Sunday, March 25, 2012

a shrink considers mommy porn

I was having another quiet uninspiring boring Saturday night on the couch, one in which the only occurrence of interest was the careful application of ice to my tush*, when the phone rang.

It was Sue Cee, one of my favorite homettes, calling from our nation's capital. She's there to join a bunch of friends for a cancer benefit race.  They're running the streets of DC in honor of my BFF's husband and fellow homeboy of thirty-five years.  He was recently diagnosed, we were all stunned and saddened to learn just two short weeks ago.  It's going to be a serious fight for these dearest of friends

But back to the phone call.

Sue Cee sounded Tip Cee.

Three glasses of wine, she said.

Wah ha ha!  Snort!  I heard.

Wah ha ha!  

She was hardly coherent.  Iffy shades of grey, she snorted.  Give it to your husband, she cackled.  Spice up your sex life, she guffawed.  I could hear my other friends in the background laughing right along with her.

Eventually I deciphered that she was talking about the e-book bestseller and softcore fictional book, 50 Shades of Grey.  (I learned this much by Googling in the midst of all the cackling.)

Jezebel, who filed this post under Erotica, calls it  Mommy Porn.  She reports that Fifty Shades was 'literally" inspired by the Twilight series.  If so many housewives can swoon over teenage vampire lust, the thinking went, maybe they'll go for a virgin literature major bowing down before her interviewee, a billionaire entrepreneur who's into BDSM.   Over 16,000 reviews on Goodreads (up to 23,000, I just now saw), how have I not heard about this?

Too much tennis and teen taxiing, I guess.

So I thought I'd ask my readers.  Has anyone read it?  Is 50 Shades worth the $33 asking price (paperback)? If I had one of those electronic gadgets I could download it for $10 and tell you my opinion.  But since I'm still in the dark ages, turning pages instead of flicking a screen, I'm hoping someone's little screen, and maybe erogenous zones, have been lit up by this latest sexual sensation.

And, if you happen to read this bright and early AND live in, or are visiting Washington, DC,  the race starts at 9am.  1350 Pennsylvania Avenue NW.  Or, in lieu of running, you can do as I did, make a donation here on my friends' Get The Funk Out of My Colon donation page.

*Tennis injury. Don't ask. I'm too pissed off at my body to talk about it.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

chick flick alert

Watching instant movies on Netflicks is like playing roulette.  You never know if an unheard of selection is going to be a winner or a loser.  Losers in the awful category can be spotted pretty early.  Fifteen minutes tops?  So no big deal, right?  Hit the stop button and go back to the menu.

But then, my movie viewing indulgences are typically limited to weekends and we all know how weekends blow past like a dandelion seed on a spring breeze.  One moment I'm walking toward it, feeling like I've got all the time in the world and then, puff, it's Sunday night.  Weekend in the rear view mirror.

Those 15 minutes, then, are something of a big deal.

As for the winners, when I find one, I feel like I've hit the jackpot.  Single number.  Straight up.

When Netflicks recommended Broken English with 4-stars I hesitated.  Never heard of it.  Indie film. Those are so hit or miss.  And since my kids rate their movies too?  Even a 4-star rating isn't a sure bet.  My kids like genres such as horror, futuristic sci-fi, and obscure Japanese arthouse.  I go back and undo their ratings bias (one star, hated it) (which I feel slightly bad about, that I'm depriving them of their democratic vote) but again, as we all know, there's not enough time in the day for this hardly very important chore.  In the end, even a four-star recommend carries some risk.

But on this particular night I chose to believe in the luck of the Irish given that it was St. Patrick's day.  So click of the play button.  All bets on the table.

Broken English.  Nora, a 30-something single Manhattanite is wearying of looking for Mr. Good-man.  By the time she meets Mr. Bonne-homme, she feels no trust in her instincts.  Is this love he offers or just another trick?  And as with most chick flicks worth their salt, some of the best best-girlfriend scenes since Sleepless in Seattle reside here.

But I'll make this quick. I loved every minute of this Indie flick.  Jackpot.

Bonus prize - Nora is played by Parker Posey - who's got the whole forlorn, love-bruised, single-too-long vulnerability down pat, complete with a believable rendition of panic disorder (and I should know). Posey, in my opinion, was majorly overlooked by the Academy.  Second bonus, Nora's mother is played by Gina Rowland.  The director is Zoe Cassavetes, daughter of Rowland and John Cassavetes. I wonder why she hasn't done more and I wonder why this movie never made it big.  Or maybe it did and I missed it?

So five stars for Broken English.  Bring on Sunday night.  I'm ready for it.


Monday, March 12, 2012

happy birthday to me

Thanks to shock jock Rush showing his Tush, I just might have a happier birthday than I thought possible at my ripe old age. What are the gifts creating this unbounded birthday happiness?

Simply this. I was alive to witness:

h Rush apologize

h More than 100 advertisers drop the Limpballs show*

h Premier Networks, the largest radio syndication company
in the U.S., announce they are suspending national advertising

*as seen this evening on my next-life husband Lawrence O'Donnell's The Last Word

Saturday, March 03, 2012

loving houses better than themselves

I often find myself having to choose, as I know everyone does.
But as a woman I find myself always frequently feeling the need to choose between office work or family time or play and ... cleaning, straightening, dusting, sweeping, brushing, baking, ironing, wiping, cooking, sorting, folding, vacuming, tending, mending.  Deep breath.

I resent the feeling, the guilt, the hopelessness, that my house isn't clean enough. Or straightened enough. Or Martha enough.

So it was with relief and gratitude that I read this poem by Erica Jong.

It helps to know someone understands. Well enough to put it in writing.

Because my grandmother's hours
were apple cakes baking,
& dust motes gathering,
& linens yellowing
& seams and hems
inevitably unraveling
I almost never keep house
though really I like houses
& wish I had a clean one.

Because my mother's minutes
were sucked into the roar
of the vacuum cleaner,
because she waltzed with the washer-dryer
& tore her hair waiting for repairmen
I send out my laundry,
& live in a dusty house,
though really I like clean houses
as well as anyone.

I am woman enough
to love the kneading of bread
as much as the feel
of typewriter keys
under my fingers
springy, springy.
& the smell of clean laundry
& simmering soup
are almost as dear to me
as the smell of paper and ink.

I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.

I sit at my typewriter
remembering my grandmother
& all my mothers,
& the minutes they lost
loving houses better than themselves
& the man I love cleans up the kitchen
grumbling only a little
because he knows
that after all these centuries
it is easier for him
than for me.