Tag Archives: postaday2011

The Tree of Life: A Courtesy Warning

26 Jun

I have to admit: the only reason I walked into the movie theater last night to see The Tree of Life is because the preview was beautiful.

It didn’t tell me anything whatsoever, but it was beautiful.  I gathered something or other about the American Dream, something or other about Brad Pitt playing an abusive father, and Sean Penn wandering outside of it all.  That’s about all I got.

I suppose I take it for granted that if a preview is gorgeous and mysterious, that the mystery will be a pleasant surprise when it is revealed to me.  I somehow think that I can trust the preview.  That it won’t show me anything in an attempt to lure me in.  That it won’t make me sit in the movie theater, debating whether or not I should leave.

My trust has been betrayed.

Last night I sat, staring at the screen and feeling like I’d been duped.  I didn’t know what I was looking at, what I suppose to get out of  it, or why someone would want me to sit through it.    It started out kind of normal, but after ten minutes all bets were off.  Suddenly I was staring at strange, abstract images and a voice was whispering to me.  

For ten minutes.

And once that was over, I got a visual walk-through on evolution.  No lines, no narrative, just scattered whispers.   And a lot of intense opera music.  After the fifteenth minute of trying to wrap my brain around this forest of confusion, I let out a small, uncontrollable giggle.

Right there in front of everyone.

Now in a typical movie, I’m sure I would have been shushed.  But two girls behind me had lost their patience long before me, and the couple in front of me were whispering to each other about what the hell was going on.   In fact, after ten minutes of staring at what looked like a computer screensaver, I started to think that perhaps the movie was just one big joke and somewhere, someone was waiting for one of us to stand up and shout “WHAT THE #*(% IS THIS?!”  

I made up my mind to brace and grimace through the movie just when a teenage girl came sprinting up the aisle from the from of the theater.  She raced to the back of the room and out the door, where, once it was closed behind her, she let out the loudest, most hysterical laugh you can imagine.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one wrestling with hilarity.

Don’t get me wrong – there is a part of this movie that I appreciate.  I tried very hard to wrap my head around the movie and to think through why it was laid out this way.   I got the whole sensory images thing.   I admit that there were certain sections that entirely grasped the sense of childlike innocence and real growth that happens in life, and that’s pretty impressive.  And I even reached so far as to see the points the movie was trying to make about how life is so much bigger than one event and the cyclical nature of, well, nature.

But I have my limits.

And so since I found this movie to be generally quite preposterous, and because I felt somewhat duped, I feel inclined to break it down for you.  You know, just in case you got lured in by the preview.  

Truth.

This really isn’t a joke.  I wish it were.

You’re welcome. ♣

Today’s RAK: Baked goods. For everyone.

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The Unsung Glories of Fat Loss

25 Jun
Fat Albert in the NC State Fair Sideshow

Photo by Jo Anna Barber. Click the image to check out her Flickr Photostream.

I think the best part about losing weight is that my legs no longer rub together when I walk.

It’s true.  I’m just saying.  It’s true.

I started thinking that maybe I could begin to break down my weight loss goals into small, measurable goals such as this.  After all, the thing that made me want to lose weight in the first place was the sudden realization that I could push all my spare tire fat to the front of my body and hold it there in my hands.

When you can hold your fat in your hands, you should probably take action.

And so I did.  I can no longer hold said fat in said hands.  And the legs aren’t chubby enough to rub together while I go about my errands for the day.   And since this seems to be an effective tactic, I think I’ll keep it up.  After all, it requires me to admit humiliating and fatty things about myself, get angry at those things, and then change them and celebrate the victory.  How could it fail?

Let’s consider some of my next steps:

  • Wave goodbye and hello without the bottom half of my upper arm waving at a slower rate
  • Wear any pair of pants without a distinction between the fat that makes it into the pants and the fat that pours out the top
  • Eliminate that bra-eating-my-back-fat feeling I sometimes get
  • Bend over in a pair of jeans without my butt crack quietly slipping up and out of them
Of course, there are many goals for after the initial stages that I can’t even fathom right now.  Liberating things like not having to wear cardigans to work in the summertime because I don’t want to look at my arm fat all day.  Or trying on clothes without obsessing over my kangaroo pouch.                                                                                                                                                                                                              
                                                                                                                                                          That’s the pouch of soft, gooey fat in the front of my torso that, if I were a kangaroo, would house a baby kangaroo.  A joey, if you will.  

