai Chi enthusiast. He once took a job as a night watchman for time to read the dictionary, but these days only has time to study notecards while driving to and from work.

If you like Scrabble, you still might not like this movie. But if you like Scrabble and you liked Best in Show, don't miss it. Don't worry, I won't tell you who wins.

Today's Musical Menace

Lord help me, the song of the day is One, from A Chorus Line (click at your own risk).

Why, why? I've never even seen the damn show.

Gaaaaah, I hate musicals.

blog, blog, blog

Since I started this wee blog, such as it is, I've been reading more of others', just to see what's out there.

Some conclusions:

There's a tremendous amount of badly written crap out there. But we knew that. The good news is that there are also more funny, sharp people typing away than I could ever get to read. So, cool.

However. No matter how intriguing the author profile, I won't read blogs with white type on a black background. Just won't. Even the ones that aren't in a tiny font, though a surprising number are, make my head hurt. Me, I'm delighted to have readers at all, and consider it common courtesy not to give you migraines if I can help it.

I'm disappointed at the number of blogs with the same templates. I like this one well enough (despite some formatting quibbles), but so do approximately 839,712 other bloggers. I'll be looking for something less commonplace as soon as I figure out how to do that.

Blogs seem to be either subject oriented or whatever-the-author-is-thinking oriented. Although this one is the latter, I think subject blogs are more accessible (unless the author comes complete with fan base). Readers already know whether they've an interest in cake decorating/caribou migrations/parasailing/politics/physiology (ahem), but how do you know if you like a person, unless you've invested too much time reading her various yammerings? So I expect my readership will be limited.

S'okay. I'll still do my part to be sure that if you have a headache, it won't be my fault.

Independence Day

Happy Independence Day, fellow Americans!

This year's 4th of July brought the SandyShoes family a bit of everything: picnic, fireworks, small town parade, birthday party bbq, the whole nine yards. We have one tired Bean and one tired Peanut, long since fallen asleep to the distant strains of the neighborhood party band playing "I'm a Believer." From here it sounded like the version at the end of "Shrek," but hey, it's all good.

Part-serious person that I am, I do take a moment on the Fourth to revisit the Declaration of Independence, and consider the risk the men took who put their names to it. Had Britain laid hands on them (and at the time, it often looked more likely than not) they'd have surely been hung. It must've been terrifying, but exhilarating. Can you imagine?

What would you be willing to die for?

Syriana (2005)

(First of all, who *cares* that George Clooney gained 30 pounds for this movie? Yay George and all, but big deal. We give more respect to actors who gain weight for their jobs than to... well, I don't know to whom, but people who would deserve it more. Not that he didn't do good work in the role (though I have to say I wish Harrison Ford hadn't turned it down). But still.)
ANYhoo.

Syriana is an ambitious movie about a complex question: What Is The Price Of Oil? The film follows several major characters whose storylines eventually become entwined. It can be hard to follow, especially in the first hour or so. That's OK. I don't need to be spoonfed. But it's important to pay attention. No fair running upstairs for more wine and then asking "what happened?" ;). Here's the setup:

An American energy market analyst (Matt Damon) becomes the emir's elder son (Alexander Siddig)'s primary advisor, a role maybe more dangerous than he thought. Meanwhile, a CIA agent (He of the Hyped Heft), just home from a mission in Iran during which a missile got into unknown hands, is assigned to arrange the elder son's assassination. Meanwhile, a D.C. attorney (Jeffrey Wright) works to perform due diligence on the proposed merger of two American oil companies, one of whom just lost a contract awarded to the Chinese by the emir's eldest son. Meanwhile, the emir's younger son, with the discreet help of another powerful American attorney (Christopher Plummer -- is it me, or is he appearing more and more often in these sinister roles?), is angling to become the next emir. Meanwhile, Pakistani oil field workers lose their jobs when the Chinese take over. Frustrated, demoralized and unable to find work, they are drawn to an Islamic fundamentalist group.

The plot is complicated, tense, intriguing. If you didn't think so already, you will certainly come away seeing that there are more layers, dangers, consequences and agendas involved with The Oil Problem than it might at first seem.

But you did think so already, didn't you? As interesting as Syriana was, and as good a movie as I think it is -- do see it if you haven't -- I just don't think it's quite the Important Film it believes itself to be.

climate vs. weather

A micro-rant, if I may. In understated, civil language, even.


