Three Books and Two Movies

I am reading William Sutcliffe’s Whatever Makes You Happy, which I picked up on the New Books shelf at the library this weekend, based solely on the title. I started it last night after having a lovely visit and book exchange on my porch with Babel Babe, and I couldn’t put it down.

It’s about three mothers and their sons—the sons are all in their 30s and haven’t amounted to much. The mothers have been friends since the sons were toddlers, and have decided that each one of them is going to show up unannounced on her son’s doorstep and stay with him for a week, in a final and forceful attempt to figure out why the sons are unhappy, unfulfilled, disappointed, and disappointing. Granted, much of the mothers’ concerns have to do with why their sons haven’t married and produced some grandchildren, but there’s also a deeper concern, about the roles mothers and adult sons are supposed to have in each other’s lives. It’s a fun and thoughtful story along the lines of something from Nick Hornby, and definitely worth a look.

I’ve done some lovely girly reading lately, too. I tore through Maria Beaumont’s 37, which is a typical story of a depressed, middle-class, stay-at-home-mom who finally figures out why she’s so unhappy and finally gets her shit together and realizes what it is she needs to do to be happier. It’s good in the way those books are good.

I also tore through The Joys of Love, which is the “new” Madeleine L’Engle novel. She wrote it in the 40s and never published it, and it is sweet and comfortable and filled with shades of characters and stories that show up in her later writing. It’s a YA novel, and I’d love to know if any twelve-year-old girls will actually read it, and what they will think if they do.

I stopped in the middle of The Joys of Love to watch Secretary, which I wanted to watch while The Boy wasn’t home. It’s a great movie, a very dark yet hopeful story very well told. What does it say about me, though, that I put down the L’Engle to watch James Spader administer spanking to Maggie Gyllenhaal, and then picked up the MLE to finish before bed? Psychotic? Manic? Or just nicely complex? I probably don’t want to know.

I also watched most of the hot, hot Steve McQueen in Papillon this weekend. (I say most of it, because the library’s copy of the DVD was too scratched up for it to play the last twenty minutes.) This is a weird movie, because Super Ultra Mega American Man Steve McQueen plays Papillon, who is a French mobster guy of sorts. (It’s based on what is claimed to be a true story.) Anyway, Steve McQueen is Papillon, which means butterfly. Steve McQueen. Butterfly. It just doesn’t compute. He’s French, but he doesn’t speak with an accent. Neither does Dustin Hoffman, who I think is supposed to be French as well. And they’re sent to a prison camp in South America, where no one has any sort of accent. It’s all very disconcerting, and if it weren't for the fact that Steve McQueen's Papillon looked like this, I don't know if I'd have watched.



Anyway, since I watched it Sunday night, I’ve been singing the Counting Crows song Mr. Jones in my head, substituting Papillon for Mr. Jones. “Pap-ee-own, and me/ tell each other fairy tales . . .”

And you thought I couldn’t get any weirder.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

The Boy caught a foul ball at the Pirate game last night!

Movies for Girls Who Like Guy Movies

If you were to look at my recent movie requests from the library, you would probably think I’m a 75-year-old man. My boss talked me into watching Judgment at Nuremberg, and then The Great Escape. (Okay, Eddie Izzard helped with the latter, with his talk about Steve McQueen’s motorcycle ride across Europe by way of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.) Papillon, The Dirty Dozen, and Von Ryan’s Express are all still on the list.

I’ve been missing out on a lot of hotness with my old movie eyes for only Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart, and I have a lot of catching up to do. Just look!


Here you see Maximilian Schell, whose turn in Judgment at Nuremberg offers up the first and only hot Nazi since Summer of My German Soldier.


And here's Steve McQueen in all his tough, manly glory.



So, um, yeah. Lots to look forward to.

Incoherent Babbling

The Boy is in the final days of a two-week camp called Amusement Park Physics, which he seems to be enjoying very much. I'm pleased that he's enjoying something educational--despite the fact that he's had homework every night--and I'm also pleased that he's having a good time even though he didn't know any of the other kids in the camp. He used to be so shy and reluctant about that kind of thing, but now he's fine with it. Nice to see the little ways in which he's growing up.

The camp has been mostly about Newton's laws and force and inertia and all of that very basic stuff, and the kids have made accelerometers (which I keep calling alethiometers, much to The Boy's chagrin and eye-rolling) from paint sticks, BBs, and rubber tubing. They've been doing various experiments with these homemade accelerometers, and creating makeshift break-away straps for them (The Boy's strap consists of two magnetic strips and lots and lots of duct tape). The straps are for today's excursion to Kennywood Park, where the accelerometers will be put to some serious work.

Imagine a group of about 20 kids wandering around an amusement park in matching purple C-MITES t-shirts, all with alethiometers dangling from their wrists. Dork much? :-) But it's all about making physics phun, and I think it's awesome.

Next week he's going to River Camp, through an organization called RiverQuest. He's doing this one with a friend from school, and they'll spend mornings on a boat taking water samples from the rivers, and then afternoons using microscopes at the Science Center and learning about what they find in the samples. So cool!

Then he's off for two weeks, and can get back to doing nothing.

