(A?)musing de Bergerac; artistic, idealistic and ailing: Trust All, But None Complete

(A?)musing de Bergerac; artistic, idealistic and ailing: Trust All, But None Complete: A lot of conversations about trust lately. Recently, more than ever I've become a repository for the confidences of my tribe; my chosen ...

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Funniest. Amazon Review. Ever

By A. Chappell

This review is from: Veet for Men Hair Removal Gel Creme 200 ml (Personal Care)

After having been told my danglies looked like an elderly rastafarian I decided to take the plunge and buy some of this as previous shaving attempts had only been mildly successful and I nearly put my back out trying to reach the more difficult bits. Being a bit of a romantic I thought I would do the deed on the missus's birthday as a bit of a treat.

         I ordered it well in advance and working in the North sea I considered myself a bit above some of the characters writing the previous reviews and wrote them off as soft office types...oh my fellow sufferers how wrong I was. I waited until the other half was tucked up in bed and after giving some vague hints about a special surprise I went down to the bathroom. Initially all went well and I applied the gel and stood waiting for something to happen. I didn't have long to wait.

         At first there was a gentle warmth which in a matter of seconds was replaced by an intense burning and a feeling I can only describe as like being given a barbed wire wedgie by two people intent on hitting the ceiling with my head. Religion hadn't featured much in my life until that night but I suddenly became willing to convert to any religion to stop the violent burning around the turd tunnel and what seemed like the destruction of the meat and two veg. Struggling to not bite through my bottom lip I tried to wash the gel of in the sink and only succeeded in blocking the plughole with a mat of hair. Through the haze of tears I struggled out of the bathroom across the hall into the kitchen by this time walking was not really possible and I crawled the final yard to the fridge in the hope of some form of cold relief. I yanked the freezer drawer out and found a tub of ice cream, tore the lid of and positioned it under me. The relief was fantastic but only temporary as it melted fairly quickly and the fiery stabbing soon returned .

          Due to the shape of the ice cream tub I hadn't managed to give the starfish any treatment and I groped around in the drawer for something else as I was sure my vision was going to fail fairly soon.I grabbed a bag of what I later found out was frozen sprouts and tore it open trying to be quiet as I did so.I took a handful of them and tried in vain to clench some between the cheeks of my arse. This was not doing the trick as some of the gel had found it's way up the chutney channel and it felt like the space shuttle was running it's engines behind me.

This was probably and hopefully the only time in my life I was going to wish there was a gay snowman in the kitchen which should give you some idea of the depths I was willing to sink to in order to ease the pain. The only solution my pain crazed mind could come up with was to gently ease one of the sprouts where no veg had gone before.

           Unfortunately, alerted by the strange grunts coming from the kitchen the other half chose that moment to come and investigate and was greeted by the sight of me, arse in the air, strawberry ice cream dripping from my bell end pushing a sprout up my arse while muttering..." Ooooh that feels good ". Understandably this was a shock to her and she let out a scream and as I hadn't heard her come in it caused an involutary spasm of shock in myself which resulted in the sprout being ejected at quite some speed in her direction. I can understand that having a sprout farted against your leg at 11 at night in the kitchen probably wasn't the special surprise she was expecting and having to explain to the kids the next day what the strange hollow in the ice cream was didn't improve my status...So to sum it up Veet removes hair, dignity and self respect...:)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/review/RMSBINADT0S6S/ref=cm_cd_pg_pg4?ie=UTF8&asin=B000KKNQBK&cdForum=Fx3E9F09PFIB4H6&cdPage=4&cdThread=Tx1LHF1SCK1LVVH&store=drugstore#wasThisHelpful

The 'R' Word

Too many people throw around the 'R' word . . . racist. It makes me completely insane.

Partly, it's the writer in me throwing a hissy, but primarily, it's my sense of frustration regarding the dialogue, or lack thereof about race in our country. Do I believe Dr. Laura to be a racist? Absolutely not. Do I believe she harbors prejudices regarding blacks and others? Absolutely. Do I harbor prejudices? Absolutely.

