I'm still still alive.

And while things are still really hectic and topsy-turvy around these here parts, I thought I'd sneak in for a minute to say…

Neener. Neener.

Remember when I announced to the [bloggity] world at large that I'd do the deed for a nice pair of shoes??? Turns out I don't have to… Because somewhere out there, there's some awesome someone who will just give them to me.

No fucking required.

(Just some random good luck. And if my luck is anything, it sure as hell is random.)

So here's the part where I say "Neener, Neener" again and post some pictures of my new fabulously awesome shoes that I didn't even have to compromise myself for…

Although I totally would have.

So… yeah…. Neener. Neener.

That is all.

{I'm hoping to have a few great guest posts in the coming couple of weeks to fill in for me while I'm drowning in the insanity that is my life right now, so if you're interested, please let me know!}

Nicole Locher is my hero.

Don't know who Nicole Locher is? Well, by all means, let me introduce you to her… Well, not her, exactly, but her clothing line:

Pretty little shirt, eh? Delicate and feminine with the added beauty of vintage-style embroidery.

It also says "will fuck for shoes".

See? Right there. will fuck for shoes.

There isn't a single shirt in the line that I don't covet more than chocolate-covered orgasms. And trust me, I covet chocolate-covered orgasms. A lot.

Unfortunately, while I have no doubts whatsoever at all in my ability to somehow manage to display these beauties as properly as they deserve- even in a normal toddler-inspired-and-appropriately-censored daily routine such as my own (see proposed schedule above); at $87 bucks a pop, they regretfully must forever remain on my Thou Shalt Covet Forever (Or At Least Until You Somehow Miraculously Become a Popular Blogger and People Actually Start Paying You to Write About Kotex Diapers and Busted Vibrators– Which Ain't Never Gonna Happen Because You Suck) List.

Unless, of course, you want to buy me one.

Then I'd totally give you that hand job.

Or send you naked pictures of the hubby.

Whichever.

On a cheaper note (although one must wonder how much cheaper one can get than giving up the goodies for a shirt…), OHMommy is giving away a pair of fabulous shoes from a surprising source. You should check it out.

No fucking required.

In my last post,  I talked about how much I like titles.

And as I mentioned then, the post was actually supposed to be a quick review of Sex in the City (the movie, not the act) as it pertained to the title of this post (which in turn had absolutely nothing to do with anything). Unfortunately, I rambled. A lot.  Thus, my movie review has found itself with an entirely new post with an entirely new title that isn't so very clever at all.

Confused?

Yeah, ummm, welcome to my rabbit-hole of a head. If you happen to come across a little bottle labeled "Drink Me"… Don't.

You Put the Banana in the Dragon's Mouth and It Turns Back into the Baby, Right?

That title is a reference to an episode of Roseanne where she and her sister are discussing pregnancy dreams (you know, the ones where you're breastfeeding twelve purple monkeys and a red-headed  version of your husband all on one nipple?). 

It  really had no major significance at the time other than  the fact that the pseudo-Nyquil did nothing other than give me pseudo-pregnancy dreams. However, as I typed it out, I was reminded of something very very important:

I HATED THE LAST EPISODE OF ROSEANNE.

Like, with a passion, dude.

You see, in that fateful last episode, Roseanne shocked us all with the fact that everything- everything- had been made-up. Dan had died years before. Darlene was actually with Mark. Becky with David. Jackie was really a lesbian not her mother. No one ever won the lottery… Made-up.

All of it.

(Yes, yes, I know that there's some irony there, but ignore it for a minute, okay? I can't make a point if you keep interrupting.)

And while I get that surprise endings are all the rage,  it completely ruined one of my all-time favorite television series for me. I can't watch an episode of the show (Dear Nick at Night Gods, I love you.) without remembering that travesty of a finale.

I guess it's a lot like watching City of Angels for the second time (which I've never done, mind you)… The fact that, yes, indeed, a troubled human and struggling angel can- against all odds- meet, fall in love, and even do the nasty on the livingroom floor  is  somewhat RUINED by the knowledge that if the troubled human and struggling angel do meet, fall in love, and even do the nasty on the livingroom floor, the human will be promptly run over by a truck.

