Chelsey Cosh's Blog: From Mind to Mouth
January 7, 2022
Do you know what I know?
The holiday season… quite an oddity this year. My family got struck with the great plague of late 2021, the Omicron variant, which I am confident they confused for seasonal allergies; yes, they were fortunate not to be dealing with anything severe.
So dinner was canceled.
I watched neither Elf nor National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation this year; the latter I would argue is the best holiday film of all time for those realistic folks (sorry, you saccharine types).
I have read not one but two books this month in which, unbeknownst to me, a character is horribly bullied and then commits suicide (or murder-suicide actually, in one novel, if we're going to be pedantic).
So, yeah, to say the holiday spirit did not move me in the same way is a slight understatement. That being said, spending time with my husband has been a joy. And I know it is hard to read tone on a page, but I swear there's not an ounce of sarcasm in that last sentence.
He makes me appreciate life in new and unusual ways. We feel safe to be silly in a world that is not particularly safe right now. In fact, we now on a regular basis speak using purely the vocabulary of our nearly-two-year-old grandson for stints of two or three minutes before busting out in giggles. Shockingly, we are able to communicate a great many ideas. If you've ever wanted a practice in creativity, that may be it.
We have seen countless films in the cinema and one stage play at the Shaw Festival; we figured get them in while we still can. (On a tangent, I cannot help but giggle at the irony of this latest headline that the people putting on Come From Away have decided to permanently toss out all the people from the theatre in the face of an emergency--granted, different kind of emergency we're dealing with here, but this is the place where my dark and twisted mind may leap.)
We took walks together, up until the weather got spiteful and the furnace so delightful. Now we frequent the mall for our speed walks, like the elderly couple we're swiftly becoming.
We've attempted to empty some of the backlog on our streaming queues. Best of bloody luck, I say, but I have at the very least started Hacks which has turned out to be hilarious, with Jean Smart being consistently stellar and this newcomer actress who I swear looks like the second coming of Molly Ringwald making me empathize with her circumstances. I think they may have more in common than it seems, though. It's like when the prince and the pauper first meet, except set in Caesar's Palace as opposed to an actual palace.
And, in an effort to show some Christmas exuberance, we put up our prelit fake tree, plugged 'er in, and… that's it. We hadn't the energy to unwrap and debox all those ornaments. The tree looked better without it. As Marie Kondo says, if it doesn't spark joy…
But there's that word again: joy. Joy to the world, the Lord (or whomever) has come. Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy! We know the refrains, we've warbled along to the chorus. But this year, joy was a bit different in our house.
We've found our joy this Christmas in a place I least expected: Amy Schneider, my favourite juggernaut Jeopardy champ. The fact remains she's been on a hot streak since back at American Thanksgiving, at which time she famously wore the trans pride pin on that day's episode to spark dialogues around the turkey dinner at family gatherings and whatnot.
But, seriously, she spells Christmas for me. No joke. In lieu of doing the Jingle Bell Rock, I am tracking her stats like a sports commentator, and together my husband and I unite every weekday evening at 7:30 pm (or slightly after if we actually let the PVR do its job) to support Amy. I don't think us yelling the wrong answers at the television has helped her much, especially considering its prerecorded, but we all must do our part, okay? We cheer for her as she finds the Daily Double and bets a modest $4000. Every. Single. Time. My heart pounds at Final Jeopardy. Will she get it right again? Of course she will.
Amy is where my faith has found its place this strange Christmas season. You want joy? Wait until she is the most winningest player. I'll be doing cartwheels.
So dinner was canceled.
I watched neither Elf nor National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation this year; the latter I would argue is the best holiday film of all time for those realistic folks (sorry, you saccharine types).
I have read not one but two books this month in which, unbeknownst to me, a character is horribly bullied and then commits suicide (or murder-suicide actually, in one novel, if we're going to be pedantic).
So, yeah, to say the holiday spirit did not move me in the same way is a slight understatement. That being said, spending time with my husband has been a joy. And I know it is hard to read tone on a page, but I swear there's not an ounce of sarcasm in that last sentence.
He makes me appreciate life in new and unusual ways. We feel safe to be silly in a world that is not particularly safe right now. In fact, we now on a regular basis speak using purely the vocabulary of our nearly-two-year-old grandson for stints of two or three minutes before busting out in giggles. Shockingly, we are able to communicate a great many ideas. If you've ever wanted a practice in creativity, that may be it.
We have seen countless films in the cinema and one stage play at the Shaw Festival; we figured get them in while we still can. (On a tangent, I cannot help but giggle at the irony of this latest headline that the people putting on Come From Away have decided to permanently toss out all the people from the theatre in the face of an emergency--granted, different kind of emergency we're dealing with here, but this is the place where my dark and twisted mind may leap.)
We took walks together, up until the weather got spiteful and the furnace so delightful. Now we frequent the mall for our speed walks, like the elderly couple we're swiftly becoming.
We've attempted to empty some of the backlog on our streaming queues. Best of bloody luck, I say, but I have at the very least started Hacks which has turned out to be hilarious, with Jean Smart being consistently stellar and this newcomer actress who I swear looks like the second coming of Molly Ringwald making me empathize with her circumstances. I think they may have more in common than it seems, though. It's like when the prince and the pauper first meet, except set in Caesar's Palace as opposed to an actual palace.
And, in an effort to show some Christmas exuberance, we put up our prelit fake tree, plugged 'er in, and… that's it. We hadn't the energy to unwrap and debox all those ornaments. The tree looked better without it. As Marie Kondo says, if it doesn't spark joy…
But there's that word again: joy. Joy to the world, the Lord (or whomever) has come. Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy! We know the refrains, we've warbled along to the chorus. But this year, joy was a bit different in our house.
We've found our joy this Christmas in a place I least expected: Amy Schneider, my favourite juggernaut Jeopardy champ. The fact remains she's been on a hot streak since back at American Thanksgiving, at which time she famously wore the trans pride pin on that day's episode to spark dialogues around the turkey dinner at family gatherings and whatnot.
But, seriously, she spells Christmas for me. No joke. In lieu of doing the Jingle Bell Rock, I am tracking her stats like a sports commentator, and together my husband and I unite every weekday evening at 7:30 pm (or slightly after if we actually let the PVR do its job) to support Amy. I don't think us yelling the wrong answers at the television has helped her much, especially considering its prerecorded, but we all must do our part, okay? We cheer for her as she finds the Daily Double and bets a modest $4000. Every. Single. Time. My heart pounds at Final Jeopardy. Will she get it right again? Of course she will.
Amy is where my faith has found its place this strange Christmas season. You want joy? Wait until she is the most winningest player. I'll be doing cartwheels.
December 12, 2021
You're alive in my head.
I used to paint. In fact, I've always been somewhat fond of art, even the kind I could not fully comprehend.
My grandmother and my mother were both ardent supporters of any artistic endeavour that took my fancy. My grandmother would prove herself the strongest advocate, pursuing avenues for me without asking. I believe I may be published in a poetry collection from somewhere in the rural outskirts of Manchester. Who's to say? Regardless, she would always press me for pictures and paintings. When I was still counting my age by the fingers I held up, I had drawn a mouse with some cheese. She took this masterwork of a burgeoning genius (her words, not mine) with her across the pond when she departed from Canada, leaving me young and ironically lost in my homeland.
But time went on. I grew up. I grew stronger.
During a French exam in high school that I finished in less than half the time given, I took my number two pencil to the blank canvas that was the back of the exam paper. I sketched a geisha that took up eighty-five percent of the paper. The proctor who happened to be my teacher gazed over shoulders to ensure no funny business was occurring under her watchful eye. She glimpsed my art, or graffiti of sorts, on the back of my exam, and smiled. I smiled back and she actually returned my paper after it was graded in case I wanted to keep my art. I took it home. I believe my mother kept it from getting tossed in the trash. I eventually found out that it had been kept, like found treasure. My mother even pulled it out to show off to my grandmother on one of her transatlantic forays.
I remember, when I was engaged to be married and moved into my first apartment, collecting up art like it would sustain me with much the same gusto that those who lived through the Depression hoard non-perishables in their pantry. If I have this, I'll be fine. Best to have too much than not enough. One particular piece is actually a pair of collages in hot pink and bright blues and greens with recognizable faces in the forefront: Marilyn Monroe whom my grandmother adored on one and Audrey Hepburn whom I idolize on the other. I put them up in my bedroom. It was our bedroom at the time. The husband left (I asked him to), but the art remained.
Once the apartment was truly mine, I rearranged the bedroom and moved the art from one wall to another, but they stayed by my side. I loved this art and remembered reading in bed and, every so often, glancing up and seeing these two women staring back at me, both stuck in freeze frame poses that indelibly captured their roles but not their souls. Still, something sang from their eyes: Everything is going to be fine. Take comfort. Read on.
I read books about divorce at this time. I read books about failed marriage. Some were self-help, others followed narratives. Years later, I read Demi Moore's memoir Inside Out and got absorbed with a section about the dissolution of her relationship with fellow Brat Pack actor Emilio Estevez. It resonated with me:
“He didn’t want me to come up there to talk in person, either, and that’s when I thought, You know what? I’m going to stop trying to call him and call a realtor instead. I found an adorable fifties beach house on the end of a cul-de-sac in Malibu. And then I told Emilio I was moving out. He showed up in no time with a tattoo of a broken heart, trying to get me back. I think he was one of those men, at least in his youth, who found you much more interesting once he’d lost you. But it was too late: once I’m done, I’m done” (Moore 126).
And that was me. Once I'm done, I'm done. I broke up with a boyfriend at that tumultuous time. I ended up very ill soon after, which happened only once before when I had a truly awful boyfriend who broke up with me on my sixteenth birthday and I then contracted rumbling appendicitis seemingly the moment he said, "This isn't working out." At least back then I had parents who cared when their daughter collapsed in agony on the kitchen floor. Living alone was different. I took the key back from my first serious boyfriend after the breakup of my marriage, changed the locks, suffered through my first Valentine's Day as a single woman at which time I scoffed down chocolates given to me by friends who either pitied me or fancied me, and, a week later, I found myself dragging my trembling body in a slow crawl through my own vomit from my bedroom floor to my bathroom floor. When I tried to stand up in the loo, I passed out and bruised my back before hitting the ground. I remember dragging myself back to bed hours later, weak as I've ever felt, but, once there, looking up at these two strong divorcees, I never once contemplated going back. Once I'm done, I'm done.
Time went on. I grew up. I grew stronger.
In April 2019, I asked out a client who I had shot the shit with for almost three years. I'll make a long story short: we're married. He was a delight and, turns out, he likes art, too. Granted, I now have too much art and not enough wall. Many pieces lean up against a table in the basement for now, waiting to be returned to glory again once we finally renovate the office or the guest bedroom. But as you walk through the door and into our home, you can see clean through to the living room where Audrey and Marilyn stare you down before you've even had the chance to wipe your feet on the doormat.
And that is exactly what happened the other day. After doing his rounds from the magnets on the fridge to the toy car on our coffee table, my stepgrandson paused as if he was entranced by these paired pieces of art that have urged me through tough times and laughed with me through the more buoyant moments. I wondered if they were speaking to him, precious and inquisitive and joyful, in much the same way that they spoke to me.
He looked back at us, hanging in anticipation of what he might say. The wisdom of a boy on the verge of two years old can be greater than one would assume. Finally, he uttered a simple word: "Ew."
Elmo then popped on the adjacent TV screen and all was forgotten for him. We laughed, really hard. I'm still laughing, reliving it with my husband until our ribs were thoroughly tickled. That's art, though. Everyone's a critic.
My grandmother died this year and my grandfather returned to Canada within six months. He shipped over all his worldly belongings along with boxes of what my grandmother had kept through the years. He'd sold the records, but, as it turned out, he'd kept the paintings. My grandmother had my art. She had a painting of a pig that I'd done while I was with my first husband. She still had the mouse and cheese piece from when she was taller than me; she was under five feet, by the way, so I dwarfed her and swiftly. I even found the geisha drawing on the back of my French exam. She had kept it all. My grandmother will always be a saint to me.
And only today did it occur to me that when I looked up at Audrey and Marilyn, whose voices have been recorded for the sake of longevity countless times, I did not hear them telling me to get up off the floor and keep going. I heard my grandmother's voice. She said one day she would see my name in lights. She was always my biggest supporter, my greatest fan. I've made peace with the fact that no one will be as enthusiastic of me as she was. But now that I'm in her place, fanatical about this boy of almost-two the way she had been of me my whole life, seeing everything he does as its own artform, there's only one thing I must know: what exactly did my grandmother say to my grandson to make him say, "Ew." (I bet it was a dirty limerick. She always got me with the one that goes, "There was an old lady from Leeds...")
My grandmother and my mother were both ardent supporters of any artistic endeavour that took my fancy. My grandmother would prove herself the strongest advocate, pursuing avenues for me without asking. I believe I may be published in a poetry collection from somewhere in the rural outskirts of Manchester. Who's to say? Regardless, she would always press me for pictures and paintings. When I was still counting my age by the fingers I held up, I had drawn a mouse with some cheese. She took this masterwork of a burgeoning genius (her words, not mine) with her across the pond when she departed from Canada, leaving me young and ironically lost in my homeland.
