Month: February 2007

A couple of clogs about Dream Girls:

— Eddie Murphy was just kind of eh in Dream Girls — to me. And I know he’s nominated for an Oscar for it and all, but — and this is my problem, my Eddie Murphy problem — I cannot take him seriously, I guess. Too many times seeing him do sketches on SNL or something. No, that’s not it. Because I don’t have that problem with, say, Will Ferrell. I loved him in Stranger Than Fiction. I’ve loved Jim Carrey in several things, like The Truman Show or The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, etc. So it’s not some “I can’t believe a comedian as a serious actor” thing. I don’t have that. I don’t. (Never mind that I hate Robin Williams in general, in everything, everywhere. That’s a separate issue. A separate ranting post, really.) Watching Dream Girls, though, I actually kept thinking that Jamie Foxx and Eddie Murphy should have switched parts. Eddie Murphy wasn’t working for me. And it’s bugging me that I can’t really even place my finger on WHY, precisely, I thought he was just eh. I didn’t believe him, somehow. I need to see it again to figure out why. So basically, this is still a clog in my brain and not worth talking about.

— Jennifer Hudson was simply amazing. I thought I was gonna throw up or wet my pants or burst out blubbing when she sang “And I am Telling You, I’m Not Going.” It was overwhelming. I felt like I’d been beaten; like I would come out bruised after that. And frankly, when she wasn’t onscreen, I was kinda bored. (Maybe that’s part of the Eddie problem).

— What is with that “We are a Family” (or whatever) song from that show? When they all gather ’round Effie (Hudson) and sing about being family after she finds out that Deena (Beyonce) is replacing her as lead singer? Stupid. I was literally whispering under my breath, “ACK! Stop it! STOP. Gross.” Did not work for me at ALL. Some of the numbers just bugged.

— Did I mention Jennifer Hudson? DAY-ummm. Rent the thing on DVD, fast forward to her big number — or any number with her in it — and call it a day.

Okay. Other things. “PRRRO-ceed,” as MB always says.

Random quotes clogging my brain:

— Years ago, watching a friend’s two kids — Arielle, 5 and Bryce, 2 playing in a kiddie pool. Bryce is naked. Out of the blue, Arielle reaches out and clamps her little fist around his little penis. My friend, observing this, totally calm, just drily says, “Arielle, don’t grab Bryce’s peenie.” So I am suddenly haunted by the word “peenie.” I cannot stop laughing about it, about the tone in her voice when she said it, about how Arielle instantly declamped her fist from around Bryce’s peenie.

— Also: I am haunted by something stupid I said two Christmases ago at my in-laws. I am always nervous there. Small town, never a locked door, constant stream of people in and out wanting to talk for hours about “glory days” and such. I can sit for an entire afternoon and lissssten and not be spoken to once by any visitor. Weird. One day, after a steady, exhausting stream of high school friends, we were finally all alone — me, MB, his parents. I was completely wiped out from the long loquacious walk down Other-People’s-Memory Lane. I couldn’t speak because pretty much all the words since the dawn of time had been used up already in the space of an afternoon. So I just slouched in a chair and watched one of the family’s dogs, a Blue Tic Hound named Beau, pace around the room, all crooked from hip displacement. After several minutes of this, he stopped a couple of feet in front of me. I was still just sitting, but now I was also staring at an old dog’s ass. And nothing was happening. There was just silence in the room. There was breathing, of course. Breathing and a meandering dog and SILENCE. Suddenly, irrationally, I broke all dead-voiced into that silence with:

“Beau sure has a big anus.”

Silence. Just yawning, big-anused silence.

So, anyhoo ….. today, I am haunted by Eddie Murphy and peenies and Beau’s big anus.

I’ve had this saved in my image file for — I don’t know how long.

This photograph of a collapsed, starving Sudanese toddler being stalked by a vulture was taken in 1993 by photojournalist Kevin Carter. He won a Pulitzer for it in May 1994 and killed himself in July 1994. His suicide note read, in part:

“I am depressed … without phone … money for rent … money for child support … money for debts … money!!! … I am haunted by the vivid memories of killings & corpses & anger & pain … of starving or wounded children, of trigger-happy madmen, often police, of killer executioners.”