I've pretty much just been working. Oh, and walking. And sort of walking/running (shuffling). One of the cats wakes me up at about 5:45 every single morning, so I decided that instead of lying in bed seething, I should get up and take a walk. I've gone every weekday in July aside from the 4th, and it's been good. I'm doing the walk/run program I used the first time I learned to run, so it'll be a while until I'm actually running for any length of time or distance, but it will come. My neighborhood does a 5K race on every August, and I may see if I can be ready for that. It's not until August 23, so it's very possible. We'll see.

Even if I can't manage the 5K, I'm pleased with this cat-inspired fitness program. I wore a pair of jeans yesterday that had been too tight for a while, and that's always exciting.

The only other thing of note I have has to do with my cats. Remember the Pee Cat? Well, the change in diet to wet-food only seems to have solved his problem with the crystals in his pee. He's no longer straining and/or leaving bloody pee patches on my carpets. He is, however, still peeing in my living and dining rooms (as well as using the litter box). AND THE OTHER CAT HAS PICKED UP THE HABIT! I have been through gallons and gallons of Nature's Miracle, and have used my steam cleaner to shampoo the carpets twice in the last few weeks, but it doesn't matter. The smell goes away until one of the little fu$%*rs pees again.

I am SO TIRED of coming home to a house that smells like ammonia! SO TIRED! And I'm so tired of spending money on the cats! I've been trolling the Internet in search of ideas and solutions, and haven't come up with anything new. I ordered a black light and something called SCOE 10X last night, and if that doesn't work, I don't know what I will do. I really like the cats--they're affectionate and fun, and I love snuggling on the couch with a book and two kitties. The Boy loves the cats; getting rid of them is really not an option. But I don't know what to do.

Any suggestions? I'll try anything. I'm quickly turning into this:



And I don't like it one bit.

Now Accepting the Traditional GIfts of Lace & Lingerie

I got married thirteen years ago today. The day was hot and kind of overcast, and I felt like a big dork in the dress I caved and let my mother choose (she paid for it, so I felt obligated—it made her SO HAPPY), but I had done my own hair and make-up and at least felt like myself from the neck up. I am lucky enough to be on the busty side, so I was able to pack my sunglasses, keys, gum, lipstick, and cigarettes (yes, I smoked then) right into my bra. (What do flat-chested women do in this situation? Do you carry a little bag AND a bouquet?) I was excited (I was about to marry my best friend and was assuming I would magically turn into a fabulous grown-up) and nervous (I’d been having problems with panic and anxiety for more than two years at that point—but hadn’t yet realized those were my problems, so I basically felt like I was kind of crazy and might throw up or die at any given moment).

I remember that C didn’t get that mushy look on his face when he first saw me (I hadn’t expected him to, really, because I knew I looked like a dork, but still . . . I’m as conditioned to expect romance as the next woman, I guess), but he did have to fight to not crack up when he looked down (he’s a foot taller than I am) and saw all of the items stashed in my bra.

The wedding was outside (C is an atheist and was therefore dead set against getting married in my childhood Catholic church, but my parents would have died if I hadn’t involved God in one way or another, so we compromised and got married outside, by a woman who was a nurse with my mom and also a Lutheran minister—I didn’t really care one way or another but was made happy by the bit about the minister’s being a woman) at a small place that billed itself as a resort, and the reception was in a room at the same place. I’m pretty sure there was a sit-down dinner rather than a buffet, as C and I were both snotty brats at the time and were hoping to show our friends and relatives that we could do one better than the traditional wedding in our area, riggity-chiggity-piggity (rigatoni, fried chicken, pigs in a blanket buffet) in a fire hall, and I know we played jazz during dinner. (As we wanted to class things up but were clueless as to how [snotty AND stupid—nice!], we turned to our friend B for musical help and he suggested Thelonius Monk. C’s aunt complained about the terrible music all through dinner, which convinced us that B’s suggestion was a good one.)

C and I had borrowed video tapes from the library in hopes of learning to dance (again with the classy), and a German woman did indeed teach us to waltz, foxtrot, and swing. Her “slow, slow; quick-quick” sounded like, “slow (rhymed with plow), slow; ka-wick-ka-wick,” but it did the trick. We had chosen Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic as our wedding song (and I’m not sure why—neither of us felt very strongly about it, but it’s a nice enough song), and C counted steps and nodded his head as we danced our first dance. It was nice despite the DJ’s bubbles, which started to fall all over us as we danced, totally sabotaging any efforts we’d made to class things up.

We had a chocolate wedding cake, which was one of the only things I’d felt strongly about. I didn’t eat any, of course, because of the whole panic thing, but it was pretty and people seemed to like it.

There was lots of dancing. My sister and maid of honor (not 21 for another month) was nicely toasted. My parents were cute and my mother cried. A good time was had by all.

I’ve been officially divorced for just under three years. I didn’t want to be divorced, but it was the right thing. I was justly miserable for a period around the end of my marriage, and may have wished C would have had the decency to have been hit by a bus so I could have been a rich widow rather than a poor divorcee, but I got over that pretty quickly. And I’ll never regret the marriage, because without it, The Boy wouldn’t have been born. And The Boy really is the best thing, well, EVER.

All in all, I look at July 8 very fondly. It is truly a happy anniversary.