So here’s to fat loss, and all the small glories I shall experience on the way.  

May I find myself soon unable to harbor a baby kangaroo. ♣

 
 
Today’s RAK:  A little something for a brand new friend.

 

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I, Buddha

24 Jun
Buddha

Me. Kind of. Photo by Tim Niblett. Click to check out his Flickr photostream.

My kitchen now harbors one very small, very sacred patch of earth that brings me sanity: my garbage can.

The other day, I sent David to the store with a list of things I needed “so that I could get things done.”  I did not “get things done” so much as I “sat on the couch and ate ice cream”, but I felt better about my life and he came back with some really interesting stuff.

Tasking Dave with picking up groceries is an intriguing and fragile journey.   It requires frequent phone calls asking for clarification on sizes, brands, and purposes.

Sometimes Dave needs to know exactly what my plans are for an item before he can determine which brand is necessary.

I was on a quest not long ago to make my dad some pickled eggs and sent Dave to the store for said eggs.  Upon reaching the dairy aisle, he immediately placed a phone call to me for clarification on egg size.

It isn’t until times like those that I actually remember that there are different sizes of eggs.   For me, it’s always Grade A – large.    I don’t even know what the “Grade A” is for, but I get it in confidence every single time because somehow, somewhere, I learned that it was the standard. I don’t remember being taught this information; I just know.   I don’t even notice the other sizes of eggs at the store, so much that I act like asking what size I need is a stupid question.

I have to admit that I’m not very good at fielding the grocery questions.  I say I don’t care what kind of whatever he gets but when he brings home something I don’t recognize, I get quite annoyed.   

We’re working through it.

But the other day, Dave brought home a boon in the form of a trash bag.  Apparently, we’re using technology to enhance our trash bags.  These are the things on the forefront of chemist’s and marketers’ minds.    And ever since I’ve eradicated cable from my apartment, I haven’t been getting the commercial updates on their discoveries.    So when Dave brought me home a box of garbage bags that actually stay hugged around the trash can, I peed my pants.  Right there on the floor.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wrestled with my kitchen trash bag sticking my hand in  last night’s leftovers to get it back in working order around the top of the can.  On days when I’ve worked ten hours and have a meeting to go to later that evening, a wonky trash bag is enough to make me lose my screws.

This little material marvel has saved me frustration after frustration.  Every time I go to the trash can, I’m so incredibly relieved by the stress-free experience, that I feel recharged with hope for my future.   I’ll go around and throw things away just to chuckle about how easy it is.

Now I know what you’re thinking – and I did too.  Am I old and boring because a trash bag inspires me with hope for my future?  Or am I sad and pathetic for having something so trivial make such a huge difference?  Or am I just stupid for spending extra money 0n a superbag when I could have just dealt with what was a very minute problem?

That answer is no.  To all those things.  I’ve cut enormous loads of stress off my life with a simple household purchase.

I’m not old; I’m enlightened. ♣ 

Today’s Random Act of Kindness:  Pre-filled all the laundry machines in my building with quarters and smiley face notes 🙂Share

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A Case of Blogger’s Block

23 Jun

Well, it finally happened.

I’m almost six full months into my post a day adventure and it appears I finally have a day with nothing to write about.

I considered a post on how awkward if would be to befriend your favorite bartender in real life, but that lost steam quickly.   I thought about a post where I recall how looking back on the highway while driving sometimes gives me the feeling of being chased.  I got very close to ranting about how the attractive women who suddenly flooded my go-to Wednesday night locale had no business there, but it sounded a tad too jealous of me.

