I've had this conversation with two people now. So I might as well extend it to the blogosphere. It's about contentment. And settling. And tulle.
There's a recent phenomenon in wedding-gown shopping in which a bride ends up buying multiple dresses. She tries on a beautiful dress, thinks it's the one, and buys it. But then she finds another dress, the one she knows is the one. So then she's stuck trying to sell the first one. She suffers a financial loss, but it's worth it because she gets to walk down the aisle in sartorial perfection.
Some brides buy three or four gowns before the big day. Bridal consultants rejoice.
Such a shopping trend makes me uncomfortable.
Firstly, if you're not sure in the first place, why are you buying? Why are you settling? Why are you spending thousands on one deemed not good enough? Is it the panic that there just might not be anything better out there? Are you purchasing out of fear? Desperation?
Secondly, why are you still looking? If you think you've found the one, made the down payment, started the alteration process, what on earth are you doing trying on other dresses? And does this thought pattern carry over into other areas of your life? Will you keep looking at men after you've committed to the one you think is "the one"? Can you be content with your choice, even though it won't necessarily line up with the picture of magical perfection that floats in your head?
I will not settle. I will choose wisely. And then I will stand by my decision. This applies both to the dress I'll buy one day and to the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle. I'll be picky before I buy, not after.
P.S. I should be a wedding planner. And/or premarital counselor.
Stuff I'm thinking. On a superficial level. That's as deep as my brain goes this evening. It's a little sore.
Dancing with the Stars has lost its novelty. I don't care enough to accidentally watch it.
I suddenly like Castle. I think I'm obsessed with anything writer-related.
Paul Gross on Eastwick = poor man's version of Jack Nicholson. Too bad. I once loved Paul.
I need to learn css and html and everything code- and design-related. My ideas cannot magically appear without knowledge. And so I shall learn.
I will not write a 650-word article for $4. Now you know.
I took Tylenol tonight. I haven't had a headache in months. It's been so long, I'm not even complaining about this one. I figure it's time.
Coffee will be waiting for me in the morning. Yes, folks, I have an official writing-related reason to leave my apartment.
I need new shoes. But writers don't need shoes. We just need slippers. Shopping trip averted.
The new "cocktail lounge" across the street is actually a sports bar. I am so confused. If I need to hang out with questionable characters late at night, I'll stick with the pub next door. It has karaoke.
I was walking down King Street with my mom. I was in a sundress, on my way to be charmed by the von Trapp family, and in a very good mood. A stranger, not watching where he was going, ran into me.
GUY: Sorry. I love you.
I smiled. And kept walking. And when he was out of earshot, I told him I loved him, too. Just not that way.
This weekend was a wonderful one, filled with laughter and heart-to-hearts and mini-adventures and challenging late-night conversation. Douglas Coupland's exhibit was involved. As was Scrabble. And new friends. And old friends. And YouTube. And lipgloss. And sunshine. And long walks. And streetcar rides. And patios. And plenty of coffee.
And everything kept coming back to love. Not necessarily that of the romantic variety (although it certainly came up), but love nevertheless. Friendships and why they grow stagnant. Needy individuals and why we're scared to invest in them. Failure to trust God with life and love and every tiny desire of the heart.
"Love takes the initiative." Church was so good today. So aligned with everything in my heart and head right now. The importance of the pursuit of God above every other pursuit. Stepping away from the bubble of self and choosing to actively love the outsider. Over lunch with my mom and two new friends, I saw the teaching come to life. It's not about me. That's not why I'm here, to just sit around and think about what I want and need and don't have.
I've always loved the story of Ruth. But now I think I love the woman Ruth too.
(If you've got 50 minutes to spare, listen to "The Odd Couple." All thumbs up. Not that I critique my Sunday mornings. For discerning sci-fi fans, Bruxy may have opened with, "On the eighth day, God created Battlestar Galactica.")
I used to go to movies by myself at least once a month. But in recent years, the habit faded with an increasingly overwhelming social and work life. Suddenly there were no opportunities to just stop by a cheap theater on my way home from work and watch a quirky flick solo.
I've missed that.
I don't know how to explain it without sounding insane. For most of you, the thought would never cross your minds to spend two hours in the dark with strangers. But I'm not most of you. And oddly, I'm more likely to feel lonely when I'm stripped of my freedom to just be a little spontaneous and independent. One of the perks to getting older is learning to be comfortable with just being myself. I'm not an insecure teenager anymore, and kind of like hanging out with the woman I've become. She's pretty cool sometimes. She has bizarre ideas, makes random observations, has the heart of a child, the brain of an old woman, and can be giggling on the inside while appearing nonchalant to all those who pass her by. And she occasionally cries over animated old men.