But time went on. I grew up. I grew stronger.
During a French exam in high school that I finished in less than half the time given, I took my number two pencil to the blank canvas that was the back of the exam paper. I sketched a geisha that took up eighty-five percent of the paper. The proctor who happened to be my teacher gazed over shoulders to ensure no funny business was occurring under her watchful eye. She glimpsed my art, or graffiti of sorts, on the back of my exam, and smiled. I smiled back and she actually returned my paper after it was graded in case I wanted to keep my art. I took it home. I believe my mother kept it from getting tossed in the trash. I eventually found out that it had been kept, like found treasure. My mother even pulled it out to show off to my grandmother on one of her transatlantic forays.
I remember, when I was engaged to be married and moved into my first apartment, collecting up art like it would sustain me with much the same gusto that those who lived through the Depression hoard non-perishables in their pantry. If I have this, I'll be fine. Best to have too much than not enough. One particular piece is actually a pair of collages in hot pink and bright blues and greens with recognizable faces in the forefront: Marilyn Monroe whom my grandmother adored on one and Audrey Hepburn whom I idolize on the other. I put them up in my bedroom. It was our bedroom at the time. The husband left (I asked him to), but the art remained.
Once the apartment was truly mine, I rearranged the bedroom and moved the art from one wall to another, but they stayed by my side. I loved this art and remembered reading in bed and, every so often, glancing up and seeing these two women staring back at me, both stuck in freeze frame poses that indelibly captured their roles but not their souls. Still, something sang from their eyes: Everything is going to be fine. Take comfort. Read on.
I read books about divorce at this time. I read books about failed marriage. Some were self-help, others followed narratives. Years later, I read Demi Moore's memoir Inside Out and got absorbed with a section about the dissolution of her relationship with fellow Brat Pack actor Emilio Estevez. It resonated with me:
“He didn’t want me to come up there to talk in person, either, and that’s when I thought, You know what? I’m going to stop trying to call him and call a realtor instead. I found an adorable fifties beach house on the end of a cul-de-sac in Malibu. And then I told Emilio I was moving out. He showed up in no time with a tattoo of a broken heart, trying to get me back. I think he was one of those men, at least in his youth, who found you much more interesting once he’d lost you. But it was too late: once I’m done, I’m done” (Moore 126).
And that was me. Once I'm done, I'm done. I broke up with a boyfriend at that tumultuous time. I ended up very ill soon after, which happened only once before when I had a truly awful boyfriend who broke up with me on my sixteenth birthday and I then contracted rumbling appendicitis seemingly the moment he said, "This isn't working out." At least back then I had parents who cared when their daughter collapsed in agony on the kitchen floor. Living alone was different. I took the key back from my first serious boyfriend after the breakup of my marriage, changed the locks, suffered through my first Valentine's Day as a single woman at which time I scoffed down chocolates given to me by friends who either pitied me or fancied me, and, a week later, I found myself dragging my trembling body in a slow crawl through my own vomit from my bedroom floor to my bathroom floor. When I tried to stand up in the loo, I passed out and bruised my back before hitting the ground. I remember dragging myself back to bed hours later, weak as I've ever felt, but, once there, looking up at these two strong divorcees, I never once contemplated going back. Once I'm done, I'm done.
Time went on. I grew up. I grew stronger.
In April 2019, I asked out a client who I had shot the shit with for almost three years. I'll make a long story short: we're married. He was a delight and, turns out, he likes art, too. Granted, I now have too much art and not enough wall. Many pieces lean up against a table in the basement for now, waiting to be returned to glory again once we finally renovate the office or the guest bedroom. But as you walk through the door and into our home, you can see clean through to the living room where Audrey and Marilyn stare you down before you've even had the chance to wipe your feet on the doormat.
And that is exactly what happened the other day. After doing his rounds from the magnets on the fridge to the toy car on our coffee table, my stepgrandson paused as if he was entranced by these paired pieces of art that have urged me through tough times and laughed with me through the more buoyant moments. I wondered if they were speaking to him, precious and inquisitive and joyful, in much the same way that they spoke to me.
He looked back at us, hanging in anticipation of what he might say. The wisdom of a boy on the verge of two years old can be greater than one would assume. Finally, he uttered a simple word: "Ew."
Elmo then popped on the adjacent TV screen and all was forgotten for him. We laughed, really hard. I'm still laughing, reliving it with my husband until our ribs were thoroughly tickled. That's art, though. Everyone's a critic.
My grandmother died this year and my grandfather returned to Canada within six months. He shipped over all his worldly belongings along with boxes of what my grandmother had kept through the years. He'd sold the records, but, as it turned out, he'd kept the paintings. My grandmother had my art. She had a painting of a pig that I'd done while I was with my first husband. She still had the mouse and cheese piece from when she was taller than me; she was under five feet, by the way, so I dwarfed her and swiftly. I even found the geisha drawing on the back of my French exam. She had kept it all. My grandmother will always be a saint to me.
And only today did it occur to me that when I looked up at Audrey and Marilyn, whose voices have been recorded for the sake of longevity countless times, I did not hear them telling me to get up off the floor and keep going. I heard my grandmother's voice. She said one day she would see my name in lights. She was always my biggest supporter, my greatest fan. I've made peace with the fact that no one will be as enthusiastic of me as she was. But now that I'm in her place, fanatical about this boy of almost-two the way she had been of me my whole life, seeing everything he does as its own artform, there's only one thing I must know: what exactly did my grandmother say to my grandson to make him say, "Ew." (I bet it was a dirty limerick. She always got me with the one that goes, "There was an old lady from Leeds...")
April 26, 2021
Don't tell Paul, but I'm not getting married.
Cold feet don't just happen in January.
No, they happen year-round. My fiance has this terrible habit of getting a toothache before weddings. He is miserable when he has them, just inconsolably cranky. Both of his kids suffered through his toothaches for their respective nuptials. Knowing this, I jokingly referred to this as his cold teeth.
Now it's been a few weeks and his doses of amoxicillin have done the trick and he's feeling great again. But my tiny fragment of a joke left me wondering about how I'm handling my premarital anxiety.
A few weeks ago, I would have said superb. I've been lifting weights and using our elliptical machine at home for stress relief and weight loss because I gained a great deal of stress and weight when this global pandemic started.
But now... prepare to watch me spiral.
I tried on my wedding dress and, of course, it doesn't fit. (Do they ever?) Alterations had to be done, but what do you do in the midst of a provincial lockdown? No tailor is available. I almost wish I didn't try on the gown. Boobs exposed, I look like a bride only from the waist down. I belong on a pole the waist up. Perhaps not one that is well frequented, either.
I tried to be positive about it, that - yay! - I had successfully lost weight. But I was absolutely shocked and, of course, I lost it wrong. Who knew such a thing could be done.
A week ago, I checked in on all the experts who were going to make me look halfway decent for a day. And lo and behold, my makeup artist had quit and the whole establishment is closed anyway. The lady at reception told me that I would need to bring in my makeup, of which I owned none. Yes, past tense. Owned.
You don't have to tell Chelsey Cosh twice to get her shit in order. I now own one of everything and have watched YouTube tutorials until it turned out pretty okay in my humble opinion. Not spectacular or bridal or anything in that ballpark. But decent.
I will be practicing again next weekend, despite hating the feel of it on my skin. So, I can safely say I must double the alloted time on my wedding day for me to do my makeup half as well as the professional. I'm aiming for half. Okay, that's too ambitious - a third will do.
And that's if we can even get married. Currently, I cannot get a marriage licence, the only document I need to legally perform this hoedown - my appointment for late April was cancelled by the government and the shutdown has been extended at least until the final weeks of May. That gives me June and the beginning of July.
Are you feeling frustrated yet?
If it isn't already abundantly clear, I do not advise getting married during a pandemic.
I don't really advise doing anything this year.
I've been trying to remain goal-oriented this year to give life purpose. 2020 was a surprise, but 2021 I will seize back a modicum of control.
And, boy, do I mean a modicum.
It may seem like small potatoes, but the Oscars were coming up and I'd done my level best to watch as many of the nominees as possible. It's been tricky, what with closures of cinemas, but I've strived to get 'er done.
These are not ambitious goals, but let's aim for the achievable.
Unfortunately, time was not on my side and I didn't even get close to what I was hoping for. Bear in mind, I'm a completionist. I watch the shorts, the foreign language features, all things animated ... but not this year. This year didn't have enough days in the week for me to accomplish this most minor of goals.
I'm turning thirty this year, and since I am the planner in my circle, I am fairly sure I will not be having any kind of birthday celebration. Right now birthdays are pretty much against the law.
One of my friends is a nurse dealing with a mental health crisis because of an idiot premier who decided to add more restrictions to a stay-at-home order in response to growing numbers but doesn't accept federal help or medical advice about where all the damn cases are cropping up. Let's just throw darts at the problem and see what sticks.
Anyway my friend - let's call her Nurse Angel because she is both - is currently reading a self-help book entitled The Untethered Soul and I'm hoping she's having more luck than me because "untethered" is an understatement.
Everything is spinning out of control, in my humble opinion, and yet I've been able to get both my father and fiance vaccinated based on age and hotspot postal codes (respectively). A week ago, I watched my father walk through the screening tent with glee and proceed to get his jab with both middle fingers in the air, whooping like he's going to a rock concert.
Boy, do I miss Rock concerts. I think I may still have deferred tickets to REO Speedwagon.
Anyway, despite this positive news, I can't help but feel glum because I cannot get myself vaccinated on account of being too damn young despite working overtime throughout all of this bullshit as a frontline essential worker. But because I don't fit in the right category as designated by the aforementioned idiot premier, I don't get to feel a little bit safer. I continue to shake with fear.
Alas, mass unemployment plagues the country, so I should shut my mouth because at least I have a damn job.
I feel selfish. Yet another byproduct of this spiral.
Oh, and after weeks and weeks of delaying the inevitable, I listened to the notification on my phone warning me that my phone's SD card had an issue that needed fixing yesterday.
Full disclosure: I cheaped out when I bought the card in the first place. It was too good a deal to pass up, and I had to buy two: one for me and one for the fiance. So, frugality played a huge part in my decision.
Anyway, I backed up all my data and anyone who had ever had to do that knows it's a massive pain in the ass. It takes far too much time and is rife with arduous sorting of documents and photos and videos. You have to decide whether you truly need that vacation video from Cuba where you drank all the mojitos and danced in the middle of the hotel's live entertainment performance. So I kept it just in case.
But at the end of this process, I hit, yes, please reformat.
And the corrupted card just didn't. Instead it sabotaged my phone's power and, since phone is my third appendage, my keeper of all things important now that my memory fails me on the regular, I lost it. On and off and on and off it went.
Finally, I ripped the case off the phone, dug out the magic pin that pops open the SD card holder, seized the damn card, and chucked it on the kitchen counter with a few expletives and a lot of tears. I guess I will have to delete that video after all.
And to top all of these layers of problems that sit like blankets on top of each other, overlapping at the edges, I heard from across the pond today that my grandmother is dying.
My grandmother who lived with me until the age of 9 and told me one day my name would be in lights.
My grandmother who always supported me and gave me the courage to just be me and know that is more than enough.
My grandmother whom I love more than anything.
And I cannot see her.
And I cannot begin to describe the pain.
And all the little things that bothered me before seem meaningless.
No amount of four-letter words are going to ease the pain and moving throughout the day, just grappling through each motion, feels like a betrayal, as if I'm not paying enough attention to the person that matters most, the thing that holds more weight than anything possibly could. Life feels bipolar, as if being anything other than a mess is confusing, but I have no choice but to pull it together.
Life makes no sense.
And maybe it never will make sense. Because it's actually death that makes no sense to me.
When I collapsed at the end of the day on more than one occasion, if I'm being frank, drowning in a puddle of my own tears and wanting to watch Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann turn 40 instead of some foreign language short about depressing subject matter that I did not have the composure to contemplate right now, I felt like my future husband was there for me. He picked me up again and again. He held me together. He picked up the takeout. He drove me to wherever we needed to go. He even filled our backyard with flowers to remind me that there is light and there is colour.
So cold teeth, feet, arms, legs, mouth and nose be damned.
No, they happen year-round. My fiance has this terrible habit of getting a toothache before weddings. He is miserable when he has them, just inconsolably cranky. Both of his kids suffered through his toothaches for their respective nuptials. Knowing this, I jokingly referred to this as his cold teeth.
Now it's been a few weeks and his doses of amoxicillin have done the trick and he's feeling great again. But my tiny fragment of a joke left me wondering about how I'm handling my premarital anxiety.
A few weeks ago, I would have said superb. I've been lifting weights and using our elliptical machine at home for stress relief and weight loss because I gained a great deal of stress and weight when this global pandemic started.
But now... prepare to watch me spiral.
I tried on my wedding dress and, of course, it doesn't fit. (Do they ever?) Alterations had to be done, but what do you do in the midst of a provincial lockdown? No tailor is available. I almost wish I didn't try on the gown. Boobs exposed, I look like a bride only from the waist down. I belong on a pole the waist up. Perhaps not one that is well frequented, either.
I tried to be positive about it, that - yay! - I had successfully lost weight. But I was absolutely shocked and, of course, I lost it wrong. Who knew such a thing could be done.
