shoesonwrong

Adventures In Housesitting

It's been six days since I posted because I spent six days at my parent's house, pet-sitting for them while they went capering off on another whirlwind vacation. Apparently taking care of dogs is nothing whatsoever like riding a bike because we've been without Cassie for around five months and I've lost the ability to remember to let the dogs outside at regular intervals.

My parent's older dog, Shelly, is seventeen (eighteen? We've lost count.) and completely deaf, mostly blind, and more than a little bit cranky. I felt like I was visiting a relative I barely like in the nursing home most of the time I was there; I mostly just left her alone except for when I had to scream at her to communicate. I felt bad just hollering into her face like she was the clown at a fast food joint, but anything less than a good bellow went completely unheard.

I used the time up there to get a lot of reading in and visit some old friends. Also, I went to see Burn After Reading. It was okay, but I had been prepared for something else. It would have been like seeing Fargo and expecting it to be a lighthearted comedy.

By the time I went home, I had used all the clean towels, Cassie got muddy and then slept on my parent's bed without me realizing it until I was heading out the door, and I had subsisted on mostly reheated pizza and candy corn for nearly a week. So, if you're looking for someone to mess up your home and forget to take care of your pets, I am available for hire.

A Blood Diamond is Forever

I know that a lot of people thought it was preachy, or that Leonardo Dicaprio can't act (they may have a point), or it was too long, or blah blah blah. But me? I really enjoyed Blood Diamond. Aside from Little Miss Sunshine, I think it was the best movie I've seen all year. To be fair, this year has been crap as far as movies go, and I am a vehement boycotter of diamonds (so this was right up my alley).

I don't have a diamond wedding or engagement ring, just some silver bands (I don't like the way gold looks, for some reason) with engraving on them. Diamonds are plain gemstones that aren't rare, but since the 1940s, when DeBeers started pushing those plain old stones pretty hard, lots of people have bought into the hype that diamond = love.

I know that we (especially us Americans, and myself in particular) exploit others every day. I'll bet the only piece of clothing I'm wearing that wasn't made by under-paid and over-worked Chinese people are my Crocs, which were made in Canada. (But I have another pair in my closet that I believe were manufacture in China.) I drive a car that runs on gasoline, a lot of which comes from countries where those in power recieve the profits and let their countrymen live in abject poverty. Sure, I buy American-made clothing when it's available to me, and I ride my bike to do errands when the weather permits, but the fact of the matter is that I participate in exploiting other human beings -- even if it is indirectly. But I guess every person has their own personal line in the sand, and mine is diamonds. I can't and won't spend an absurd amount of money on a gemstone that:

1. Isn't that rare
2. Has for years been in the near-monopoly vise grip of DeBeers
3. Potentially is a conflict diamond.

Of course, The World Diamond Council (set up to reduce the number of conflict diamonds on the market) will assure us that's not the case, but it's members include representatives from DeBeers (they're ALWAYS trustworthy) and the South African Diamond Board. So they must be trying to make the world a better place, right?

Movie Tuesday With Annie: The Breakup

When you read that post title, I would really prefer if you read the first part in a sing-song voice because that's how it plays out in my mind. If you're not doing a sing-song voice, you're not staying true to the author's vision.

I saw The Breakup last weekend, and I should probably throw in the disclaimer that I did see it with a friend who is currently in the middle of a relationship situation and I was totally sleep deprived because I stayed up late and then was woken up early by my mom (who was visiting). For some reason I didn't recognize her when she tried to wake me up, and screamed because I thought a very small, feminine intruder had busted into my apartment to kill me. After the blood curdling scream, I dove under the covers and blacked out a little. For real.

Just to let you know the frame of mind I was in when I saw the movie.

The first half of the movie was uproariously funny most of the time, except for a few moments when Vaughn and Aniston's constant fighting made my stress level shoot through the roof. Another thing was that Vince Vaughn was so very good at playing the part of the fast talking, immature, macho, man-child that I wanted to reach out and throttle him so that he would pass out and stop talking, JUST FOR TWO SECONDS PLEASE STOP TALKING.

The second half was really where the movie began its downward slide into awkward and mildly depressing. Based on the previews, I was expecting to show up and be mindlessly entertained for a few hours, and suddenly I found myself actually caring about the characters, hoping things would turn out well. While the movie did end on a happy note, it wasn't all I had hoped for. Where's the Vince Vaughn I am used to? Why isn't anybody getting kicked in the junk or nailed in the head with a wrench? (Also, I think we, as a people, should start calling Vince Vaughn "VV" for short, and pronounce it "Viv" or "Veevee." It's kicky, don't you think?)

You misled me, odd Breakup movie. And I can't quite recover from that in order to fully enjoy you. Plus, the ceaseless talktalktalking has still left me feeling twitchy. It's worth a watch if you don't expect to see something traditional Veevee (see? CATCHY!) -- it's no Old School Dodgeball Crashers or anything -- and don't feel the overwhelming urge to punch Jennifer Aniston in her face (not something I suffer from, but I hear it's common). I'd just save my money and wait to rent the DVD, though.