I'm very tired of hearing people scoff at global warming just because it's a relatively cool day outside. Must we make fun of Al Gore every time the temperature dips below 90?

Similarly, a hot summer day does not climate change make.

Also: Michael Crichton is a novelist. Novels = fiction. Fiction = MADE UP.


Thank you. That is all.

Happy Canada Day

The Dominion of Canada was created by the British Parliament on 1 July 1867.

Happy anniversary, neighbors!

Here's something I thought was interesting: In Quebec, July 1 is also called "Moving Day," because most leases there begin and end on that day, and lots of folks are moving. Wikipedia says that "Federalist Quebec residents who oppose the popular sovereigntist campaign for an independent Quebec joke that Moving Day is scheduled to ensure Quebecers are too busy moving house to celebrate Canada Day." Heh.

I wonder if ibuprofen sales in Quebec spike on July 2, what with all the Moving Day mal au dos. Zut!

I'm really Kermit, but that wasn't an option.

You Are Bert

Extremely serious and a little eccentric, people find you loveable - even if you don't love them! You are usually feeling: Logical - you rarely let your emotions rule you You are famous for: Being smart, a total neat freak, and maybe just a little evil How you life your life: With passion, even if your odd passions (like bottle caps and pigeons) are baffling to others

The Sesame Street Personality Quiz

Which are you?

Wheee, I bought a yacht! OK, no I didn't.

One of my favorite things to do with the girls is to hang out by the Cape Cod Canal and watch boats. Recently we had a picnic there with some friends (hi, friends!) and we saw this one. (We didn't take this picture... would've held out for a view that included the lovely aft decks, myself.) It's a beautiful boat, owned originally by the guy who started Lands' (sic -- that apostrophe irritates me no end) End, which is why I say I bought it, ha, ha.

Wonder what the L.L. Bean folks are sailing these days.

"Happy Feet" - not.

An animated film about a penguin that can't sing, but can tap dance like crazy. Cute premise, right? I was hoping for something along the lines of Finding Nemo. But aside from some smiles at the Robin Williams characters, and a surprise (to me) appearance by Steve Irwin as the voice of an elephant seal, Happy Feet (2006) left me somewhat unhappy. It wasn't that cute or funny or clever. It was too long. It was boring.

Briefly, with spoilers and too many parenthetical asides: Mumble (inexplicably named, because he doesn't), voiced by Elijah Wood (who I've now decided is unappealing even when I can't see him) is the dancing penguin. Because he is Different, the others, including his father, cast him out. The penguin he loves returns his feelings and stands up for him, but he's unaccountably mean to her. Oh, and we learn that "the fish are disappearing" (maybe I missed a scene, but it came across as if the script were written on the fly). With a posse of rockhopper friends (Latino stereotypes, which evidently we have not yet outgrown, but which I sheepishly admit having found amusing), Mumble heads off, following the recollection of a penguin with a six pack ring around his neck, to find out What Is Happening To The Fish. He swims after a trawler, ends up in a zoo, sinks into despair, dances, attracts human attention, gets back to the colony with a tracking device attached to him, teaches the colony to dance so that humans will want to save them. Roll credits.

This was a bungled attempt to be a lot of things. It should have stuck with "it's OK to be different," spared the preachiness, and cut about half the musical numbers. Good grief.

The movie's one quote worth repeating is one of Robin Williams's, of course: "I must retire now to my couch of perpetual indulgence."

I need one of those, whatever they are.

La meme chose

I just got this one. You know the drill.

