I saw HP7, the first cinematic installment of J.K. Rowling’s’ final Harry Potter book…and it was fantastic. Fast, scary, action-packed, and much abbreviated from the novel, HP7 had my audience gasping and screaming. The script writers diverged from the book in several instances, but they way in which they did so worked in order to tell the story as succinctly as they wanted to. While I could have sat through 458 minutes of Harry Potter without trouble, perhaps their target marketing group couldn’t. And speaking of target audiences, that movie is way too scary for children. I flinched and jumped several times during the film and I’m
30 29 24 27 older than many of the kids who love Harry Potter.
But nothing in HP7 is as frightening as what’s going down right here in my own home. My almost 4 month old charge, King William is trying to killing me. I have repeatedly called the cops to report his malicious intent only to be told that if I phone them again they’re coming to arrest me. Me?! I’m the one whose life is in danger.
Do you know what happens to a woman who is
30 29 24 27 older than many of the kids who love Harry Potter, when she doesn’t get much sleep? At first nothing, but then like a malefic spell, the damages worm their way up to the surface. Voldemort? Giant snakes? Deathly Hallows? Pshaw. Stand behind me when I look in the mirror and you’ll wet your pants.
The Deathly Hallows aren’t what Harry Potter is seeking, they’re the effects of King William on my face. Note to self: the next time someone asks you to babysit their infant while they run off to Mongolia on a National Geographic expedition, make sure they’re willing to throw in some plastic surgery for afterward.
King William, my 3 month old charge, and I have joined a baby group. For those of you who have no idea what this means, please allow me to enlighten you…
Every week 12 women schlep their babies and themselves to a location where, for the bargain price of $500, they can learn about what they “should” be doing. The mothers learn about teaching their babies to roll, sleep, and eat. They talk about their husbands and what the poor men are and are not doing right. They talk about their hormones, their sleep deprivation, and their newfound tolerance to screaming, poop, and leaking breasts. And speaking of breasts, you’ll see a lot of them in this class.
The point is to help new moms find their sea legs. To hear that other women are struggling just as much as you are and that although it might seem like you’re in hell, at least you’re not alone. Misery loves company. William and I are not the only ones in the group who aren’t biologically connected so we don’t stick out as much as I feared we might. Plus, I have all the same stories as the rest of the moms – no sleep, no sleep, and oh yeah, no sleep. I’m waiting for the class on not raising a serial killer (I’m taking notes for that one), on making sure your child is smart, funny, and confident, and on surviving parenthood without looking like a hag afterward.
I’ll keep you posted as the class goes one, but so far, I’m treading with reservation.
As I flipped through the internet Tuesday night before falling comatose into bed I came across a terrifying title that went something like, “BRISTOL PALIN MAKES DWS FINALS.” First of all, I had to figure out what DWS meant. Isn’t that the discount shoe company? No? How about Down With Sexy? Daft White Singers? Dirty Western Scoundrels? But no…I was way off. DSW means Dancing With the Stars. (the T is silent)
In case you didn’t know, Bristol “the Pistol” Palin, daughter of Sarah Palin and baby mama of that guy who posed nude for Playgirl, is a contestant on Dancing With the Stars. She’s a star now? For what? Being a teenage mom? Putting up with crazy Sarah Palin? Surviving winters in Alaska? Obviously, in my blonde idiocy I’ve missed something. Anyway, the girl looks pleasant enough in a medicated, milk of magnesium sort of way. Like McMurphy after Nurse Ratched got to him. I mean, I’m sure she’s sweet as can be, but I’m not necessarily saying she’d be the first one I turned to for stimulating conversation, bless her heart. Plus, her tendency to sell her story over and over again to the highest bidding tabloid kind of reminds me of the Loco Lohans, which when you think about it, makes sense.
Apparently, Bristol’s succession to the finals is not without controversy. If I read the article correctly, she’s a cardboard-esq dancer who has continually scored at the bottom. The judges are not fans, but since the voting is done via the American people, Bristol the Pistol is on her way to the finish line. Middle America has not lost its love for all things Sarah Palin. All I know is that the writing on the wall looks clear and evident to me…Sarah Palin is coming back in 2012. Like a bad case of syphilis, that woman is here to stay. If she ever makes it to the White House I’m going to have to move to Europe. The very idea of her in power makes me cringe.
So good luck, Bristol. I definitely would prefer a win for you over one for your wackadoo mom.
My dear friend, The Giant Panda has taken off on an adventure to Mongolia for her work. The Panda is a top photojournalist and while I envy her exciting, mad-dashery lifestyle, I cannot help but notice that she has left behind her baby. With me. To take care of.
