Speaking of Trite

I'm not above watching bad movies. I actually like some bad movies. Luisa and I refer to those as Good Bad Movies. You know the kind I'm talking about? The kind that you run across while channel flipping and think you'll watch for "just a few minutes" but then you find yourself curled up in a ball on the couch watching until the very end. The kind that, sometimes, you won't even admit to watching let alone enjoying. I'm feeling confessional so I will admit that "Miss Congeniality" is one of my Good Bad Movies. I've watched it enough that I can quote it and, on those glorious occasions when I do, I laugh and laugh and laugh. It is in this confessional spirit that I am going to tell you that I put "The Women" on our Netflix list. I would like to blame it on Luisa but she would never do such a thing. She adds things like "Sweet Land" and "Volver" and "The Last King of Scotland". You see, I am the yin to her yang, the crap to her quality. I don't remember why I put this on the list. Maybe because I thought something like, "HEY! I like women! I like things with lots of women in it! Yay women!" Or maybe I just wanted to see Jada Pinkett Smith play a lesbo. Whatever the reason, it was on the list and it arrived this weekend. Luisa was like, "What is this?" I said, "It could very well be a Good Bad Movie! It's got Bette Midler, Carrie Fisher and Candace Bergen in it!" I said this though I knew deep down in my soul that it was bad. I had read the reviews when it first came out. Clearly, I had had some sort of lapse in Netflix judgment. Well, we watched it. Kinda. With one eye. While we goofed around on our laptops. I'll save you from the horror of watching it yourself and tell you that it is not a Good Bad Movie. It is simply a Bad Bad Movie proving once again that a good cast can't always transcend bad writing (see also: "The L Word"). 

But wait. There is something worse than renting a bad movie, watching the bad movie and then admitting to watching the bad movie, however. It is watching the bad movie and crying. That's right - I cried during this effin' mess of a movie! Cried! I cried for Made to Look Frumpy Meg Ryan. I cried for her lost little soul. I cried for her inability to relate to her daughter. I cried for myself because we are exactly the same except for the fact that we are nothing alike. THIS IS WHAT IT HAS COME TO PEOPLE! I'm identifying with Meg Ryan! Surely now, I've hit bottom. Right? It can't get any worse. Life can only get better from here.

Malaise

I have once again been pondering the great questions of life: Why am I here? What does the future hold for me? What if I turned into a giant pat of butter? What do I need? What do I want? Why do I do any of the things that I do? Would it be possible to build a fort out of Velveeta or Peeps? You know, the typical things people contemplate. There are many of factors contributing to my general malaise: job stress, the challenges of parenting, aging and, of course, the bitter Minnesota weather. So, I find myself feeling a little lost, in need of some sort of spiritual Strike Anywhere Match to set my soul on fire once again. I thought that match had arrived in the form of a non-fiction manuscript that I have been working on with friends. We had interest from a publisher and then an agent only to have both prospects fall apart. I am disappointed and discouraged and I've realized something surprising about myself through this process - persistence is not my strong suit. In "The Way We Were" (why yes I am quoting a Barbara Streisand movie), Hubbell writes a story that begins, "In a way, he was like the country he lived in; everything came too easily to him." I think that may be true of me as well. I didn't have to work hard in high school. I didn't work hard in college. The only challenge of graduate school was holding a full time job while attending school full time. I fell into a "good" job and I live comfortably. My personal life is just as I want it to be but my professional life is a source of much existential angst because my work brings me no joy. In order to change that, however, I would have to work hard and take risks and it's clear that this is not my modus operandi. I have always taken the path of least resistance. I live on the path of least resistance. I have been elected mayor of the place by the small number of P.L.R. denizens. I've always been comfortable there. I've strung a hammock between two trees and have a caipirinha stand out front, providing refreshments to all those who visit but don't stay. It's only in realizing all of this that I have begun to wonder if it's good for me, if I want more, if I'm willing to pack up my hammock and limes and amble on down the road. I honestly don't know. This, my friends, is a mid-life crisis. I might as well run out and buy a red mini cooper and have an affair with a blonde woman half my age. It's so trite and I do so hate being trite. But, it is what it is. So, what's next? I'll make you a caipirinha and let you swing in my hammock if you'll help me figure it out.

p.s. Not everything I write is depressing. I also wrote about football for Grace the Spot.

School of Hard Knocks

One of the things I find hardest about parenting is watching my children make mistakes. I can see the eventual consequences of a choice they are about to make and I want to protect them. Recently, I talked to Miguel about this after a choice of his led to tremendous disappointment. I was frustrated that he hadn't taken my advice and "Why can't he just listen to me?" was on a loop in my head but I got myself together and sat down to give one of those After School Special types of parental talks. I explained that sometimes we have to learn things the hard way, that sometimes we only learn by making our own mistakes.  For the record, neither of us are fans of this essential truth. I have had a lot of time to reflect on this idea of making your own mistakes because I made a really bad choice last weekend and have been living with the consequences all week. While at the cabin with friends last weekend, we created a wicked sled run. It was a short hill but it was steep and we made a jump and it was exhilerating because it was a teeny tiny bit dangerous.

Click on pictures to enlarge

This is what happened to me on my first run:

Then, my Frilly Rabbit Friend went down. Here is her run:

Did I learn from these two disasters caught on video? No, of course not. There is, however, always that moment when we realize the consequences we are about to suffer for our choices. Luckily for all of us, mine was captured in the photograph of my third run:

I have not been able to sit down/lie down/walk/stand or exist comfortably since that moment of impact. Clearly, I broke or badly bruised my tail bone and my pride was damaged as well. I also know that next time I see my children making a questionable choice I'll be less frustrated and less likely to scream, "WHY DON'T THEY LISTEN TO ME? THIS IS GOING TO END BADLY!"

The moral of the story is that learning the hard way is a huge pain in the ass.