“What did YOU do on Valentine’s Day, Tracey?”

“Oh, you know, did a little Roving Eyeball Theatre. So, uhm, stay tuned.”

Here’s the trailer. Can you hear That Voiceover Guy:

“In a world where there were only eyeballs, she was the eyeballsiest.”

So I’m at the bank today to get a business checking account for Boheme and helpful bank employee Kevin (pronouned “Kee-vin,” the precious boy) gives me some temporary checks to tide me over until my “real” checks come in.

The scanner kind of washed it out, but can you see it? You see it, right? It’s not just me? I mean, when you look at this check, you see Winnie the Pooh and all his fubsy friends having what I can only hope is a high-powered business picnic on the grass, RIGHT???

WHAT am I supposed to do with these, I implore you!?

“Um, yes. I’d like to purchase the Fetco 5000 dual brewer, please. Do you take Tigger?”

Mommy. Wow. I’m a big kid now.

Because Round Up the Filthy Bums just doesn’t make a cool acronym.

Peeps …. I cannot stop listening to You’re the Biggest Part of Me by that cheesy 80s band Ambrosia.

I cannot STOP because I actually BOUGHT that damn thing from iTunes and, well, it’s just there, calling to me, with deeply heartfelt lyrics like:

(Rainbow) Risin’ over my shoulder; (RAINBOW???)
(Love flows) Gettin’ better as we’re older (LOVE FLOWS??? Uhm, what are those??)
(All I know) All I want to do is hold her (PLEASE GET YOUR HUGGY SELF OFFA ME, DUDE!!)
She’s the life that breathes in me
(Forever) Got a feelin’ that forever
(Together) We are gonna stay together
(For better) For me, there’s nothin’ better
You’re biggest part of meeeeeeeee! (INSERT DOUBLE ENTENDRE HERE)

(Oh, extra e’s added by moi)

But that’s not all. AFTER I’m done with this one, I listen to Reminiscing by The Little River Band. Which is simply an awesome song and I will not be dissuaded. I mean, “Glenn Miller’s band was BETTER than before,” peeps, and “We yelled and screamed for more.” And I am. Just yelling and screaming inside for more cheese, please.

Friday night, it was late
I was walking you home
We got down to the gate
And I was dreaming of the night
Would it turn out right
Now as the years roll on
Each time we hear our favorite song
The memories come along
Older times we’re missing
Spending the hours reminiscing

Ahhhhh.

But that’s still not all. AFTER these two, the finale de fromage is Cool Change also by The Little River Band, with stirring lyrics like:

Well I was born in the sign of water (I WASN’T!)
And it’s there that I feel my best (I’M A FIRE SIGN; WHAT DOES THIS IMPLY FOR ME?)
The albatross and the whales
they are my brothers (WHALE(S)?? JUST HOW MANY WHALE BROTHERS DO I HAVE, MOM?)
It’s kind of a special feeling
When you’re out on the sea alone
Starin’ at the full moon
like a lover (SILENCE ABOUT MY MOON LOVER!)

I think maybe, maybe I’m stressed out. Because I mock — not Reminiscing, never Reminiscing — and yet I listen incessantly. It’s comfort music, I think.

Or also: madness. Which is cool, because if it’s madness, then I have a pretty good excuse here. “Tracey, why are you nonstop listening to cheesy 80s music?”

“Because …. because ….. OF THE MADDDDDNESSS!!!”

Anyone else suddenly gone mad for cheesy 80s music? Or obsessively listening to anything vaguely con queso?

No judgment here — um, obviously — just don’t leave me hangin’!

Oh, Lord. I wrote these two informative posts for Valentine’s two years ago. (I lost the comments on them in the move to the second Worship Naked site. Which is too bad. There were some good ones.)

Anyway … these posts prove something definitively:

I — am an ASS.

So, first, let’s observe a moment of silence in honor of my assiness ……..