People persist in crying racism, when what they really mean is prejudice. What's the difference? My mother knows the difference. Her father was killed by a couple of white men out on a lark. Her stepfather knows the difference. During the Korean war blacks were allowed to use the base swimming pool on Fridays only. On Saturdays they drained the pool. Racism, institutional and otherwise, is prejudice set aflame by fear and hate.

Prejudice is a human failing. One we all share. I have friends who will complain about some minor indignity  endured at the grocery store or dry cleaners; who will then say something completely ignorant about Asians. Not any particular nationality, just lump all Asians together and make a ridiculous generalization.

As a child infected by six o'clock news coverage of a sea of handcuffed black men; I remember coming out of my reverie (a constant state with me back then) to see a black man coming up the street and being frightened for no reason other than the fact of his blackness. We are all vulnerable to buying into stereotypes without examining them.

The problem with characterizing a common human failing as something hateful; is that it ends the conversation. We can't talk about race across racial lines in this country. We won't get anywhere until white people can ask a question  or make a statement which may reveal prejudice or ignorance without being fitted for a white hood. That kind of has to be the first step. Anyway, just had to get that out of my system.

Please Help Me Raise $3000 For Bakery Films This Winter!

About Bakery Films:

Women over 35 are still staying away from the theaters in in droves. 

Bakery Films is about creating the new Woman Pictures. In the 30s and 40s there were magnificent roles for women actors; big stories with bigger characters.
There were movies like The Women with its effortlessly female cast. Other films like Animal Kingdom while not necessarily woman-centric, had characters of great (by todays standards) depth.I want Bakery Films to be considered a legitimate heir (heiress?) to this tradition of filmmaking; writing, producing and developing projects grown up women will love to watch and characters any grown up actor would love to play.

You'll find a link to our campaign on IndieGoGo on the side panel. We're also starting a new blog about Bakery Films and movie production in general entitled, 'What I Know So Far; Confessions of a fledgling film producer' *grin*, that would be me. 

Please sign up as that will guide you toward our latest updates, such as our accompanying radio show and new videos. 

Please make a contribution, we have a number of great thank you gifts for donors from notecards created by the artist upon whose work our logo is based, to producer credit. 

REPOST: Is Worth...

Assisi en il Cuore Verde

 

Fingertips trail ancient walls, the occasional tree gets hugged; the mood of a city filters in through my senses. Years later, a sound or scent or taste will take me right back. Even better, I have only to call the experience up in memory to know how a place felt. I've learned that snapping pics along the way tends to inhibit, rather than inspire this process.

During the first leg of my first European journey, I took reams of pictures. The Moms recorded video and snapped photos of every train station and street corner across five countries. And for a while, their camera-enthusiasm was infectious and I clicked along with them. My prepared travel mode; plugged into my CD player, the book in my hand a handy camouflage; was great for savoring a city and it's denizens. In addition to providing a soundtrack for my memories, the music calmed me during the hectic rush between taxis, trains and buses. Reading a book is a great way to observe unobserved. And because Rory Gilmore and I were separated at birth (omigosh...just realized, that the phrase "could be my daughter" is more applicable...ouch) far too many books weighed down my luggage when the trip began. I developed the habit of leaving them behind when they were. To this day, I wonder about the travels of those who read them after me...and whether they were as freaked out as I was by the ending of Carol O'Connell's "Judas Child".

Giving up my camera however, was, like most good things that happen while traveling, an accident. Five weeks into the trip, the Moms had gone. My travel partner and I were spending two weeks at a resort just outside of Assisi. A resort, which, due to an extended fight  with my friend and the determined pursuit of the Neapolitan handy man, was feeling just a tad cramped. So a beautiful snowy day found me in Siena, a couple of trains and a bus away...without my camera

Dang it.

Only, not so much.

I remember scattering pigeons as I crossed the piazza, cursing my forgetfulness. I can feel the suspicious gazes directed at me from the white haired ladies on the bench ahead. I walked all over old Siena that day, not missing my camera nearly as much as I thought I would. And then I found it.

Down some side street, I will never find again was a gallery of modern art. They were just opened, some of the rooms had not yet been finished. The art...it was mostly okay. Some pedestrian, some self-consciously cool, with a couple of truly awful and brilliant pieces thrown in. I went up and up and up,  and was on the roof. To this day, I'm not sure whether it was the installation or the view which first took my breath. Maybe it was one of those moments where art and life collide to create an impression far more evocative than either could on its own. It's true, I know; a good photo of the scene would be more descriptive than words. Instead the experience is private, jealously guarded in my own heart.