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
My mother's sister.
2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
I can't remember... wait, yes I can. Grrr.
3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
I guess so. I have a lot of different handwritings depending on what I'm writing with. Kind of a handwriting multiple personality disorder. Hmmm.
4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Low sodium ham.
5. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Depends on which other person I was. I like to think I'd try.
6. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
Are you kidding me?
7. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
As far as I know. When you wake up alone in a hotel bathtub full of ice it's usually just your kidney that's missing, right?
8. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Sure (if there were a loaded gun to my head).
9. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Kashi Heart to Heart, but I don't buy it in principle since its price increased.
10. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Usually.
11. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Yes.
12. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
With hot fudge: Chocolate chip. Without: just chocolate, without nuts or chunks or textural anomalies of any kind.
13. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Edit: I'm changing this response. I was in a group of strangers this morning and I observed myself a bit, and it turns out the first thing I notice about people is their mood. Their "vibe."
14. RED OR PINK?
pink
15. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOU?
That I don't know how to be angry in a normal way. I'm zero to furious in no time.
16. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
Diana. No, not the princess, though by all accounts she was a lovely person.
17. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
denim shorts and white sneakers
18. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
the last of the leftover bbq chicken and grape salad
19. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
Pandora.com is playing me Jimi Thing, by The Dave Matthews Band. Do you know about Pandora? Check it out, it's awesome! You tell it what kinds of music you like by suggesting bands or songs, and it plays that kind of music. The more information you give it, the better it knows how to pick music you will like. You can make separate "radio stations" for different types of music, and choose which one to play, or shuffle between them. Really cool.
20. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
today? midnight blue.
21. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Sea air, mountain air, desert air... Air. I really like air.
22. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
The person to whose house we're going tomorrow morning. Still on? Yup!
23. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
I hate watching sports, except tennis, and I won't go out of my way to watch that.
24. HAIR COLOR?
mouse brown
25. EYE COLOR?
swamp green
26. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
Yes, on sunny days. I let my eyes have some oxygen at night and when it's cloudy and I don't need sunglasses.
27. FAVORITE FOOD?
I could write a whole blog about my favorite foods. But in the end it all comes down to spaghetti and meatballs.
28. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Scary movies with happy endings.
29. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Wedding Crashers.
30. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Kind of a brick red. I think LL Bean called it "desert rose."
31. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Hate 'em equally. I like the inbetweens.
32. HUGS OR KISSES?
Depends from whom.
33. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Chocolate cake. Regular chocolate cake, not flourless cake, which is an oxymoron and should be called something else. And no raspberry filling, OK? Just chocolate cake.
34. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
Broken For You by Stephanie Kallos. Snow Mountain Passage by James D. Houston. The Audacity of Hope: Thoughts on Reclaiming the American Dream by Barack Obama. And the same biography of George Washington that I've been trying to get through for probably 5 years now.
35. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
Just the mouse
36. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T. V. LAST NIGHT?
The first disk of Season 4 of Little House on the Prairie. Yay Netflix!
37. FAVORITE SOUND?
My girls laughing. The guitar solo on "Blue Sky." Wind and waves. Silence, when I get it.
38. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles
39. WHAT IS THE FURTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
Physically? Istanbul.
40. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
No.

Well, I guess I'm really good at grocery shopping.

Ask me how it's going in ten years.

It just occurred to me that I will likely be (at least peri-)menopausal at about the time my girls begin to menstruate. That's some good hormone-slingin' fun to look forward to.

That's Right... I'm not from Texas

...but I love Lyle Lovett and his Large Band. They played the Cape Cod Melody Tent last night. They come round every summer, and I've been meaning to go for years. This year the girls are old enough to be babysat, and Mr. SandyShoes and I finally got to go. (As a "holy cow" aside, concert tickets have sure gotten expensive in the, um, 10? years since I've seen live music... sigh).

I like the Melody Tent. It's a round(ish) venue with a rotating stage so there really aren't any bad seats. It's low-key and smallish by concert standards, a great place to see a show if (like me) enormous crowds make you cranky and vaguely anxious.

The band was great, with eighteen musicians on stage at its largest (percussion, drums, electric, acoustic and steel guitars, four horns, piano, mandolin, fiddle, cello, bass, and four backup singers, including the fabulous Francine Reed, who does that great duet with Lyle on "The Glory of Love." The sound was rich, and the mood was lovely. It's clearly a group of super-talented people who admire and respect each other, love playing together, and have been doing it for a comfortable long time.

It's hard to describe Lyle Lovett's music to someone who's not heard it. Parts gospel, big (er, large) band, bluegrass (he says he's exploring this recently), country, folk. Pop, if he goes there, is a coincidence. Sometimes you need music to make you ache, or to wake you up to an ache you're already feeling or revisiting. Nobody does melancholy like Lyle Lovett (Promises given/and promises broken/words stain my lips/just like blood on my hands; and words are like poison/that sinks down inside you/and some things you do/you just don't understand). But the big tunes that it's hard not to dance to are the best, most energizing and most fun, live. Last night brought some of each, and a number of tunes I hadn't heard before. Came home and realized the most recent CD of Lyle's in my collection is The Road to Ensenada... from 1996. Been a busy decade I guess.