Anyway, I’ve sifted through the bunch of lingering thoughts, old drafts – the whole lot.  And short of writing about how I had man hands in 5th grade (complete with pictures), I have nothing with which to enlighten you this fine Thursday.

There was -briefly- a post about how my boss wears fashion capes to work, but it was far too snarky.

And so I humbly offer you this: the map of Jackie’s Blogger’s Block.  Relish in my process.

Click to enlarge. You know - so you can read it.

Today’s Random Act of Kindness: Bought a drink for a guy down on his luck at the bar .♣

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Boobs in the Summertime

22 Jun

Sometimes boobs are the worst.

Like in the summertime.

Boobs are just terrible in the summertime.  Boobs,  booblie wooblies, chests, coconuts, ta-tunkas, bongos, dirty pillows…whatever you want to call them.  On a humid, summer day they’re just awful.  Either they get all hot and sweaty and completely drench your bra, or you’re free flying and the feeling of your moist skin on top of other moist skin is so incredibly uncomfortable.

I’m starting to think girls who have their chests out when it’s warm aren’t just doing it to be the centers of attention; they’re airing them out.  They’re letting their chests breathe a little so their bras don’t become a swampy marshland.

Disgusting.

Maybe I just hate sweating in general.  I’m so exhausted by it.  I’m constantly taking showers to feel fresh, in spite of the fact that I’m instantly sweating once I get out.  I try to turn up the cold water, but that nonsense only hangs around so long before pockets of dew develop on my upper cheeks.

It’s all downhill from there.

I refuse to give in to air conditioning.   I refuse to dig that gigantic monster out of the cellar only to have it devour my electric bill.   I refuse.   I can be strong. I can do this.  I can save hundreds if only I allow body time to readjust to the weather change.

Beginning of summer be damned. ♣

Today’s RAK: Preparing a small care package for a friend many miles away.

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Confuse Them With Kindness

21 Jun

You aren’t even halfway through the work week.   You’ve just started  up.  You haven’t the fresh outlook of Monday or the hopeful hump of Wednesday.  But by golly, you can take solace in the fact that it’s Lollipop Tuesday.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.

Once, many moons ago, I wanted very badly to have a fancy evening out with David, even though I knew it wasn’t a good fit for the budget at the time.  But work was exhausting and it had been a long time since we had time out together, so I stubbornly forged ahead and went to the nicest Japanese steakhouse and sushi bar in the city.

For a girl who’s car muffler is currently being held up by a wire coat hanger, this was a poor choice.

We dressed up and joined a table for hibachi, and just for one evening, pretended that money meant nothing.  When it was time for the check, the waitress informed everyone at the table that our check had been covered  by a gentleman who was sitting with us and that we could leave whenever we were ready without paying.   

It blew my mind.

So last evening, I went to my favorite restaurant to pay it forward (thanks to “Ker-bear” for her suggestion on the “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?” page).  I settled in to a booth in the busiest section and scoped out my clientele.  And in the corner I found a middle-aged couple who looked like they were out for a relaxing evening together.  They also looked quite grumpy.

I liked to imagine that they were grumpy because they didn’t want to pay for their food and that someone taking care of the check for them would make them fall in love with each other again.

I have a vivid imagination.

So I asked my waitress if she could transfer their bill to mine and just not let them know who I was.  She was more than happy to and when they asked for their check, she coyly answered that it had been taken care of and walked away.

Enter mass confusion.

I watched from the corner of my eye as they sat there with confused smirks, wondering if there was something wrong with the food.  Or perhaps there was someone in the restaurant they knew and they were supposed to look around and notice them.   Or maybe they heard the waitress wrong.

After stewing on it for a while, the gentleman got up to question the waitress and ask if he could know the identity of the benefactor.  She said she was sworn to secrecy and that she was sorry that she could not reveal the source.  He gave up on trying to figure it out, grabbed his significant other, and left the establishment.

I peaked out the curtain to see them walk away, dazed, confused, and sporting crooked smiles.

In retrospect, I should have passed them a handwritten note that their meal had been paid for and that it was for no reason whatsoever other than to brighten their day and encourage them to pay it forward.  Or heck, even just a “pay it forward and have a nice day” would have been a great script for the waitress.