An immortal moment...something in Siena which exists only for me.

A Picture...

Photographs have been popping up in the oddest places. While slowly unpacking boxes from my 150th move in the past 5 years, old and/or forgotten snaps are unearthed. From the desk box, emerged a tattered envelope containing pictures from my 'surprise' party 11 or 12 years ago. My German Grandma let it slip the surprise by asking me to confirm the time it was to start. Too funny. I look so...I want to say young, but (thanks to my mother's fabulous genes, I haven't changed all that much) a more appropriate word is uncertain, hopeful; and a girl lacking any notion of the woman she'd become.

In the same box is a picture of one of my dearest girls, at ages 2. In the photo, Lorelei, a blonde angel in a puffy pink jacket and her friend Rosie are absorbed in a school project. The frame is handmade, cut from yellow and orange construction paper, decorated with the squiggles and dots of a marker. I can still see Laur running over to present it to me.

Six or seven years ago, the golden shoebox, which holds a couple of decks of cards and other odds and ends, produced a pic of the girls who warrant Most Favored Nation status. It's of a later vintage. I had already left them when Lisa sent me this pic of Laur and Allie. By then, I'd crossed the Atlantic for the first time. I had eaten brussel sprouts in Brussels, gotten lost in Rome, Marseilles, Paris and Florence; and played the balcony scene with a Napolitano Romeo in Umbria.

When the photo of my favorite girls arrived, a couple of years later; my grand adventure was over and everyday life was kicking my butt. Worse, the thought that I might not realize my dearest hopes and dreams, had reared it's ugly head. For the first time in my life I'd jettisoned a friendship, taken a full-time job, and acknowledged (if only to myself) that the kink in my health was not something I could 'power through'. In that moment, the picture of these smiling girls at the ocean was hard to take. I missed them, I missed what used to be known as my life.

When I find the picture again a few weeks ago while going through the gold shoebox for the umpteenth time (I'm sure there's something important in there that I missed last time), the girl's peek out at me. This time, I know joy with maybe a hint of nostalgia. Okay, and perhaps...perhaps, the teeniest bit of regret, sympathy for the girl I was then. The girl who had not yet learned how to reconcile the life she dreamed with the life she owned.

  

Tags: pictures, travel, italy, nostalgia, memories, love

Alas and Alack' My Dear Friends....

I've been the victim of a confluence of events that can only happen to *me*. There are those who might suggest my bed was made by me and now I should lie in it. Whether or not those people are right, it's extremely tactless of them to say so now.

So I have two handsets for my phone. For the longest time only one had a decent battery. And yes, I know that's stupid because every once in a while the thought does occur, 'this is dumb, what if something happens to the good phone battery, you will have no access to your outside world'.

However  when push comes to shove, I always find reasons for not buying a fresh battery for the juice-less phone. Generally variations on...I'm too cheap. Besides, what are the chances the good phone battery dies without days, yea, weeks of notice?

'Hello, Ancient Master  Dropper of Phones (me<---)!' I say to myself 'ehm, clumsy much?' But I make it a point not to listen to advice from myself, particularly when it's given in that specific *tone*. Of course, last Monday, after dropping the phone and managing (somehow) to break the battery but not the phone. I wished I had listened...regardless of Tone.

After eBaying myself a couple of phone batteries (I'm educable, if slow); the batteries seem slow to arrive. A couple of days past their due date, I discover that I' have neglected to update the eBay shipping address after my last move. Hah, yes....genius.

Have I mentioned the juiceless battery is being a complete and utter jerk? Juice-less is a teensy understatement; as the battery seems to have just enough power to light the little caller id screen. Now I get to watch helplessly as unanswerable calls come in.  Let me just say this, I now understand why dogs hate cats. Have you ever watched a cat sit just out of reach of a dog barking itself into a myocardial infarction? Phone = cat. Me = dog.