Which they will. And she does.

Yeah, I just can't see how that'd be fun the second time around.

Which leads me to my point (you totally deserve a gold-star for getting this far):

I LOVED THE LAST EPISODE OF SEX IN THE CITY.

Okay, maybe love is a strong word. I loved the last episode of Six Feet Under. I  liked the last episode of Sex in the City. A lot.

The thing that I really loved was the fact that they wrapped everything up nicely… Like "stuck it in a Tiffany-bue box and tied it all together with a silk ribbon" nicely. We saw just enough of a happy ending for each of the characters (Carrie got Big, Charlotte got a baby, Miranda realizes that love will get you through anything? Samantha got that hot dude…)  to  be able to draw our own conclusions of their future and say that  that was , truly, a finale.

But then they went and ruined it.

When one unwraps a Tiffany-blue box tied all together with a silk ribbon, one expects to find… I don't know… Tiffany? Perhaps not, but at least something better.  Definitely something new.   

And while the movie itself was not bad per se, it was put together very similarly to how they put together episodes in the past. It felt much like I was sitting down to one of the all-day marathons on TBS (except for the whole nudity thing).

Which in itself is great as I happen to enjoy the all-day marathons on TBS. (As do most Sex in the City fans with small children, I would assume.) What's not great is that because the movie was put together as if they simply took out commercial breaks between each segment, it feels as if that perfectly ended finale never happened at all and they've simply come back to say,

"It was all made-up."

And this time, when they finally got around to ending it, they found themselves all out of Tiffany-blue boxes and silk ribbons and had to settle for that leftover Christmas gift bag that was crumpled up in the back of the closet.

And while the Charlotte in me can smile and say that it's the thought behind the gift that counts, the Samantha in me says that one should never buy  jewelry  from K-Mart.

Can we talk television for a moment?

No, not American Idol or Dancing with the Has Beens television…

As in The Tudors television.

As in "Bitch, I Will CUT You" television.

Because I'm kind of upset…

They're going to kill Anne, you know. They're going to lop of her head so that he can marry that silly little blond chit that I've already taken a complete dislike to… (I think it's the whole "blond" thing. Like a re-worked and not so brilliant and all too superficial version of that Ms. Clairol story by that author whose name escapes me at the moment.)

And demmit, I don't want them to do it.

Dear Showtime,

Please don't kill Anne Boleyn. It's just not right.

Thank You,

Judith

Yes, yes, I know that the 'ho has got to go… I know it's all part of the grand scheme of things, yada, yada, yada, blah, blah, blah. And quite honestly, I was rather looking forward to the whole "off with her head" bit last season-

Regardless of the fact that the beautifully brilliant writers did such a fabulous job of divvying up all that delicious hubris amongst our characters.

Regardless of the fact that they didn't heap all of the blame upon her shoulders like others.

I still wanted her dead.

Why, you ask?

Because she's freakin' Anne Boleyn.

Duh.

But then those aforementioned beautifully brilliant writers went and got even more brilliant (they must sell that shit in the lobby vending machines over there) and made her real. All of her action and reactions, motives and fears, scheming and coveting… They make sense. In a real way (not a I drove eight hours in the freezing snow for this?!?!?!? kinda way).

So real, in fact, that this portrayal of Anne Boleyn is now officially my favorite portrayal yet.

That goes for literature/popular fiction/whatthehelleverelse as well.

And they're going to cut off her head.

What a bloody waste.

And I mean that quite literally.

---

History is a pack of lies about events that never happened, told by people who weren't there.

Dear Santa Claus,

First off, I'd like to sincerely apologize for writing to you at this time of year. I mean, seriously, who writes Santa in April? Everyone knows how hard you work during the winter and that the rest of the year is reserved for a well-deserved bit of hiatus. To bother a mythical being on hiatus is simply not done.