I still love watching movies with friends, I really do. But sometimes I want to get caught up in a story without worrying about how I'm responding to a flick. When you go solo, no one holds you accountable for your laughter, mockery or tears. No one debriefs with criticism when your heart's all light and mushy. Sometimes I just crave an honest reaction from myself.
Friends used to call this solo-watching "pulling a Nadine." I highly recommend it. Everyone should do it at least once.
Okay, on to UP. This post should probably be a two-parter. I apologize for making you read paragraphs. (No, I don't. I lied.)
Delightful. Poignant. Christopher Plummer. And I cried. Twice.
I wasn't expecting to be moved by this great little geriatric-action-adventure flick. Because I had heard rumors of audiences tearing up, I assumed that I would remain cold-hearted and emotionless. Because that's often the case. The expectation of tears ruins it. Not this time.
It hit surprisingly close to home: What does adventure look like? What happens when our lives don't pan out the way we once dreamed it would? What is failure? Is part of growing up seeing our dreams change shape, our priorities shift, our deal-breakers readjust? If you had asked me last year what I'd be doing right now, I would have told you I'd be writing from somewhere that required a passport. Maybe with a boy and/or wombat in the tent next to me. (Yeah, I don't blog about everything, folks. Because my head doesn't always take me to places that are fair to others.)
I've landed in those places where I've mercilessly banged on the piano or scribbled in my journal, "I wanted an adventure, but NOT THIS ONE." But since my life is like a Pixar movie, the adventure I end up living is always far greater than one I could imagine. And with plenty of awkward character development to keep things interesting and moving in a generally forward direction.
As I walked out the theater this afternoon, I realized I'd be as perfectly happy with Ellie's adventure as I would be with Carl's. Because there's no point in having an adventure if you're not sharing it with someone. Even if that adventure doesn't look like the one you thought you wanted. And even if that someone is a rather annoying little boy who just needs a merit badge.
(In somewhat related news, I'd totally be open to a movie date to see 500 Days of Summer. Not necessarily a literal date. Unless that's how you roll. I heart Zooey.)
Nadine is in Stratford-recovery mode. So I, the blog, am choosing to seize the moment and spew her half-written, discarded and almost-deleted thoughts into cyberspace.
Stolen from her draft folder, email archives and the like, I present to you the Real Nadine:
Words
Today I typed the word "panties." And then my fingers almost went on strike. Seriously awful word.
Paranoia
Ever wonder if there are Gmail elves who read your messages to friends?
Who You Gonna Call?
If I were a superhero, I'd be SuperVague. And no one would ever have any idea what I was talking about.
Waitress-y
"I would totally make out with my gynecologist."
~Best out-of-context quote ever.
Genius
Maybe I should record an album of Nickelback covers.
Legislated Nostalgia
There are days when I catch myself almost nostalgically crushing on Dave Grohl. Because of Nirvana. And Nevermind. And when I hear "Smells Like Teen Spirit," I think of deodorant, gunshot wounds, Moulin Rouge and a collage of media images: fans carving Cobain's initials into their arms, weeping uncontrollably.
I don't know if Kurt and I would have been friends.
Do Not Send
I should be studying right now. I have a final examination tomorrow and my attendance for the particular class hasn't exactly been exemplary. Unfortunately, my brain is actively rebelling against all forms of theatrical theory, and I find myself sitting here, pen in hand, unable to think of anything but you.
This has to stop.
~Unsent letter. University.
Beautiful
I tried to find an ugly person once. I was in a really dark place emotionally, and felt invisible and hideous and all those things that are complete LIES. So I started people-watching. And I noticed that there are no ugly people. None. And since I'm not the exception to the rule, I must be beautiful too.
Awkward
Decaffeinated coffee is kind of like kissing your sister.
~Bob Irwin
Honest
FRIEND: What if you had two options: You could have the future you currently want. Or you could have whatever God's planned, which may or may not include what's in your head.
[awkward silence]
ME: I'd trust God. But I might throw up a little.
Speaking of Vomit...
A little boy threw up on the bus. I wanted to hug him.
A grown man spit in the subway. I wanted to push him onto the tracks.
Speed without Keanu
I need to learn to read at a speaking pace.
Sheesh
Funny how I'll give away the "fat" clothes but not the "skinny" ones. Being a girl is rough sometimes. I once had a size 4 skirt beside a size 13 skirt in my closet. Neither fit. I got rid of the larger one.
Truth
Batman on the red carpet would be amazing.
Captain Obvious
I have a very active brain life.
Nadine will be back to blogging shortly. She'll read this, be shocked at the unauthorized revealing of her deepest darkest drafts, and will most likely delete this. She's like that. Sometimes.
Jeremy: So, can I kiss you or what? Mirabelle: The point being?