But I did nothing.  I planned nothing.  It was so unorchestrated and sloppy.

I hope that they enjoyed the experience.  Looking back, I would have changed the way things played out, but hey – I’m just a critical gal.   And Dave said the waitress was elated to be part of the process so even if I was convinced that the couple wasn’t quite as affected as I would have liked, I could take comfort in the fact that her night was perked up by the experience.

Regardless, this whole thing got me thinking: this is a great kickoff to my 25 Random Acts of Kindness, as suggested by bridgesburning on my post from the other day on finding a way to celebrate my quarter century milestone.  

This past weekend I made chocolate chip cookies to my sister-in-law, who is very pregnant and has been craving them (discovered via Facebook), but hasn’t had the energy or willpower to make them for herself.  That’s one. 

Random dinner is two.

Today will be three.

And in the 22 days that occur between now and my birthday, I will complete exactly 25 Random Acts of Kindness before I hit my milestone.  Feel free to offer suggestions.  Feel free to try one yourself.Join The Conspiracy Of Kindness

Pic (which I actually really like) is by “wadem”. Click the image to check out their Flickr PhotoStream

Yee haw. ♣ 

 

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I’m Better Than Tony Horton

20 Jun

I would like to take a moment to announce my awesomeness.

Just bear with me.

4/365 Day 2 of P90X

photo by "j.r.speaks", Click image to check out her Flickr PhotoStream

For those of you who have been avid followers, you may recall a series of posts where I attempted to complete P90X – Tony Horton’s (as in Horton Hears a Who) no-excuses program for getting fit in 90 days.  It’s super intense, and made me want to cry.  After being almost complete sedentary, I was forced into hour and a half workouts, 6 days a week.  It started out as a Lollipop Tuesday and quickly grew into a commitment.  Within 3 weeks, I quit.  Somehow, I had managed to gain a pound.

I’m sorry, but any workout program where I’m dedicating an hour and a half of  my time six days a week and not seeing results or losing weight isn’t something I can stick to.  It’s just not.

But over the past few weeks I somehow flipped a switch in my brain and started eating a lot healthier.  And *gasp* I workout 5 days a week.  Nothing too  intense – I’ve just decided that I have to walk at least a mile.  I can do more, but I certainly can’t do less.  

And holy cow am I losing weight.

How is it possible that I can work out so hard for so long and actually gain weight, but if I just take it easy, try to eat better, and write down what I eat, I peel off pounds like a banana?

…Forgive that last simile.  It was terrible.

Anyway, the point is that I’m better than Tony Horton.  I am.  Because after 3 weeks on my program, I’ve lost 6 pounds.  And after 3 weeks on his, I gained one.  It’s simple math, and the math points to my awesomeness.

Unfortunately, he’s super rich for his program, and there’s no money in mine.  I’m always after million dollar ideas so that I can break free from the straps and chains of corporate America and pretend I get paid to travel the world, try new things, and blog about it.  But somehow I think “eat better and exercise” just isn’t going to cut it in the marketing world.  I’m pretty sure that’s been done before and no one really cared for it.

I wonder if I can keep it up.  I sure want to – it would be pretty darn awesome to be able to wear a swimsuit before the end of summer without feeling like a fatty fat.  Maybe I’ll take a picture of me, happy and healthy on the beach and send it to Tony Horton with a note that says “I’m better than you” and a copy of this post.

Yeah, that sounds like good marketing. ♣

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Nice People Can’t Win Monopoly

19 Jun
MONOPOLY 2006

Image by Christopher Dombres. Click to check out his Flickr PhotoStream

I don’t know why I play Monopoly.  It is absolutely impossible to have a pleasant time. 

It isn’t even just that I never win.  Which I don’t.  It’s that no one has a good time.  Correction – the person who wins has a good time.  They have a ball.  They’re rolling in paper money, lording over their hotels and making everyone around them feel insignificant.  It’s everything we wish real life could be.