Looking forward to talking to you (at last!) very soon,

REPOST: The Library Book

I love libraries. They are, quite literally, the places on earth I feel most comfortable. Reading is a solitary experience, but the communal nature of library reading infuses it with a sense of...family, in a way. We belong to physical families as a result of genetic similarity, library familiality is a result of like-mindedness.

My favorite thing, which is what has happened with my current book, Readingsby Sven Birkerts, is finding the receipt of a previous patron stuck between the pages of the book. Indulging myself in Birkerts' musings about reading and time and the human condition has opened a doorway to a place I barely remember but for which my longing has never died. That pure...simple place where exists the exquisite and innocent joy wrought by everything related to reading.

Books...the way they smell, the weight of a volume in hand, the texture of the page...are approached with the pitcher's intent ritual treading of the mound, with the sommelier's expert palate. Reading...that moment when when letters and punctuation vanish from the page and the mind leaves this world and enters another...is a meditation, a cleansing of thought and an unfettering of spirit. It's a way of taking a vacation from one's self. To view the world through new eyes, to experience our hearts desires expressed in words we cannot find ourselves; "we read to know we are not alone", as someone said.

So a year ago, this guy in Napa checked Birkerts' book out of the library. Readings, which is basically a book about books and the way in which they can help us make sense of our swiftly tilting, sharply spinning world; or if not make sense, at least give us a vocabulary with which to express our confusion. I love Birkerts' clear, spare, unsentimentalized sentiment, he expresses his thoughts in a way that gives me plenty of room for my own and I find the experience of reading Readings rather like enjoying a sherbet after dinner; a delightful preparation for the dessert of deep thought.

I wonder what Napa Guy thought? Does he feel as I do about Birkerts's writing? Does he find it difficult, as I do and Birkerts does, to reconcile our present with our recent past and near future? Does he relish the gifts of libraries and of books as much as I?

REPOSTED From Email: Midlife Crisis, Anyone?

So my biological clock started ticking the other day...loudly. It's funny because said timepiece has been dormant for so much of my life, I was pretty well convinced the notion of an alarm which goes off somewhere in a woman's DNA and starts demanding babies was a myth; like unicorns, fairies and comfortable heels;  perpetrated upon womankind by our mothers and Madison Avenue.

I've never experienced a strong desire for children of my own. Don't get me wrong. I LOVE  children. I ADORE children. Like any non-cyborg human being, I've always found babies irresistible. There is nothing which compares to the warm, loving weight of an infant in your arms, except for the "there but for the grace of God go I" breath of relief with which I hand said infant over to Mommy or Daddy at the appointed time. I've spent most of my life taking care of kids. While it's true that babies are cute and cuddly my preference has always been for the sentient years.  The experiences and conversations to be had after a child discovers Mom and Dad are not the literal center of the universe, for me,  hold a special and intense magic. From, a toddler's first "Why?", I am spellbound. Even so, even so...just as certainly as I knew at eight or nine, caring for children would play a big part in my life, I knew with equal conviction that I did not want to raise children in this system of things and that if Jehovah granted me a measure of contentment, I'd wait until the new one; when I can be the kind of mother I've always wanted to be.

So now what? Is it time to knock a man over the head, drag him down the aisle and make him the father of dozens of fat babies (Firefly shout out)? Um, not so much. The thing which never ceases to amaze me about existential crises...is the mundane-ness of the fix. Several biggish things have kind of happened all at once. I've turned 35, one of my major milestone ages. After years of annoying, debilitating and confusing health issues I have a diagnosis which makes sense of it all; and my companion of fifteen years, a small, fiercely loyal, utterly obnoxious feline who has been with me since she was 1 month old is sick for the first, and probably, last time in her life.

It's this last straw which jump-started the clock. What will it be like when the only heart beat which truly belongs to my life is my own? My body was preparing an answer before my brain even knew the question. Babies! Clear evidence that DNA/emotions/clocks (biological or otherwise) have no I.Q. whatsoever.  Is it time for children? No.

However it is time for something; time to begin the process of letting go, time to give a very old kitty permission  to find her natural resting place when the time comes. To that end, I stumbled upon a couple of very good, very funny books for animal people. The first is "Tell Me Where It Hurts" which is written by veterinary surgeon (I know, I know, but I"m way more squeamish than you and loved it) Nick Trout (yes, as in the fish), it is funny and it is elegant. I'm taking a break from the current audiobook to write this, because it's great for navel-gazers of all stripes, animal person or not. The book is "It's Okay To Miss The Bed On The First Jump" by John O'Hurley...fun-E and great for where my head is now.

