A Movie that Sucked. A lot.

OMG, my husband picked out "10,000 BC" from the little red dvd dispenser (hey, it's only a buck to rent) at our grocery store the other night, and madness ensued, in the form of the shittiest movie I have seen in a long, long while.
I will not enumerate it's many historical inaccuracies, since that has been done. I will also not spend too much time on one of my biggest pet peeves, i.e. having people speak English, but with a non-commital 'accent' so we American's get that they are foreign from a foreign land. I will however, point out that this movie is not only badly written/acted/directed, but is also rather racist in that blunt way that movies were racist in the 40s and 50s- like, it's almost as though they just don't know any better.
Case in point, a bunch of caucasian-type Olde Time Cave Men Beings are squatting in their houses (Houses, mind you, made of mammoth bones. They look like gigantic piles of birdshit) when what to their wondering eyes did appear but a little girl. And they worship her, because, get this, she has BLUE CONTACT LENSES. Ok, this plot line was lame when it appeared in Big Trouble in Little China, but it's utterly asinine and repugnant here.
Like, is whitey so obsessed with his own whiteness that we WORSHIP people because their eyes are light? Ridiculous. But on it's own, it wouldn't make this movie a paragon of racism...until....UNTIL.....
White Cave Man's Blue Eyed Woman is stolen by some pseudo-Eqyptian/Arabs and he has to journey "afar" to go get her back. On the way he stumbles on a whole shit load of black tribes in the desert (he walked three days and goes from the Tundra to the Desert. And both locales have Wooly Mammoths. Ok). These black tribes have been tolerating having their women/children/etc stolen for decades by the same weirdo race that stole Blue Eyed Woman . But then White Cave Man shows up to lead them. And suddenly, they are all ready to Fight the Power. Like, in the end, the army that fights the bad guys is composed of 99.99% black folks, with 3 white leaders. Why did they need these assholes to lead them? Why couldn't they just get their shit together on their own? Was it their undesirable brown eyes? Give me a f&*%ng break.
And then we jazz the whole mess up with some magic and voo doo and prophecy and spirit animals. And the whole movie can just suck it, in my humble opinion.
But because the universe loves balance, I finally read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. Ashley hearts this book and I was looking for a good one to read and there you have it. What a lovely, simple memoir. The writing is plain and honest, and you just kind of find yourself gently lulled into the world of the book. I laughed out loud a couple of times and had a good cry after one chapter. And as a bonus, it is set right next to my old neighborhood in Brooklyn (albeit in like 1912). The family actually moves into a railroad flat with the exact same layout our apartment had. And they hated it too. Seriously, reading this book is like eating a lovely little petit fours- just perfect in it's small deliciousness. So read it. Go on. Like, now.
Ok. That's all. Have a great weekend!

Let's Get Physical!

Ok, this may shock some of you. Actually, it will shock none of you. I don't really like working out. I know, right? Of late, I have had to come to terms with the fact that I must, for pretty much the rest of my days, do something I really don't like to do. And I mean I really, really, don't like it.
I don't like being out of breath. I don't like the naked chicks who saunter through the locker room, boobs flying every which way. I don't like the salty, basketball PE Class smell of the whole thing. I hate the crappy tv they invariably have on while you do your cardio (re-runs of "Charmed" and whatever sports is in season), and the oily looking men with their weight belts and excessive grunting as they lift barbells. I hate the upbeat dance music I must have on my Ipod in order to have any hope of getting thirty good sweaty minutes on the elliptical. I hate the weird moments of eye contact you make with strangers when we are both in extremis, faces knotted up in pain. But the only thing I hate more than all of this, is feeling flabby and tired and generally out of shape. So I go. And I suffer. I martyr myself for fitness. St. Nicole of 24 Hour Fitness. Patron Saint of bitching.
I have discovered through the years that I must engage in a series of psychological tricks and traps to get my ass to actually show up the the gym. For example, I must tell a lot of people I plan on going, so the shame of admitting I didn't will push me out the door. I must have the ipod fully charged, with one or two new songs a week to kick my own ass. And lately, the ultimate mind-trick, I must go immediately from work, to the gym across the street, before I even think of home and the couch and nice dinner with my hubby.
Yesterday, I tried a new one- "class with a friend"- I figured having someone go with you can only be a motivator, and besides, it breaks up the monotony of my usual tired routine. So Jen and I geared up straight from the office to take "24 SET"- a class, according the online schedule, that is conveniently at 5:30 and taught by someone named 'Smitty'. We get there, guns blazing, and notice that everyone has like every peice of equipment the fitness room has to offer set up in front of them. I shit you not- 3 sizes of hand weights, a barbell, 2 sizes of weights for said barbell, a mat, and a step. We grab all this crap, scratch out a territory for ourselves, and await Smitty, who, by name alone, I have assumed to be a squat, square muscular man, maybe like a human bull dog.
When what to my wondering eyes do appear, but a heavy-set lady about 60 or so, dressed head to toe in black spandex. This is Smitty. And Smitty sounds like Cartman from South Park. I have no words, just thoughts. And those thoughts are "Wha??".
The class begins easily enough, hopping cheerfully up and down off our steps, holding free weights (I haughtily chose heavier ones than most of the class. I am a stupid ass who deserves what I get). And then slowly, surely, things get hard. Squats. Lunges. Chest Fly. Pelvic Pushups. Crunches of all persuasions. And all of it intermingled with that giddy stepping up and this woman's weird voice: "Singleeeeees!! Push it!!!! Howya feeeeeelin?". At one point, my response to the "Howya feeeelin?" was something like "Yargghhhmehh!".
After an hour, I am utterly, utterly spent. Smitty has rocked my world. Jen and I vow to return next week, and maybe even to try kick boxing on Thursday with "Kip", who by the logic of 24 Hour Fitness Instructor names is no doubt an ex-marine covered in ink and muscles.
So today, I am sore like I had been in a car accident. And happy. I will never pre-suppose old ladies named Smitty who talk like Cartman cannot and will not kick my ass. And I have found yet another method of sneaking excercise onto my psychological plate. Hoorah.

