The Baby’s name was going to be Emily.

Emily Ellis Bell Shakespeare.

Totally pretentious and totally perfect…

Except for the fact that she’d probably end up in a classroom with 12 other Emilys…

And her Valentine’s Day Cards would be addressed to “Emily¹²“.

Which would totally screw with my unoriginal sense of unoriginality.

And we just couldn’t have that.

(For the record, I was all for calling her Ellis. Otherpeoplewhowillnotbenamed pitched a hissy and wouldn’t give an inch– no matter how many times I explained favorite book and pseudonyms and women authors and countless Gawddammit, I’ll be pushing this monster out of my delicate bits while you’ll no doubt be eating Burger King and chatting on the phone as if there’s not a little thing like a HUMAN BEING coming out of my vagina and when is your vasectomy appointment again…s.)

So I named her after Elvis.

And refuse to pass by any editions of  Wuthering Heights not currently gracing my bookshelves.

I picked this one up today… The cover art is by Ruben Toledo, and it seems as if he has done an entire collection of classics for Penguin.

I’m totally in love…

And am determined to PACE myself in the spending of all of my money in order to get them all.

But then…

Determination isn’t at all original, now is it?

And I keep asking myself whether or not the show is entirely appropriate for children…

On one hand, they can name the majority of the bones in the skeletal system, know how to use fabric softener to restore dehydrated appendages, and can recognize all of the occupational markers of being a violinist.

On the other, they’re starting to appear awfully unaffected by the sight of a rotting corpse.

And here I thought that when they told me motherhood would be about making the tough decisions, they were talking about things like breastfeeding or spanking or cloth-diapering…

You know…

Trivial shit.

Wanna come?

transforme- french for make your kid cry, 2009.

The boys have been on my case for the last month about the new Transformers movie…

I was reminded on a daily basis that it was coming… And that I would need to put on my big girl panties and brave the theaters as soon as it did. (For those of you new to the land of Shakespeare, movie theaters are out to get Judith. And her little dog too, if you know what I’m sayin’– And I think you do. Or maybe not. Whatever. It totally made sense in my head.) So, like the good “let my kids watch movies with guns and alien warfare” mom that I am, I set aside an extra $50 in last week’s budget, dropped the girl child off at my sister’s, and headed to the seven o’clock feature Wednesday evening.

Which, of course, was totally sold out.

So I bought tickets for the 7:30…

And then spent the next twenty minutes slapping my kids’ hands away from the six pounds of illegal candy stashed in my purse while they read over the free little Transformers comic books that the nice lady at the ticket counter handed us as we walked in…

Which, incidentally, gave away the majority of the plot of the movie we were just about to see.

Yay.

The hodgepodge bundle of confusion previews before the movie included the trailer for the new Harry Potter, Ice Age 3, and Public Enemies… the latter causing That Middle One to immediately stick his hands over his eyes due to either the “man shooting at man” violence (as opposed to man shooting at robot violence, which is obviously acceptable) or the fact that I’ve ogled Johnny Depp so much during my child’s lifetime that the actor has simply become the equivalent of yucky grown-up kissing scenes and other random televised moments from which children run screaming.

Oh god…

Johnny Depp has totally become my child’s Freddy Krueger/The Thorn Birds.

That is just so wrong on so many levels.

The movie itself was what I expected and along the lines of the first movie, with the exceptions of the addition of more cursing (to which my child would basically scream at the screen, “That’s a baaad word!”) , the fact that you saw more people actually killed as opposed to implied killed (I prefer the implied killed, truth be told.), and the extremely unnecessary 45 minutes of scenes that switched back and forth between dude running in circles and random indiscernible robots fighting.

My kid, however, was NOT impressed.

[Hi! This is your friendly neighborhood spoiler warning. If the plot of a silly action flick precedes your desire to continue reading this witty and anecdotal post, I suggest you turn back now... and perhaps take another long life-look into your priorities.]

Dude, they killed Optimus Prime.

They. Killed. Optimus. Prime.

We were hardly into the movie at all when it happened, and I looked over to see the most heartbreaking devastation on his sweet little face as he watched the screen… There were tears in his eyes, people. TEARS.

And then he turned to me with a look that can only be decribed as,

“What in the ever-living HELL is going on here? What did they DO? Which DUMBASS is responsible for THIS? Mama, DOOOOO something!”

Followed by an adamant,

“It’s time to go home now, Mama.”

I patted his knee and reassured him that things would get better…

He was doubtful.

