Years ago my husband gave me a hard time about not being more intellectual, (please read with a sneer) which I have never let him forget. The other night we were out and about partying old people style. On the way home, my darling husband told me I was funny, sexy and smart.
“Smart?” I asked. “I want to be mysterious and intellectual.”
“Then you’re going to have to start talking about Mark Twain and Descartes instead of Grinder, Chris Rock and Beyoncé when we go to a party.”
My husband had a point. If I’m going to be intellectual, I need to change-up my talking points. And if I’m going to change-up my talking points, I’m going to have to reboot my interests.
This means spending less time watching X-Men and more time reading The New York Times, United Nations press releases (is there such as thing?), and dead German poets. I’m going to have to dedicate myself to the art of learning esoteric information that makes me <yawn> think. I’m going to need to figure out once and for where the hell Mabibia is. Mabibia? Nabibia? Namibia? Something like that. I’ll Google it.
I’m going to read the Brothers Karamazov. Yes, the whole thing!
I’m going to listen when Sam starts going on and on about that Middle East stuff.
I’m going to vote in local elections instead of recycling my ballot.
And most importantly, I’m going to quote Shakespeare. That quoting stuff sounds super fancy. From now on I’m going to be the intellectual girl at the party. Mark Twain and Descartes. I’m all over this.
Addendum – $20 says I never get invited back to a single party.
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Grumpy and exasperated. Short-tempered and growly. I think my family would best describe me as not fun to be around in any way, sense or form.
And then dear Pharrell Williams made an appearance at the dining room table. The kids and I watched, danced, and sung along twice.
In case you’re in a bad mood too today and need to remember how to smile…
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is my hero. Not only did he come up with the deliciously intense character of Sherlock Holmes, but also his odd and ever-so-intriguing brother, Mycroft. It has been alluded to that Mycroft is in fact smarter than Sherlock, a fact I find quite sexy. Mycroft is also described as lazy with his intelligence and uninterested (where Sherlock is not) in putting cart behind horse to follow through with a theory. Mycroft would rather be wrong and unbothered than right and disturbed.
Who has the bigger er, brain then? Sherlock or Mycroft? Sherlock deduces step by step until he solves the riddle. He’s both a sleuth and an adventurer – like a way better Indiana Jones. Mycroft on the other hand, is like a human computer; storing everything, seeing everything, manipulating everything. But he’s somewhat nonfunctional. Eh, it’s a toss up. Fact is though, who needs boy bands when you’ve got the Holmes brothers? Plus, they have those yummy, British accents.
Call me a nerd if you will, but I cannot get enough of these brainy detectives. <sigh> Be still my fluttering heart.
PostScript: My favorite modern adaptation of the books is the one with Benedict Cumberbatch (Sherlock) and Mark Gatiss (Mycroft) on the BBC – though I have never seen, Billy Wilder and Izzy Diamond’s The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, which is on my To Do list.
There I was in bed finishing my book (Chosen, by Benedict Jacka*) when Sam decided to re-watch Argo. He asked me if I wanted in, I replied No. How many times can one person watch a movie about the Iran Hostage Crisis?
More than once as it turns out.
Finishing my last page I asked Sam how long he was going to stay up. (he was watching Argo beside me on the computer with earbuds) Fifteen minutes he promised me. So I took one of his earbuds out and put it in mine. Mistake Number One. Fifteen minutes passed and Sam minimized the screen, “You ready?” he asked me. I told him I just needed to finish the scene. Mistake Number Two. The scene finished and the next one began and fifteen more minutes passed quickly. Sam minimized the screen and looked at the clock. “10 O’clock,” he said. “Bedtime.” It was mid-crisis (again) and I couldn’t do it. “Just a little bit longer.” I told him. He shook his head, “See you at 2am.” He handed me both earbubs and went to brush his teeth. Mistake Number Three – I had struck out.
Needless to say, I watched the whole darn movie all over again and eventually turned off the computer sometime after 11pm. I don’t know if it’s Ben Affleck, who looks a lot like my Sam (Sam’s Beard), or the fast-paced action – well, yes I do. It’s probably mostly Benny Baby. But I watched the whole thing again even knowing for the 2nd time, exactly how it was going to end.
Ar, Go **** Yourself.
*Benedict Jacka writes the Alex Versus series
It’s been so long since I’ve written that A) my browser history didn’t remember this website B) I forgot my password so many times I almost gave up and C) I’m now ruler of the world!!