And now, let’s repost ’em!

(By the way: I am NOT Dr. Phil. Please do whatever you want — or don’t want — to do for Valentine’s Day.)

Okay. Commence assiness:

“Valentine’s Boot Camp, Part 1”

Years ago, my fiance, Snake, and I had a wee row on Valentine’s Day. I had gotten him The Perfect Gift and he’d gotten me bupkis. Na-da. Unless you count that crisp, bitter chill in the air between us. He sat there with The Perfect Gift cradled in his lap and explained:

“I didn’t get you anything,” he sniffed, “because I knew you were expecting it.” Hmm …. Jack Frost nipping at my nose …. Now, a strange, convoluted, ah, discussion ensued.

“Well, what did I do or say that made you think I expected it?” I was bewildered.

“Nothing,” said Snake. “I just knew you did. You shouldn’t expect it, you know. And since you expected it, I didn’t do it.” I watched as he fiddled with The Perfect Gift in his lap.

I won’t relay more of what was said, because it basically went roundy-round on those two comments. Ain’t love grand.

Thankfully, I shed Mr. Snake from my life before ever slithering down the aisle to become Mrs. Snake.

So yes, that “day” is comin’. That !#&?! day dedicated to delight, delirium …. and dashed hopes.

Yep.

Birds-Trees-Hearts-and-Flowers Day.

Drunk-Dial-Your-Ex Day.

Lame ‘n’ Crappy Ol’ Valentine’s Day.

Please remain calm!

I know it’s a dratted manufactured holiday, fellas. Maybe we “shouldn’t expect it,” but, well, we’re history’s worst monsters and we do. Try looking at it this way: You have the chance to “outlove” ALL OTHER MEN. You could be the talk of all your wife’s friends, sending those green-eyed hens home to their roosters, clucking, “Why can’t you be more like Walter?!” You could be, if only for one day, The World’s Greatest Lover.

Trust me. Your woman will likely brag about you if you sweep ‘er off her dainty little feet. Why? Because women like to make other women feel bad. “If I’m the Queen, that means you’re not.” Well, maybe that’s a tad harsh. (But have you met any women?)

So, roosters, In the spirit of that !#&?! day, I’m serving up some ideas to get you to that lofty, long-for position of World’s … Greatest … Lover … Some of these are mine, some aren’t. I’ll do a few in this post — more in another. Here we go:

1. Understand the difference between a present and a gift:

A present is something you give because you want your beloved to have it.

A gift is something you give because you’re sure your beloved wants it.

Roosters — That Dustbuster is a present. That lacy little somethin’-somethin’ might be, too. Think about that.

Hens — Underwear, ties, and socks — unless handmade by you or your precious, wide-eyed 4-year-old — are presents.

“And extreme lustbusters,” MB is chiming in.

“Thanks, babe,” is what I lovingly say to him but what I’m thinking is “Hey — get your own !?@!#! blog!”

2. All right. Let’s get this over with. Flowers — eh. They’re okay, but every other WGL contender is doing it, so big whoop. That doesn’t set you apart as the BEST. Don’t do roses — unless they’re absolutelytutely her favorite. Meaning she’ll drop everything because she’s gone weak in the knees and passionately kiss you for …. hmm … say, at least 30 seconds. Then they’re probably her favorite.

3. Chocolate — if she LOVES it. See reaction above. But get the best you can afford. Not a Whitman’s Sampler that you bought in the drugstore from a slow-moving, loquacious cashier named Agnes on the way home from work …. on Valentine’s Day.

4. Okay. Old standbys out of the way. I’m gonna say something that’s true for me — and for my girlfriends (hey, we talk about this): We’d rather you take some time, be creative, than spend a lot of money. Sometimes the simplest things can make the most impact. A few years ago, My Beloved wrote me a list of reasons why he loved me. It was touching and funny and melted me. I took time, creativity. And I loved it. I remember there were a lot more reasons than I could have thought of — and more than I think I deserve. I still have that list. I still look at that list.