And I assure you; it is not at all like me to do that which is simply not done. (Well, sometimes it is… You know, now that I think about it, I generally do a lot of things that are simply not done. But never ever when it comes to mythical beings. Well, until this very moment that is…)

However, due to some rather harrowing recent events, I felt that I had no other alternative but to contact you- hiatus or no.

You see, The Other Boleyn Girl sucked.

You're probably reading this and thinking, WTF? (You do say fuck, don't you? I mean, even mythical beings gotta keep it real, right? No? Oh, sorry about that, dude. It's just an acronym, you know. The 'F' could stand for something a little less abrasive like fudge or frog or  foreigner or  firehouse or  fat chubby… Your choice. Now where were we? Oh, yes…)

You're probably reading this and thinking, What the fudge? What in all that is candy canes and holly does The Other Boleyn Girl have to do with me? Or even Christmas for that matter?

Well, Santa, there's a long and a short answer to that question; and for the sake of sanity (and your obvious aversion to profanity), we're going to try to Cliff Note it all down to a few paragraphs and a trackback or two.

As I was saying, Santa, The Other Boleyn Girl sucked.

Maybe I should clarify that- The Other Boleyn Girl, the movie, sucked. Not the book. The book was actually rather fantastic and drew you in in less time than it takes a toddler to Picasso the hallway (His name is The Middle One by the way. He's on that list of yours somewhere. Bring coal.). Ms. Gregory did a beautiful job of creating characters that the reader loved to hate and  hated to love. She built us a new window into an old tale- a story into a history book. So, no. Not the book. Never the book.

So how is it that a movie titled and based off of such a book lead me to such desperate measures as writing Father Christmas in the middle of spring?

Simple.

They fucked fudged it all up.

Yes, I know you're thinking, Well, duh, Judith. Those book to movie projects never work out. Just look at Gone with the Wind.

And while I agree to some extent, there are the occasional flashes of light in the dark which continue to give me hope. Plus, you've got to give me a little credit here, in no way was I expecting it to come close to the brilliance of the book. Not at all.

But, damn darn it, if Gone with the Wind (the movie) can keep the Civil War, then the freaking Tudors can keep the Pope.  C'mon, two measly lines about the split from Rome and not a damn bleep about religion whatsoever. Might as well have made Scarlett go hungry simply because she was a picky eater.

Perhaps they were trying to keep the focus on the personal relationships rather than the politics?

Good call, Santa.

But you know what? They fucked fudged that up as well.

There were no personal relationships! The movie left out every ounce of feeling, every ounce of emotion. With the exception of the Boleyn mother (whose character was definitely the most developed and intriguing although nothing at all like the mother from the novel), none of the characters were allowed to take hold of the audience or even their fellow characters. Where was the relationship between the siblings? The relationship between Henry and Anne?

Perhaps they were implied?

Really, Santa, if you continue to insist on interrupting this letter, I'm afraid that you'll only prolong my rambling- which is never a good idea. Just ask the tooth fairy.

But to answer your interruption question, no. Nothing was implied. The movie was two hours of blatant lust, manipulation, rivalry, ambition, and… Well, nothing important. We were told that Anne was bad. Henry (with the exception of a brief thirty-second scene) was good.

And that was that-

Which would be fine and dandy if that were what the book was about.

Oh? And Santa? Did I mention that I drove five hours TWICE to see this film? Barefoot, in the snow, and uphill both ways too.

So now we're back to the point where you're probably reading this and thinking, What the fudge? What in all that is candy canes and holly does The Other Boleyn Girl have to do with me? Or even Christmas for that matter?

The fact is, it doesn't.

But it was a great build-up to me asking for a bow-topped Jonathan Rhys-Meyers for my stocking this year, now wasn't it?

Have a happy period hiatus!

Judith

P.S. If you do happen to come across the people responsible for all of this, would you mind letting them know that they left a really important little bit of a line out of the film? You know, the one that says that Mary's first husband is dead? That way, the people who haven't read the book (really, go out and get it now, NOW) won't be sitting around more confused than necessary. Thanks.

P.S.S. Oh, yeah! The bow thing is completely optional. if you don't have time to dress wrap him, no biggie. I'm sure I can deal.