All of this to ask the question of the people from whom I most want to know their answers: What was your last/most significant midlife/existential crisis? And how did you/did it resolve it/itself? It's nearing midnight as I sit working through this particular knot in my psyche, my friends. Help me out.
Much love,
Maya

So there's this really cool site, called instantwatcher.com

While fiddling around Netflix...I think I was looking for the blog...or something...well, anyway, I stumbled across a nifty little link entitled 'apps'. Netflix has apps? I like apps! And for Netflix...seriously, apps are more necessity than luxury.

A number of limitations crop up for enthusiastic NF'ers. First, only 500 movies per queue? Insanity, insanity, I say! And yes, while it is possible (or was, I haven't looked for it in a while) to save movies to lists, the process is so counter-intuitive you have to re-learn it every time you use it, that is, if you can even find it on the site. You can't even link your list to your queue in order to avoid double entries. The queue itself is kinda clunky. I don't know about you guys, but when going through either 'Instant' or 'DVD' queues to figure out what to watch next, I'm often in the mood for a particular genre. My only option was to scroll through my queues for videos in the 'Television' or 'Classic' genre. 

Which is a huge pain. 

'Yes, #3, Meet Me In St. Louis would be cool, but let me keep scrolling to see if...ooh, #248 One, Two, Three sounds good too. But do I want to watch that more or less than...than...What was that first title?' And back up to the top I go. Not only have I forgotten the name of the first movie, I also can't remember where it was in the queue.

These were a few of the thoughts tripping through my bean while checking out the 'Apps' section. When I found instantwatcher.com, I wasn't sure it would be particularly useful. The site design doesn't exactly scream 'must have'. In fact it looks a bit like one of those search pages you get hijacked to when you accidentally type in the wrong URL.  However, if  you use NF Watch Instantly heavily, instantwatcher.com is your new best friend. What it lacks in razzle-dazzle it more than makes up for in functionality and ease of use. Not only are titles broken down by any number of useful categories, from 'genre' to 'popular; their categories have categories. 

Let's say you want to browse television? instantwatcher.com includes NF's standard sub-genres (British TV, Kids TV etc); but the site also permits you to sift responses by rating (NF users, New York times, or Rotten Tomatos), year and MPAA rating. See a title you think you might like? Just roll your cursor over it to read the summary. You can find a list of the new or popular; but best of all, you will also find a list of what's coming up. The 'Coming Soon to Instant' link is a must-click. Can't miss Xanadu, coming to NF Watch Instantly 2/7/11. 

Want to sort your Instant queue by genre, date or rating? Want to be able to save more titles than your queue allows? Those are two very cool functions available to premium users. It's incredibly easy to use and view your queued and saved titles. The sidebar presents options to view only your queue, only or saved titles or both at the same time; all for the low-low of $9.95 per month...oops, did I say month I meant $9.95 per year. instantwatcher.com has definitely put the 'fun' back in to managing your instant queue.

Disclaimer: instantwatcher does offer a free membership for bloggers and journalists who write about the project. But truth is I would have signed up for a premium account anyway. Writing this post saved me from spending ten bucks and from shouting my instantwatcher.com joy from the rooftops.

REPOST: Heard On The Bus

I am a reasonably well brought up girl, brought up  in the suburbs with, to a large extent,  small town values. 'Please' and 'thank you' are tattooed on my DNA, and the idea of occupying (say on a bus) a seat while someone older or more infirm than myself is unthinkable. Unthinkable to a degree that I've never given the objects of courtesy much thought at all. When I thought of the elderly at all, you know, in the group sense, it was as I knew them in my own smallish burg. Quiet, well-mannered, nice, etc.  However, it never occurred to me to wonder, what they're like. What they are really like among themselves. 