Anyway, it was a terrific night. Good things can come from the Lone Star State after all ;).

Things I Love

I could write a whole blog about things I love. Life is full of 'em. It's way more than I deserve.

The thing that comes to mind tonight is the indescribably lovely feeling of the air on these late spring Cape Cod evenings. The days are long, and it's still twilight when the girls go to bed. I get back downstairs and step outside in time to see the first stars come out. A breeze keeps the bugs away and makes a gentle ssshing noise through the woods. It's cool and dry, even if the day was warm and humid.

Breathing feels more like drinking, on evenings like this.

"Wedding Crashers"

There is nothing at all about Wedding Crashers (2005... that's today, by my standards) that you couldn't guess from its premise: Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn play friends who crash weddings to meet women, on the theory that women are especially, er, meetable at weddings. They're great at it and have a lot of fun, until one of 'em falls for a bride's sister, who happens to be the daughter of the Secretary of the Treasury (Christopher Walken, always entertaining), and engaged to an insufferable peckerhead (can I say "peckerhead"?). They weasel their way into a weekend at the family compound, and...

...write the rest yourself. You won't go far wrong.

In favor: It's goofy with a couple of real laughs. Owen Wilson is all kinds of cute even if the most powerful urge he leaves you with is to trim someone's bangs.

Against: Premise is clumsily set up. Far too much footage of Vince Vaughn stuffing his face (a couple of frames would've more than sufficed). Utterly predictable plot. Not as many laughs as I'd hoped.

Eh.

"Finding Neverland"

Waldorf: That was a sweet number.
Statler: It sure was.
Waldorf: Only one problem.
Statler: eh?
Waldorf: I HATE SWEET NUMBERS!

Finding Neverland (2004, so I'm only three years late to this one) is a lovely film based on the story, set in 1904 London, of author J.M. Barrie's growing friendship with a young widow and her four sons, and the creation of the play Peter Pan. Johnny Depp is fabulous as Barrie (and probably the reason I put this in my Netflix queue in the first place), and Kate Winslet perfect as the widow. Dustin Hoffman hits just the right note as Barrie's backer, and the supporting cast, including the four boys, is great. Finding Neverland delivers a charming mix of real events and games of make-believe, as ideas for "Pan" start to come together in Barrie's imagination.

Some of the real events are sad ones, and this movie pulls hard on the ol' heartstrings.

It's just... well, I hate that.

"Family Circus" Made Tolerable

Here's possibly the only defensible reason to look at that horrid Family Circus comic.

Checkit: The Nietzsche Family Circus. Refresh the page for a new comic.

Proud to be from Massachusetts

Thanks to a vote yesterday in our Legislature, the right of gay people to marry in our fair Commonwealth has been preserved.

A few years back, our Supreme Judicial Court declared it unconstitutional to disallow homosexuals to marry. Since then 1) gay folks who want to have been getting hitched here, and 2) people who perceive themselves, or civilization in general, to be somehow threatened by that have had their panties in a bunch. A petition was formed to amend our state constitution to define marriage as between one man and one woman. Amending the constitution requires a vote of the populace, but before that happens, the Legislature representing the populace decides whether it should go to popular vote. Yesterday our Legislature decided, rightly in my view, not to have that happen.

So, good. Civil rights aren't properly decided by majority opinion. Period.

My preference would be to have government out of the marriage business entirely. Have the state recognize a "civil union" contract between any unrelated, consenting adult couple who wants one, and leave "marriage" to religious organizations. In the meantime though, I'm proud to live in a state that recognizes that disallowing gay people to marry is wrong.

Today's Song

could definitely be worse. I've got Jumper, by Third Eye Blind in my head.

I wish you would step back from that ledge, my friend...

Thanks a lot, China.

Recently a whole lot of Thomas the Tank Engine wooden train set stuff has been recalled... mostly red things, some yellow... because they contain lead paint. Yes. Lead paint, in toys for toddlers.

The wooden train sets are my girls' absolute favorite toys, so I have a bunch of stuff to round up and send away: James the Red Engine and his tender, two cabooses, a box car and cargo box, various stop signs and railroad crossing signs. The company says we will be sent replacements and a "free" (oh good!) gift, postage reimbursed, etc. So they're doing The Right Thing.

