Right now, if I was subjected to a futuristic body scan done by a robot named J.e.d. with seven pre-programmed real emotions, the results would read: Still very irritable and prone to night sweats. Sense of smell akin to a dog that finds corpses and truffles. Somebody burned microwave popcorn at work on Friday. I don’t know who, but they have a University degree and two eyeballs, so really, SUPER INEXCUSABLE. The microwave has a popcorn button. The instructions written in 100 pt font on both sides of the bag scream out “Stop when popping decreases to 1-2 pops per second.” This is a task perhaps even easier than boiling water. Even Nuv can figure it out. If I have a love/hate relationship with popcorn, then that smell that wallpapers the room and your nostrils and makes you shake your head like a dog sneezing, that there perfectly represents the hate. The love? When we were little my dad worked in a movie theatre and would bring home 3 feet long clear plastic tubular bags full of popcorn that hadn’t sold that day. My brother and I would eat our way through the entire bag, face first. I once ate Act II Kettle Corn for dinner for a month. No movie in the theatre is complete without a bag of real buttered popcorn sprinkled with two packets of the table salt Burger King leaves out. No movie at home is complete without a big bowl to yourself of popcorn that you eat 70 pieces at a time because somehow popcorn turns me everybody into some prehistoric animal with no manners or self-respect. Nuv is also extremely down with popcorn; the only thing he was adamant about scanning for the wedding registry was a $600 popcorn cart at Home Outfitters. Needless to say, no one loved us enough to buy it for us. All told, I have probably spent an accumulated six months of my life working a kernel out of my back molar.
We watched Up in the Air last Sunday and it was the best thing I saw this week. It was also the only movie I’ve seen with boys around, where at the end I couldn’t just suck it up, or casually dart to the bathroom. Nope, I ripped my glasses off, leaned forward, covered my face and rocked back and forth, silently bawling. It seems any movie made in 2009 with the word ‘up‘ in it will leave me curled in the fetal position surrounded by boys awkwardly rubbing my back, letting me know, “It was just a movie, Champ.” George Clooney. Good god. We were talking about him the other day, his journey from The Facts of Life, to Roseanne to ER to Out of Sight (SO GOOD) to now: the quintessential movie star that women want to snuggle with and guys want to drink with. Even though he’s getting older and the front segment of his neck is getting a little looser and turkey lurkey, he is such a treasure and he is perfect in this role. Jason Reitman’s eye for graphics, shot selection and editing (it is an edit fest up in there) is impeccable, and the two female leads and every single person in this is perfectly cast and perfectly portrayed. This is my Oscar pick for every category and I highly recommend you see it.
Have you ever touched your tongue to an old wooden spoon? Oh wait, if you had you’d be dead and unable to read this because it is the most horrific sensation known to man and child. Closely followed by accidentally biting into tin foil and the texture of a elementary school shammy. You have been duly warned.
I tried. Oh, Vampire Weekend I have TRIED. Your first album, I understood the appeal, but it always struck me as Paul Simon getting together with his son’s scenester friends and jamming. Your new album though? The worst thing I’ve heard ever this week. By the second track, when it sounded like you were “boop boop boop-ing” your way out of a hammock filled with Rainbow Brite dolls, I ripped out my ear buds and stuck my head in the oven. Maybe the rest is amazing, but I will never know. Just like there are songs by Britney I’ve never heard. I can live with that. As a beautiful palette cleanser I put on the new Charlotte Gainsbourg album. Produced and written by Beck (who evidently never ever takes a vacation from being RAD. Have you seen/heard this stuff?!) , it ranges from quirky to breathy to rocky and it would be the perfect album to put on when you’re driving to a picnic party in a convertible with a flouncy hat on.
If only I could recommend something I ate this week. My tongue and taste buds are still licking their wounds from being very sick. In the aftermath of Christmas, there have been treats upon treats strewn across the apartment and work, like fresh kill on the tundra, and I have merely sniffed at them, watched the blood still slowly pulsing in their throat, and wandered back to my bed/desk to chug more medicine. I did roast some garlic the other night, whereupon the boys were all like “My eyes, MY EYES, are you baking ACID?” Mixed in with some real mayonnaise on a Quejo and topped with herbed havarti and avocado, it perked up my tongue a fraction of a millimeter. Godspeed taste buds.