I then spent the next thirty or forty minutes watching as his little face fell farther and farther as it seemed the good guys could never win, all the while thinking myself, “What in the ever-living HELL is going on here? What did they DO? Which DUMBASS is responsible for THIS?”

The good guys were losing so much, that even the smallest coup received an exuberant yell and two little five-year-old hands thrown in the air with joy.

It. was. depressing.

When we finally got up for the obligulatory “important scene” bathroom break, he again told me that it was time to go home. This time, though, he threw in a quivering lip for good measure.

The quivering lip.

Sigh.

Balancing myself, as no clumsy person should, while using my foot to flush the toilet, I explained to him that they were going to bring Optimus back. Sam had a plan. And if theycould bring Mega-whatever-his-name-is back from the dead, then I’m certain, CERTAIN, that they could bring Optimus back as well.

He looked hopeful.

All was right with the world…

Then they killed Sam.

Damnit.

In the end, though, everything turned out fine… Good guys won.  Bad guys lost (but got away for another movie,of course).  Kid was happy (although perhaps a bit more jaded). And I finally got around to drinking that bottle of shiraz that I bought last week.

Another movie experience well spent.

Big girl panties, indeed.

i iz in your dryer, eating your every other sock., 2009

Somebody must’ve tripped upon and then subsequently dislodged that surprisingly heavy rock under which I’ve been living here recently, as I finally got around to watching Lost in Austen this past weekend.

Although, to be completely honest, it wasn’t entirely the rock’s fault that I wasn’t aware of how wonderfully wonderful this mini-series is…

I think that the 98% of the blame lies with that one “inspired by the characters of…” book that devoted 200 plus pages to  Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth doing the deed in ways that required insane amounts of flexibility and a fairly high tolerance for pain that would slap a proud smile on even the jaded face of A.N. Roquelaure.

1%  with a really busy design schedule.

And 1%  with you people for not insisting that I watch it before now.

Which actually makes the rock completely blameless…

And my opening line pointless.

Shit.

Since I was going to see Twilight.

And I really wanted to see Twilight.

And I, like, never really get anything I want without surviving a disaster or two first.

But as I was saying, there were no natural disasters in Madison.

And I actually got to see Twilight.

And now you get a review.

Joy.

Which means that, up until then,  every time someone or another wanted to dish all about what Edward and Bella did on page whatever in book whichever, I found myself covering my ears with both hands and reciting the Gettysburg Address loud enough to drown out all of the heartfelt “I love me some brooding emo vampire” statements that seemed to be coming from every female in a thousand mile radius between the ages of twelve and ninety-two.

Of course, this didn’t work for many reasons. For one thing, I don’t know the Gettysburg Address. For another, the act of putting your hands over your ears doesn’t really keep you from hearing squat.

Which probably explains why my toddler once said, “Use your damn blinker, douchebag” to the lady in front of us in the grocery aisle.

And why I was excited to start reading about some brooding emo vampire.

I puffy-hearted Angel, after all.

So I bought all four books at once, thanked the good Lord for my insomnia and imported chocolate, and took one very tiny leap back into the mindset of an emotional teenage girl.

And, lo and behold, I enjoyed them. They were perfect *young* adult escapism fiction with an interesting take on the whole vampire/human girl who doesn’t fit in saga. (Aside: Is anyone else as tired of the whole “we only write about vampires or Tudor history” theme found at your local bookstore as I am? Because seriously, folks, it’s time to move on.) And as long as you weren’t flipping open those jackets in search of a Great Gatsby or a Puck, it was all good in a “totally worth letting the kids eat Cheetos for breakfast this one morning” sort of way.

Then I read about the movie…

And thought, “Oh. I like her. And he’s got good hair. ”

Then I saw the trailer…

And thought, “Hmmm… straight out of the book scenes. Could be decent.”

Then I waited in line for thirty minutes between two herds of giggling teenage girls in order to get tickets…

And thought, “Not expecting Gatsby, remember?”

Then I spent two hours trying to figure out which herd of teenagers would complain the least when I stepped on their toes whilst trying to make my escape…

First off (Yes, we’re finally at the part where I actually talk about the movie. Thank you for your patience.), I can’t imagine how anyone who has NOT read this book and therefore hasn’t already developed some sort of relationship with the characters can find it at all entertaining.  Sticking to Meyer-like stunted dialogue definitely helped to maintain the same sort of teenage-angst-ridden feel on which the books were based, but it did absolutely nothing towards developing the characters themselves. Especially since the only reason that the stunted dialogue was a success in the novels is because it was accompanied by the proper settings, thought processes, and various other useful techniques of advancing a plot properly.