An E-mail From Me To the Hoosier State

From:Nicole Fitz

To: Indiana

CC: North Carolina

Dear Indiana,How's it going? See any good campaign ads lately?? Har de har har! Well, I just thought I'd drop a line and see what's shaking, Oh Land Of My Husband's People. I drove through you once. It rained. Anyway, I'll get down to business. I know you have been up to your eyeballs in candidates putting on their "blue-collar pants" lately- bowling, drinking, having Blizzards at the local DQ. I assumed you would see through all this lame pandering and just shake your collective heads at the shitty acting going on (seriously, I have seen better performances in Pauly Shore's canon of work). But lately I have heard a few of you saying on the news that you feel Mrs. Clinton is "more in touch with you.". If that is your true feeling, Via Con Dios, but I fear you may have been swayed by the storm of bullshit currently situated directly above Indianapolis. Just so's you know, Hillary is not an "everyman". She does not pump her own gas. If she really does shots of Crown Royal, its out of a golden chalice like the ones rejected as being "too grand for Christ" at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade:

I'm not saying Mr. Obama (who, you may have inferred, is my choice for Pres) is necessarily a "man of the people" either- because you see, this whole "being in touch with the everyman" thing is kind of a myth, when you really get down to how politics works. No one who is carted around in a private jet in an attempt to become the leader of the free world "gets me", and I am just fine with that- I would make a patently shitty leader of the free world. I don't need Obama to understand the rising cost of tampons or know my bra size. I don't care if Clinton uses her Vons Club card and rejoices, as I do, at the little summary on the receipt of what I saved. I just want the candidates to put forth good ideas and plans and then do the things they say. I don't want trash and fairy lights, and I hope you don't either. It is insulting to you to assume that one can "get where you are coming from"- to understand the scope and breadth of your life- through whirlwind tours of factories and gas pumps. It is insulting to you to assume you will be blinded by the pomp and grandeur of a gas tax break that amounts to aproximately thirty dollars disbursed over 3 months. It is insulting to you when candidates suddenly end all thier "ing" words with "n'"- workin', thinkin', shootin', prayin', etc. It's like when you hear an actor unaccustomed to swearing hit the "F" word a little too hard; just kind of lame and transparent. Don't get me wrong- it is important for candidates to be aware of the plights and concerns of the people they plan on governing-to understand their own removal from the reality of most people due to privelage- they just don't have to put on a "me" costume and play-act my life with me. Because that's silly. So anywhoo, just vote for the person who has shown through their actions and plans that they are the best person for the job. Pretend they never came to your state at all, never bowled or drank beer or made any of the palsied attempts to kiss your collective asses. Just vote your honest guts, and we will all be ok.
Sincerely,
Nicole Fitz

Things I Learned This Week, in Convenient List Form

So, let's get right to it:

1. If you smell an awful funky tuna smell coming from your kitchen three days after you made tuna, and you find no tuna anywhere, it may just be that your husband used a paper towl to pat-dry some sea scallops the week before and tossed that paper towl into the recycling bag, where it festered and dreamed dark and stinky dreams.

2. If your check engine light comes on, it could just be that you have a shoddy gas cap. Flirt with the man at Hyundai, and he will diagnose this for free w/ his li'l computer and then sell you a new one for only 16 bucks!

3. Big Lots almost always sucks. Like, usually, all you find are expired donuts and hair nets (2 for 1!) and posters of kittens in baskets of peonies. It just doesn't suck the one time before you write it off forever, because it knows you are on the verge, so it tosses you a bone to keep you coming out there (20 dollar hibachi gas grill, a 3 dollar pillow). And then it sucks the next 8 times you go.

4. I will never like salmon. I just need to set it free.

5. My sister nearly always comes thru for me. Like, if I say "Joy, somewhere in your basement is a box of my costume items and from that box i need you to fed-ex me a pink Victorian skirt and a white corset" she will say "Ok." and then she does it. That's true love and friendship, and we have the same genetic code to boot! Sweet!

6. I can never have too many dogs. Even now, with limited space and time, I fantasize about completeing my flat-faced breed collection with the addtion of a French Bulldog I will name Mr. Smee.