Ever see Shopgirl? It's so painfully awkward and endearing. Especially Jason Schwartzman's speech about amps. ("Amplifiers are so under-appreciated....") This has nothing to do with anything. Except that, like Mirabelle, I think too much. But unlike Mirabelle, I have no intentions of ever making out with Steve Martin.
I was going to blog about one thing, but then got distracted. And then I was going to write about something else, but self-censorship got in the way. And then I checked my email too many times, ate too much sugar, and embraced today as Neurotic Wednesday.
It's probably better to consciously indulge in insane thinking on occasion than to let it creep into my everyday life. I'm now trying to find a way to channel this awkward energy into something creative.
Did you watch the Oscars last night? If not, never fear. You can relive it here. For the sake of time and/or your sanity, I won't chat about every little detail of every single award. But I can't promise this thing will be short, either.
It's a recessionista's dream. Oh, how the set design makes me smile. Critics can't agree on this, but I don't care. It's fun and fresh and campy and awkward.
Hugh. In a tux. With that accent. I melt. Unexpectedly. It's the self-deprecation. "I'm an Australian, playing an Australian in a movie called Australia...." I can't believe that I once lumped him into a category of men who wore sweatpants in public.
Singing to Kate Winslet: "I would swim a sea of human excrement." (Watch Slumdog Millionaire to make sense of the lyrics.)
The dancing. The song. The props. My inner theatre geek is totally won over. He makes Anne Hathaway cool. "I'm Wolverine!" [WATCH OPENING HERE]
To Mickey Rourke: "If you win, we switch to a 20-minute delay."
I kind of love this whole shake-up. I don't know what's coming next. Weird. Past winners announce the current nominees. Strangely heartfelt tributes.
Whoopi to Amy Adams: "It's not easy being a nun." Ha.
This is going to be a super-teary-eyed show. Man. These producers are BRILLIANT. People are crying before the first award is handed out.
Penelope Cruz wins. Shoot. I wanted Taraji.
Phone rings. I miss Pene's speech, but don't really care. In fact, I end up missing all the writing stuff too. But I see Tina Fey look lovely. And it appears as though she and Steve Martin are being hilarious.
I have a crush on Milk's screenwriter. So I check out his acceptance speech on YouTube later. Yes, I know that it's pointless to have a crush on a gay man. Thanks, people. This was his FIRST screenplay. And he writes for Big Love. And he wore the greatest outfit at the Spirit Awards the night before. If I were a boy, I'd dress like him.
(Re: YouTube'd speech - HERE. I almost cried. "You are beautiful, wonderful creatures that are valued." Cyber-hug to Dustin Lance Black.)
Simon Beaufoy wins for Slumdog screenplay. The winning streak has begun.
Phone call done. I turn off the cell.
Jennifer Aniston and Jack Black chitchat. Producers cut to Angelina. Oh, drama-creation. I think they're adults. They can handle hanging out in the same massive room. (I like the little braid in Jen's hair. Remind me to braid mine someday soon.)
Wall-E! The director thanks his high-school drama teacher. I can't wait until I get to write an acceptance speech. So many random people to thank. Like Bono, Peter Jackson and the girl who told me my pants were too short in the sixth grade.
SJP and Daniel Craig. I'd rather be James Bond than Carrie Bradshaw. Okay, her dress is better on-stage. I love the stage. I'm in a really happy, non-critical mood right now. I'm giddy just thinking about movies.
Robert Pattinson and Amanda Seyfried. Romance in 2008. None of the clips are making me want to fall in love. Well, maybe the shot of Aaron Eckhart (who was also super-handsome at the Spirit Awards). Or the Slumdog kids. The clips of people screaming "I hate you" aren't helping the situation. Call me old-fashioned, but I'm not really into the love/hate thing. It's so junior high.
Natalie Portman and Ben Stiller. Ben as Joaquin. Amazing. Ron Howard also finds this amazing. [WATCH HERE] Too bad this very same make-fun-of-Joaquin Phoenix-skit was done at the Spirit Awards already. But with a foul-mouthed Batman added. I was probably the only viewer, so no biggie.
Cinematography: I say Slumdog. So does the Academy.
Jessica Biel is awkward. And is chuckling at her own non-funniness. Go back to Seventh Heaven. I'm having drama-class flashbacks. She's the know-it-all aspiring soap star.
Pineapple Express spoof. I love James Franco. (Oh, and if you ever watch PE, turn on the subtitles. I hear they're fantastic.) The Love Guru got its clip. Oh, but James Franco.... How I admire your stoner-brilliance. Funniest Oscar-montage clip EVER. I can't explain it here. I would destroy it. Best DP-involved presentation ever. Enter YouTube. [SERIOUSLY, WATCH]
(P.S. Yes, The Reader is about a young boy having sex with a Nazi. The Academy has crazy taste in art. And yes, it's a good movie.)