Of course, a lot of those aforementioned techniques don’t really translate well on screen and thus must be conveyed in some other appropriate manner such as… I don’t know… better dialogue?? Whatever. Which Twilight failed to offer. So much so, that it’s almost as if the film gave its audience two slices of bread to make the sandwich* but left the meat, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mayo in the book.

Which isn’t at all satisfying from this end.

Unless you’ve already eaten the meat, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mayo by READING. THE. DAMN. BOOKS.

Even then, you’re still faced with less than par acting (Pattinson “overdid” the majority of his part but was pretty charming in a few moments when he was more relaxed), really bad make-up (and I’m not referring to the required coating of pale for the undead but to Bella’s odd eyeshadow placement), and the overzealous use of the clairol on a bunch of people who make terrible blondes.

All in all, I wasn’t thrilled and was far more entertained by the audience of teenagers who loudly reacted thorughout the movie at the most odd moments than by the film itself. (Although, I really liked the random old horror film montages that they threw in on occasion and the soundtrack- which was pretty damned decent.)

Still… here’s to hoping that the next one will be better.

And there’ll totally be a next one.

And I’m looking forward to seeing it.

Because, let’s face it, it’s that or potty-training. And even bad acting and whining vampires beat shit.

I hope.

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.

They even make my casual comfy jeans somehow seem badass...

...And are fabulous slouched as well. (Sorry about the image quality, it was the best of the bunch.)

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!}

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.

"You Suck" This one would be perfect for little league games and PTA meetings...

"I Ain't Your Fuckin' Sweetheart" For those anxiously awaited date nights...

"Best Piece of Ass in Town" Sunday brunch wear...

"I really need fucking coffee" I would wear this shirt, like, EVERY DAY...

"Fucked in the Head" This would be my top-of-the-line, mommy-forum visiting shirt...

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.

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.

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.

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.

Don’t really care though-
Even if it’s terrible,
Still great blog fodder.

Small towns suck big balls.
Dude? Two and a half hour drive?
You’re so shitting me.

Off to the city…
Ten o’clock feature it is.
Can’t get worse, can it?

Never ever say
"Can’t get worse, can it?"
You’ll so look stupid:

All Great Stories Have a Preface. So Do the Bad Ones:

So the Cynical Sister and I have been waiting for months for The Other Boleyn Girl to hit the theaters. We both really enjoyed the book and were excited once the previews started flashing by between the "Please Don’t Put Your Feet on the Seats" and the "This Film Has Been Rated Q for Whatever Reason" screens during our weekly Get Out of Jail Free escapes to the local theater.

So excited, in fact, that we’d remind each other on a weekly basis to "not forget about the movies on the 29th" as that was the release date according to the poster hung above the bathroom door at the local cinema and the trailer and the website and IMDB and the lips of every other  grown-up with no other form of excitement in their life other than the release of a new movie and the upcoming season premiere of The Tudors (I so less than three Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, don’t you?).

Don’t forget about the movies on the 29th.

Chapter I
Why Someone Would Include the Line "Small Towns Suck Big Balls" in a Friday Haiku (Now with Stage Cues!):

"I’m bringing a bag and am just going to sleep at your house tonight after the movie since I’ve got to work tomorrow morning," the Cynical Sister says over the phone on the morning of the 29th.

"Great. We’ll just catch the late show then… Less sixteen-year-olds in  blue eyeshadow and  sparkles,"  I reply.

[Fast-forward four hours. Our players now find themselves at the ticket counter of the local theater. They are not happy.]

"What do you mean you only play what they send you? See that poster? Yeah, that one RIGHT THERE HANGING ABOVE THE VERY BATHROOM THAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO CLEAN BUT DON’T EVERY NIGHT? THAT ONE THAT SAYS, STARTS FEBRUARY 29TH? THAT ONE? It’s February 29th. Now, I’d like to see THAT movie- the one from THAT poster. I’ll also have a small Dr. Pepper and a box of Jordan Almonds as well," I say, quite certain that all of the people in line behind me are staring at me slack-jawed because they too feel that this poor ticket- counter boy has simply lost his wits.

[Cynical Sister grabs Judith by arm and drags her away. Judith continues to rant about posters and bathrooms. Onlookers turn away in case crazy is contagious. One girl in blue eyeshadow snickers- which in turn causes both Cynical Sister and Judith to stop, point, and laugh. Girl in blue eyeshadow stops snickering but doesn't get it. Cynical Sister and Judith fear that she never will.]

