let’s get introspective, finally.
I am on spring break.
Here is what I did day one: I went down to 1369 and had coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel while I worked on some writing for a whole two hours (score!). I came home and made no bakes and pie crust dough. I went for a run. I took a shower. I watched the news about the explosions at the Marathon. I read my book and enjoyed a Six Point Crisp Lager. Will came home and we talked about the Marathon. We made chicken, spinach and mushroom pasta. But then Mike called. Mike came over and we ordered Pizza and watched tv.
Here is what I did day two (so far): I made blueberry muffins. I ate one with coffee at my desk - tried to write (failed). I went for a run. I did the next step for the pie crust. I took a shower. I ate my pasta lunch on the stoop outside. I sat down to try to write (clearly failing, again). What’s next?
This is the Spring Break of Cooking + Baking.
The best cup of coffee I’ve ever had was in the Upper Peninsula. Will and I had just started dating again; it was the end of the summer before our junior year of college. It was our last day of a three-day camping trip on Lake Superior. We’d driven up two days prior and set up camp in our semi-private, car-camping spot. It wasn’t quite as rustic as we had imagined, but to this day we’ve yet to stay at a campground that was adequately private. Someday we’ll learn to stop camping at campgrounds and go “off the map.” We haven’t learned that yet, and we certainly hadn’t learned it this young summer. After setting up the tent that Will’s parents lent us, we walked down to the lake. It was my first time swimming in the Mother Water of Michigan. I was told to prepare myself for frigid water, cold as an ocean. I don’t know if it was a fluke summer, or just that it was late August, but that water like no ocean I’ve ever swam in. Clear and cool, the kind of water you could stand in waist deep talking the afternoon away. We didn’t of course; we just washed our greasy hair and got on with the day. Will wanted to kiss in the Lake, but I was afraid of what our campground neighbors would think. We went into town to get groceries for our night’s feast – two burnt burgers, potato chips, and limeade. After dinner we made a fire, played cards, and roasted marshmallows. This is what you did on camping trips, right? The next day was for hiking and swimming. The black flies were unbearable; you had to stay in the water up to your neck to avoid them. I don’t remember being too angry or annoyed though, only laughing at the sheer attack of them – diving arms outstretched into the water fleeing the tiny monsters. The hike to and from the water was filled with shades of moss, grass, and lichen matched only by the green goddess of the Pacific Northwest. When I find myself yearning for that corner of the country I try to remember that my very own home state can give that rainy day region a run for its money. That second night was more of the same. I think we may have gotten pasties on our way home from our hike and didn’t need a big dinner. Cheese and crackers would do just fine (as they always do). The next morning, after a Superior shower and packing up, we headed out of town, stopping at the Falling Rock Bookstore for a cup of coffee for the road. I ordered the Ethiopian with notes of blueberries. I only got a small, though if I knew I’d be talking about- writing about it- over 5 years later, I might have reconsidered and sprung for the large. Someday we’ll have time to take a camping trip in the Upper Peninsula again and I’ll get another cup of that coffee.
On the weekends Marcy and Paul had pretty routine schedules. Saturday they’d wake up and Marcy would take a spin class at her gym. She often gently passed out afterward, but it was worth it to her to sweat and burn that many calories in a simple 60-minute non-obnoxious class (in Marcy’s opinion a class was non-obnoxious as long as it didn’t mean following “simple fun dance moves” or punching the air “LIKE YOU MEAN IT”). After spending another 10 dizzying minutes in the sauna and a shower, Marcy would head home, grabbing coffee on her way. Paul would be in the kitchen making a big brunch. To Marcy and Paul, a weekend must never go by without consuming syrup at least at one meal.
You don’t have to tell me that I have a beautiful spirit. I already know.
A friend pointed out to me that I often cite what the weather was like when reviewing movies. Re-reading my reviews, I saw that he was definitely correct about this phenomenon. I don’t know why I do that, but this one will be no different…
On the night before the last day of dreadful February, I sat in my dark living room, as rain fell, making my street a mirror and my windows shower glass doors. I watched the movie “Your Sister’s Sister” which I had been told was “your typical romantic comedy” but which, to me, was anything but. I didn’t know much about the movie other than it featured Mark Duplass, Rosemarie Dewitt, Emily Blunt and a cabin in the Pacific Northwest, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had an pre-viewing assumption that I’d like this film.