A week ago, I checked in on all the experts who were going to make me look halfway decent for a day. And lo and behold, my makeup artist had quit and the whole establishment is closed anyway. The lady at reception told me that I would need to bring in my makeup, of which I owned none. Yes, past tense. Owned.
You don't have to tell Chelsey Cosh twice to get her shit in order. I now own one of everything and have watched YouTube tutorials until it turned out pretty okay in my humble opinion. Not spectacular or bridal or anything in that ballpark. But decent.
I will be practicing again next weekend, despite hating the feel of it on my skin. So, I can safely say I must double the alloted time on my wedding day for me to do my makeup half as well as the professional. I'm aiming for half. Okay, that's too ambitious - a third will do.
And that's if we can even get married. Currently, I cannot get a marriage licence, the only document I need to legally perform this hoedown - my appointment for late April was cancelled by the government and the shutdown has been extended at least until the final weeks of May. That gives me June and the beginning of July.
Are you feeling frustrated yet?
If it isn't already abundantly clear, I do not advise getting married during a pandemic.
I don't really advise doing anything this year.
I've been trying to remain goal-oriented this year to give life purpose. 2020 was a surprise, but 2021 I will seize back a modicum of control.
And, boy, do I mean a modicum.
It may seem like small potatoes, but the Oscars were coming up and I'd done my level best to watch as many of the nominees as possible. It's been tricky, what with closures of cinemas, but I've strived to get 'er done.
These are not ambitious goals, but let's aim for the achievable.
Unfortunately, time was not on my side and I didn't even get close to what I was hoping for. Bear in mind, I'm a completionist. I watch the shorts, the foreign language features, all things animated ... but not this year. This year didn't have enough days in the week for me to accomplish this most minor of goals.
I'm turning thirty this year, and since I am the planner in my circle, I am fairly sure I will not be having any kind of birthday celebration. Right now birthdays are pretty much against the law.
One of my friends is a nurse dealing with a mental health crisis because of an idiot premier who decided to add more restrictions to a stay-at-home order in response to growing numbers but doesn't accept federal help or medical advice about where all the damn cases are cropping up. Let's just throw darts at the problem and see what sticks.
Anyway my friend - let's call her Nurse Angel because she is both - is currently reading a self-help book entitled The Untethered Soul and I'm hoping she's having more luck than me because "untethered" is an understatement.
Everything is spinning out of control, in my humble opinion, and yet I've been able to get both my father and fiance vaccinated based on age and hotspot postal codes (respectively). A week ago, I watched my father walk through the screening tent with glee and proceed to get his jab with both middle fingers in the air, whooping like he's going to a rock concert.
Boy, do I miss Rock concerts. I think I may still have deferred tickets to REO Speedwagon.
Anyway, despite this positive news, I can't help but feel glum because I cannot get myself vaccinated on account of being too damn young despite working overtime throughout all of this bullshit as a frontline essential worker. But because I don't fit in the right category as designated by the aforementioned idiot premier, I don't get to feel a little bit safer. I continue to shake with fear.
Alas, mass unemployment plagues the country, so I should shut my mouth because at least I have a damn job.
I feel selfish. Yet another byproduct of this spiral.
Oh, and after weeks and weeks of delaying the inevitable, I listened to the notification on my phone warning me that my phone's SD card had an issue that needed fixing yesterday.
Full disclosure: I cheaped out when I bought the card in the first place. It was too good a deal to pass up, and I had to buy two: one for me and one for the fiance. So, frugality played a huge part in my decision.
Anyway, I backed up all my data and anyone who had ever had to do that knows it's a massive pain in the ass. It takes far too much time and is rife with arduous sorting of documents and photos and videos. You have to decide whether you truly need that vacation video from Cuba where you drank all the mojitos and danced in the middle of the hotel's live entertainment performance. So I kept it just in case.
But at the end of this process, I hit, yes, please reformat.
And the corrupted card just didn't. Instead it sabotaged my phone's power and, since phone is my third appendage, my keeper of all things important now that my memory fails me on the regular, I lost it. On and off and on and off it went.
Finally, I ripped the case off the phone, dug out the magic pin that pops open the SD card holder, seized the damn card, and chucked it on the kitchen counter with a few expletives and a lot of tears. I guess I will have to delete that video after all.
And to top all of these layers of problems that sit like blankets on top of each other, overlapping at the edges, I heard from across the pond today that my grandmother is dying.
My grandmother who lived with me until the age of 9 and told me one day my name would be in lights.
My grandmother who always supported me and gave me the courage to just be me and know that is more than enough.
My grandmother whom I love more than anything.
And I cannot see her.
And I cannot begin to describe the pain.
And all the little things that bothered me before seem meaningless.
No amount of four-letter words are going to ease the pain and moving throughout the day, just grappling through each motion, feels like a betrayal, as if I'm not paying enough attention to the person that matters most, the thing that holds more weight than anything possibly could. Life feels bipolar, as if being anything other than a mess is confusing, but I have no choice but to pull it together.
Life makes no sense.
And maybe it never will make sense. Because it's actually death that makes no sense to me.
When I collapsed at the end of the day on more than one occasion, if I'm being frank, drowning in a puddle of my own tears and wanting to watch Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann turn 40 instead of some foreign language short about depressing subject matter that I did not have the composure to contemplate right now, I felt like my future husband was there for me. He picked me up again and again. He held me together. He picked up the takeout. He drove me to wherever we needed to go. He even filled our backyard with flowers to remind me that there is light and there is colour.
So cold teeth, feet, arms, legs, mouth and nose be damned.
August 30, 2020
Let me be, I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity
I am horribly naive, but I prefer it that way.
This is the conclusion I have drawn from the book I’m currently reading, called But What If We're Wrong, by Chuck Klosterman. Chuck writes with a sense of sarcasm and looks at the world somewhat unconventionally with this need to question every damn thing, which makes for good reading on a fairly wide range of subjects. He is known as an essayist and I find that kind of writing is where he really shines, but there really is something for everyone. For anyone who hasn't read his work, I highly recommend you do so.
Anyway, in his introduction to this book, Chuck mentions how gravity as we know it might only be partially explained, leaving us with lots of wrong answers that we accept on an objective level. It brought to mind an argument between the characters of Phoebe, a flaky hippie, and Ross, a paleontologist with a doctorate, on the popular TV show Friends. Chances are high that you saw those names and didn't need me to name the show. You've probably seen this episode. Phoebe questions, first, evolution, and then gravity, debating its existence and even the type of the direction of the force being exerted. "Lately," she says, "I get the feeling that I'm not so much being pulled down as I am being pushed." Everyone laughs. Ross pops a blood vessel in his forehead.
And, in this scenario, I am, at least inwardly, Ross. I would like to think I would not throw a tantrum if someone disagreed with my thoughts on gravity. (I cannot say the same about my views on movies, but I digress.)
Look, I am not very good at handling that level of uncertainty - I know this about myself, that's why I don't go to magic shows - but spend a great deal of time learning as much as possible to eliminate it by providing an endless parade of answers, answers, answers.
But, I wonder, am I really eliminating it?
I took a class in wellness once and there are various dimensions of wellness, the number of which varies depending on the theorist. There's physical wellness, spiritual wellness, occupational wellness, and so on. I learned that actions informed by one type of wellness, such as reading to engage and improve intellectual wellness, can overlap with other wellness dimensions, like emotional wellness if the reading is for escapism.
I think this is the case for me. But reading is much more than mere enjoyment. The pursuit of the intellectual soothes what would otherwise bother me in regards to uncertainty. I derive the emotional from the intellectual, not in spite of it.
Now, there is the ironic catch-22 that the more we learn, the less we know, which I learned at 7 years old from The Hogan Family theme song. Yet, for the most part, I do feel soothed by reading. It fills the black holes with … something.
I think this is why I read and watch movies and listen to music. It calms the part of me that is frantically searching for answers.
It gives even more credence to Chuck Klosterman's argument, too. Sometimes we just want to know. Not know, but "know." We placate ourselves because something at least halfway feasible is better than a verified nothing. So we believe scientists and findings and studies and the latest literature in the same way that those who have faith unquestionably hold to scripture or the words of religious leaders.
So, if I've learned nothing else this far, I will give my fiancé the benefit of the doubt and humour him on his theory of who assassinated John F. Kennedy, to which I used to respond, "Are you sure it wasn't Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?"
Now, to gravitate away from these thoughts (see what I did there?) for a fun little exercise in creativity and my swiftly diminishing long-term memory, I do want to venture into my own personal version of what Chuck Klosterman describes as the few times he got something right ("the exceptions") in contrast to the many times he was wrong (the "most things").
Because that's the beauty of learning. To get from the "most things" to "the exceptions", the list will always be wildly unbalanced and never in your favour. Anyone who thinks they have been right more than they've been wrong … well, they're wrong right there.
My List of Times I Got It Wrong (Massively Abridged for the Sanity of Readers)
The time I confidently fell asleep on the sofa during U.S. election night, confident I would wake up to the first female American president, Hillary Clinton.
Not saving my allowance as a child and letting compound interest work its wonders, instead of buying the third Spice Girls album (the one without Ginger).
Thinking I'm fine until the next rest stop.
Every single time I felt like a slippery eel covered in sunscreen with SPF bajillion and someone said, "Do you want more?" and I said, "No thanks, I'm good." (You remember this moment and hate yourself when you're looking down later that very same day at your Elmo legs and your lobster body.)
My published review of Adele's album 19, where I thought she wouldn't amount to much.
The wedding vows at my first marriage.
The time I swore I would never need a smartphone.
Treating all-you-can-eat buffets like a challenge.
Taking anyone's word that something doesn't have raisins in it.
The fifth drink in two hours.
The time I filled two gigantic emergency jerry cans as part of a COVID-19 quarantine kit days before the self-isolation orders and watched gas prices plummet the next week.
Karaoke.
Pulling an all-nighter before heading back by bus from Montreal to Toronto on my grade 8 grad trip thus sleeping the entire ride home.
That time I spelled it "pidgeon" and my third-grade teacher made me write it out fifty times the correct way. (Maybe that's why I dislike birds…)
Every single time I try to play along with The Price is Right.
My List of Times I Got It Right (Not Nearly As Abridged As I'd Like It To Be)
When the teen tournament runs on Jeopardy.
Every game of Trivial Pursuit.
When the fiancé asked me what type of animal family orcas belong to, and I said the dolphin family.
Betting on Kelly Clarkson as the first American Idol.
Bulk buying toilet paper.
This is the conclusion I have drawn from the book I’m currently reading, called But What If We're Wrong, by Chuck Klosterman. Chuck writes with a sense of sarcasm and looks at the world somewhat unconventionally with this need to question every damn thing, which makes for good reading on a fairly wide range of subjects. He is known as an essayist and I find that kind of writing is where he really shines, but there really is something for everyone. For anyone who hasn't read his work, I highly recommend you do so.
Anyway, in his introduction to this book, Chuck mentions how gravity as we know it might only be partially explained, leaving us with lots of wrong answers that we accept on an objective level. It brought to mind an argument between the characters of Phoebe, a flaky hippie, and Ross, a paleontologist with a doctorate, on the popular TV show Friends. Chances are high that you saw those names and didn't need me to name the show. You've probably seen this episode. Phoebe questions, first, evolution, and then gravity, debating its existence and even the type of the direction of the force being exerted. "Lately," she says, "I get the feeling that I'm not so much being pulled down as I am being pushed." Everyone laughs. Ross pops a blood vessel in his forehead.
And, in this scenario, I am, at least inwardly, Ross. I would like to think I would not throw a tantrum if someone disagreed with my thoughts on gravity. (I cannot say the same about my views on movies, but I digress.)
Look, I am not very good at handling that level of uncertainty - I know this about myself, that's why I don't go to magic shows - but spend a great deal of time learning as much as possible to eliminate it by providing an endless parade of answers, answers, answers.
But, I wonder, am I really eliminating it?
I took a class in wellness once and there are various dimensions of wellness, the number of which varies depending on the theorist. There's physical wellness, spiritual wellness, occupational wellness, and so on. I learned that actions informed by one type of wellness, such as reading to engage and improve intellectual wellness, can overlap with other wellness dimensions, like emotional wellness if the reading is for escapism.
I think this is the case for me. But reading is much more than mere enjoyment. The pursuit of the intellectual soothes what would otherwise bother me in regards to uncertainty. I derive the emotional from the intellectual, not in spite of it.
Now, there is the ironic catch-22 that the more we learn, the less we know, which I learned at 7 years old from The Hogan Family theme song. Yet, for the most part, I do feel soothed by reading. It fills the black holes with … something.
I think this is why I read and watch movies and listen to music. It calms the part of me that is frantically searching for answers.
It gives even more credence to Chuck Klosterman's argument, too. Sometimes we just want to know. Not know, but "know." We placate ourselves because something at least halfway feasible is better than a verified nothing. So we believe scientists and findings and studies and the latest literature in the same way that those who have faith unquestionably hold to scripture or the words of religious leaders.
So, if I've learned nothing else this far, I will give my fiancé the benefit of the doubt and humour him on his theory of who assassinated John F. Kennedy, to which I used to respond, "Are you sure it wasn't Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?"