"Small towns suck big balls," we both agree. Call it "synchronized snark"… It’s like synchronized swimming, only less boring and bikini-free.

I check the Blackberry for nearest theater which is actually playing the movie and not just hanging its fucking poster above their dirty bathroom door.

I find two.

Two theaters.

Two theaters in one state.

Yep, it’s official.

Arkansas sucks big balls.

"Fine," CS says with a smile, "We’ll just take a drive next week… Two and a half hours ain’t so bad- especially if there aren’t any kids in the backseat, right?"

There’s hope for her yet.

Chapter II
But We Really Really Want to See This Movie…

[We pick-up on our story six days later: Judith has cooked dinner, straightened the house, and double-checked the showtimes. We meet a new character, Peter, who keeps the eye rolls at a minimum while setting the GPS to take Judith and Cynical Sister straight to the theater which is in an area of the city that they've never been to before.]

"C’mon, Kellye, it’s seven o’clock! If we’re going to make the ten o’clock feature, we have to leave right now."

"But my jeans are in the dryer…"

"Dude, they’ll dry on the way. It’s a two and a half hour drive. GET IN THE FUCKING CAR."

"Don’t fuck at me."

"Fine, I’m sorry. But get in the car, would ‘ya? As is, we’re not going to get home until after two…"

"I’m coming, but we’ll have to point all of the heater vents toward my ass."

"Done. Let’s go."

Chapter III
Seriously, We Really Really Really Want to See This Movie…

"Estimated Arrival Time is 9:43 pm," GPS Betty’s voice interrupts our conversation about the inherent insanity in driving two and a half hours in the dark to unknown places to see a movie that we’re certain is so different from the book that it’s sure to piss us off.

[Phone rings. Judith sings along with the Margaritaville ringtone while Cynical Sister answers. It's Dad.]

"Hey hon, what’cha doin’," Judith and Cynical Sister’s Dad asks.

"We’re driving to Little Rock."

"You’re doing WHAT?!?!?!"

"We’re driving to Little Rock. We’re grown-ups. We can do that. Without asking you. Duh."

"But we’re about to get some seriously bad weather… up to eight inches of snow, blizzard-like conditions, sleet, rain… You mean to tell me that every one else in the entire freaking country knows that this weather is coming BUT YOU TWO?"

"Ummmm… yeah?" CS covers the receiver and relays Dad’s message to me. I shake my head and insist that the bad weather won’t be here until tomorrow.

"But won’t it technically be tomorrow in a couple of hours?"

"Shut-up, Kellye, and dry your pants."

[Cynical Sister hangs up with frustrated Dad only to have an equally frustrated Peter call with equally dire warnings.]

"Your husband wants to talk to you."

"Tell him not right now, I’m trying to see through the sleet."

Chapter IV
Did I Mention that We Really Really Want to See This Movie? or May You Rot in Hell GPS Betty

Did you know that you can completely confuse the hell out of GPS Betty just by taking the wrong exit and then keeping parallel to the interstate?

You can.

But she’ll catch on again… eventually.

Chapter V
Through Sleet and Snow, We Prevail (Sorta)!

"Dude, is that it on the left?" I ask excitedly. Plus, I can’t really see much through the ice at this point, so I need a bit of confirmation.

"Yep. That’s it. Thank God."

"And it’s not crowded. Woot."

[Phone rings. It's Peter with more dire warnings: it's already started snowing just south of us and the storm should be pretty bad within the hour.]

"Peter says that it’s about to be seriously bad out there… What do you want to do?" I ask the Cynical Sister.

"It’s up to you… I  mean, we came ALL this way…"

"…And my car handles snow pretty well…"

"…Plus the movie’s not going to be that long…"

"… And who knows when we’ll have the time to come back…"

"… And you’re a good driver…"

"Screw it, " I accept my dumbass moment with a smile, "we are seeing this damn movie."

We both laugh, grab our things, and  bundle-up for the quick jaunt in the freezing rain to the ticket counter… only to find a big white sign taped to the window that says:

CLOSED DUE TO INCLEMENT WEATHER. PLEASE COME BACK TOMORROW.

Chapter VI
…On Your Wedding Day

"Hey honey, we’ve decided to be smart and skip the movie and head on home… See you soon."

I ku. You ku. We all ku. Click here for more Haiku Friday.

“I bought a chair once, but I didn’t like it.”

Peter has finally discovered eBay.