5. Last entry for this post — and necessary precursor to what’s coming in the next:

Roosters and Hens — Lovely presentation is part of the gift. It shows you took just a little extra time. It shows “the love.” If you are not “gifted” at this, please — oh, please — have someone do it for you. If you’re not sure whether you’re gifted at this, you can send me a picture of something you’ve wrapped — 😉 I’ll tell you straight. (Hey, in college I worked retail, wrapping gifts and preparing gift baskets for a very shi-shi-poo-poo store. So I got pretty darn good at — well, at shi-shi-poo-poo wrapping.) At least keep some handy-dandy gift bags on hand, get some excelsior (straw-like stuff from arts stores) or tissue — and nice it up! Come on. I know you can do it. (Or contact me and I’ll do it for you — I really would. Because I love to do that.) Yeah, I know …. I’m weird.

Okay, henhouse dismissed … for now …

(*Note from Present-Day Me: Oh, and since I apparently thought you still needed help, here’s MORE! Because I’m so LOVING! And GIVING! And NON-CONDESCENDING! Just like JESUS! ….. Ohh, no. I AM Dr. Phil. It’s true. I’m Dr. Phil. I mean, he’s an ass, right? And can’t you just hear all this rooster/henhouse crap in that Texas drawl of his?? Lord. I looooaathe myself right now. Still … let us proceed with more assiness! It must be purged:)

“Valentine’s Day Boot Camp, Part 2”

Okay. Part 2. As I said to all you roosters, it is a dratted manufactured holiday. We clucky little hens know that. But let me also say that I don’t think it’s manufactured just for our exclusive, prima donna, henny benefit. If you’re a hen who lounges around the hen house on Valentine’s Day waiting for the rooster to rock your world while you do nothing, you are a bad hen! Bad. Hen. (Well, those are a couple words I never thought I’d write together.)

Anyway, look. Maybe it’s just a matter of perspective. There’s obligatory romance and optional romance. Obligatory includes the birthdays, the anniversaries, perhaps the Christmas season, and, yes, V-Day. Optional includes, well, all other days. And, yes, optional romance is more romantic. But what’s wrong with looking at the obligatory days as an opportunity for roosters and hens to enhance the love level, to turn up the heat in the hen house?

Perhaps men fear our expectations: “Ahhhh! She wants a big, chubby diamond. She wants a screamingly expensive gift. She wants the la-di-da dinner with all those confusing, prissy forks!” No, no, and no! (Diamonds don’t make me all dewy. Expensive gifts scare me a bit. And prissy forks make me cry.) Not every woman expects — or even wants — the extravagant gesture. Many of us are happiest, most charmed, most swept off our feet by gestures that take some time, some thought, some creativity. And yes, ideally, we should be engaged in “the loooove” all year ’round, but when life interferes or we’ve gotten a little lazy, these days are a good chance to play a little lovey-dovey catch up. Do that little extra credit. Get that glow that lingers after a lovely — and even little — gesture.

All right. Shaddup, already, and give the !@$?! ideas, Trace. Here we go:

1. Write that list I referred to in part 1 — the reasons why you love her. Although, don’t do it if you can only think of three. Do put in some of her physical attributes that are your, uh, favorites. (But — perhaps — don’t make that the whole list.) And, hens, you can do this, too.

2. Buy a box of those kid Valentines. Write a little something on each one. Be romantic. Be racy. Whatever. Tape ’em to the walls. Put some in the mailbox. Hide them in your sock drawer. Fill his briefcase. You get the idea. S-p-r-e-a-d the love.

3. Send him/her a card each day for the week of Valentine’s. Better yet, make a card. MB has a gift with drawing. He can draw the funniest cartoons, so I have a few cards like that. Love ’em.

4. So if you have artistic gifts, use them. Draw, paint, write, etc., something that expresses “the love.” Maybe on the bathroom mirror.