Now, to gravitate away from these thoughts (see what I did there?) for a fun little exercise in creativity and my swiftly diminishing long-term memory, I do want to venture into my own personal version of what Chuck Klosterman describes as the few times he got something right ("the exceptions") in contrast to the many times he was wrong (the "most things").
Because that's the beauty of learning. To get from the "most things" to "the exceptions", the list will always be wildly unbalanced and never in your favour. Anyone who thinks they have been right more than they've been wrong … well, they're wrong right there.
My List of Times I Got It Wrong (Massively Abridged for the Sanity of Readers)
The time I confidently fell asleep on the sofa during U.S. election night, confident I would wake up to the first female American president, Hillary Clinton.
Not saving my allowance as a child and letting compound interest work its wonders, instead of buying the third Spice Girls album (the one without Ginger).
Thinking I'm fine until the next rest stop.
Every single time I felt like a slippery eel covered in sunscreen with SPF bajillion and someone said, "Do you want more?" and I said, "No thanks, I'm good." (You remember this moment and hate yourself when you're looking down later that very same day at your Elmo legs and your lobster body.)
My published review of Adele's album 19, where I thought she wouldn't amount to much.
The wedding vows at my first marriage.
The time I swore I would never need a smartphone.
Treating all-you-can-eat buffets like a challenge.
Taking anyone's word that something doesn't have raisins in it.
The fifth drink in two hours.
The time I filled two gigantic emergency jerry cans as part of a COVID-19 quarantine kit days before the self-isolation orders and watched gas prices plummet the next week.
Karaoke.
Pulling an all-nighter before heading back by bus from Montreal to Toronto on my grade 8 grad trip thus sleeping the entire ride home.
That time I spelled it "pidgeon" and my third-grade teacher made me write it out fifty times the correct way. (Maybe that's why I dislike birds…)
Every single time I try to play along with The Price is Right.
My List of Times I Got It Right (Not Nearly As Abridged As I'd Like It To Be)
When the teen tournament runs on Jeopardy.
Every game of Trivial Pursuit.
When the fiancé asked me what type of animal family orcas belong to, and I said the dolphin family.
Betting on Kelly Clarkson as the first American Idol.
Bulk buying toilet paper.
August 15, 2020
Waiting, Waiting, Waiting on the World to Change
I like to think I'm a patient person.
Good things often come to those who wait. Prolonged anticipation of a reward deepens its satisfaction.
Yada yada yada.
Today, however, I began to realize that I am reaching the limit of what is considered an acceptable length of lines, both in the number of lines to be in as well as the number of people within each given line.
I queued up at nine this morning, waited two hours to renew my driver's licence and health insurance card (their online service was down), and witnessed a questionably long line. It looped in on itself, forming concentric circles after twenty minutes, much like a snail's shell and exhibiting the same sort of speed.
While there, I heard the usual anti-government rants that you'll hear near any office of governmental authority in a free country. The rants this time were about CERB. The Canadian emergency government benefit for those suffering income loss during an emergency (i.e. the coronavirus pandemic), acronymized to CERB, is a conversation starter, I'll tell you.
"It should not benefit those who worked five minutes in the same way that it benefits those who have worked for five decades."
"How did they come across $2000 as the magic number for a basic living income." (I learned that this amount is somehow both too much and too little.)
"A basic living income should be granted to all dependents all the time, rather than simply in times of emergency."
And so on.
I took no part in these discussions and read about eighty pages of my book while waiting. Although my time was productive, at least in the literary sense, I did feel sorry for a few of my fellow citizens as they wandered in behind me (or, considering the circular formation we established, in front of me, and then beside me). One elderly lady limped in on crutches. Another man and his wife walked in after driving nearly two hours, gazed at the queue wide-eyed and baffled at where it ended and began, and then left immediately to drive another two hours home after I told him that I was, in fact, near the front after looping the building twice. And honestly, I cannot blame him.
I hate needing food, hoping for a robotic existence so I can avoid the grocery store and its agonizing lines.
The theme parks studded with roller-coaster rides that I once adored? Don't even think about it. Those places already had lines. It boggles the mind what it may look like now.
As a supporter of libraries, the second they reopened I began using the physical collections again through curbside pickup. In essence, you pull up to a numbered spot on the curb, dial the extension on the sign, and they bring your items to your vehicle. I waited 13 minutes on hold for a 45-second conversation. It was another ten minutes before I received my library items. Granted, all of this time I was on my ass in my car with the air conditioning blasting my unmasked face, so it was far less annoying conditions to face and thus a much easier wait.
But now that I've started calculating, I can see my time on earth trickling away, ten minutes here and fifteen there, until we're all high-risk eighty years old and, frankly, we cannot wait one second longer.
Waiting makes me morbid now.
So it turns out, we all need to rant now and then. For some, it's about their government benefits. But, for me, it is directly related to the time spent on my feet not of my own volition. And since I am now leaving the liquor store and waiting to buy my sin juice is no longer impeding my feet, this rant is now over, especially considering I wrote the entirety of it while waiting in a queue.
We can now recommence living in three… two...
Good things often come to those who wait. Prolonged anticipation of a reward deepens its satisfaction.
Yada yada yada.
Today, however, I began to realize that I am reaching the limit of what is considered an acceptable length of lines, both in the number of lines to be in as well as the number of people within each given line.
I queued up at nine this morning, waited two hours to renew my driver's licence and health insurance card (their online service was down), and witnessed a questionably long line. It looped in on itself, forming concentric circles after twenty minutes, much like a snail's shell and exhibiting the same sort of speed.
While there, I heard the usual anti-government rants that you'll hear near any office of governmental authority in a free country. The rants this time were about CERB. The Canadian emergency government benefit for those suffering income loss during an emergency (i.e. the coronavirus pandemic), acronymized to CERB, is a conversation starter, I'll tell you.
"It should not benefit those who worked five minutes in the same way that it benefits those who have worked for five decades."
"How did they come across $2000 as the magic number for a basic living income." (I learned that this amount is somehow both too much and too little.)
"A basic living income should be granted to all dependents all the time, rather than simply in times of emergency."
And so on.
I took no part in these discussions and read about eighty pages of my book while waiting. Although my time was productive, at least in the literary sense, I did feel sorry for a few of my fellow citizens as they wandered in behind me (or, considering the circular formation we established, in front of me, and then beside me). One elderly lady limped in on crutches. Another man and his wife walked in after driving nearly two hours, gazed at the queue wide-eyed and baffled at where it ended and began, and then left immediately to drive another two hours home after I told him that I was, in fact, near the front after looping the building twice. And honestly, I cannot blame him.
I hate needing food, hoping for a robotic existence so I can avoid the grocery store and its agonizing lines.
The theme parks studded with roller-coaster rides that I once adored? Don't even think about it. Those places already had lines. It boggles the mind what it may look like now.
As a supporter of libraries, the second they reopened I began using the physical collections again through curbside pickup. In essence, you pull up to a numbered spot on the curb, dial the extension on the sign, and they bring your items to your vehicle. I waited 13 minutes on hold for a 45-second conversation. It was another ten minutes before I received my library items. Granted, all of this time I was on my ass in my car with the air conditioning blasting my unmasked face, so it was far less annoying conditions to face and thus a much easier wait.
But now that I've started calculating, I can see my time on earth trickling away, ten minutes here and fifteen there, until we're all high-risk eighty years old and, frankly, we cannot wait one second longer.
Waiting makes me morbid now.
So it turns out, we all need to rant now and then. For some, it's about their government benefits. But, for me, it is directly related to the time spent on my feet not of my own volition. And since I am now leaving the liquor store and waiting to buy my sin juice is no longer impeding my feet, this rant is now over, especially considering I wrote the entirety of it while waiting in a queue.
We can now recommence living in three… two...
August 11, 2020
Each night I ask the stars up above, why must I be a teenager in love?
It is officially YA week at Goodreads.
I have little doubt that, if I had come of age during the Twilight era, I would have been obsessed. I remember learning about vampires and finding them fascinating when I was younger, but, other than Bram Stoker, there was very little literature that could appeal to a teenage sensibility, apart from the occasional R.L. Stine horrorfest.
So, of course, I would have been fanatical about Stephenie Meyer and would be all over Midnight Sun right now.
I still love YA fiction, although I am not exactly the demographic at which it's aimed. I love the bildungsroman novel, as the genre was once called before "coming of age" literature was re-branded as YA. At one point, The Perks of Being a Wallflower and To Kill A Mockingbird were YA fiction, at least by the definition we measure it today. Most great literature speaks to that sense of us that we can recall and a great many of us recall the successes and traumas of growing up, far more vividly than anything during our adult years. It's the fountain from which Judy Blume has built her career ... and who can blame her? That's one hell of a fountain.
YA also provides us with the life lessons from which we become adults. Good YA fiction can dictate your values. They drive who you become. Some people become lawyers because of the words of Harper Lee. Others take cross-country trips because of the wit of John Green. Others get involved in social work and politics because of economic disparities in The Hunger Games.
The YA genre is no joke.
I remember devouring Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda on a sunny summer day beneath a tree. Frankly, I read the whole thing in insufficient shade and was severely sunburnt as a result, but I didn't even notice because I was so enthralled in the story and motivated by this love story. I was in my late twenties, far past the age of a sexually confused teenager who is trying to seek out their identity and form a relationship while fearing the reveal of their authentic self. That's not to say that adults don't experience matters like this, but it is often part of the development of adolescent life to seek acceptance from their peers while shaping their identity.
Yet it still entranced me enough to get scorched in the shade. That's how long I sat, turning page after page until I finished the book.
Now each generation will have its own "thing" because the zeitgeist is ever-evolving. Jenny Han novels spoke to my sister, a decade younger than me, the same way a J.K. Rowling release would have whipped me into excitement.
But YA is timeless and universal, and not often recognized for the strength of its writing.
I quote Sherman Alexie. He said, "I write in blood because I remember what it felt like to bleed."
For this week (and likely far beyond it), here's a Band-Aid.
I have little doubt that, if I had come of age during the Twilight era, I would have been obsessed. I remember learning about vampires and finding them fascinating when I was younger, but, other than Bram Stoker, there was very little literature that could appeal to a teenage sensibility, apart from the occasional R.L. Stine horrorfest.
So, of course, I would have been fanatical about Stephenie Meyer and would be all over Midnight Sun right now.
I still love YA fiction, although I am not exactly the demographic at which it's aimed. I love the bildungsroman novel, as the genre was once called before "coming of age" literature was re-branded as YA. At one point, The Perks of Being a Wallflower and To Kill A Mockingbird were YA fiction, at least by the definition we measure it today. Most great literature speaks to that sense of us that we can recall and a great many of us recall the successes and traumas of growing up, far more vividly than anything during our adult years. It's the fountain from which Judy Blume has built her career ... and who can blame her? That's one hell of a fountain.
YA also provides us with the life lessons from which we become adults. Good YA fiction can dictate your values. They drive who you become. Some people become lawyers because of the words of Harper Lee. Others take cross-country trips because of the wit of John Green. Others get involved in social work and politics because of economic disparities in The Hunger Games.
The YA genre is no joke.
I remember devouring Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda on a sunny summer day beneath a tree. Frankly, I read the whole thing in insufficient shade and was severely sunburnt as a result, but I didn't even notice because I was so enthralled in the story and motivated by this love story. I was in my late twenties, far past the age of a sexually confused teenager who is trying to seek out their identity and form a relationship while fearing the reveal of their authentic self. That's not to say that adults don't experience matters like this, but it is often part of the development of adolescent life to seek acceptance from their peers while shaping their identity.
Yet it still entranced me enough to get scorched in the shade. That's how long I sat, turning page after page until I finished the book.
Now each generation will have its own "thing" because the zeitgeist is ever-evolving. Jenny Han novels spoke to my sister, a decade younger than me, the same way a J.K. Rowling release would have whipped me into excitement.
But YA is timeless and universal, and not often recognized for the strength of its writing.
I quote Sherman Alexie. He said, "I write in blood because I remember what it felt like to bleed."
For this week (and likely far beyond it), here's a Band-Aid.
August 9, 2020
I Dedicate This Pitchy Love Song to Nora. This One's For You.
I'm having a Nora Ephron nostalgia fest. As anyone who knows me at least thirty percent, they know I have an exceptional fondness for the film When Harry Met Sally…, a film that, upon first viewing, I detested and now I could not fathom why. I watch it on a regular basis, never going more than a few months without screening it. I can recite it. Maybe that's not saying much, but you get the point.
Anyway, earlier tonight, I concluded that I was dying. Everything hurt. My fiancé told me, without an ounce of empathy or sympathy for my pain, that he had obviously upset me deeply, that I was hurt emotionally, and that my physical symptoms were clearly a manifestation of that. Clearly. Then he went to sleep early.
So what he clearly did not understand was that I was clearly dying a premature death of which the causes were hopelessly un...clear.
In traditional Chelsey fashion, though, I did what I used to do when I would take ill and stay home from school: lie with my head on a pillow, watch a movie or two, and moan periodically to ensure the world knew I was still dying. Almost there but not yet fully croaked.
So tonight, after a few mindless minutes on YouTube, I took to HBO movies and found a documentary on my beloved Nora, made by her son, entitled Everything is Copy.