For the purposes of this blog I shall call my newfound charge King William. The King and I have been together since November the 3rd and I must say, I don’t think I’ll ever see sleep again. The King, a mere 3 months old, goes to bed between 7 and 8pm only to wake up every hour on the hour all night long. The first time I heard his bloodcurdling screams I thought that we were under attack by pirates. Grabbing my saber, I rushed into his room only to find nary a pirate in sight. Instead I was greeted by a tiny person in his bassinet, eyes closed, arms waving madly. It has continued as such all night long, night after night since The Panda deserted me.
In the spirit of motherhood, I have chopped my hair short and gained a matronly-acceptable amount of weight. (I push it towards my hips and waist in an effort to stay true to my character.) I have taken to wearing my clothes with spit-up and to donning ridiculously large undergarments that look as if they could withstand bullets at close range. William and I are a making a go of this, but Panda, if you’re reading me out there in the wilds of Mongolia…please come home soon. I really need a good night’s rest.
I just saw Robert Downey Jr.’s latest flick, Due Date. Eh. More like past due date. There were some funny moments, but the movie was juvenile. Zach Galifianakis (gesundheit), Downey’s “buddy” in this buddy comedy, carries his role well and is for the most part, believable and funny. Downey plays the straight guy and he does a good job (he is a consummate actor after all), but lacks his usual sparkle. And this got me to thinking…
Before the mediocre Due Date, there was Iron Man 2, which was painful at best. Sitting through that farce was like taking an eye-rolling course. By the end of the movie I had the talent down. And before Iron Man, there was Sherlock Holmes another movie that was okay, but not great. So what happened to the Downey that used to come up to plate and hit one home run after another? Because this new Downey just seems tired. Don’t get me wrong, he looks handsome and debonair and fit as a fiddle, but his freak flag is flying half-mast.
My favorite Robert Downey is the squirrely one who put out performances like in Wonder Boys or Tropic Thunder. I love the RDJ who takes risks and who uses his immense improv skills to play the characters we all wish we knew, the ones who are just too strange and delightful for words. So Robert (can I call you, Robbie?), if you’re reading this…take a vacation. You are far too good of an actor to be making these banal films.
It’s been just over a week since Mondo lost the last season of Project Runway to Gretchen. As Tim Gunn said to the LA Times (and I’m bastardizing this), “Mondo will go on to have a great career. Gretchen needs the money.” He also said that the judges were smokin’ crack and I’d have to agree. Gretchen was in the bottom of the pack challenge after challenge and still the judges pushed her through to the finale at Bryant Park. Her designs were wearable yes, but that’s the exact same reason why Emilio Sosa was beaten by Seth Aaron last season. Sosa, the judges said, was too ‘ready to wear’ while Seth Aaron put on a show. So now Grethen wins with ready to wear and Mondo, the clear show-stopper, loses? What am I missing here?
I know that Project Runway happened last Thursday, but it’s taken me this long to suffer the ill effects of Mondo losing and to wrap my head around the decision. In the meantime, I must share with you something that has helped me through this tragic event…Straus Family Ice Cream.
Straus Family Creamery, most known for their ridiculously delicious organic soft serve ice cream, has now come to a Whole Foods near you. I must tell you that to eat Staus Family Ice Cream is to enter into a new dimension of yummy. And speaking of crack, the Coffee Toffee Crunch is whack. I haven’t tried the mint chocolate chip yet (my favorite flavor) as I’m afraid I’d eat the entire pint in one sitting. It’s not heavy or rich like Haagen-Dazs (from New York), but rather light and icy like a gelato. The family creamery is located on the coast of California just north of San Francisco in a small town called Marshall. The area, most known for Point Reyes, is a cloudy oasis where the cows can make their milk in peace.
So if you too are in the dumps about Mondo’s tragic loss, may I suggest Straus Family Ice Cream. It’s just what the doctor ordered for sad news and bad decisions.
Harry, Harry, Harry… how you have twisted me around your little, magical wand. All I can do these days is think about November 19th. What’s November 19th you ask? Only when part 1 of the final book will hit theaters in 3D. I don’t think I’ve been this excited since the Beatles came to town.
The Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling’s’ last installment of the 7 book series, is a veritable explosion of heart-racing exploits as Harry and his posse work to defeat the evil Voldemort and save muggledom once and for all. Eek! I can barely contain myself as I think about it for what must be the 10th time already today.
I heart you Harry, even though you and I both know, Ginny is just a beard.