Feb
25
Movies, mocking the children
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My Netflix queue has been in a crap-ass state lately. For instance:
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. Your husband may think this movie will involve lots of gunfights and horses and Brad Pitt looking all steely-eyed and he would be partially right, but he would also be wrong in a number of critical ways, and after the movie finally draws to an end and the last strains of its eerie, repetitive soundtrack echo in your brain you will realize that you have spent your entire evening watching about a thousand weird, uncomfortable scenes that each lasted approximately five minutes too long and now you are never going to get those three hours back. As JB said to me about halfway through the movie when we realized it wasn’t going to start sucking any less, “This is a hell of a way to spend a Saturday night, darlin’. My bad.”
The Brave One. I was feeling mostly lukewarm about this one until the very end, when the plot served forth a scene that made me issue forth a series of loud mouth-farts at the television in complete and total disgust because GOD I AM SOOOO SHURRRR.
Matchstick Men. I love a good con, you know? I love a story that has someone fucking one person over, only to discover they’ve had someone’s else’s dick in their own ass the whole time, if you’ll pardon that extremely dirty expression which I just now made up. That is why Elmore Leonard books are so awesome, because they are teeming with people fucking each other over in spectacularly cool ways involving the best dialogue ever written. Anyway, there are con stories where it’s all kind of over the top but still believable or at least swallowable, and then there is something like Matchstick Men, where once the Big Huge Con reveals itself you’re left thinking, WHATEVER. Although I guess I’m glad I saw it for the one magical scene where Nicolas Cage is melting down in a drugstore and screams in vintage Cage style at a customer standing in line: “Have you ever been dragged out to the sidewalk and beaten until you PISSED! BLOOD!?”
Have you rented anything good lately? Please share, I need to put an end to our losing streak.
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Introducing my son, Gigantor the Sorrowful:
JB was trying to get a picture of Riley playing with his new favorite toy, a plastic farmhouse thing, but apparently things didn’t go well during the photo session. Poor kid. Sometimes life is just a shit sandwich, isn’t it, boy?
Also, I have added to my collection of Children Looking Dorky in Carseats photos:
Dylan, looking googly-eyed and surreptitiously flipping you off. Pretty funny, but I think Ninja Eyes Riley still has him beat in terms of humor had at a child’s expense.
Haaaaaa. NINJA EYES FTW!
Feb
23
Sensitive subjects
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I mentioned that I borked up my back on Monday, right? The first day JB went back to work and I was alone with two small children in the house and about two hours into my morning I managed to render myself a complete invalid? I would tell you how much that sucked, except we definitely need a stronger word to better express the complete and utter thoroughness of the suckiness. It was like black-hole suckage. Dyson suction. Heidi-and-Spencer level sucktasticness. Worse than the initial C-section recovery, and of course I had run through all my good drugs, and I can tell you from experience that trying to get a refill on any decent — ie, abusable — pain medication is pretty much like asking for a brick of white China to be ferried to your house along with a bag of clean needles, which is to say your friendly neighborhood doctors would much rather suggest you use something else, like have you tried ibuprofen? (PS. SHOVE YOUR ADVIL UP YOUR CONSERVATIVE DOSE-HOLE, MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT.)
My back is almost completely better now but I feel like I am going through my activities in a tentative, suspicious manner, because I’m so paranoid it’s going to give out again. It’s like the time my toilet suddenly and inexplicably clogged and then, oh my god, overflowed — once a previously benign, utilitarian object has betrayed you in such a dramatic and unpleasant manner, it can never truly be trusted again.
In other physical-annoyance news that is surely more information than you ever wanted to hear from me, I had a Mirena IUD put in during my C-section and although my OB gave me lots of information ahead of time on possible side effects she neglected to mention the strings. The strings attach to the IUD and, you know, are there so that the device may be painfully yoinked from your lady parts when the time comes — but no one told me they would be, uh, clear and present and accounted for after the birth. Like, not demurely hidden away and only there in some theoretical but not obvious manner, but rather rudely INTRUSIVE, or perhaps I should say EXTRUSIVE. Apparently the strings need to be trimmed, which is . . . well. Perhaps you can imagine just how fun that sounds. I mean, what can I say, I’m sort of shy about people with sharp scissors rooting around in my nether-regions.
However, I’m ready to allow an entire pit crew in there if that’s what it takes, because as my friend Sarah perfectly described these goddamned strings, they are hostile. You may be thinking of a nice cotton string or maybe a soft grosgrain ribbon but you would be WRONG. No, it’s more like the sort of industrial fishing tackle you’d use to catch a 100-lb marlin, and I won’t get into any (further) details but I’ll just say this: AIIIEEEEE.
Well. Am I a sparkling conversationalist today or what? Good lord. Quick subject change: JB is off diving this morning, which as far as I’m concerned means I get the afternoon to do whatever in hell I want. Would you escape the house and children in order to go out and do something for yourself — buy some shoes or some shit — or would you take, like, a 4-hour nap?
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