First but far from foremost, I love that phrase. Everything is copy. All of life can be used, none of it a waste. It's up to you to use it. Every woe (and every high, if you want to be that annoying bitch of a writer, but hey, that's your prerogative) can be turned into a story, if you can just get over yourself.
Now the place of this phrase in Nora's life is as the adage sang by her mother to her. Nora said it best: "When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you, but when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it's your laugh, so you become the hero, rather than the victim, of the joke."
I like that idea.
So there I was lying in bed, succumbing to death.
None of this could possibly be copy.
I swiftly became enthralled as I do and looked up the whole list of books Nora Ephron had published. I added them to my wishlist although I have read them all. Honestly, that's why I added them. Some books are meant to be read once. Some you will read once a year for the rest of your life, a pilgrimage on an annual basis to words that feel like a prayer to you. For me, those words are Nora's.
I'm not the only one, considering this documentary; frankly the prevalence of her romantic comedies speaks volumes. People are listening. They get it because Nora got it.
So about three minutes after my Fitbit told me bluntly to go to sleep and two minutes after having read the table of contents of The Most of Nora Ephron (which I would love as a birthday gift three weeks from now, for anyone benevolent that happens to be reading this, thank you very much), I fell upon one of the most insightful articles (or hindsightful, as it was for most of us) that she wrote.
Arguably, it's a pair of articles: "What I won't miss" and "What I will miss".
Anyone who has never read I Remember Nothing, I insist you go do that. These articles are in there, right at the end making that resounding statement that we all missed like the dolts we are. But resound it did in her passing.
I miss her.
Anyway, since I am about seventy percent sure that I'm still dying, I figured I would take a crack at it myself. As a lunatic and ridiculous fan of hers, I hope she or anyone close to her isn't too incensed at my unsavoury and lame attempt at imitation. And if they are, I am, in true Nora fashion, not going to give too much of a shit about it.
So here it goes.
What I won't miss
Sunburns.
That uncomfortable feeling after eating lunch too late and then having a snack or seven and then drinking something fizzy and then eating a large dinner too early and realizing that gluttony is a sin and remembering that fact about how the Japanese only eat to about 70% of fullness and that is why they live so long, and then leaning over with a hunch, holding in a belch or a fart because you're in public, you animal, and deciding that, unlike the Japanese, you're going to die prematurely, and concluding that, since you already feel tremendously shitty, you might as well kick the bucket now just to end this feeling.
E-mail inboxes with the number of unread email messages in bold, judgmental as ever.
The basement.
Waiting for my hair to dry after a shower.
Bras. (On this point, Nora and I agree.)
News about COVID-19.
News about "President" Donald Trump.
Anyone who wants to explain the economy and stocks, like they're Miss Cleo looking into the crystal ball.
Visits to gynecologists.
Birds.
Gremlins. No, not Mogwai, the cute furby-looking things that sing. Gremlins are the little green fuckers they turn into if you're a bad pet owner that cannot follow three simple rules and now my childhood trauma is showing.
Sending emails or text messages to the wrong recipient.
Explaining feminism to anyone who mistakes feminism with lesbianism. (Truly exhausting.)
Waiting for nail polish to dry.
Racing anywhere for the ideal parking spot only for it to be unquestionably taken by someone with a stupid vanity licence plate.
What I will miss
My sister.
My step-grandson.
Ice cream.
Warm breezes on temperate evenings.
Kisses.
A good stack of pancakes.
Pasta with the right amount of cheese.
Dancing to loud music.
Stratford Festival.
Live concerts of bands from the seventies and eighties where all those singing are original members.
Spending the entire day at the cinema.
Spending the entire day in bed.
Being near the water.
Being in the water.
Speaking another language and everything going as planned without stumbling on a word you've never used before.
Laughter.
Christmas.
Saturday nights.
Sunday mornings.
When someone pours you a rum and diet coke without ever asking if you wanted one (because, of course, you do).
That little carved statue someone got me from Cuba and the little carved car I won in a "name that tune" contest while I was there.
Foot massages that put you to sleep.
.....
All right, that's enough, the Ephron estate must feel thoroughly disgusted by now. My pitiful homage feels just as pitiful as I do. Since I have to work tomorrow if by some chance I don't die, I should at least attempt sleeping. If I don't wake up tomorrow, though, which is still fifty-five percent certain, let the fiancé know he can finish the rest of Mad Men without me. Unless my death is related to something he clearly did. In which case, ruin it for him, the bastard.
Thanks, Nora.
Anyway, earlier tonight, I concluded that I was dying. Everything hurt. My fiancé told me, without an ounce of empathy or sympathy for my pain, that he had obviously upset me deeply, that I was hurt emotionally, and that my physical symptoms were clearly a manifestation of that. Clearly. Then he went to sleep early.
So what he clearly did not understand was that I was clearly dying a premature death of which the causes were hopelessly un...clear.
In traditional Chelsey fashion, though, I did what I used to do when I would take ill and stay home from school: lie with my head on a pillow, watch a movie or two, and moan periodically to ensure the world knew I was still dying. Almost there but not yet fully croaked.
So tonight, after a few mindless minutes on YouTube, I took to HBO movies and found a documentary on my beloved Nora, made by her son, entitled Everything is Copy.
First but far from foremost, I love that phrase. Everything is copy. All of life can be used, none of it a waste. It's up to you to use it. Every woe (and every high, if you want to be that annoying bitch of a writer, but hey, that's your prerogative) can be turned into a story, if you can just get over yourself.
Now the place of this phrase in Nora's life is as the adage sang by her mother to her. Nora said it best: "When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you, but when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it's your laugh, so you become the hero, rather than the victim, of the joke."
I like that idea.
So there I was lying in bed, succumbing to death.
None of this could possibly be copy.
I swiftly became enthralled as I do and looked up the whole list of books Nora Ephron had published. I added them to my wishlist although I have read them all. Honestly, that's why I added them. Some books are meant to be read once. Some you will read once a year for the rest of your life, a pilgrimage on an annual basis to words that feel like a prayer to you. For me, those words are Nora's.
I'm not the only one, considering this documentary; frankly the prevalence of her romantic comedies speaks volumes. People are listening. They get it because Nora got it.
So about three minutes after my Fitbit told me bluntly to go to sleep and two minutes after having read the table of contents of The Most of Nora Ephron (which I would love as a birthday gift three weeks from now, for anyone benevolent that happens to be reading this, thank you very much), I fell upon one of the most insightful articles (or hindsightful, as it was for most of us) that she wrote.
Arguably, it's a pair of articles: "What I won't miss" and "What I will miss".
Anyone who has never read I Remember Nothing, I insist you go do that. These articles are in there, right at the end making that resounding statement that we all missed like the dolts we are. But resound it did in her passing.
I miss her.
Anyway, since I am about seventy percent sure that I'm still dying, I figured I would take a crack at it myself. As a lunatic and ridiculous fan of hers, I hope she or anyone close to her isn't too incensed at my unsavoury and lame attempt at imitation. And if they are, I am, in true Nora fashion, not going to give too much of a shit about it.
So here it goes.
What I won't miss
Sunburns.
That uncomfortable feeling after eating lunch too late and then having a snack or seven and then drinking something fizzy and then eating a large dinner too early and realizing that gluttony is a sin and remembering that fact about how the Japanese only eat to about 70% of fullness and that is why they live so long, and then leaning over with a hunch, holding in a belch or a fart because you're in public, you animal, and deciding that, unlike the Japanese, you're going to die prematurely, and concluding that, since you already feel tremendously shitty, you might as well kick the bucket now just to end this feeling.
E-mail inboxes with the number of unread email messages in bold, judgmental as ever.
The basement.
Waiting for my hair to dry after a shower.
Bras. (On this point, Nora and I agree.)
News about COVID-19.
News about "President" Donald Trump.
Anyone who wants to explain the economy and stocks, like they're Miss Cleo looking into the crystal ball.
Visits to gynecologists.
Birds.
Gremlins. No, not Mogwai, the cute furby-looking things that sing. Gremlins are the little green fuckers they turn into if you're a bad pet owner that cannot follow three simple rules and now my childhood trauma is showing.
Sending emails or text messages to the wrong recipient.
Explaining feminism to anyone who mistakes feminism with lesbianism. (Truly exhausting.)
Waiting for nail polish to dry.
Racing anywhere for the ideal parking spot only for it to be unquestionably taken by someone with a stupid vanity licence plate.
What I will miss
My sister.
My step-grandson.
Ice cream.
Warm breezes on temperate evenings.
Kisses.
A good stack of pancakes.
Pasta with the right amount of cheese.
Dancing to loud music.
Stratford Festival.
Live concerts of bands from the seventies and eighties where all those singing are original members.
Spending the entire day at the cinema.
Spending the entire day in bed.
Being near the water.
Being in the water.
Speaking another language and everything going as planned without stumbling on a word you've never used before.
Laughter.
Christmas.
Saturday nights.
Sunday mornings.
When someone pours you a rum and diet coke without ever asking if you wanted one (because, of course, you do).
That little carved statue someone got me from Cuba and the little carved car I won in a "name that tune" contest while I was there.
Foot massages that put you to sleep.
.....
All right, that's enough, the Ephron estate must feel thoroughly disgusted by now. My pitiful homage feels just as pitiful as I do. Since I have to work tomorrow if by some chance I don't die, I should at least attempt sleeping. If I don't wake up tomorrow, though, which is still fifty-five percent certain, let the fiancé know he can finish the rest of Mad Men without me. Unless my death is related to something he clearly did. In which case, ruin it for him, the bastard.
Thanks, Nora.
March 5, 2018
I Can Remember The Nights By The Sea in Tripoli. We Were So Much Bolder Then. I Had You And My Poetry to Protect Me. We Were Both Soldiers Then.
I love the Academy Awards. The day of the Oscars is a very special day for me. I am always over-the-top happy and bouncing around.
But this was a special year. You see, my husband loves Jimmy Kimmel. And my sister loves Sam Rockwell. Like, loves Sam Rockwell. More than one should.
So, here's the deal. I typically try to see as many of the Oscar-nominated films as humanly and economically possible prior to the ceremonies. I make a particular effort to get through as many of the Best Picture nominees as possible. Sometimes I go to to the cinema and double up on films. I know, I know, it's a hard life.
As someone who adored Pan's Labyrinth, I have been a longtime fan of Guillermo Del Toro. He uses fantastical elements to talk about the world. The Shape of Water, a love story about an exploited fish-man saved by a mute custodian at a high-security facility, is not really about that. I mean, on the surface, he's a fish-man, but it's more about "the different." Love is love, though, which Guillermo makes abundantly clear. I won't go into too much detail because it's worth the watch. It won Best Picture for a reason. Guillermo deserved his win, too, for Best Director; in fact, it's long overdue. I just want to say that I'm fed up of Octavia Spencer being robbed of her awards; that lady is a goddess, knocking it out of the park without fail, but she's always snubbed.
Speaking of snubs. Let's talk about Tonya Harding. Now, I know her name was mud for a very long time, but Margot Robbie's portrayal of Harding in I, Tonya changed my view. The scene in the courtroom where Robbie is tearfully begging the judge for leniency, asking to go to jail rather than receiving a lifetime ban from competitive skating, breaks your heart. Again, you see the world through another set of eyes. You learn empathy. You don't judge. You let yourself get absorbed into someone else's skin and walk in their shoes, if only for a few paces. You begin to understand more than you. I, Tonya, which was wildy entertaining, lets me see what life is like as, not an Olympic athlete with all the connotations that carries, but as a misunderstood, poverty-stricken, abused daughter from the backwoods who escaped onto the ice to break free from a lifetime of disappointment. Skating was not something she wanted to win; skating was a way to not lose anymore.
Then there's Call Me By Your Name. This movie went right to my soul. I managed to catch this one on a midnight showing. It broke my heart, just shattered it. Wrapped up in the mood-enhancing Sufjan Stevens score, Call Me By Your Name rips right into your heart and demands attention. Elio is a young French-American man on the cusp of adulthood and lives with his parents in Italy. His father, a professor, welcomes grad students into their home on a regular basis, which is how they are graced with the presence of Armie Hammer, a golden Adonis of an American man. Initially, there's a touch of contempt in their relationship, something like jealousy, something abrasive, but, in time, it gives way to something different. It's unique and lovely. There's a tenderness by the end of the movie that lingers long after the credits. Needless to say, I am going to read the novel on which it's based in the near future.
Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri was a flick that my sister was extremely interested in seeing. May I remind you of her status as the future Mrs. Rockwell? I was a fan of director Martin McDonagh's Seven Psychopaths. I love the quirkiness of his writing, which embraces the darker walk of life. However, Three Billboards was not a dark comedy, like his earlier filmography, which makes it a bit of an oddball for that reason. It was tonally inconsistent, funny one moment and then deathly serious and then funny again, with barely a transitional buffer beween each shift. This whiplash makes it hard to get into the film, to relate, when you cannot tell whether the character is in pain or just out for a guffaw. The plot of the film deals with the violent rape and murder of a girl, as well as racially motivated police brutality. While they mostly focus on the former and the reaction and repercussions it evokes from the victim's family, the latter is barely even given a nod of recognition. It is a punchline, in fact, something that the character guilty of doing such things doesn't redeem. I don't feel right rooting for them. I understand people are flawed, but having your heart and mind in the right place matters a great deal. At least, it does to me. It left a sour taste in my mouth. Regardless, I was glad for Frances McDormand's win, especially because it gave her a platform to speak. And any time Frances opens her mouth, she gets down to business. My sister may love Sam Rockwell, but I love Frances McDormand.