But what is wrong with China that young children's toys made there (for export at least) are being coated with lead paint? And what is wrong with us*, that we import so much from there, despite every indication that their health, safety and environmental standards are not protective of health, safety or the environment?

I'm just glad I don't have memories of my girls mouthing these toys (their "taste everything" phase didn't last long, and was over when they got into wooden train stuff). I definitely feel for parents who do. Not to mention those that won't hear anything about this.

*Yes, I would rather spend twice as much on a toxin-free caboose.

Colbert on Rodham

Stuff like this almost makes me wish I still had the comedy channel.

Were I Queen of the Universe... II

...supermarkets would notify people when a product has been discontinued and they won't be getting any more of it.

A while back, there was a brand of sweet potatoes canned without syrup. They were great, especially for feeding to babies in high chairs. We *loved* them. And one day, poof! they were gone. Had I known this was going to happen, I'd have bought ALL OF THEM, and run around to all the other Stop & Shops buying 'em out there too.

I can't get El Paso "medium" salsa in the large jar any more.

Lately I'm noticing that lower sodium versions of things are disappearing. Goya had some varieties of beans with less salt that aren't being restocked. Nabisco has just discontinued Low Salt Triscuits. Anywhere I can find those things, I'll buy all that are left.

I feel a bit like Elaine Benes with the sponges. Except way more (read: totally) pathetic. In my tedious midlife crisis, I could care less for a convenient OTC contraceptive. Give me a low salt whole grain snack, damnit, or I'll get all angry consumer on yo' ass.

Where have I been all your life?

Not that many places, actually:

Hopefully I'll get to some of the blank spots. It's downright silly I've never been to Canada, particularly having worked for some years in Vermont.

I hear the Dakotas are lovely this time of year. Road trip anyone?

Purging Closets

Today we did a big drop-off at the Salvation Army thrift shop. With the peanut outgrowing things daily, there's a steady stream of stuff to donate or pass on, but more importantly for my own self, I have begun a thorough closet purge.

I'm not one who loves accumulating things. Still, a big closet can be so sneaky, hiding all those keep-or-donate decisions in dark corners until you're either ready to make them or unbearably fed up with not making them. The sheer volume of stuff that I've tried on, voted down, boxed up, and hauled out has sort of amazed me.

Out with the khakis and button down shirts, as I'm no longer in that kind of day job (in my career I regularly dressed as a man might on casual Friday. Waste site cleanup didn't really lend itself to fashion forward thinking, or even, say, skirts.) Out with pants that will never fit again, as I need different cuts than before I had children. Out, sadly, with all the cute shoes that no longer fit, as my feet are a half size bigger now (?!). Out with sweaters I just can't wear because a fleece vest is all I can tolerate indoors anymore, even midwinter. Out with things that are beginning to fray, as there will always be more where those came from, and I don't need a backlog of clothes that "don't matter." And out, ruthlessly out out OUT with things that no longer flatter. Life is too short.

And hey, my closet has a floor!

Now I wonder what's in all those bureau drawers.

Suckin' it up in the slammer

This morning as what passes for top of the hour news was on the radio, I was thinking how much cooler Martha Stewart is than Paris Hilton.

Which is saying basically nothing, as Paris Hilton is by all indications a shell of a shell of a human being without character. But Martha's no whiner, so good for her.

Were I Queen of the Universe

Some stuff I would disallow:

billboards;
little planes towing advertisements or personal messages back and forth, back and forth, back and forth;
crackly food wrappers in movie theaters;
excessive packaging;
companies sending monthly bills so far in advance of the due date of the previous bill that it always appears as though there's an amount past due, when there isn't (ATT, are you listening? Of course not.)

More to come... add your own... all with the understanding that oy, everyone should be so lucky to have such serious problems.

Nerd, Geek or Dork?

Looks like I'm a nerd. You? Find out here.

"Your Score: Pure Nerd

65 % Nerd, 17% Geek, 30% Dork

For The Record:

A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.
You scored better than half in Nerd, earning you the title of: Pure Nerd.

The times, they are a-changing. It used to be that being exceptionally smart led to being unpopular, which would ultimately lead to picking up all of the traits and tendences associated with the "dork." No-longer. Being smart isn't as socially crippling as it once was, and even more so as you get older: eventually being a Pure Nerd will likely be replaced with the following label: Purely Successful.

Congratulations!"