What were they like when thrown together in public, at the front of a bus this one with cataracts, that one hobbling on a walker, another in a wheelchair? My role in such situations is clear, to provide assistance and get out of the way. The pecking order is clear, age and experience, 'there but for the grace of god', 'this'll be me one day' and all that. And it was that role which provided me for the first time a fly on the wall perspective of how one might behave when a member of the Silver Wing of bus riders, a club in which everyone is just as infirm as you. 

One of my good friends and I are standing on the bus after a day of sightseeing, barely speaking. But...let's not go into that. We're standing toward the front, when it comes to a stop. A gravely voice somewhere in the direction of my right elbow comes to me. "Excuse me...excuse me," it growls. "Watch your feet." An older man wearing a baseball cap rolls into sight, attempting to maneuver his small mechanical wheelchair past the other seniors who occupy the front of the bus. "Excuse me, watch your feet," he repeats. Things are going well, well relatively well, considering the crowd on the bus.  

Oops, spoke to soon.

"Wait a minute! Wait a minute! (Blasphemy!) (Profanity!)" A white-haired old guy with wrap around sunglasses takes a couple of aborted leaps into the air. "You're running me over! (Blasphemy!) (Profanity!)" "I said, 'watch your feet'." The fracas dies down as the old guy in the wheelchair manages to wedge himself into the doorway. As the bus's lift lowers him to the ground,an elderly Chinese man with a New York accent speaks up. "That chair (two syllables)--it's so big! You'd think he'd pick a smaller chair." "These schmucks in wheelchairs," the old guy with the sunglasses growls back, "most of them got no consideration at all." Aahh...welcome to San Francisco.

Tags: san francisco, public transportation, funny stories, senior citizen

Human Target Season 2: Rest in Peace?

Does anyone remember the last time an action show successfully broadened their target demographic? I don't. The Human Target  I fell in love with, boys-will-be-boys action and all; is all over. The network is attempting to reel in the women viewers. Girls have been let into the tree house.  Sadly, the old and new sensibilities before and behind the camera have failed to produce a result equal to more than the sum of its parts.

Nobody loves changes to their favorite show but most of us can be bribed with good writing. Unfortunately something is not quite working under Human Target's new regime. Some of the first season's dialogue, while not Sorkinese, provided much of the humor. 

Winston in the third episode, Embassy Row:

Alright listen; I put a call into Galveston's office to give him a heads up but I ended up having to leave word. Hopefully he's not still  holding a grudge after what you did to his boat. And his house. Oh god and that poor horse--well, maybe the horse wasn't really your fault.

Apart from action and humor, characterization was Human Target's big strength. Occasionally we'd get a tantalizing glimpse of backstory (Guerrero has a brother somewhere??)and a lot of the funny or interesting was found in what someone did versus what they said. 

These days Chance (Mark Valley), Winston (Chi McBride) and Guerrero (Jack Earle Haley) are faded, pretty much riding their rep from last season. Ames (Janet Montgomery) and Ilsa (Indira Varma) are flat out...flat. Cardboard story devices.

The writers are struggling with ways to create engaging tension involving the Ilsa character. Rather than making the tension sexual; or turning Ilsa into 'Mom' and the rest of the team into chastened little boys who sneak around behind Mom's back; there have got to be more interesting options.

Right now Ilsa is used to spout exposition or to state the obvious (a particularly annoying and cynical habit of network shows); she shrieks away in the background the length of the episode, driving everyone, including the audience, crazy. As the guy on the ground, Winston is  stuck selling operational decisions to their new partner. 

Instead of flirting with a Moonlighting will-they-won't-they story for any members of the cast; let the high stakes struggle for control over Chance, Inc. influence Human Target's 'B' storylines. Chance and team were performing their high-wire personal protection act before Ilsa came along with her bags of money; they could do it now without them. Whether a negotiation or no holds barred cage match, let Winston and Ilsa go at it as equals.  And for pity's sake unless they're better written...stop, stop STOP with the Cosby Show moments at the end of the episodes.

While last night's return of both John Steinberg and Lennie James was welcome refreshment, it may not have been enough to keep this viewer interested.

Thursday Thirteen: Happiness Is...