I nominate James Franco for host in 2010.
"The musical is back, ladies and gentlemen." Wait for it, folks.... [OR WATCH IT]
Beyonce?! GO HOME, SASHA FIERCE. You are not welcome here. A Gene Kelly line. A Grease medley?! Now Zac Efron is singing. With Vanessa. My poor brain. With Mamma Mia people. Huh. I expected more. Is that weird? Baz Luhrmann, you should have called Ewan and Nicole. Does Beyonce know that "At Last" isn't her song?
Dear, 2010 producers, Beyonce has overstayed her Oscar welcome. This is her third year of making me fake vomit. In her place, try asking AN ACTOR. Or A NOMINEE. Or ANYONE ELSE.
There are still A LOT of clips for a show that is apparently radically different from previous shows filled with clips. Hmm. I feel bad for Cuba Gooding Jr. Why do we keep reminding him that his career peaked with Jerry Maguire?!
I feel a Heath moment coming on. I hope I cry. Is that morbid?
HEATH LEDGER.
Standing ovation. His gorgeous family. Brad's in tears. And Adrien Brody. And Anne. And Angelina. "On behalf of your beautiful Matilda."
Man on Wire wins. Another check mark for me. I'm still in a solemn post-Heath mood. And then the wire dude balances his Oscar on his chin. WHAT?!
Short Documentary was another random non-correct guess. The winner says "Lucky me" in a tone that sounds suspiciously sarcastic.
Post-production stuff. The Dark Knight should finally start picking up. Clip of Wanted. Highly recommended if you like crazy-creative gunfire. And/or James McAvoy.
Will Smith. In describing visual effects, takes a beautiful jab at Mr. Pretty: "They can take Brad Pitt and turn him into a garden gnome." Hear, hear.
Visual Effects: Benjamin Button! Yep, I got that one right too.
Sound Editing. The Dark Knight? Yes? Please, Academy.... [drum roll] The Dark Knight! I should have bet that annual toonie. When I win my first Oscar, I'm going to thank Christopher Nolan. I'll add him to my list.
Sound Mixing: I call The Dark Knight. The winner: Slumdog. But no hating here. Did you see Dev Patel's face? LOVE HIM. Man, I'm in such a hug-everyone mood.
Just noticed that a Twitterer wants an Oscar limit on movies. Apparently she's not into Slumdog. Or she's just dumb. I kind of want to hit her. But she's a stranger, and I typically reserve violence for people I know.
Film Editing: Should be Slumdog. Is Slumdog. All is right in the world.
I forgot that Eddie Murphy was nominated for Dreamgirls. "Nominee" with his name doesn't sound right. Not after Norbit. He is not exactly in Jerry Lewis' league. So why is he handing him the award?
I appreciate the orchestra. I really do. But why does it feel like there's so much filler in this supposedly streamlined show? I'm so torn. I no longer have any idea how I feel about this show.
I think Goldie Hawn just yawned.
Is Alicia Keys wearing the same dress as Natalie Portman? Close. It looks better on Natalie.
Original Score: Slumdog. Happiness.
Then the winner for Original Score sings and dances. (MIA is not singing. Apparently giving birth super-recently is now an excuse for missing the Oscars.) Um, Academy, why did you snub Springsteen? I need to get the Slumdog soundtrack. I could run a marathon to it. The Oscar goes to..."Jai Ho." So the winner/performer is a winner again. And says "I chose love." So did I. I think.
This is going to be over before midnight. SHOCKING.
Uh, oh. Queen Latifah is going to sing for the dead. Don't do it. I can tell the producers are trying to distract us from the applause. So we can't tell who the audience is favoring. It's not working. Man, it was a rough year for Hollywood. Half of the town died. Although the cameramen aren't letting us read the dead folks' names. All I know is that Paul Newman wins as most-loved dead guy. It's because of the salad dressing. So good.
Reese Witherspoon. In something dark and dramatic and refreshingly non-ethereal. Lainey calls her dress "a bruise."
Best Director: Danny Boyle! Amazing. And completely non-surprising. He jumps up and down "in the spirit of Tigger, from Winnie the Pooh." Aw. Because he promised his kids he would.
Best Actress: Come on Kate. You can do it....
Shirley McLaine made Anne Hathaway cry.
Melissa Leo can't win. Remember, her hair qualifies her to be Prince Charles' next wife.
Sophia scares me.
Nicole Kidman looks great. How? Why? And Angelina is still gorgeous. And terrifying.
KATE!!! I love her. Too much. "It's not a shampoo bottle now." Yes, she's an emotional, earnest, off-the-cuff spewer. But I like her frankness. Her dad whistles at her. Seriously, how much more endearing can you get? Oh, and her forehead moves.