5. Valentine’s Day is on Monday, so to help your beloved be more relaxed for the week ahead make Sunday night “Spa Night.” Break out the scented oils, massage lotions, fluffy towels, cucumber slices, etc. Use your computer — or hand make — a brochure creatively describing the services offered by your “spa.” (Choose whatever MPAA rating you’d like. )

6. Roosters — rent her favorite romantic movie, pop the popcorn, get out the cozy blanket for two. If the movie’s “Gone with the Wind, ” tell her she has to kiss you every time one character says another character’s name — say, oh, “Rhett,” for instance. She sees her favorite romance, but you get a little bit, too.

7. Make him his favorite meal. Or make her her favorite meal. Oh, and set it up picnic style on the floor …. or the bed. Candles, candles. (But as Smokey the Bear says, above all, “Be firesafe.”)

8. Brush her hair. Be gentle. It’s simple. It’s romantic.

9. Music, music, music …. ah, sweet music ….

10. Go to your favorite takeout place. Order aforementioned takeout. Smuggle takeout into the movies in a shopping bag. Don’t know why I love this one, but I do.

11. Slow dance in a restaurant — one that doesn’t have a dance floor. I guarantee people will applaud you.

12. Give yourself $5 each to spend at your favorite convenience store. See what kind of unusual stuff you can buy to have yourself a li’l diverting evening. Maybe some paints, paper, frozen cookie dough, temporary tattoos, nail polish …. trust me, that’s an interesting evening.

13. Go to your beloved’s car at work. Attach some balloons to the side mirror, windshield, etc. Before tying up one of the balloons, enclose a little love note — or a destination where to meet you and when. Leave a card with a co-worker complicit in this plan. Card should contain pin and instructions to pop balloons until note is found. Make complicit co-worker take pictures.

14. Roosters — Pajamagram.com. Order by tomorrow. Guaranteed V-Day delivery. Nice.

15. Revive the art of the love letter. If that’s not you, here are some thoughts to borrow:

“My dear Girl, I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known you, the more have I lov’d …. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest ….”

John Keats — but you can write something like that. I do believe you can.

16. Go to your favorite bookstore. Buy each other two books: One you know they’ll like; one you’d like them to read. (A gift and a present, plus reading. Yippee!)

17. Moonlight stroll. Hold hands. (In the rain. With no umbrella.) What, doesn’t everyone do it that way?

18. Have a Betty Crocker evening. Pick out the most decadent sounding dessert from your cookbooks. Shop for the ingredients and make it together from scratch. Don’t worry about gettin’ messy. In fact, the messier the better. You can always clean each other up later. 😉

19. And hens — Well, there’s always this and it usually gets a laugh. It’s something I invented called “The Boomerang Card”: Buy yourself a beautiful blank card. Write a love letter to yourself, rhapsodizing shamelessly about the wonders of yoouuuu. Don’t hold back. Embellish effusively. At the bottom of the card, draw an X and a line. Under the line write: “If you agree, sign your assent on the line above.” MB always laughs at these, keeps them, and gives them to me later.

20. Roosters — We hens are verbal, verrrrry verbal. So try this:

Look — really look — into her eyes, take her hand, and tell her something along this theme: “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You take my breath away and make my knees go weak and I’m so in love with you.” Etc., etc. Improvise freely, but mean it — and keep looking at her.

That oughtta shut ‘er up.

All righty! Just a few, not-so-expensive ideas from me to you.

And now, all you roosters and hens, Carpe That Confounding, Obligatory Diem!

(*Note from Present-Day Me: No, actually. There’s nothing to say. Nuh-thing. Only action will suffice. So I’m announcing a brief absence from this blog whilst I travel back in time to 2005 to kill the Rooster-Obsessed Romance Expert Tracey. But I’m pretty sure 2007 Tracey will remain unscathed — mostly because I’ve learned from movies and television that time travel into the past almost never has any negative repercussions in the present. I will also be hunting down that twangy, supercilious gingerbread man, Dr. Phil. And I will push him — REALLY HARD — in the gut and knock the wind outta him and stuff. Then I will stand there and demand to his belly button, “How’s that workin’ fer ya, Dr. Phil? Huh? HUH?” So, it’s toodles for now. I’ve got things to do.)

Assiness OUT.