Oh look, kittens!

Heh heh.

Sportin' the Newly Shorn Look

Well, I've done it again.

Every five years or so I let a hairstylist talk me out of my one-length bob and into -- horrors! -- a layered one. (What can I say, I don't do change all that well.) Then I agonize until it grows out, get it cut back all one length, swear never to do it again, and about five years later, wonder how come I never get a layered cut... Lather, rinse, repeat.

But this time, hey, it isn't so bad! It's been a few days now and I'm not cringing past mirrors.

Best part: it cost me $15. I really hate spending a lot of money on a haircut.

Earworm Du Jour

Many mornings, I wake up with a song already in my head as if it's been implanted while I slept. Occasionally it makes mundane sense -- it's a no-brainer why the Thomas and Friends theme is buzzing in my brain before my eyes are even open some mornings. Pathetic, but not mysterious.

Often though, I have no idea what the Song of the Day is doing in my head. For example, today I'm stuck with "I'll Be Home For Christmas." What's with that?

What's your tune?

"Spy Game"

Last night's movie, Spy Game, was pretty good. So good it didn't even really matter that a couple minutes into the film, I realized I'd seen it before, probably soon after it came out in '01. D'oh!

Robert Redford plays Nathan Muir, a CIA agent who on the day of his retirement learns that his protege, Tom Bishop (Brad Pitt), has been captured by the Chinese and is due to be executed in a few hours. Muir tells a specially convened task force (including, inevitably, a snide asshole, James Woods lookalike nemesis for Our Hero) the story of his recruitment and mentorship of Bishop. The task force wants to paint Bishop as some kind of kook and deny ties to him; Bishop has other plans, and strings the committee along while he puts them in motion. Let the spy games begin!

The movie is well-acted, and complicated enough to be interesting, but not overly taxing (not a lot of reversing a bit to figure out what the heck just happened). It's more plot-driven than effect-driven, which is good. Worth seeing, forgetting all about, then seeing again six years later. Sigh!

He's gone where the goblins go...

"I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America. I point the finger in their face and say 'you helped this happen.'"

So said Jerry Falwell on September 14, 2001, about the events of three days earlier.

And today he died. I guess Tinky Winky can breathe a little easier.

I don't believe in hell, but it would be nice to think that Jerry Falwell is having a finger pointed in his own face, today.

Poor Bill.

Fonts and Templates

I can never decide if the problem is too many choices, or too few.

Bear with me, this will settle out eventually.

I'm her mother, damnit.

This morning I am at the grocery store with my younger daughter (a lovely three-year-old, who for the sake of bloggish anonymity I'll call Peanut). The lady behind the deli counter gives Peanut a slice of cheese, and she says "THANK YOU" loudly, as I've taught her to do so that the deli person can hear her. Deli Lady says how adorable she is, and I say thank you very much, yes, she does a good job at the store. So far, so good. Then Deli Lady says, "she's your granddaughter?"

Well. *That's* never happened before.
(Those who haven't met me will have to take my word for it that 1) I don't have but one gray hair; 2) I'm a generally youthful 40 -- not an "oh my God, you can't be 40" 40, but youthful; 3) on this particular morning I looked neither much better nor much worse than usual.)

Back to the deli. "No," I say, "she's my daughter." (I say it in italics, just like that.) Now everyone's laughing and the deli person is saying I'm sorry, I'm sorry! and would I like anything else? "No, that's quite enough actually," say I, and Peanut and I make for the nearest aisle, where I am surprised to find myself in tears.

Why? Well, the obvious thing is I didn't think I looked old enough to be anyone's grandmother. I don't mind looking my age, but damnit, my age ain't grandmotherly yet, and being mistaken for one made me feel bad.

But I also had a primal and fierce reaction to being thought not to be Peanut's mother: She is MY Peanut. I carried her, I nourished her, I pushed her out, and she's MINE. I get to be proud of her in a way nobody else does. I know, we don't own our children, and all that. But something instinctive and powerful all but bowled me over, right there between the granola and the apple juice.

I have quickly backed off taking it personally. For all I know, everyone in Deli Lady's toothless family is a grandmother by the time they're 40. And I look how I look, for better or worse.

But, is she my granddaughter?! Good grief.

16%

Sixteen. That's the percentage of registered voters in town who turned out for yesterday's local election, which included contested races for two positions on the select board and two on the school committee.