Ladybird was my least favourite of the Best Picture nominees I watched. I didn't find it funny. I didn't find it much of anything, really. Ladybird (or Christine, if you want to call her by her birth name) seemed to be selfish and a bit rough on her mother. I mean, yes, she's a teenager. Yes, teenagers say and do things they don't mean. But I think she makes a special effort to spite her mother for no good reason. Maybe I'm biased because I adore Laurie Metcalf. (Roseanne is one of my favourite television programs of all time.) But I didn't think these were great roles for either of them, neither Laurie Metcalf or Saoirse Ronan. But what the hell do I know? They were both nominated for their performances last night. It simply didn't speak to me. But I still love Greta Gerwig and I'm ever so chuffed that her directorial debut is receiving accolades of any kind, whether or not it was my cup of tea.
I saw Get Out at the beginning of the year a few weeks after it was released. At the time, Oscars were not on my mind. I never imagined Get Out would be recognized. It was a compelling film, unlike anything I'd ever seen before. I couldn't categorize it. It defied that. I delighted in it and told everyone I knew about it. Needless to say, I couldn't be happier for Jordan Peele's writing win. Comedians rarely get any credit. African-American men in particular face barriers when it comes to the Academy, unless your name is Denzel. So, it was beyond my expectations when they said his name.
Lesser lauded films, like The Big Sick and Molly's Game, got my attention, too, before the ceremony aired last night. The Big Sick, a comedy based heavily on the real-life love story of an American Palestinian Muslim and his white girlfriend, was a great dramedy that showed how diverse cultures embrace and clash. This film is distinctly about that overlap, as the protagonist brushes off his mother's attempts at an arranged marriage for her son and is forced to engage with his significant other's parents when he agrees to put her in a medically induced coma to save her life.
Molly's Game is not even close to being about that. This is one of the central issues with the Academy Awards, pitting one film against another and discovering that it's hard to decide which is better when they are so mind-boggling different from each other. Molly's Game is also a true story, opening up about Molly Bloom, an injured competitive skiier who gets sucked into the world of poker to fund her post-sports aspirations. However, she isn't a gambler; no, she hosts the games, setting them up and deciding the clientele. Little does she know who she is inviting will have grave consequences on her life. Still, she protects their privacy, even as it comes to personal cost to herself, including her life. I enjoyed it. It opened my eyes up and, in hindsight, shares a great deal with I, Tonya.
Throughout the year, I happened across a few of the blockbusters, of course, like Star Wars: The Last Jedi, a nominee for a number of technical awards; Guardians of the Galaxy, Volume 2, which was up for its visual effects achievements; and Beauty and the Beast, a nominee for costume design and for production design, to name a few. (None of those aforementioned films were as good as their originals and predecessors, in my humble opinion.) I also happened to watch Baby Driver, which I firmly believed was robbed of both the sound editing and mixing Oscars last night. I mean, the whole film was choreographed to be in sync with music, from gunfire to footsteps. It was a jukebox action-musical. I mean, come on.
Now, for the rest.
Dunkirk, which won a handful of technical Oscars, was a film that I was interested in until I started watching it. I must reiterate something I've said many times before now: I do not like war movies. So, I got through thirty minutes of Dunkirk, only to uncover that, yep, Dunkirk is a war movie. And my rule applied in this case, meaning that I shut it off and didn't see it through to the end. So, I was a touch uninformed for a few categories, but it wasn't worth the watch, at least not for me.
Sometimes, there are films I make no attempt to watch. For example, I did not and still do not intend to see Darkest Hour. I wasn't all that interested in watching a Churchill biopic. (Frankly, the first season of The Crown with the marvellous John Lithgow summed up everything I really cared to know.) But when the allegations of sexual harassment started trickling in against Gary Oldman, I was especially turned off of the film. That being said, he still won the Best Actor award for the evening, which is reminiscent of Casey Affleck last year, who inexplicably won for the hopelessly sad and dull Manchester by the Sea, despite having a wave of accusations levelled against him.
I've yet to see The Post and Phantom Thread, as well as some of the films in the technical categories, such as Blade Runner: 2049, War of the Planet of the Apes, and the like. I actually have Mudbound downloaded from Netflix on my phone at this very moment. The intent is there.
Jimmy Kimmel, hosting the Oscars ceremony for the second time, did a marvellous job of walking the line between being too honest versus skirting past reality. Instead, he used his trademark humour to plunge headfirst into what is going on in the world, directly addressing it with a wink and a smile. He was superb. He showed appreciation and gave credit to those who deserved it. He even bid a special thank you to the moviegoing public by surprising an audience at a special preview screening of A Wrinkle in Time, rallying a few actors and filmmakers to show their love by handing out candy and hot dogs. And, may I add please how much a class act Gal Gadot is? She was one of the first jumping to her feet to volunteer. She truly is a wonder woman. I just adore her.
But I digress. It's been a truly spectacular year for film, one that forces you to reexamine how you feel about matters. One's sphere of experience grows a little wider. Motion pictures transport you across the world and demand your emotional investment. Just like novels, films have the capacity to make you a better person, make you experience a story beyond the reaches of your own imagination and implore you to understand people. That's something worth talking about, and, frankly, I hope the conversation never ends.
But this was a special year. You see, my husband loves Jimmy Kimmel. And my sister loves Sam Rockwell. Like, loves Sam Rockwell. More than one should.
So, here's the deal. I typically try to see as many of the Oscar-nominated films as humanly and economically possible prior to the ceremonies. I make a particular effort to get through as many of the Best Picture nominees as possible. Sometimes I go to to the cinema and double up on films. I know, I know, it's a hard life.
As someone who adored Pan's Labyrinth, I have been a longtime fan of Guillermo Del Toro. He uses fantastical elements to talk about the world. The Shape of Water, a love story about an exploited fish-man saved by a mute custodian at a high-security facility, is not really about that. I mean, on the surface, he's a fish-man, but it's more about "the different." Love is love, though, which Guillermo makes abundantly clear. I won't go into too much detail because it's worth the watch. It won Best Picture for a reason. Guillermo deserved his win, too, for Best Director; in fact, it's long overdue. I just want to say that I'm fed up of Octavia Spencer being robbed of her awards; that lady is a goddess, knocking it out of the park without fail, but she's always snubbed.
Speaking of snubs. Let's talk about Tonya Harding. Now, I know her name was mud for a very long time, but Margot Robbie's portrayal of Harding in I, Tonya changed my view. The scene in the courtroom where Robbie is tearfully begging the judge for leniency, asking to go to jail rather than receiving a lifetime ban from competitive skating, breaks your heart. Again, you see the world through another set of eyes. You learn empathy. You don't judge. You let yourself get absorbed into someone else's skin and walk in their shoes, if only for a few paces. You begin to understand more than you. I, Tonya, which was wildy entertaining, lets me see what life is like as, not an Olympic athlete with all the connotations that carries, but as a misunderstood, poverty-stricken, abused daughter from the backwoods who escaped onto the ice to break free from a lifetime of disappointment. Skating was not something she wanted to win; skating was a way to not lose anymore.
Then there's Call Me By Your Name. This movie went right to my soul. I managed to catch this one on a midnight showing. It broke my heart, just shattered it. Wrapped up in the mood-enhancing Sufjan Stevens score, Call Me By Your Name rips right into your heart and demands attention. Elio is a young French-American man on the cusp of adulthood and lives with his parents in Italy. His father, a professor, welcomes grad students into their home on a regular basis, which is how they are graced with the presence of Armie Hammer, a golden Adonis of an American man. Initially, there's a touch of contempt in their relationship, something like jealousy, something abrasive, but, in time, it gives way to something different. It's unique and lovely. There's a tenderness by the end of the movie that lingers long after the credits. Needless to say, I am going to read the novel on which it's based in the near future.
Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri was a flick that my sister was extremely interested in seeing. May I remind you of her status as the future Mrs. Rockwell? I was a fan of director Martin McDonagh's Seven Psychopaths. I love the quirkiness of his writing, which embraces the darker walk of life. However, Three Billboards was not a dark comedy, like his earlier filmography, which makes it a bit of an oddball for that reason. It was tonally inconsistent, funny one moment and then deathly serious and then funny again, with barely a transitional buffer beween each shift. This whiplash makes it hard to get into the film, to relate, when you cannot tell whether the character is in pain or just out for a guffaw. The plot of the film deals with the violent rape and murder of a girl, as well as racially motivated police brutality. While they mostly focus on the former and the reaction and repercussions it evokes from the victim's family, the latter is barely even given a nod of recognition. It is a punchline, in fact, something that the character guilty of doing such things doesn't redeem. I don't feel right rooting for them. I understand people are flawed, but having your heart and mind in the right place matters a great deal. At least, it does to me. It left a sour taste in my mouth. Regardless, I was glad for Frances McDormand's win, especially because it gave her a platform to speak. And any time Frances opens her mouth, she gets down to business. My sister may love Sam Rockwell, but I love Frances McDormand.
Ladybird was my least favourite of the Best Picture nominees I watched. I didn't find it funny. I didn't find it much of anything, really. Ladybird (or Christine, if you want to call her by her birth name) seemed to be selfish and a bit rough on her mother. I mean, yes, she's a teenager. Yes, teenagers say and do things they don't mean. But I think she makes a special effort to spite her mother for no good reason. Maybe I'm biased because I adore Laurie Metcalf. (Roseanne is one of my favourite television programs of all time.) But I didn't think these were great roles for either of them, neither Laurie Metcalf or Saoirse Ronan. But what the hell do I know? They were both nominated for their performances last night. It simply didn't speak to me. But I still love Greta Gerwig and I'm ever so chuffed that her directorial debut is receiving accolades of any kind, whether or not it was my cup of tea.
I saw Get Out at the beginning of the year a few weeks after it was released. At the time, Oscars were not on my mind. I never imagined Get Out would be recognized. It was a compelling film, unlike anything I'd ever seen before. I couldn't categorize it. It defied that. I delighted in it and told everyone I knew about it. Needless to say, I couldn't be happier for Jordan Peele's writing win. Comedians rarely get any credit. African-American men in particular face barriers when it comes to the Academy, unless your name is Denzel. So, it was beyond my expectations when they said his name.
Lesser lauded films, like The Big Sick and Molly's Game, got my attention, too, before the ceremony aired last night. The Big Sick, a comedy based heavily on the real-life love story of an American Palestinian Muslim and his white girlfriend, was a great dramedy that showed how diverse cultures embrace and clash. This film is distinctly about that overlap, as the protagonist brushes off his mother's attempts at an arranged marriage for her son and is forced to engage with his significant other's parents when he agrees to put her in a medically induced coma to save her life.
Molly's Game is not even close to being about that. This is one of the central issues with the Academy Awards, pitting one film against another and discovering that it's hard to decide which is better when they are so mind-boggling different from each other. Molly's Game is also a true story, opening up about Molly Bloom, an injured competitive skiier who gets sucked into the world of poker to fund her post-sports aspirations. However, she isn't a gambler; no, she hosts the games, setting them up and deciding the clientele. Little does she know who she is inviting will have grave consequences on her life. Still, she protects their privacy, even as it comes to personal cost to herself, including her life. I enjoyed it. It opened my eyes up and, in hindsight, shares a great deal with I, Tonya.
Throughout the year, I happened across a few of the blockbusters, of course, like Star Wars: The Last Jedi, a nominee for a number of technical awards; Guardians of the Galaxy, Volume 2, which was up for its visual effects achievements; and Beauty and the Beast, a nominee for costume design and for production design, to name a few. (None of those aforementioned films were as good as their originals and predecessors, in my humble opinion.) I also happened to watch Baby Driver, which I firmly believed was robbed of both the sound editing and mixing Oscars last night. I mean, the whole film was choreographed to be in sync with music, from gunfire to footsteps. It was a jukebox action-musical. I mean, come on.
Now, for the rest.
Dunkirk, which won a handful of technical Oscars, was a film that I was interested in until I started watching it. I must reiterate something I've said many times before now: I do not like war movies. So, I got through thirty minutes of Dunkirk, only to uncover that, yep, Dunkirk is a war movie. And my rule applied in this case, meaning that I shut it off and didn't see it through to the end. So, I was a touch uninformed for a few categories, but it wasn't worth the watch, at least not for me.
Sometimes, there are films I make no attempt to watch. For example, I did not and still do not intend to see Darkest Hour. I wasn't all that interested in watching a Churchill biopic. (Frankly, the first season of The Crown with the marvellous John Lithgow summed up everything I really cared to know.) But when the allegations of sexual harassment started trickling in against Gary Oldman, I was especially turned off of the film. That being said, he still won the Best Actor award for the evening, which is reminiscent of Casey Affleck last year, who inexplicably won for the hopelessly sad and dull Manchester by the Sea, despite having a wave of accusations levelled against him.