]

1. A brand-spankin'-new pair o' monkey slippers.


 

2. A good book you know you will love even before reading the first sentence.





3. Living a well-tree'd existence in a...

4. Temporarily roommate-less apartment.

5. A flashlight which requires no batteries (it's like we're livin' in the future).

6. Having a bookcase which perfectly matches a randomly acquired chest of drawers.



7. The fact Trader Joe's dutch waffle cookies come in tins during holiday season...

8. And that those tins so sweetly hold pens and silk handkerchiefs.





9. My new comal pan, which I use to make everything.


10. Working on a new screenplay...


11. After being done for the day.

12. A Scents Worth Clean Linen room spray, which comes in a pretty blue bottle with a pretty pale blue label.

13. The fact that my lovely little jewelry box plays 'Fly Me To The Moon'.

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Return of the Laughing Baby

DO NOT, I Repeat DO NOT Laugh.

Of course, if you don't...you're probably a cyborg or some such and should plug yourself in to the nearest outlet.

Of My Favorite Quotes From My Favorite Movies -- The One That Got Away

My favorite novel of all time is Jane Eyre. And I'd love to love, really for my favorite movie of all time to be based on my favorite novel of all time. Every version of Jane Eyre (save one) I've ever seen transforms Jane from an independent, slightly temperamental woman of strong character into an insipid Cinderella. It makes me nuts. 

The intermal monoloque with which she answer's Rochester when he asks: 

Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me?

has yet to appear in any film adaptation. Which is a shame. Apart from being beautifully written it reveals the depth and breadth of the heroine's...well, all the stuff I wrote above. I'm hard pressed to imagine an actor who wouldn't love to get her teeth into it. As it couldn't be added to this week's Thursday Thirteen; it is here shared in this special post.

I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad--as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth--so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane--quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.

Thursday Thirteen: Of My Favorite Quotes From My Favorite Movies

1. Ada Doom: I saw something nasty in the woodshed.

Earl P. Neck: Sure you did, but did it see you baby?  -- COLD COMFORT FARM

2.  Cousin Angus: There's NO butter in hell! -- COLD COMFORT FARM

3. Noah Praetorius: The woman has yet to be born who doesn't in her heart believe that she'll make her husband a much better wife than he has any possible right to expect. -- PEOPLE WILL TALK

5. Professor Barker: What a bloody mess. 

Noah Praetorius: And who's fault is it, my fine atomic friend? You can't go around smashing everything you see, you know. Everything isn't atoms. 

Professor Barker: Yes it is. 

Noah Praetorious: Not for smashing it isn't. Not in my house and not my train. Debra, get out of the way before Professor Barker smashes you. He's on a smashing bend. -- PEOPLE WILL TALK

6.  Debra Praetorius: It's just that I love you so much. And I went and put all those candles on that cake when you're really only nine years old. -- PEOPLE WILL TALK

7. Gilbert: Come on, sit down, take it easy. What's the trouble? 

Iris Henderson: If you must know, something fell on my head. 

Gilbert: When, infancy? -- THE LADY VANISHES

8.  Gilbert: Can I help? 

Iris Henderson: Only by going away. 

Gilbert: No, no, no, no. My father always taught me, never desert a lady in trouble. He even carried that as far as marrying Mother. -- THE LADY VANISHES

9. One of the best 'Thanks, but no thanks" lines ever.

Reggie Lambert: I already know an awful lot of people and until one of them dies I couldn't possibly meet anyone else.

and then...

10. Peter Joshua: Well if anyone goes on the critical list let me know.

Reggie Lambert: Quitter.

Peter Joshua: What's that?

Reggie Lambert: You give up awfully easy don't you? -- CHARADE

11. Ned Seton: You know most people, including Johnny and yourself, make a big mistake about Julia: They're taken in by her looks. At bottom she's a very dull girl and the life she pictures for herself is the  life she belongs in. -- HOLIDAY

12. Linda Seton: You wouldn't care to step into a waltz as the old year dies, would you Mr. Case? -- HOLIDAY

13. Flora Poste: Highly sexed young men living on farms are always called Seth or Reuben. -- COLD COMFORT FARM
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Thursday Thirteen: Things: What I'm Grateful For This Week

1. Dark Chocolate...'nuff said.

2. Buying books. Adding to my collection for pretty, pretty bookshelves is such a joy.

3. New Kitty, of course; and the cat condo a friend gave me.

4. The gorgeous, beautiful whether we're having. Maximum awe, minimum heat.

5. My antique pieces. I don't have a lot of antiques (don't want a lot of antiques, a preponderance of which I find slightly creepy) it's a lovely feeling to use a jewelry box or table or lamp which has a long history.