Best Actor time. My (fake) money is on Mickey Rourke. I hope he thanks his dead dog. Seriously.
De Niro is petitioning that Penn win because "he's a great human being." Um, I guess Mother Teresa should have had a bookshelf of gold men. Or at least a couple more than Penn.
Adrien Brody needs to shave. Apparently he's "not a fan of Google." WHAT?!
Brad Pitt is a great actor, yes. And actually underrated. Except today. He will not win.
Sean Penn?! Oh, right. Because the Academy likes him. And Rourke has burned 95% of his bridges. Princess Buttercup is crying. And now he's getting political. I guess that's what happens when you're in a political movie. "Mickey Rourke rises again. And he is my brother." Bad boys unite.
Okay, Best Picture time. If it's not Slumdog, there's no point. I quit life.
Filler, filler, filler....
Spielberg says: Slumdog Millionaire!!!!!! And they're bringing the kids on the stage. No, wait. They're bringing EVERYBODY on stage. Seriously, this is why they won. Because it's an ensemble of amazingness. No stars, no power, no muscle. It was supposed to be direct-to-DVD!
Midnight. Bedtime.
You do realize that Slumdog's success all began at the Toronto Film Festival. Which means you should all come visit me in September and we'll party it up with next year's Best Picture folks.
I wrote that a couple of months ago. And I stand by it. It's one of those lessons that's taken me a while to learn, but regret is overrated. Because the few chances I've had in life to actually experience the "do over," my world didn't suddenly become the stuff of legends. Although it did become a little more complicated, a little more fun, a little more "Nadine, this is what it's like to stop thinking so much." But still, the regret certainly wasn't worth the mental anguish.
I'm a thinker. And an over-analyzer. I carefully weigh my decisions and am fully capable of talking myself out of anything. Except groceries. I can walk around in boots with holes in them. I can turn down a lovely evening with friends. I can reject the notion of a week in the sun for the sake of my little bank account and the prospect of even greater adventures that may or may not pop up on the horizon. So on Do Over Day, there won't be a whole lot of things I've done that I can regret. It's the things I chose not to do, I suppose, that I could wistfully long for.
What would I do over?
Nothing. Well, maybe not nothing.
I would order the Chicken Marrakesh instead of the salmon at The Sultan's Tent.
And maybe I wouldn't be such a picky jerk around a couple of really fantastic gentlemen. I was pretty cold in high school to guys who couldn't spell/play the guitar/read.
Okay, and I would take art class instead of music.
And I wouldn't head-butt my fake husband in play rehearsals. I think it was a subconscious way to avoid kissing him.
I would ignore my budget and willingly go into debt for U2 tickets.
And I'd probably take a year between college and the real world and travel far, far away.
Oh, and I would not tell the lead singer of Shepherd Hall that his band is going to be huge one day. I was 150% delusional.
And I probably wouldn't accuse my parents of never having loved me. That was a rough day. High school is torture.
Now, there are moments I'd love to revisit and do over exactly as I lived them. That's the part of Do Over Day I fully embrace.
I would go back to Burnt Church and jump off the bridge into sewage-infested waters.
I'd relive a few warm summer evenings. A few ice cream cones. A sunrise. New Year's Day at the beach. Midnight conversations. Awkward goodbyes. Sleepless sleepovers. Jam sessions.
I'd re-stalk my favorite band (this was before the great U2 discovery). And spend that late night in their room, interviewing them as if I were the star of Almost Famous.
I'd revisit my summer in Stratford. Every moment. Actually, I'd relive every moment ever spent on the stage.
I'd hold my grandma's hand again. That moment before she died.
I'd hop on that plane and head west. (Maybe I will...and not abandon my camera this time.)
And I would totally jump out of the classroom's closet, sword waving wildly, shouting in iambic pentameter. Not all of high school was evil.
What about you? Regret or relive, what would you do over?
Okay, okay, I'll cave. (As in Batcave.) I'll chat about Mr. Bale.
But first, let's get a non-maniacal image in our heads, shall we?
This is the face of someone about to begin major damage control.
I heart Laurie.
Christian Bale swears a lot in a loud voice and everyone looks at me. As if it's shocking that I would spend so much quality time with such a volatile personality. Or as if I might crumble upon hearing the news of his non-warm-and-fuzziness. (This is where your mom explains the difference between being a fan and actually having a relationship with someone.)
My heart is not broken over Christian Bale's rant. I'm not going to suddenly boycott his movies or burn my VHS of Swing Kids (the horror). Honestly, I'm really not shocked by it. At all. News broke of this verbal assault when it happened LAST YEAR (around the same time as his infamous family blowup). And he has long had a bit of a perfectionist-on-the-verge-of-a-tantrum reputation. So much so that they called him Tandy on the set of Metroland. Yes, before he was Batman. Or even the American Psycho.