For a moment last night, I was that person.  I thought the tables had turned and that for once, I was actually going to win.  About ten rounds in to the game, I was the only person on the board with a Monopoly.  I had decided to prescribe to my brother’s age-old tactic: buy everything, cut breaks to no one.  Being mean is the key to winning – absolutely ruthlessness is necessary.  It was working really well, but I wasn’t having any fun.  Everyone was just galloping, driving, and thimble-ing around the board and paying me money along the way, but there was no joy in it.  My opponents’ faces drooped, hope sank, and the game had become dull.

So I decided to trade.

It’s almost never a good idea to trade.  Trading is what causes all the problems.  But I considered how many properties I owned, how few everyone else did, and the fact that I’d already landed on Free Parking (house rule: Free Parking = Cash Bonanza) three times.  So I made a little trade.  Just a little red-property-monopoly-for-me, yellow-property-monopoly-for-my-brother exchange.

It was the beginning of my epic downfall.

I ran around the board several times, relishing in the fact that I had given him a false sense of hope.  I had inspired a security in him that would be torn down once I lorded over him with my magenta and red monopolies.  

That wasn’t how it happened.

How it happened was that my brother mortgaged all his properties except the yellow ones and invested in hotels.  And every time I went around the board, I  landed on one and had to fork over a thousand dollars.  Every time he went around the board, he landed on Community Chest.  No amount of house and hotel building I did on my properties could equal the wrath I faced on Atlantic Avenue last night.  

I can’t stand it.  I don’t even know why I play.  We could have been playing Scrabble or cards – games that involve intellect and laughter.  But we played Monopoly – a game of treachery and sadness.  And the thing is – I could have won.  I could have just hung on to my one Monopoly and let the game play out as I bled my opponents dry.  But I decided to trade so that people could actually enjoy themselves.  I thought it might shake things up a little bit – let people have a smile.  Because I’m a nice person.  That’s right.  Nice people can’t win Monopoly because it’s impossible to suck someone dry so slowly that each round they have to mortgage another property or offer to give you their firstborn son.  Nice people will ease off, and nice people will inevitably lose.

There are lots of board games out there, folks.  

Don’t fall for Monopoly. ♣

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Just Shoot Me in the Head

18 Jun

I will never be a model.

I say this not because I’m overweight (which I am) or because I’m too unattractive (which is also likely) but because today I endured a two-hour photo shoot and I enjoyed no part of it.

Let’s back up.  Today, I was at a photo shoot because I needed some updated headshots.  For anyone who doesn’t know what they are, think of them as business cards for actors.  It’s a way for the director to remember your face once you’ve left the audition and it’s time to cast.  Or sometimes, it’s a way for folks to give you a call when they’ve never met you just because someone showed them your headshot and you look like the person they might want to use.

It’s complicated.

Anyhow, it’s been a while since I’ve had any professional ones done and today was the day.  I refuse to run another fall audition circuit with a headshot that I know isn’t up to par.  So today I moseyed across town to hook myself up with the city’s best headshot photographer.    Let’s call her CheeChee.

Man, did CheeChee hit me with a nice dose of reality.

The very first thing she said when I sat down in the makeup chair was “what are we going to do about that eye?”

For those of you who may not have read my post on my problems with my eye, feel free to catch up here.  But if you want to skip all that, suffice it to say that I have an eye that is noticeably smaller than the other.  It’s somewhat noticeable day-to-day, very noticeable when I smile, and downright glaring in photographs.

Cartoon: Quasimodo (medium) by Roberto Mangosi tagged portrait

"Quasimodo" by Roberto Mangosi - Click the image to check him out at Toonpool.

I didn’t have an answer for her.  Naturally.  Given that I was born with an asymmetrical eye, it didn’t really occur to me that I had any options. Thank heaven I had already written a post to make peace with said eye problem or by golly her just blurting it out like that would have given me a hard time.  CheeChee spent the rest of the makeup session working to camouflage it.  Deep shadow on one, light on the other.  Curl the lashes on one, don’t on the other.  Line the bottom of one, don’t the other.  The light the living bejeezus out of my right side and pray to God I don’t look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame in the prints.