I've yet to see The Post and Phantom Thread, as well as some of the films in the technical categories, such as Blade Runner: 2049, War of the Planet of the Apes, and the like. I actually have Mudbound downloaded from Netflix on my phone at this very moment. The intent is there.
Jimmy Kimmel, hosting the Oscars ceremony for the second time, did a marvellous job of walking the line between being too honest versus skirting past reality. Instead, he used his trademark humour to plunge headfirst into what is going on in the world, directly addressing it with a wink and a smile. He was superb. He showed appreciation and gave credit to those who deserved it. He even bid a special thank you to the moviegoing public by surprising an audience at a special preview screening of A Wrinkle in Time, rallying a few actors and filmmakers to show their love by handing out candy and hot dogs. And, may I add please how much a class act Gal Gadot is? She was one of the first jumping to her feet to volunteer. She truly is a wonder woman. I just adore her.
But I digress. It's been a truly spectacular year for film, one that forces you to reexamine how you feel about matters. One's sphere of experience grows a little wider. Motion pictures transport you across the world and demand your emotional investment. Just like novels, films have the capacity to make you a better person, make you experience a story beyond the reaches of your own imagination and implore you to understand people. That's something worth talking about, and, frankly, I hope the conversation never ends.
December 24, 2017
Might be over now, but I feel it still.
Dearest readers,
There's nothing like an automobile accident to pull things back into perspective for you.
When I ended up injured from the impact, I struggled with frustration about not being able to do basic things, like feeding myself or getting dressed. Forced to be dependent on others for weeks (and I am still in the process of recovery, so I'm still relying dearly upon their kindness), I was forced to reevaluate what's important. I push myself hard a lot of the time, so I've come to the realization that, oftentimes, the effort is just as important as the result.
Let's take another look at those resolutions.
Resolution #1: Reach 65% fluency in French, Spanish, German, Italian, and Russian
I fluctuated wildly with this goal, almost meeting that milestone and then dropping precipitously, only to work my way back to it. Along the way, I also picked up an interest in Japanese, which I never expected to happen. I know some Arabic, too, which wasn't on the radar. I haven't given up on this goal and will continue to work towards it in 2018, but I've decided not to be so hard on myself for any discrepancies. I look around at the political climate where people make no effort to bridge the gap between themselves and those they deem "foreigners" and the xenophobia sickens me. The fact that I'm trying to speak someone else's language is something I should feel is deserving of a miniature internal high-five in and of itself. Because I really am trying and sometimes -- sometimes -- that is enough.
Resolution #2: Raise guitar proficiency on Tom Petty's "American Girl" by at least 25%
I couldn't put my own clothes on. It made me feel as if mastering that final riff wasn't all that important. I'm never going to be Stevie Nicks, so I've decided to hang up my delusional thinking and retire to the mere fun zone. That's right. Playing guitar for me is recreational and shouldn't be something I'm pushing myself to ridiculous lengths as if my life depends on it. My life doesn't. It's not a career. I'm an amateur who has only had a guitar for two seconds, relatively speaking. And I don't really care anymore whether I sound all that great. And I know that sounds like apathy, but it's very much the opposite. I don't care about sounding great. I care about having fun and embrace the fun of the guitar. And the more I feel this way, the more I cannot wait to get back in the physical shape necessary to play again.
Resolution #3: Clear my backlog of unwatched films and TV boxsets
This is an impossible task. I have chipped away, but I don't think I will ever really be done. I replenish my stock too readily to ever run out. That being said, I finished Veronica Mars, which has been a long time coming. We won't go into all the feelings I felt watching that finale. Suffice it to say, I'm glad the film rectified the situation.
In addition, I watched my Blu-ray of The Lion King, arguably my favourite Disney film; finished the sixth and final season of Girls; and continued grinding away at the fourth season of Cheers.
But, in the same time, I purchased Patch Adams, two seasons of The Middle, three seasons of American Horror Story, and the complete Mary Tyler Moore Show. I was also gifted Hacksaw Ridge. And I buried my nose in Netflix, watching Thirteen Reasons Why, GLOW, Stranger Things, The Crown, and oh-so-many stand-up comedy specials.
And that's fine. I like films and I like television, so it's normal to expect that I would do such a thing. And the fact that I have tons more to watch just means a recipe for some cuddly and fun nights in watching this or that with my loved ones. I couldn't be happier at the prospect of it, so why deny myself that?
In fact, this resolution is not only ludicrous in its unrealistic sense of plausibility but equally so in that its achievement would probably bring me unhappiness. Why would I resolve to do that?
Resolution #4: The 2017 Super-Mega-Ultra-Neo-Maxi-Zoom-Dweebie Chelsey Cosh Reading Challenge™!
Reading is very fun for me. I love learning about new books, reading them, and discussing them ad nauseum.
I happened to read Big Little Lies in the last few weeks of March because I wanted to, not because it was part of this challenge I had committed myself to. As it happens, the book was set in Australia, so it did actually cross off a prompt on my challenge, but I didn't know that. No, I read the book simply because I wanted to. Reading challenge be damned. That was my attitude.
And I freaking loved Big Little Lies. When I wasn't tied to this challenge, constantly trying to get ahead of it, I opted to read books for the heck of it and was so much happier for it.
Now, I do understand the purpose of reading challenges. They force people to look outside of what they normally read, venturing into the unfamiliar to see if there is something they might like. It gets you out of ruts. And, for some, it encourages you to read a book for the first time in an eternity.
But I don't need to be pushed to look for something new. And I certainly don't need to be pushed to read. I love reading. I have always loved reading.
So, while I may not have read a book about a mother-son relationship or a book about a murder, I did read a banned book, a book written by a woman of colour, and a book with a transgender protagonist -- all because I wanted to read them. Not once did I think, "Ooh, I can check this off the list." No, I read them purely because I was dying to see what happens.
That is the beauty of literature. It encourages the curiosity, that yearning to learn more, and allows transportation to an entirely different realm as long as your imagination can take you there. When that magic floats me off wide-eyed on a cloud of my own thoughts, I will be sure to update you on that ineffable thing we all share. Yes, I know we share it. One day, I hope my writing offers that gift to someone. Because that gift is priceless. By virtue of its wonder, I will never be able to articulate that special quality, but I know I'm not alone in this feeling.
And I can assure you that I will continue recommending novels, films, music, and television shows to anyone who will listen and, I'm sure, express my disgust for those pieces of art that rub me the wrong way in what can only be described as a total bitchfest. (To paraphrase what Olympia Dukakis once said, "If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me.")
And, yes, while I did not meet any of my goals set by these particular set of resolutions that I set for 2017, I did learn a lot and I think that is probably more important than the arbitrary finish line I established on a whim.
Here's to all of you readers out there. I wish you a wonderful 2018, sparkly and new with all the promise that holds.
Stay warm, safe, and merry.
There's nothing like an automobile accident to pull things back into perspective for you.
When I ended up injured from the impact, I struggled with frustration about not being able to do basic things, like feeding myself or getting dressed. Forced to be dependent on others for weeks (and I am still in the process of recovery, so I'm still relying dearly upon their kindness), I was forced to reevaluate what's important. I push myself hard a lot of the time, so I've come to the realization that, oftentimes, the effort is just as important as the result.
Let's take another look at those resolutions.
Resolution #1: Reach 65% fluency in French, Spanish, German, Italian, and Russian
I fluctuated wildly with this goal, almost meeting that milestone and then dropping precipitously, only to work my way back to it. Along the way, I also picked up an interest in Japanese, which I never expected to happen. I know some Arabic, too, which wasn't on the radar. I haven't given up on this goal and will continue to work towards it in 2018, but I've decided not to be so hard on myself for any discrepancies. I look around at the political climate where people make no effort to bridge the gap between themselves and those they deem "foreigners" and the xenophobia sickens me. The fact that I'm trying to speak someone else's language is something I should feel is deserving of a miniature internal high-five in and of itself. Because I really am trying and sometimes -- sometimes -- that is enough.
Resolution #2: Raise guitar proficiency on Tom Petty's "American Girl" by at least 25%
I couldn't put my own clothes on. It made me feel as if mastering that final riff wasn't all that important. I'm never going to be Stevie Nicks, so I've decided to hang up my delusional thinking and retire to the mere fun zone. That's right. Playing guitar for me is recreational and shouldn't be something I'm pushing myself to ridiculous lengths as if my life depends on it. My life doesn't. It's not a career. I'm an amateur who has only had a guitar for two seconds, relatively speaking. And I don't really care anymore whether I sound all that great. And I know that sounds like apathy, but it's very much the opposite. I don't care about sounding great. I care about having fun and embrace the fun of the guitar. And the more I feel this way, the more I cannot wait to get back in the physical shape necessary to play again.
Resolution #3: Clear my backlog of unwatched films and TV boxsets
This is an impossible task. I have chipped away, but I don't think I will ever really be done. I replenish my stock too readily to ever run out. That being said, I finished Veronica Mars, which has been a long time coming. We won't go into all the feelings I felt watching that finale. Suffice it to say, I'm glad the film rectified the situation.
In addition, I watched my Blu-ray of The Lion King, arguably my favourite Disney film; finished the sixth and final season of Girls; and continued grinding away at the fourth season of Cheers.
But, in the same time, I purchased Patch Adams, two seasons of The Middle, three seasons of American Horror Story, and the complete Mary Tyler Moore Show. I was also gifted Hacksaw Ridge. And I buried my nose in Netflix, watching Thirteen Reasons Why, GLOW, Stranger Things, The Crown, and oh-so-many stand-up comedy specials.
And that's fine. I like films and I like television, so it's normal to expect that I would do such a thing. And the fact that I have tons more to watch just means a recipe for some cuddly and fun nights in watching this or that with my loved ones. I couldn't be happier at the prospect of it, so why deny myself that?
In fact, this resolution is not only ludicrous in its unrealistic sense of plausibility but equally so in that its achievement would probably bring me unhappiness. Why would I resolve to do that?
Resolution #4: The 2017 Super-Mega-Ultra-Neo-Maxi-Zoom-Dweebie Chelsey Cosh Reading Challenge™!
Reading is very fun for me. I love learning about new books, reading them, and discussing them ad nauseum.
I happened to read Big Little Lies in the last few weeks of March because I wanted to, not because it was part of this challenge I had committed myself to. As it happens, the book was set in Australia, so it did actually cross off a prompt on my challenge, but I didn't know that. No, I read the book simply because I wanted to. Reading challenge be damned. That was my attitude.
And I freaking loved Big Little Lies. When I wasn't tied to this challenge, constantly trying to get ahead of it, I opted to read books for the heck of it and was so much happier for it.
Now, I do understand the purpose of reading challenges. They force people to look outside of what they normally read, venturing into the unfamiliar to see if there is something they might like. It gets you out of ruts. And, for some, it encourages you to read a book for the first time in an eternity.
But I don't need to be pushed to look for something new. And I certainly don't need to be pushed to read. I love reading. I have always loved reading.
So, while I may not have read a book about a mother-son relationship or a book about a murder, I did read a banned book, a book written by a woman of colour, and a book with a transgender protagonist -- all because I wanted to read them. Not once did I think, "Ooh, I can check this off the list." No, I read them purely because I was dying to see what happens.
That is the beauty of literature. It encourages the curiosity, that yearning to learn more, and allows transportation to an entirely different realm as long as your imagination can take you there. When that magic floats me off wide-eyed on a cloud of my own thoughts, I will be sure to update you on that ineffable thing we all share. Yes, I know we share it. One day, I hope my writing offers that gift to someone. Because that gift is priceless. By virtue of its wonder, I will never be able to articulate that special quality, but I know I'm not alone in this feeling.
And I can assure you that I will continue recommending novels, films, music, and television shows to anyone who will listen and, I'm sure, express my disgust for those pieces of art that rub me the wrong way in what can only be described as a total bitchfest. (To paraphrase what Olympia Dukakis once said, "If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me.")
And, yes, while I did not meet any of my goals set by these particular set of resolutions that I set for 2017, I did learn a lot and I think that is probably more important than the arbitrary finish line I established on a whim.
Here's to all of you readers out there. I wish you a wonderful 2018, sparkly and new with all the promise that holds.
Stay warm, safe, and merry.
July 3, 2017
Take my hand. We can make it, I swear.
I haven't made much progress as of late. No fibs, dear readers. I have been busy with other pressing matters and my resolutions and goals for this year have been buried beneath other priorities. But I haven't forgotten about them and I've felt guilty about letting them fall by the wayside.
You know what time it is? July. The seventh month of the year. And, yes, I know February is an unabashedly short month, so the midpoint of 2017 has actually arrived now, in these first few days of July. (Speaking of which, happy Canada Day, everyone. It's our 150th birthday this year!) And if that means the first half of the year is totally over, I have decided that it's time to reevaluate. It's time to see what's working and what's a whole load of poppycock.
Resolution #1: Reach 65% fluency in French, Spanish, German, Italian, and Russian
This one's my bad, guys. 65% is a perfectly attainable goal.
My French has drooped from its impressive 54% to a mere 41%. My Spanish fell from 49% to 31% -- what a ding. Even my Italian dropped three percent to a pathetic 15%. I lost competency in Russian by 2 full levels to a mere 3/78 (that's 3.8% -- egad). I should slink away in shame.