Davinci Code

I saw The Davinci Code in Washington because after walking and walking to every conceivable important building*, monument, museum, and metro-rail stop, I was too tired and cranky to do anything except sit in front of a giant screen. Also, I had been dealing with irritating tourists all day, so I wanted to see a movie that nobody else would want to see. Ultimately, it was narrowed down to The Davinci Code and some movie called Kinky Boots. Upon reading the description for the latter and seeing the words, "A brassy cabaret singer," and "His effort to save his father's shoe factory," we opted for The Davinci Code.

I read the book one night in 3 and a half hours; once I started, I was glued to the pages as if they contained the recipe for some magical way to ace the LSAT and fix stretch marks. I was on a flight from Bozeman, Montana to Chicago, and my only excuse is that I don't think the cabin was pressurized correctly during the flight.

In retrospect, the book was tolerable -- an interesting premise struggling to rise above the lukewarm writing. It was also one of those books that is embarrassing to read because at any given time, if you are in a room with more than 2 people, half of them will be in the middle of reading it. Reading the Davinci Code in public is, essentially, like proudly proclaiming membership to Oprah's Book Club to the person next to you while buying a Richard Simmon's workout tape in Wal-Mart. I treated the book like it was a one-night stand, and when it was over, I told it to never call me again.

The movie is just so much worse. Tom Hanks and Audrey Tautou have no chemistry. Instead of taking the chance to make a mediocre book into a great movie, Ron Howard managed to make an even MORE mediocre film. It's neither good nor bad enough to be enjoyable. I think that the NYT review sums up the most memorable part in one sentence: "Silas... who may be the first character in the history of motion pictures to speak Latin into a cellphone."

*(Except, ironically, the White House -- which I missed the last time I was in Washington, too. This time, however, I did see the President's car and entourage go speeding by. I kept looking for a big monkey-like head with satellite dish ears, but I did not manage to spot our Fearless Leader.)

What I hate about Woody Allen movies

Pick up lines like, "What's a young American ping-pong player like you doing among the British upper-class?"

Untitled

We finished "Secret Window" with Johnny Depp in it yesterday. It was okay, I guess. I think we could have saved us all some time, though, by putting Dakota Fanning in it, and just calling it "Hide and Secret Window."

I'm off till Tuesday. Email me or something. Blondes need lovin' too.

I Ain't No Harlem Batgirl

Today, we saw a matinee of "The Island." I really enjoyed it, but I kept laughing at parts that I'm not sure were appropriate laughing spots. No one else in the theater was laughing, not even Ryan, but I was practically snorting (now that's hott) with laughter. Oh well. I thought it was funny.

When we were in Subway the other day, we were assaulted by Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl" for about the 3 millionth time from the store's speakers. Ryan, who evidently never actually LISTENED to the song until recently, screwed up his face in concentration and mumbled to himself, "I ain't no Harlem Batgirl? What's a Harlem Batgirl?" At which point I almost peed my pants laughing. I've been randomly going around shrieking, "I AIN'T NO HARLEM BATGIRL!"

You're Killing Me, Smalls

(Sunday. 6:03 p.m. Day one of no internet. Yes. I am typing this and saving it until I get the internet back.)

Yesterday was both moving day AND our one year anniversary. After we moved, but before we unpacked, we fled the apartment (It was 90 degrees with a million point two percent humidity. You could swim through the air from room to room.) and saw a movie. Mr. & Mrs. Smith blew. There. I said it. It sucked hardcore. I kept thinking that the movie was almost over, but then NOPE THEY ADDED ANOTHER LITTLE CLIMAX TO THE MOVIE. I think Angelina Jolie was supposed to be all seductive and mysterious and tough at the same time; instead, she just looked like a really really skanky ho most of the movie. Or maybe a skanky madame. Either way, I spent about two hours feeling bored, groaning at bad lines, and being afraid that Angelina's enormous, stuck-to-the-pool-drain lips were going to get me.

So now we're moved into our miniature apartment, and I'm talking to the internet, but it's not talking back. I'll have to wait until later today or tomorrow for it to come back and love me and play with me. I probably should be unpacking instead of typing to internet that's not there right now. But when I turn the computer chair around and look at the living room, it frightens me. There's so much stuff. I'm drowning in stuff. Stuff here, stuff there, stuff everywhere. I do not like it in a house, I do not like it with a mouse. I do not like it here or there, I do not like it anywhere.

I realize that Mt. Pleasant (my current residence) isn't exactly a booming metropolis, but it's bigger than my previous town. Probably not so much bigger, though, that it justified me squealing like a little kid on Christmas as we drove through it and shrieking, "They have a Hungry Howie's! I love Hungry Howies! They have a Roly Poly Sandwiches! I Love Roly Poly Sandwiches! They have a car wash with a rhino drawn on the side! I love car washes with rhinos drawn on the side! They have a copy shop! I love to copy things!" And so on and so forth. To be fair, it was really really hot and I was really tired. I'm not exactly sure that justifies me sounding like (more of) a complete moron (than usual). Speaking of being a moron and doing moronic things...

If Susie isn't going to divulge on her website the truth about her accidental technicolored yarmulke, I will. The guy world internet deserves to know. The yarmulke has been on my boob. And Beth's boob. And Susie's boob. Basically, that yarmulke was all over the boobage. To be fair, all boobs were in fact clothed (as far as I know) when the yarmulke was on them.

Tags: grougan, marriage, ryan