6. Poetry. Specifically that of Edna St Vincent Millay. She speaks to a wordless part of me, in the same way as music.

7.  Essential oil candles. Yumm.

8. Wasabi Almonds

9. Seeing Abbott and Costello's WHO'S ON FIRST for the first time in over a decade.

10. The Sartorialist. Fashion. Heaven.

11. The addition of BABYLON 5 to Netflix Instant Watching. My heart pitter-pats, yay.

12. New friends.

13. Old friends.

Tags: thursday thirteen, wasabi almonds, dark chocolate, babylon 5, sartorialist, friendship






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Cover His Face,...He Died Young

When I got the news, I would have given anything for it not to be true. Day and night, for many weeks this poem ran through my head.

~Jason, my baby brother.

1975-2004

ELAINE

OH, come again to Astolat!
  I will not ask you to be kind.
And you may go when you will go,
  And I will stay behind.

I will not say how dear you are,
  Or ask you if you hold me dear,
Or trouble you with things for you
  The way I did last year.

So still the orchard, Lancelot,
  So very still the lake shall be,
You could not guess--though you should guess--
  What is become of me.

So wide shall be the garden-walk,
  The garden-seat so very wide,
You needs must think--if you should think--
  The lily maid had died.

Save that, a little way away,
  I'd watch you for a little while,
To see you speak, the way you speak,
  And smile,--if you should smile. 

--Second April, by Edna St Vincent Millay

It Was Like A Mafia Don's Funeral

She was a little runt of a stray...but wow, talk about personality, she had wayy more than her share.

She had no front claws (I hated to, but she kept her claws out all the time, I still bear the scars), she was teeny tiny, old and rickety, but still made huge dogs cringe.She has defended her territory against all manner of intruder; from three-year old kid to fully grown realtor.

Even with me, the only human she adored; Nina was cranky and demanding. Every little inch the curmudgeonly; "you kids get off my lawn!" lovable. 

These qualities and many more besides made her memorable. I wish I had a nickel for every time my friends have said: "How's your crazy cat?" "How's Nina doing?" "Do you still have Nina" "How's your cat? She does not like me."

And then late last year, she began to get sick. Really sick. Not "you made me move one too many times so now I'm gonna pull out all my hair' sick. But, 'there's a funny little thing under my tongue. Did I hurt myself when I pulled out all my fur' sick and 'I can't groom myself, even thought it's my favorite thing', sick.

I felt the ticking for months. The clock counting down the minutes to the end of our time together.

When she came home with me, I was twenty and she could fit in the palm of my hand. The kittens at the shelter were sleeping balls of fur. All except for this adorable, svelte black kitten, who curiously tested the air in my direction. When the lady came in to open it's cage, all of the kittens woke up. And suddenly I was eye to eye with a fluffy grey and black striped tabby with huge green eyes and a very pink nose. It was Nina. She started to purr. And I was lost.

She was afraid of wind. And hands...but not feet. At first I was always stepping on her because she'd follow me into a room and curl up behind my heel. She loved french fries. But only if they were hot. She did not like children. She did like men. There was another kitty in the mirror, but Nina would only try to get at it if she thought I wasn't looking.. Being laughed at offended her dignity.  And she preferred to drink her water by dipping a paw and licking it dry.

I tried denial until it became delusional. I tried bargaining.until the deal-breaker. When 'I can't groom myself, even thought it's my favorite thing', sick,  became "I can no longer eat," sick. Sitting in the car on the way to the vet's I was still hoping, hoping, I was wrong. I knew what I was preparing to do and yet could not imagine coming home with an empty carrier.

My grief did not surprise me. My friends did. My former roommate and 'sister from another mother' surprised me with flowers and a card. Another bought an orchid. All called, or wrote, or in some way honored the loss of my crazy feline friend.  And honestly, given her personality...the outpouring of support surprised me a little. It was a little like a Mafia don's funeral. Either that, or the measure of true and dear friendship.