Yes, folks, I do my research.
ASIDE: It's beat-up-famous-people week. Now people are questioning whether Michael Phelps should compete in 2012. What?! I don't have crazy medical/marijuana knowledge, but I'm pretty sure that it leaves your system after four years. I think it's time America took its chill pills.
Jerry Maguire says we live in a cynical world. I believe him. But I recently realized that I'm also very generous with giving people the benefit of the doubt. And that my cynicism is often just me taking the easy way out. If I'm hurt, it's so easy to write someone off as a jerk, even though he/she had no cruel intentions whatsoever. It's a defense mechanism. So I don't have to deal with the me side of the equation.
Who am I to sit down and assess whether a stranger's behaviour is justified? The "journalism" covering this is ridiculous. Both sides.
I'm not going to defend Bale's moment of rage. But I'm not going to define him by it either. More than anything, I'm creeped out that the tape was leaked in the first place. Not cool.
Let's just remember that Bale and Kermit the Frog have much in common. That he was a Newsie. That he has the cutest daughter ever. That he's brilliant at his craft. And that he's JUST A MAN.
I'm on Team Bale. Because everyone needs someone on their team, even when they're in the wrong. Maybe especially when they're in the wrong.
P.S. I still love Mel Gibson post-drunken tirade. I forgive all. P.P.S. If you want to be really scared of Bale, watch Harsh Times. I had to turn away. P.P.P.S No, I'm not going to link to the rant. You can Google it if you can't stand being the one person on the planet who hasn't heard it. I recommend listening to a remix of it. Or the one with Bill O'Reilly. But not if you're under 14. Kids, just say no to profanity. Keep those ears lovely.
It's the year of the comeback. In one corner, we have Robert Downey Jr., everyone's favorite ex-convict. It's almost unfair how fantastic he looks after years of abusing his body with poison. In another corner, Britney is poised for a worldwide tour, abs back in look-at-me form. And then there's Mickey.
Mickey Rourke was pretty much unemployable for years. Over a decade, actually. He was a liability. He may still be. He screwed up his body with drugs, his face with boxing and surgery, his relationships with unpredictable and volatile behavior. And then someone risked a professional career and fought for him. One role later, and he's in line (and maybe even the favorite) for the Oscar. What a year, indeed.
He scares me a little. Mostly because, unlike Downey, this man is an island. He doesn't have heroes to thank at award shows, he has his dogs. And his role in The Wrestler might be more a testament to supplementation and the hard life of a has-been than of remarkable acting talent. Maybe it's just a little too real.
And while his burned bridges may be all that stands in his way of a little gold man, he has far greater obstacles ahead of him. Will one performance be redemption in a town that wrote him off long ago? Will a gentler Mickey emerge from the land of critical acclaim? Or will a self-dependent man only crumble further under the weight of a lonely life?
What happens if he can't live up to the expectations of "comeback"? Or if the insecurity-fueled ego continues to trip him up?
Note to self: It's okay to live alone, but don't live life alone.
I don't post about Britney Spears very often. We don't have much in common.
I'll never forget watching the video to "...Baby One More Time" for the first time. It was so new. So fresh. So darn catchy. And while I soon overdosed on peppy pop and moved on to acoustic guitars and a man known as Bono, I've always had a bit of a soft spot for the schoolgirl with fuzzy scrunchies in her pigtails. It's been ten years. I feel old.
Last night, I inadvertently got sucked into the completely unrevealing quasi-doc "Britney: For the Record." As she quote-unquote opened up for the interviewers and gave us a peak into her personal world, I felt uneasy. It was so orchestrated. So out of her hands. This was a management move. She doesn't have her kids, control of her estate, or even the privilege of going on a date without a chaperone. She went along with the game, smiling as she gave the responsible, grownup answers. She's back in fine form. She's tough. She will survive.
And then she broke. For only a second or two. Her voice wavered. She looked into a lens and cried for help.
"I'm sad."
I almost cried for Britney Spears last night.
Bebo Norman, always reading my mind, wrote her a song.* It's gorgeous and haunting and optimistic and completely uncomfortable to listen to.
I've called a stranger a trainwreck. I've rolled my eyes at a broken heart. I've both told the lies and bought into them. And perhaps I've failed her.
Britney, I'm sorry.
*The video IS NOT an official video. A fan used his song to make their own tribute to Spears. See him play it live here.
I want to be Bebo Norman when I grow up. And when I learn to play the guitar.
Andrew Shue and Andrew Keegan are the same person, separated by one generation in the world of heartthrobs.
