Beaches 11

after a long arduous day at work, after finally making it home, after finally heating up my warm breakfast cereal for dinner dinner, I finally sat myself down at my laptop computer/the-future-is-now entertainment station with one goal in mind: to achieve maximum relaxation/minimum brainwave action via hoo-loo streaming videos. in lieu of my usual 'I'll just watch trailers of movie's I'll never see,' I went straight for the kill. and was denied twice the movies of my choice (indiana jones and the last crusade and The 10 Commandments - tho, now that I think of it, me not finding it might have less to do with the fact that the cine-web can't be bothered by a 3.65 hour epic biblical tale from 1956 and more to do with the fact that I actually searched for a non-existent movie entitled The 12 Commandments. Sisters Colleen, Christine, Beverly and Maria are all, with the help of Jesus, spiritually knuckle rapping me from a distance.) but I did luck out on my third choice, drumroll please. . . . Beaches. 

yes, Beaches. Bette Midler and Blossom as Bette Midler's character in her wiley youth, across from Barbara 'your name makes me want chocolate' Hershey and some generic brown haired youngin who's name name I don't recall/never knew because she didn't go on to star in her own TV show. (but, wait, ilvs, you can't remember the girl who played Blossom, either. -what do you mean 'played Blossom'? -the  actress who played Blossom. -again, phrasing I do not comprehend. -actress. has name. - yes. Blossom. is Blossom.). . .  it has been a while since I saw that film, probably since my best friend was a horse loving straight A catholic school girl named Molly. I was in the mood for some tear inducing, ovary warming eighties nostalgia. a, ahem, girl's night sunday night slumber party for one, if you will. and I did. 

well, that is, until the interweblord deemed my shared with 8 other people wifi connection 'too slow' and black screen froze up on me and hour and 22 minute into it. I hadn't even gotten to the part where she gets bed riddenly sick! talk about a buzz kill. but then, just as I had opened up this blog site in order to write a scathing rant, the universe interceded and there came a knock at my door. enter in my best friend/neighbor, stopping in to say hello and hey why have you been acting so weird lately I'm worried about our friendship what gives. and the scene that followed was like it was pulled from the future, right out of the brain of the screenwriter of some targeted-at-women movie maybe it will be called Beaches 11. Tho, that title makes me think it might also have like a diamond heist involved in it. regardless, feelings were shared, tears were shed, mutual understanding was come to. which is good, cuz, well, I'm still waiting for the rest of the movie to buffer. 

it should be noted, that while our little heart to heart was happening, I was dressed in half my pyjamas + half my street clothes + stripey blanket of peruvian influence = slow moving emo ninja in a blanket, and BFF was fresh from a performance so had on full drag make up and a wig and platform shoes (her american flag unitard hidden under her fur collared bright blue over coat). and while we sat on the edge of my futon, my feline BFF, BABY SEAL, was loving the crap out of the moment soooooo much she decided to say so by attempting to lick the freckles off my hand/the buttons off my calculator watch. never has so much love occurred in such a moment in time under the exact same circumstances. I feel blessed to have been such a part of such best best friend estrogen trifecta. thank you Bette, Chocolate Lady, for paving the way. my uterus is positively aglow. 

what to get your sister's mustachioed boyfriend who already has a lifetime supply of mustache wax:

Book Report: The History of Love

Eager to delve into the salty seas of literary pearls this New Year, I checked myself out a copy (upon Eagle's chit chat recommendation while waiting for the next available teller at the local credit union we both engage with) of The History of Love by Nicole 'Rhymes with Strauss' Krauss. Twas a good read, all in all. Though I will confess that, in my eager beaverness, I dove a little too deep, too fast. (wait, beaverness?) As in, I sat myself down at my local tea shop/smoothie shop and read 70 pages at a time, reader me running at full gallop. And while my eyes certainly registered all n letters, spaces, punctuation and singular typo, my brain did not. Picture if you will: a wild frontier with two horses all geared up, clopping away at full speed, thingies that connect their harnesses to their intended load dragging behind them on the ground, and left behind in the dust, me, standing in my grounded chariot, coughing and rubbing her eyes. (Horses = my eyeballs. Me = well, me, my brain. Eyes = the eyes of my brain.) So then I found myself more than halfway through the book and seriously confused.
Enter in Internetted study notes. Never in my scholastic career did the need arise for me to make use of such crutches! Yet here I am, the setting sun of school long behind me, and I'm fumbling in the dark trying to unclasp the secrets of said lovely novel. So, yeah, I had to read the summary of the book to actually understand the book. The book, for the record, is not complicated. There were just some key facts that I glossed over in my sophomoric attempt at speed reading that made it, well, confusing.
Speaking of speed reading and the history of love, of my love to be exact, I once dated a speed reader. She was not a speed reader by profession, but by hobby only. Which maybe added to the irritation I felt over how frickin smug she was at how frickin good she was at it. Ack! I can remember sitting next to her in bed, both of us nosed in our own books of choice, but me only just barely, hanging by fingernails, mine, on the the thin ledge of words lined up on the pages because I was so distracted by the affrontingly triumphant sound of her page turning! It was happening so fast! And so loud! Oh, the sound! A gold trophy scraped down the length of a chalk board in an otherwise quiet bedroom. And to top it off she had the audacity to enjoy herself via actually being able to understand the tale at such break neck speed! Ack! I'm tensing just reliving the memory!
Interestingly enough, my repressed competitive streak and equally repressed/completely underdeveloped resolve to share how I was feeling at that point, were somehow - get this - linked to how I related to her throughout the entirety of the relationship. And ultimately led its untimely demise.
I am happy to report, though, that knowing she could read what took me one hour to write in under 30 seconds is no longer filed under 'THINGIES THAT GET MY GOAT.' Nor am I as fervently chomping at the bit to plow through the next book, Everything Is Illuminated. I intend to take my time on that. Which is probably doubly in my favor as the plot lines, I'm told, are pretty much (and controversially) the same.

a recourse on remorse

things that rhyme with horse