Sheila did this one a little while ago. So I just up and brung it over here. Oh, and I’ve only done a little of it because it was long and because — well, have you heard I’m opening a coffeehouse?? So I’ll do part of it now and part of it some other time. And the categories ask for “books” — plural — but sheer laziness and exhaustion rendered me unable to think of more than one for most of these. And on some of them, I didn’t even get that!

So basically, an all-’round worthwhile endeavor here.

* Worst Books Ever, or Five Hours of My Life I’ll Never Get Back:

The Deep End of the Ocean by — I don’t even remember — some chick who seriously owes me 24.95.

Also: The Bridges of Madison County by some insufferable wordy prig.

* Books I Have Lied About Reading:

War and Peace. That’s a pretty big lie, man.

* Books I Have Lied About Liking:

I think I remember fake liking War and Peace after I fake read it. Maybe I should actually read the damn thing and see if I for-real like it.

* Book-to-Movie Adaptations Where, Frankly, the Movie Was Better:

Oh. LORD. The Freakin’ Bridges of Madison Freakin’ County. I absolutely hated that book. I hated that guy, that photographer — whoever he was — I don’t even remember his name. Just thinking about it fills me up with the WHITE-HOT HATE all over again. I remember my skin literally crawling as I read that piece of crap. At one point, the guy went on and on and ON with something like: “I’M the last cowboy …. blah, blah … something else about being a bitchen cowboy …. and blaahhh … something else about why I’m such a rugged hottie man and you should love me.” He talked so DAMN much in that book. Was all puffed up about himself. It was an absolute lust buster. But then Clint Eastwood comes along — that master of few words, I love him — and makes a really fine movie from it. That movie just groaned. The whole movie is just this yawning groan of longing that starts low, soft, and grows louder and louder. It’s what’s underneath everything, what you hear but don’t hear from these two people who should be together but can’t be together. Or won’t be together because there are responsibilites and expectations and trusts. Things arranged long before this … long before the photographer and his bridges. But I swear, if you can sit and watch that scene at the end when she’s in the truck with her husband … sitting behind his truck where he’s just waiting for her at the light … waiting … waiting … and the light has turned green and he’s still waiting and her hand is on the door handle and — what is she going to do? — if you can watch that with no reaction, nothing, without crying or urging her on, yelling at her to go, something …. then — I swear — something is wrong with you.

* Books I Used to Love, of Which I Am Now Ashamed:

I can’t think of any. Why be ashamed if you loved a book? Unless it’s the two I mentioned above, then shame, shame on yooouu!

* Best Book Titles of All Time:

I love the simplicity of The Old Man and The Sea

* My Real Guilty-Pleasure Reads, and Not the Decoys I Talk About Openly:

Well, actually, that’s Martha Stewart Living.

* Books You Must Read Before You Die, but Would Rather Die Than Read:

War and Peace

* Books I Refused to Read for a Long Time Because too Many (or the Wrong) People Recommended Them:

The DaVinci Code. Won’t read it. And not for any “oh, it so offends me” reasons. Just sick of hearing about it. And I rented the movie and — Lorrrrd, so boring — now I definitely won’t read it.

* Books I Read Only After Seeing the Movie:

Uhm, none that I can think of.

* Books I Most Often Try to Persuade Other People to Read:

I’m big on Philip Yancey — as we know. But I don’t think I’m too pushy about it.

* Authors I Wish Had Written More Books Already:

Hm. I want more books by Michel Faber; I went nuts for The Crimson Petal and The White

* Overused Plot Points That Drive Me Nuts:

Well, I hate the convenient ending. So this isn’t really answering the question, but the ending of The Deep End of the Ocean where the kidnapped kid has been living down the street from his parents for, like, oh, 10 years and then just shows up on their doorstep — all co-inky-dinky — to ask to do yardwork or something? PUH-leaze. I hated that family so much. That mother, especially, who stunk up the pages of that book with her lugubrious grief and soul-sucking coldness.

Okay. Tracey tired. Tracey done now. More …. or less! …. later.