Okay, the last part isn’t true, but life has happened over here at 782 Apple Tree Lane. We’ve watched some movies, read some books, and learned how to poop in a potty. Grandmothers came, grandmothers left, and Sam got 7 pairs of boxers for Christmas. Hear Ye! Hear Ye! It’s a party over here!
And speaking of parties…Went to a rockin’ bash on New Year’s Eve. 5 couples, 8 kids under 5, and a pregnant lady – woop, there it is! Woke up the next day with a pounding headache from a sip of red wine here and a sip of white wine there (could never find my old wine glass amongst the mayhem) and vowed never to try to pretend I was on Mad Men again. How did those 1950’s housewives do it? Maybe I just didn’t drink enough.
The highlight of my missing time however, was spent getting several glorious writing jobs that validated how awesome I am. I am, You are, She is. See? Me know how to write.
And so my new year’s resolution is to put pen to paper once more in the name of “art.” And so shall it be, ahem.
Let me begin by saying that I’m fairly excited about who Hollywood has chosen to be Mr. and Mrs. Christian Grey. It’s a heck of a lot better then it could’ve been. Hollywood casting has chosen some real doozies in the past that from the very get go I was like, um? Excuse e moi what?! Sometimes you know failure before you even have to see it crash and burn. Exhibit A: Katherine Heigl, Jason O’Mara and Daniel Sunjata as Janet Ivanovich’s characters from the Stephanie Plum novels? Blech. What a waste of a perfectly good franchise opportunity. You’ve got what? 19 books in a series that people are still reading and Hollywood shoots that money-maker in the foot. Katherine Heigl? I’m sorry, but Oprah would’ve make a better Stephanie Plum than Katherine Heigl. Exhibit B: I remember when I saw The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (the 2009 Swedish version) and was blown away by how well Michael Nyqvist and Noomi Rapace translated the book into action. Two years later, Hollywood made its own version, which I never saw, but scoffed at. Iye yie yie. Daniel Craig? Casting did understand the character was a reporter and not an international hit man, yah? So now we come to the movie everyone and their grandmother has been waiting for…50 Shades of Grey. Of course fans are in a roar over who is playing who, but here’s what the doctor is giving us. Dakota Johnson and Charlie Hunnam – Ta dah! Now if you’re like me, you’re like “who are these people.” So let me tell you. Charlie is the guy from Sons of Anarchy (never seen it) and the recent monster hit, Pacific Rim. I saw Pacific Rim and I can’t say much about his acting chops, but he’s great to look at. (see shirtless photo above) You all who watch Anarchy will have to tell me if he’s any good or not. As for Dakota, I’m actually a big fan after seeing her in the Fox flop, Ben and Kate. I liked Ben and I liked Kate. Dakota was hapless, clueless, awkward, lovable, and fit – that girl has a great figure. So put a pair of glasses on her, some brown hair, and yeah, I can see her getting spanked by Mr. 50 Shades of Complicated. I had no idea she was Hollywood progeny and I wish I still didn’t. I think if people thought she was a nobody they would really dig her. She’s pretty likable despite being Hollywood royalty. In short, I am cautiously optimistic about this movie. Casting did a fairly decent job and now we just have to watch and see how director Sam Taylor-Johnson (that’s a woman by the way, I’ve never heard of anything she’s done) makes an X rated movie into an R rated one.
If you looked at my open tabs right now you would see that I like dresses at Anthropologie, books on Amazon, movie times (we saw The World’s End last night), and dance classes. Not that titillating, but it’s mine nonetheless. Mine. Mine? Not so much according to the new documentary, Terms and Conditions May Apply.
At half-past way too early (I was up from 3am-4:30am with the little one last night) I was thinking about all the secrets we share without ever wanting to. What if I was addicted to hardcore porn or Furry chatrooms or well, I can’t think of anything else right now (see above lack of sleep), but what if I was? And it was my secret. Mine. Not Google’s, not Joe Advertising’s, not Bank of Jamaica’s credit card department. But that’s not the case and it scares me like one of those old conspiracy theory movies.
Big Brother? Are you listening? I do not like it that you can track me on my cell phone at all times. That you can see where I live, what my laundry looks like, and what kind of cleaning detergent I purchase. So butt out, man! I’ve got a ganja farm growing in my garage and it needs privacy. (I just Googled how to spell ‘ganja’ by the way so I’ve got that tab going for me too)