And yet, somehow, somehow, my German improved by two whole percent to a mediocre 32%. (I have no idea how that happened, but I can't say I'm not happy.)
By next month, my goal is simply to get back on track and either maintain or exceed where I once was. Once I get to that point, it's incremental progress from there, growing ever more marginal as I get closer and closer to that elusive 65%.
Resolution #2: Raise guitar proficiency by at least 25% on six songs
I have not moved a budge in guitar proficiency. Despite my best efforts this year, I'm starting to feel a little defeated. It's almost the half-way point of 2017 and I am still 25 percent away from being pretty decent at playing "My Girl", "Refugee", "Don't Speak", "Go Your Own Way", and "Addicted to Love." All five of those songs!
It's true that I'm less than ten percent away from reaching my goal for "American Girl." So, I'm thinking of tinkering with my objective. I've spread myself too thin.
As I said before, I know that, in theory, only marginal improvement is likely as I approach my goals, but I'm spitting in the face of logic because: a) I clearly have improved a great deal with this song and I think that it must therefore be magic, and b) I really love Tom Petty and don't mind playing his awesome tune over and over until my fingers bleed. So, let's get "American Girl" to 55.8%!
This is a test, to be sure, a mid-year experiment. I'm going to see if it is wiser to narrow my goal and, in the meantime, drop my expectations for the others. It may not work, but I'm going to give it the ol' college try for at least a month or so. Fingers crossed, everybody (but not while strumming).
Resolution #3: Clear my backlog of unwatched films and TV boxsets
I'm not sure how to determine this goal a success. Clearing the backlog is virtually impossible because it constantly replenishes itself. In the time it takes me to watch two, I have a new one added to my collection. So, what does that mean? I need concrete numbers.
I'm going to apply an arbitrary quantity to consider this goal -- let's say, fifteen films and fifteen TV seasons. Thus far, I have successfully accomplished a whole 36 percent of this goal -- three movies and eight seasons. Want the specific deets? There's the final season of Mike and Molly (disappointing but inevitable conclusion to the storylines they already started), two seasons of Cheers (still hilarious, aging like fine wine), five seasons of The Middle (equally side-splitting comedy that gives me the warm fuzzies and reminds me of one of my favourite shows ever, Roseanne), The Parent Trap, Practical Magic, and Matilda (all three of which were blasts from the past).
I whole-heartedly blame Netflix if I don't reach this goal. This month, I watched their newest season of Orange Is The New Black, the most recent season of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and even started watching RuPaul's Drag Race (FYI: not a fan of Acid Betty). I just cannot stay on track with these temptations!
But I will maintain focus. From now until December, I only need to watch twelve films and seven TV seasons. Totally doable. If ever there was a task I could handle, this resolution is the one.
Resolution #4: The 2017 Super-Mega-Ultra-Neo-Maxi-Zoom-Dweebie Chelsey Cosh Reading Challenge™!
Like I said last posting, I'm a bit of an idiot. I realize now that, by fluke, I happened to read Big Little Lies in the last few weeks of March, which is set in Australia. For my reading challenge, I had intended to read The Light Between Oceans , by M. L. Stedman, but I got to Big Little Lies first, which means I actually completed more of my reading list than I originally thought.
Oh, I freaking loved Big Little Lies. Sure, it's a touch salacious, but what a page-turner.
That being said, I wasn't a quick convert, let me tell you. The book was released in 2014 and, by 2015, a year later, I remember it being something of a big deal, book-club-wise. Everybody was reading it -- everybody but me, that is. I had zero interest in it. It looked too ... beachy. I don't care for poolside disposable lit where the dish runs away to spoon with the hot guy. So, I had my doubts. I didn't know that that wasn't at all what this book was about. But nobody told me, so I went with my gut. It took until 2017 for me to even give Big Little Lies a fair shake. It's second chance actually came due to the TV program that HBO started advertising; the show piqued my interest and I had deja vu upon hearing the title. And because I didn't have the patience to wait for the show to air, I decided to read through the book in advance.
And I fell in love with the story. Or I should say stories. I have witnessed some suburban soccer moms who helicopter-parent their way through life, especially those who throw their money around to do it. I have actually seen a great deal of that in my years on this planet. It ain't pretty. That's why I felt something profound about the reality described in Big Little Lies. True, I found it hard to detach the images of the stars I knew were cast as each character, even with physical descriptions in the book that directly contradicted the casting director's decisions (for example, last time I checked Denise Huxtable's daughter doesn't have a blond plait running down her back).
Regardless, the story was great, but it definitely has that soap-opera feel to it that takes the edge off what is actually quite serious subject matter. Still, I enjoyed it unashamedly because it was frighteningly honest. I like books that speak the truth or their version of the truth, and I especially love complicated, layered characters who don't just embrace their flaws but revel in them. Big Little Lies had that in spades. And that made it a good read.
But what about in April? May? June? Have I read anything new? Why, I'm glad you asked.
I've read six -- count 'em, six! -- financial books, including a few titles by Gordon Pape and Gail Vaz-Oxlade. I then read a tiny little coffee-table book called The Joy of Hygge, which I was going to use for my prompt, but frankly it was so brief that I couldn't, in good conscience, use it. I'll look elsewhere. I am well into Fun Home. I've been reading Nora Ephron's Heartburn and Paul Reiser's Familyhood to my husband because he does like a read or two with some laughs to be had. I picked up and then swiftly abandoned We Have Always Lived In The Castle; I simply could not get into it. I picked at The Nordic Theory of Everything: In Search of a Better Life to compensate for the too-short-to-qualify book on hygge. And I sunk my teeth into Their Eyes Were Watching God, a classic by Zora Neale Hurston. That's not to mention all the other hopefuls I have waiting in the wings to be picked up and read, like The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (of which I have read a few chapters eons ago and then put down and never returned to, much to my chagrin -- it's a great book!) and a few celebrity bios, too.
So, what remains? Turns out, quite a lot.
I didn't do all that great in regards to the challenge, although I've read plenty. But I am up to my eyeballs in books that qualify, books that I've almost completed. So, instead of rambling a second longer, I'm going to do that instead. Maybe next month we'll have something a bit more substantial to talk about -- like Janie finding the diamond within herself again! (Seriously, Zora was the queen of the Harlem Renaissance.)
Until next month, my dear readers!
You know what time it is? July. The seventh month of the year. And, yes, I know February is an unabashedly short month, so the midpoint of 2017 has actually arrived now, in these first few days of July. (Speaking of which, happy Canada Day, everyone. It's our 150th birthday this year!) And if that means the first half of the year is totally over, I have decided that it's time to reevaluate. It's time to see what's working and what's a whole load of poppycock.
Resolution #1: Reach 65% fluency in French, Spanish, German, Italian, and Russian
This one's my bad, guys. 65% is a perfectly attainable goal.
My French has drooped from its impressive 54% to a mere 41%. My Spanish fell from 49% to 31% -- what a ding. Even my Italian dropped three percent to a pathetic 15%. I lost competency in Russian by 2 full levels to a mere 3/78 (that's 3.8% -- egad). I should slink away in shame.
And yet, somehow, somehow, my German improved by two whole percent to a mediocre 32%. (I have no idea how that happened, but I can't say I'm not happy.)
By next month, my goal is simply to get back on track and either maintain or exceed where I once was. Once I get to that point, it's incremental progress from there, growing ever more marginal as I get closer and closer to that elusive 65%.
Resolution #2: Raise guitar proficiency by at least 25% on six songs
I have not moved a budge in guitar proficiency. Despite my best efforts this year, I'm starting to feel a little defeated. It's almost the half-way point of 2017 and I am still 25 percent away from being pretty decent at playing "My Girl", "Refugee", "Don't Speak", "Go Your Own Way", and "Addicted to Love." All five of those songs!
It's true that I'm less than ten percent away from reaching my goal for "American Girl." So, I'm thinking of tinkering with my objective. I've spread myself too thin.
As I said before, I know that, in theory, only marginal improvement is likely as I approach my goals, but I'm spitting in the face of logic because: a) I clearly have improved a great deal with this song and I think that it must therefore be magic, and b) I really love Tom Petty and don't mind playing his awesome tune over and over until my fingers bleed. So, let's get "American Girl" to 55.8%!
This is a test, to be sure, a mid-year experiment. I'm going to see if it is wiser to narrow my goal and, in the meantime, drop my expectations for the others. It may not work, but I'm going to give it the ol' college try for at least a month or so. Fingers crossed, everybody (but not while strumming).
Resolution #3: Clear my backlog of unwatched films and TV boxsets
I'm not sure how to determine this goal a success. Clearing the backlog is virtually impossible because it constantly replenishes itself. In the time it takes me to watch two, I have a new one added to my collection. So, what does that mean? I need concrete numbers.
I'm going to apply an arbitrary quantity to consider this goal -- let's say, fifteen films and fifteen TV seasons. Thus far, I have successfully accomplished a whole 36 percent of this goal -- three movies and eight seasons. Want the specific deets? There's the final season of Mike and Molly (disappointing but inevitable conclusion to the storylines they already started), two seasons of Cheers (still hilarious, aging like fine wine), five seasons of The Middle (equally side-splitting comedy that gives me the warm fuzzies and reminds me of one of my favourite shows ever, Roseanne), The Parent Trap, Practical Magic, and Matilda (all three of which were blasts from the past).
I whole-heartedly blame Netflix if I don't reach this goal. This month, I watched their newest season of Orange Is The New Black, the most recent season of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and even started watching RuPaul's Drag Race (FYI: not a fan of Acid Betty). I just cannot stay on track with these temptations!
But I will maintain focus. From now until December, I only need to watch twelve films and seven TV seasons. Totally doable. If ever there was a task I could handle, this resolution is the one.
Resolution #4: The 2017 Super-Mega-Ultra-Neo-Maxi-Zoom-Dweebie Chelsey Cosh Reading Challenge™!
Like I said last posting, I'm a bit of an idiot. I realize now that, by fluke, I happened to read Big Little Lies in the last few weeks of March, which is set in Australia. For my reading challenge, I had intended to read The Light Between Oceans , by M. L. Stedman, but I got to Big Little Lies first, which means I actually completed more of my reading list than I originally thought.
Oh, I freaking loved Big Little Lies. Sure, it's a touch salacious, but what a page-turner.
That being said, I wasn't a quick convert, let me tell you. The book was released in 2014 and, by 2015, a year later, I remember it being something of a big deal, book-club-wise. Everybody was reading it -- everybody but me, that is. I had zero interest in it. It looked too ... beachy. I don't care for poolside disposable lit where the dish runs away to spoon with the hot guy. So, I had my doubts. I didn't know that that wasn't at all what this book was about. But nobody told me, so I went with my gut. It took until 2017 for me to even give Big Little Lies a fair shake. It's second chance actually came due to the TV program that HBO started advertising; the show piqued my interest and I had deja vu upon hearing the title. And because I didn't have the patience to wait for the show to air, I decided to read through the book in advance.
And I fell in love with the story. Or I should say stories. I have witnessed some suburban soccer moms who helicopter-parent their way through life, especially those who throw their money around to do it. I have actually seen a great deal of that in my years on this planet. It ain't pretty. That's why I felt something profound about the reality described in Big Little Lies. True, I found it hard to detach the images of the stars I knew were cast as each character, even with physical descriptions in the book that directly contradicted the casting director's decisions (for example, last time I checked Denise Huxtable's daughter doesn't have a blond plait running down her back).
Regardless, the story was great, but it definitely has that soap-opera feel to it that takes the edge off what is actually quite serious subject matter. Still, I enjoyed it unashamedly because it was frighteningly honest. I like books that speak the truth or their version of the truth, and I especially love complicated, layered characters who don't just embrace their flaws but revel in them. Big Little Lies had that in spades. And that made it a good read.
But what about in April? May? June? Have I read anything new? Why, I'm glad you asked.
I've read six -- count 'em, six! -- financial books, including a few titles by Gordon Pape and Gail Vaz-Oxlade. I then read a tiny little coffee-table book called The Joy of Hygge, which I was going to use for my prompt, but frankly it was so brief that I couldn't, in good conscience, use it. I'll look elsewhere. I am well into Fun Home. I've been reading Nora Ephron's Heartburn and Paul Reiser's Familyhood to my husband because he does like a read or two with some laughs to be had. I picked up and then swiftly abandoned We Have Always Lived In The Castle; I simply could not get into it. I picked at The Nordic Theory of Everything: In Search of a Better Life to compensate for the too-short-to-qualify book on hygge. And I sunk my teeth into Their Eyes Were Watching God, a classic by Zora Neale Hurston. That's not to mention all the other hopefuls I have waiting in the wings to be picked up and read, like The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (of which I have read a few chapters eons ago and then put down and never returned to, much to my chagrin -- it's a great book!) and a few celebrity bios, too.
So, what remains? Turns out, quite a lot.
I didn't do all that great in regards to the challenge, although I've read plenty. But I am up to my eyeballs in books that qualify, books that I've almost completed. So, instead of rambling a second longer, I'm going to do that instead. Maybe next month we'll have something a bit more substantial to talk about -- like Janie finding the diamond within herself again! (Seriously, Zora was the queen of the Harlem Renaissance.)
Until next month, my dear readers!