At one point she said “well – soon they’ll have some sort of surgery to correct it, I’m sure.”

Very comforting, CheeChee.

It was a rough day.  I didn’t realize how exhausting it can be to just have someone take pictures of you.  But then again – I’ve never been given such specific directions.  In each photo, I was attempting to accomplish a variety of tasks, mandated to me by the Cheester.  Straighten my back leg, bend my front leg, flex one arm and put it on my hip, bring the other arm softly to the front.  Turn head toward window, look at camera, chin up, cock head, and throw out a pleasant smile.

A pleasant smile is pretty difficult to muster with all that other business going on behind the scenes.

But that wasn’t enough for CheeChee.  Unhappy with how my eye was turning out under pressure, she decided to ask me to correct it.  As in – close one eye slightly so that it matches the mutation of the other.  All while keeping the other completely wide, one arm stiff, one arm soft, one leg straight one leg bent, my face toward the window, chin up, and with a cocked head.

And of course, I had to smile.

But not too much.  When I smiled too much, the eye became very evident and my horse teeth started to show.  At least they must look like horse teeth because when I smiled “with teeth” per CheeChee’s command, she instantly grimaced and asked me to show less teeth.

There’s nothing like faking a fake smile.

So I’ve decided – I can’t possibly be a model.  I left the place with a raging headache and only a modicum of hope for my future.  If anyone ever did want to use me for print work, I’d have to let them know that it takes about 200 shots to get one where I can squint with one eye while keeping the other perfectly open and achieving whatever they want me to do with my body will be entirely secondary from stopping my face from falling back to its natural Quasimodo state.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom mirror and begin my daily affirmation.

“I am not a monster.  I am not a monster.  I am not a monster.” ♣

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The Curses of Womanhood

17 Jun

I can’t stand body maintenance.

I am so tired of tweezing and plucking and pulling and washing and shaving and destinking and blotting and covering and moisturizing.

It’s even worse in the summer.  I’m the kind of person who works up a sweat just getting a glass of water, so heat and humidity are very taxing on me.  The last thing I feel like doing on top of all the other routine maintenance is adding an extra shower and deodorizing session just so that I can walk among other members of society.

It frightens me how much I’m beginning to empathize with hippies.

Scream

I feel ya, kid. Womanhood blows. Pic by 'jasonbolonski'. Click image to check out his Flickr PhotoStream

Men – when you look at a woman, no matter how attractive, it’s likely that she’s failing miserably at at least one of the above tasks.  There just isn’t enough time in the day to constantly monitor every one of them. Think about it.

Once we’ve traded hair for grumpiness and discomfort, we have to moisturize.  Because we don’t want to get flappy or saggy or ashy or wrinkly.  So we moisturize.  We do it at our desks, we do it after the shower, and we do it at night.  Serious followers will even wear booties and mittens to bed with lotion all inside them.  Because magazines and TV and adultery make us absolutely crazy and we sometimes feel like if we don’t wear lotion mittens to bed, no one will love us.

Lord, I would have appreciated being a boy.

The next step is a good high maintenance routine.  Hair, face, fingernails, toenails.  All of it has to be shellacked with something or other or we will wander the streets as pig beasts, frightening all those around us and causing us to remain indoors until we have enough layers of Spackle on our faces to negate whichever few natural beauties we had when we began.  

We have to sleep enough.  We can’t cry before bed or our eyes will be puffy and we’ll wake up looking like Senator Palpatine.  We have to drink lots of water.  We can’t eat things we enjoy without regret and constant talk of self-hate.  

And the real kicker is that all of it wears off.  All of it.  Moisturizer, makeup, hair removal – everything must be repeated. Over and over and over again until we die.  Women are crazy, yes.  They’re out of our minds.  Absolutely.  These are all the things we have to do simply because we were born women.  Personally, I can’t take it anymore.  I might throw in the towel.  

Call the hippies. Tell them I’m coming. ♣

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