They are both Andrew.
They both have that hair.
They both exude that vacant-behind-the-eyes broodiness that only blond costars love.
They both subscribe to the school of cardboard acting. (I was going to call it "wooden," but that's not fair to Keanu, master of such stiffness.)
It all comes down to Melrose Place vs. 7th Heaven.
To be fair, Shue went on to play soccer professionally. Very cool. And Keegan modeled socks in 10 Things I Hate About You: "So I've got the Sears catalog thing going. And the tube sock gig. That is gonna be huge."
Too close to call, folks. I love to hate 'em both.
I was going to post the most ridiculously amazing YouTube party here. But then my head got overwhelmed with things that actually matter. You know, the things of man, the mystery of God, the messiness of life. Home church has been really good for me. Scary, too, as these people I'm now trudging through life with don't really know me. I hear myself processing things aloud, repeating myself for fear that I'm not understood. And in hearing the stories of others, my little problems dissolve. I was instantly humbled just looking one woman in the eye.
It was a little bittersweet to wrap up the His & Hers series at The Meeting House. It was full of painful and enlightening "aha" moments that I will probably have to revisit to process properly. The series was also frustrating, as I'm only one half of every guy-meets-girl relationship I'm in. And none of the other halves with there. I would sit there, silently screaming, "Yes! That's me! Why isn't [some guy I know] here? Why can't I articulate this on my own?" Sigh.
I've also been revisiting some old John Eldredge stuff recently. I'll post again when I'm thinking more clearly. Sometimes the snob in me writes off some of the generalizations in his prose as a defense mechanism. Would I easily admit to you that "Am I lovely?" is one of the key questions I, as a woman, struggle with answering daily? No. But is it? Uh, yeah.
(Seriously though, if little girls in tutus are supposed to end up with bloody William Wallaces, clearly there's some hard work in store.)
But I think I like this thing called diversity. And the idea that abolishing gender roles doesn't necessitate that we ignore gender. I need to be more intentional about learning from the gender I'm not. Because I really do want to live a life that doesn't ghettoize. I don't want to only gravitate toward sameness, whether that's gender, race, socioeconomic status or age. (So I suppose I should befriend a rich old sultan....) Sure, male/female friendships can get complicated. But an absence of them creates another whole series of problems.
Oh, and tonight, I may have accused Jesus of "having a blast" with his resurrection. And I stand by it. I'll explain later.
And I'll share the YouTube awesomeness tomorrow. Probably.
Seacrest out.
P.S. Who wouldn't want to end up with a bloody William Wallace? I mean, minus the face paint, bad accent, historical inaccuracy and missing intestines....
Sometimes I have a hard time believing the things people say. I feel like a disillusioned cynic. And I don't like it. But I'm now sure how to remedy this either.
There are some individuals on this planet who could tell me they're related to Kermit the Frog and I would believe them with every fiber of my being. I'd be excited for them. And maybe even brag about their awesome puppet ancestry on their behalf. There are others who could tell me that they had Cheerios for breakfast and I'd walk away mumbling something like, "I bet she doesn't even eat breakfast."
Maybe some people cry wolf too many times. Maybe I've grown weary of the runaround and the partial truth. Or maybe I just have a BS radar.
(BS = bogus stuff. Obviously. Because children might be reading this.)
When I was little (6 or so), I didn't like my best friend's dad. There was no reason for this outside of a child's intuition. BOY and I would be playing in the living room when MAN would walk through the door. In that very instant, I'd become uncomfortable. And I didn't know why.
And then one morning, MAN woke up and told his wife that he no longer loved her. That he wanted to live with her as a roommate, but see other women.
Somehow I knew all along. He creeped me out because he had creep in him. I sniffed out his inner bad guy.
Some time later, my mother told me that BOY frequently cried himself to sleep. That was so foreign to me. I'd never been devastated to the point of being inconsolable.
Tonight, I heard some devastating news. And I didn't believe a word of it. I don't know if I'm honing in on my inner-child radar of innocence, or if I'm channeling my inner bitter old lady who doesn't trust anyone anymore.
Sigh.
FYI: MAN was kicked out. Because his wife didn't want him dating other women. Understandably. Last I heard, he's still with wife #3. But that was years ago.
I have no idea what happened to BOY either. I hope he recovered from his cooties.
Probably because I struggle with empathizing with hopelessness. Because my lowest low has never taken me there.
More people have chosen to end their lives at the Golden Gate Bridge than anywhere else in the world.
It's fascinating, looking at that line between standing on the bridge and jumping off it. Or choosing between looking at life through a lens and putting the camera down to pull a stranger back to life.
I can't imagine...
...realizing I don't want to die after taking that step off the ledge.
...being so disillusioned after looking for love in every place but the right one that I just give up on love altogether.