Your Sister’s Sister opens at a one year anniversary gathering of Duplass’ character (Jack) brother’s death. After a friend makes a very flattering toast, a slightly inebriated Jack makes a second toast, confessing that his brother wasn’t as altruistic or pure as his friends thought. The room became quiet with awkward empathy. This is when Emily Blunt’s character (Iris) comes into play. Iris suggests that Jack goes to her father’s cabin on “the island” for some alone time. Jack does as she says, telling her “I have no plans. I love your plans.” But when he arrives to the cabin, Iris’ sister, Hannah (Dewitt) is already there seeking some alone time of her own.
Through it’s ups and downs, comedies and tragedies, the film never loses the damp, rich, and foggy feel of the Pacific Northwest. As three uniquely vulnerable people, all seeking something quite the opposite of alone-ness, come together, the lines between friends, lovers, strangers, and human begin to blur. There are moments in the film when one may be inclined to think “Really? Is that really what would happen?” But in Your Sister’s Sister, the story is fresh enough that I don’t think many people have the experience to say what really would happen. And I, for one, was able to wholly believe these character’s emotions and reactions.
Dealing with loss is, as they say, different for everyone. In a way, all of these characters are dealing with loss and trying to figure out what’s next. Perhaps that’s why the film leaves us, the audience, wondering that as well. In it’s un-closure, however, instead of anxious or confused, it left me feeling calm and aware that things are ok. Even after loss, things are going to be ok.
For me, at this particular point in my life, that was a nice reassurance to have.
And then Breathe Owl Breathe played during the credits and if there was any doubt that’d I’d give this film a positive review, it was now a sure thing.
Let’s start with the realization that people will never be satisfied with whoever hosts the oscars. Now that we’ve realized that, we can get into the question that has consumed my mind since Monday morning: What was so bad about the boobs song? I woke up, did my morning thing, checked my social media sites and saw outrage (OUTRAGE) on the internet over Seth McFarlane’s hosting. Ok, alright, well we’ve realized that oscars hosts always get negative feedback, so I wasn’t so shocked, but then I kept seeing this similar frustration: Sexism. Apparently people (women, mainly) are VERY upset about the “We Saw Your Boobs” number.
Consider the tweet below:
I’m guessing that Anna Van Valin is saying this in good spirits. A, “we’ll get you, my pretty” reaction to a song pointing out all these ladies boobies.
But what about this one:
The link Ann Friedman posted is a Salon article about how “We Saw Your Boobs” celebrates rape. Found here: http://www.salon.com/2013/02/26/we_saw_your_boobs_is_a_celebration_of_rape_on_film/
And Lena Dunham started an uproar first by calling on women to stop hating on Anne Hathaway (it’s so easy, though) and instead worry about people/events “who aren’t advancing the cause”… such as “We Saw Your Boobs.” (http://www.usmagazine.com/celebrity-news/news/lena-dunham-supports-anne-hathaway-slams-seth-macfarlanes-we-saw-your-boobs-song-at-oscars-2013272)
And though I’ve read these arguments and articles, I still can’t quite put my finger on what exactly people are upset about. Boobs are no laughing matter? Please! Boobs are funny. The word is funny, they often look funny, and boobs are used in a comedic context ALL THE TIME.
Certainly, at least some of these actresses don’t seem offended, as they were in on it. Charlize Theron was one of the actresses listed in the Salon article! How can they use that as an argument when the actor, the owner of the ever-controversial boobs, was in on the joke? Those shots of Naomi Watts, Charlize Theron and Jennifer Lawrence were pre-recorded to be used as part of the bit. Maybe that seems obvious to you, my loyal readers, but apparently not to everyone. (i.e.: http://www.policymic.com/articles/27972/naomi-watts-we-saw-your-boobs-gif).
The song was immature, I would not argue against that, but sexist? I don’t know, I don’t see it. I just have a hard time believing that any one of those actresses is thinking “How dare he…. point out something totally true… ? How dare he… get a laugh from the fact that I took my shirt off in a movie…?”
If anyone has a clear concise argument as to why “We Saw Your Boobs” was indeed sexist, I’d love to hear it. But, at this point, I’m leaving it at, simply silly.