7. Most movies that people fall all over themselves praising, like No Country for Old Men, or Juno, turn out to be good, but not the wonderful near religious experiance you are led to beleive they will be. So you kind of go thru your netflix list being perpetually slightly disapointed. Like they way you felt the day after your birthday when you were a kid.

8. Jazz is not bad, when you know someone in the band and you are slightly buzzed. If you don't know someone in the band and you are sober, I don't know what to tell you.

9. If you end up with a 6.99 credit at Auto Zone, you can get an air freshner, a key chain, and a multi-pack of Airheads. And you will still have 14 cents left over.

10. While a 102 degree temperature in April sounds good to someone living in Cleveland in January, in actuality it kind of blows.

And now, onto a new week.

Sometimes A Cigar...

Conversation at Work,Yesterday:

Co-worker One: "What I never got was that whole deal with Monica Lewinsky and the cigar. Like, that's just weird".

Co-Worker Two: "It wasn't a cigar. It was the case"

CW1: "What the hell were they doing with it??"

CW2: "Dude, do you want me to draw you a fucking diagram??? What do you think they did with it?!"

CW1: walks away and goes back to his office. He is silent a while as he Googles a few things. And then:

CW1: "Dude, it wasn't a cigar box. It was a cigar tube!!"

CW2: "Of fucking course it was a tube! What did you think I meant?"

CW1: "Well I didn't know, I thought you meant the box. Thats why I was confused."

Nicole: "Dude, did you seriously think they were using a full cigar box?? How the hell would that even work? What did you think they were doing with it???"

CW1: {angrily} "Well, cigars usually don't come in a tube. They come in a box. So that's why I was confused! Clearly you guys know nothing about cigars. "

Nicole: {laughing her ass off}"Well, just so you know, there is no orrifice on a woman that could accomodate a cigar box. Clearly you know nothing about women."

Smokers Who Wont Quit- an admittedly ranty rant

Ok, you know whats lame? The era we live in, that's what. Because now we all have access to this pop-psychology Oprah Love's Me This I Know bullshit that we trot out to conveniently explain and justify all our character flaws. Case in point, quitting things, like oh, say smoking. How many times have i heard "I can't quit until I am ready" or "I have to do it for ME" or "I don't really want to quit yet." And I mount my soapy soapbox and I cry in ringing tones "BUUULLLLSHIIIIT!".
Ya know why? Because heres a news flash, kids. You will NEVER REALLY WANT TO QUIT. You will know you should. You will intend to quit. But you are an addict, and your body wants you to stay that way and keep supplying the sweet sweet nicotine. The people I have known that have successfully quit almost always do it because they simply get fed up with the shitty aspects of smoking (cancer, massive expense, the fact that they smell like burnt dog hair) not because the fucking Blue Fairy visited their dreams and took their hand and walked into the light with them. There will never be an easier time- a time when you wont be stressed, or going on vacation, or planning on a party where you have to drink. It will always be hard.
Your moment of beauteous religious epiphany where things become clear and quitting comes naturally? It's not coming. You will instead have a moment like my dad had recently, where he could not breathe and nearly crashed his car. Or a moment like my mom had when her doctor told her she had the lungs of a 50 year old at 28 (Joy, aren't you 28 now?). Or you will realize your kids go to school smelling bad, or that you spend 70 bucks a week on a habit that's killing you, or so many laws will be passed that you will be reduced to smoking lying on your own bathroom floor in a tent you have fashioned out of bath towels, praying the secret police don't find you out. And you will choose to quit in that moment, or not.
I know that some people put it off because they don't want to try and fail. But for Christ's sake, TRY. In the end, it doesn't matter whether you "do it for yourself" or you do it for your toy poodle, just do it. Keep doing it. Quit and quit and fail 1,000 times until you figure out how to make it work. WE COULD WIPE OUT 30% OF ALL CANCER BY ELECTING NOT TO USE TOBACCO. Think about that. Think about the people who love you. Think about what it will feel like for them to lose you- to watch you suffer. Fuck thinking about quitting for "me". Quit because you must. It's becoming a fucking joke at this point.
Sorry you guys. I just quake at the health of some of my family. And it makes me sad and angry. So sorry. Just needed to vent.

The Subaltern's Love Song

I decided to post this poem today after reading an article that the woman who inspired it has died at the ripe old age of 92. It's just one of the most lovely, lyrical poems ever- rife with juicy imagery and with a great history. Take a look at the article after to see a pic of the woman who is the inspiration and read the great story behind the piece. Incidently, can you imagine inspiring something like this? Wow. Enjoy!

The Subaltern's Love Song
By John Betjemen

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,

Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,

What strenuous singles we played after tea,

We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,

The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,

With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,

I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,

How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,

The warm-handled racket is back in its press,

But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,

And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,

And cool the verandah that welcomes us in

To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,

The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,

As I struggle with double-end evening tie,

For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,

And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,

And westering, questioning settles the sun,

On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,

The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,

My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair

And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,

She drove to the club in the late summer haze,

Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells

And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,

I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,

Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!

Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,

Above us the intimate roof of the car,

And here on my right is the girl of my choice,

With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,

And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.

We sat in the car park till twenty to one

And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.