...finding a miracle in a shattered body rather than a lifeless one.
...seeing no other option.
...getting that phone call.
...watching the fall.
...choosing the fall.
I don't think suicide's an unforgivable sin. I think it's a tragedy. And that God's heart breaks for those who don't trust Him to pull them through. But God is bigger than life. He's not limited by one painful choice. Nor can human despair severe something God put in place. No, it's not His will. But condemning those who struggle with depression isn't His will either.
Why do we never talk about mental illness until it's too late? And why do we choose to ignore the cries for help?
"I will never again not intrude. I won't respect their privacy. And I will not ever again not do something because I'm afraid they might be embarrassed."
And what would I do if I saw you on that precipice?
I will blog about my fantastic weekend tomorrow. In the meantime, know that the above photo pretty much sums it up: perfect. (And yes, I took the picture. I'm working on my photography skills).
A few months ago, I started writing a blog post about the word "safe." About how I wanted to be safe without playing it safe. But I managed to lose any skill for articulateness. And so it remained unpublished. And then today, I came across the blog entry I wish I wrote. So please read about "safe" over at This Is REVERB. My head, his words.
Speaking of other people speaking for me....
Bruxy (my pastor) was awesome again this week. And totally identified a conversation I had a few weeks ago. He was talking about how men and women communicate differently, about how men carefully select their words and care about the definitions of the those words. And how for women, verbal precision is less important than the process.
This was the conversation:
ME: Blah, blah, blah, heart-on-sleeve, blah, blah, big sweeping statement, blah, blah, too much information, blah, blah, everything in my head....
HIM: This. Is. Exactly. What. I. Want. You. To. Understand.
I walk away, thinking we've had a heart-to-heart. Days later, I get an email from HIM: "I've been thinking about what you said...."
Exactly as Bruxy described, the words and their definitions mattered to HIM. For ME, the processing aloud was the point, not the specific sentences.
Sometimes I speak the truth without thinking things through. I say a little too much. But because it's the truth, I can't take it back. And when my words come back to haunt me, I have to stand by them. I just wish they were never heard in the first place.
Maybe I'm still trying to find that line between openness and honesty. Or maybe I'm just disappointed when openness doesn't lead to a reciprocal heart-on-sleeve moment. Or maybe, just maybe, I only want to hear one thing. And think that opening a vein will somehow evoke an identical expression in the listener.
But I cannot will a person to respond according to my scripted version of life.
I'm trying to live a little more fearlessly. Maybe some things need to be said no matter what the outcome. And maybe I need to just let go of what I think that outcome should be.
I went for a jog yesterday after work. Because that is what I now do. I don't know exactly when the proverbial switch flipped, but my body is going to thank my overworked brain one day for seeking therapy on the pavement.
And instead of the usual happy fun stuff, I went to the man I trust with the intimate stuff of life. I turned to Bono.
Now, as a relatively new athlete, I tend to do the walk/jog interval thing. With the jogging being in small spurts. But not yesterday. When "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?" started playing, I just flew around the block. And did not stop.
It was Monday's perfect song. Every day should have its own. And somehow, I'm both Bono and the girl he's singing to. Without singing to myself. I'm not completely schizophrenic. That would complicate things even further.
You're dangerous, 'cos you're honest. You're dangerous, you don't know what you want. Well you left my heart empty as a vacant lot For any spirit to haunt.
You're an accident waiting to happen You're a piece of glass left there on a beach. Well you tell me things I know you're not supposed to Then you leave me just out of reach.
Who's gonna ride your wild horses? Who's gonna drown in your blue sea? Who's gonna ride your wild horses? Who's gonna fall at the foot of thee?
Well you stole it 'cos I needed the cash And you killed it 'cos I needed revenge. Well you lied to me 'cos I asked you to. Baby, can we still be friends?
Who's gonna ride your wild horses? Who's gonna drown in your blue sea? Who's gonna ride your wild horses? Who's gonna fall at the foot of thee?
Ah, the deeper I spin Ah, the hunter will sin for your ivory skin. Took a drive in the dirty rain To a place where the wind calls your name Under the trees, the river laughing at you and me. Hallelujah! Heaven's white rose The doors you open I just can't close.
Don't turn around, don't turn around again. Don't turn around your gypsy heart. Don't turn around, don't turn around again. Don't turn around, and don't look back. Come on now love, don't you look back.
Who's gonna ride your wild horses? Who's gonna drown in your blue sea? Who's gonna taste your saltwater kisses? Who's gonna take the place of me? Who's gonna ride your wild horses? Who's gonna tame the heart of thee?
I've had this conversation with two people now. So I might as well extend it to the blogosphere. It's about contentment. And settling. And tulle.
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