The Town Clerk called it a good turnout.

Now I'm not one who says that if you don't vote, you don't have the "right" to complain about things. One of the great things about our country is that everyone can complain. Sometimes it seems as though damn near everyone does.

But still... 16%? Where were the other 84% of us? Rotating our tires? Trimming the cat's claws? Changing the shelf liners in the linen closet? Complaining about something?

Grrrr.

Much less work than that "Parachute" book.

So in moments when I'm feeling "wither me," I'm prone to taking silly self-assessment quizzes. One of my favorite types is the career quiz. I'm eternally hoping something will give me a clue what I should do when I grow up. Here's one that suits my current attention span of about 90 seconds:

The Quick and Dirty Career Test

My results: Your Career Personality: Idealistic, Service-Oriented, and Future-Oriented

Your Ideal Careers: Alternative health practitioner Architect Environmental lawyer Librarian Magazine editor Museum curator Novelist Nutritionist Photo journalist Playwright

Photojournalist, heh. That reminds me of this joke:

Here's a dilemma for you... With all your honor and dignity what would you do? This test only has one question, but it's a very important one. Please don't answer it without giving it some serious thought. By giving an honest answer you will be able to test where you stand morally.

The test features an unlikely, completely fictional situation, where you will have to make a decision one way or the other. Remember that your answer needs to be honest, yet spontaneous.

Scroll down slowly and consider each line - this is important for the test to work accurately.

You are a photojournalist on assignment, covering hurricane aftermath in a southern coastal city. There is great chaos going on around you, severe flooding and wind damage. There are huge masses of water everywhere, and you are in the middle of this great disaster. The situation is nearly hopeless. You're trying to shoot very impressive photos. There are houses and people floating around you, disappearing into the water. Nature is showing all its destructive power and is ripping everything away with it. Suddenly you see a man in the water, fighting for his life, trying not to be taken away by the masses of water and mud. You move closer. Somehow the man looks familiar.

Suddenly you know who it is -- it's George W. Bush!

At the same time you notice that the raging waters are about to take him away, forever. You have two options. You can save him or you can take the best photo of your life.

So you can save the life of George W. Bush, or you can shoot a Pulitzer prize winning photo, a unique photo revealing the moments before the death of one of the world's most powerful men.

And here's the question (please give an honest answer):

Do you select color film, or rather go with the classic simplicity of black and white?

"Firewall"

This weekend's other movie was Firewall, with Harrison Ford as a Seattle bank's online security manager whose family is held captive by a group of guys who will kill them if Ford's character doesn't hack his own setup and wire transfer a gazillion $ into their offshore account.

It's completely formulaic, and been done before in slightly different flavors (e.g. Hostage, with Bruce Willis as a cop whose family was held captive by a group of guys who would kill them if he didn't blah blah blah whatever). The point, of course, is Harrison Ford, who must be seen in everything he does since he first appeared before my young eyes in a Mos Eisley bar (I'm not even that ashamed).

He delivers as expected. There's nothing especially terrific or awful about this movie. It's definitely suspenseful; if anything, the tension isn't broken often enough. So I give it a heartfelt "eh, could've been worse."

"The Red Violin"

So -- whoever recommended this movie to me needs to 'fess up. It's okay, I enjoyed it. Really! I like subtitles once in a while... good for the attention span, good for reheating the high school French. I also like indie dramas, and think it's important to step outside Hollywood from time to time.

Briefly: An Italian violin maker's wife dies in childbirth. Stricken with grief, he finishes his masterpiece -- an exquisite violin for the baby -- and disappears. The rest of the movie is the story, told largely in flashbacks, of what happens to the violin and some of the lives it influences over the next several hundred years and across three continents. The flashbacks are punctuated by scenes of a present-day auction at which the Red Violin is the last lot, and competitively bid upon.

Samuel L. Jackson (a bit unconvincingly, though I can't put my finger on why) plays a violin expert (there's probably a word for that, which I'm revealing myself as a shameless violin ignoramus for not knowing and being disinclined to look up) who becomes so deeply interested in the instrument that he is bound to it. The contemporary scenes follow his research into the violin's origins and his growing convictions about the instrument as the auction nears.

The movie is emotional, mysterious and compelling, and very much worth seeing. However, as it's all about a violin, be warned: much of the soundtrack is, inevitably, excruciating.