Hilary Swank is, by far, one of my favorite actresses. No one, and I mean no one, who has ever seen Boys Don’t Cry can claim not to like her without me thinking that they’re tasteless freaks with a fondness for stupidity. (No, I’m not calling you stupid for not liking Hilary Swank… I’m calling you a tasteless freak who enjoys being stupid. Not necessarily a compliment, I know, but it’s still not "stupid".)

But as much as I love her, I was a little disappointed when I found out that she was to have the lead in P.S. I Love You.

You see, I read P.S. I Love You. And it was one of those very rare novels that had me anxiously awaiting to see the movie version of a book that I hated. Yes…

Hated it.

You read that in the voice, right? Because I so typed that in the voice. And for those of you who have no idea what voice to which I’m referring, you are far too young and/or pop-culturally deficient to be at this blog. Step back from the computer- it’s just a jump to the left and then a step to the right… Nevermind. I can tell that you’re hopelessly lost. Moving on now.

I generally avoid reading popular fiction because, all too often, it is
written for the popular masses. (Imagine that.) And those popular masses? They be
hatin’ on the adjectives, yo. And P.S. I Love You definitely falls into the popular fiction category.

The book read like a vintage Dick and Jane. It wasn’t cute, or light, or fun, or even endearing. It was a telegram. Stop. In bound form. Stop. That lived in my bathroom. Stop. For months. Stop. Even though I usually read through a book in a day. Stop.

That’s rather annoying, isn’t it? Okay, I’m stopping now.

But the plot?

The plot had so much potential.

And with each turn of the page, I could see myself one day thumbing my nose in the face of danger and joyfully sitting down amongst stale popcorn and rude cell phone users to weep in public.

Translation for those of you who count yourselves among the aforementioned popular masses:

I would see this movie.

Dick and Jane would see this movie too.

So if I was actually expecting this to be a good movie, why was I so disappointed  that Hilary Swank was going to be in it?  Well, because I wasn’t so sure that it would be that good of a movie…  and I was afraid that I would be disappointed in her for taking the role.

Until I saw her multiple leading men, that is.

Gerard Butler, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, and Harry Connick, Jr.?

We’re talking hot and Scottish, hot and would have his quadruplets, and hot and croon-y and Louisianian.

Hillary Swank is no longer one of my all-time favorite actresses… She is my hero.

And this past weekend, I  finally found time to properly worship her as she so deserved . Although, I would definitely suggest to any of you out there who suffer from anything similar to my "there’s a stranger breathing on me and he didn’t even buy me a drink" syndrome not to venture out to the theater on a Friday night in a town where the weekend to-do for every teenager within a hundred miles is to put on her mother’s hooker heels and glitter eyeliner, catch a movie, and then parade around the local Wal-Mart. It makes for really long lines in the bathrooms.

As for the movie, itself:

I laughed. I cried. I drooled… a lot. (They gave them guitars, for Pete’s sake.) It was cute, and fun, and endearing and well worth my "Get Out of The House for Free" card.  And now I find myself in the rather ridiculous position of being the person that actually says with a straight face:

Skip the book; they’ve got a movie.

Impromptu movie night is any night that Mr. Shakespeare just so happens to stop by the video store on his way home from work. Impromptu movie night is also the night where we find ourselves watching the same movie for the fifteenth time (Mr. Shakespeare doesn’t always remember what we’ve seen or not) or reveling
the *ahem* delights of films that we’d hoped to never have seen (American Pie: The Naked Mile anyone?).

Yesterday’s choice was In the Land of Women.

This film is a prime example of trailers gone very very wrong… While I knew that I’d be interested in seeing this movie due to the casting of the ever-so-lovable Adam Brody, I wasn’t expecting it to earn a place in one of my many favorites lists. After all, the previews hinted at a plot centered around some sort of angst-filled relationship between Brody’s character and that of actress Kristen Stewart. And while there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a bit of angst-filled young love, one has to wonder just how many ways it can be done without becoming not so "angst-filled and young" as the next 5,000 similar titles in line ahead and behind it.

Thankfully, I was in for a surprise.

Rather than just another teenager in love movie, I found myself caught up in a story of many loves… and the subsequent struggle to recognize the difference between what makes a love "real" and what just looks good on a poster.   

Meg Ryan did a heartbreakingly beautiful job as Sarah, and Olympia Dukakis played the role of my great-grandmother to perfection. If you get a chance to see it, be sure to stop by and let me know what you thought!

(On another note: If the sound of his laughter was any indication, Peter seemed to enjoy The Naked Mile as much as any of the other guy-humor-filled movies like it… of course, I can’t be certain.  I was  hiding in the bedroom trying to save braincells. :)