Archive for November, 2006
November 30th, 2006 by Blythe
The Year of Magical Thinking
by Joan Didion
I was simultaneous attracted and repelled by this book; I’d heard it was a must-read, but the subject matter (a memoir outlining the first year after Didion’s husband’s death and her daughter’s serious illness) sounded too sad. And while it was sad, it was simply so heartfelt and personal that I didn’t feel emotionally manipulated at all.
Tsotsi by Athol Fugard
This story about a young gangster in 1950′s South Africa seeking redemption after he begins to care for a tiny baby sounds sentimental, but this book is anything but.
The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
My new favorite author, man of a thousand voices. The narrator, an aging British butler, tells the gentle, funny, tragic story as only he could tell it.
Minus Nine to One: The Diary of an Honest Mum by Jools Oliver
A light and sweet book that I picked up in a bookstore and read straight through on the train. Not the first pregnancy and parenting book I would buy for a friend, but I would loan her my copy.
The Happiest Baby on the Block by Harvey Karp, M.D.
Here beginneth the march of the childrearing books that will bore you unless you are pregnant or have a small baby. Who knows if this works. Who knows if I will remember any of its contents by the time I need them. But it does feature illustrations of smiling babies.
Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth
I read this in hopes that I won’t need to pick up its sequel, Your Fussy Baby.
Close Range: Wyoming Stories by Annie Proulx
Want to know about modern life in the foothills of the Rockies? Read these stories. They are true.
November 28th, 2006 by Blythe
I’d anticipated seeing Marie Antoinette since I watched the trailer (another benefit of not missing the previews, natch) and heard its new wave soundtrack. Sofia Coppola possesses an entertaining combination of clout and wacky vision, so I knew it would be an interesting flick, artsy and decadent and different. I watched it at 11am during a “special school screening,” so the atmosphere was appropriately adolescent – me (sucking a cough drop and bundled in frumpy maternity tights), surrounded by mobs of sixteen-year-old girls and a few boys who hadn’t ditched the group in the U-Bahn on the way there.
The late, great Robert Altman said in his Oscar acceptance speech (um, paraphrased) last year that he has never been interested in stories; he’s just been telling one long story for forty years. His movies are about characters. I imagine Sofia Coppola stuck her head out of the editing room or the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles or wherever she was at that moment and nodded vigorously. Marie Antoinette doesn’t have much of a story, and even the characters can be flat, but she is all about creating atmosphere. I imagine she wouldn’t have made this movie without negotiating full access to Versailles, and she clearly loved every second of her reign there. She makes sure her actors aren’t rattling around in a vacuum-packed castle – they scamper outside in their silky dresses on a windy day; they wake up hung over with the servants clearing up the party mess. For the first time, I watched a period film without an inkling of Masterpiece Theatre. The cast fit their roles (though there are no huge breakout Bill Murray type stars as far as I’m concerned), especially Kirsten Dunst, who played up her slightly giggly youngster persona appropriately.
By the time the film was finished, I was ready to remove myself from the teenage masses – onscreen and off. I was a little tired of Marie and Louis and their sex life. I was sick of listening to whispered German/English coming from the seats behind me. I wanted some petit fours (and champagne! if only!) and I was in the mood for shoe shopping. Too bad Marie didn’t have Zappos.
PS
Speaking of shoes, you should really head over to my friend Daniela’s blog. She writes about her fabulous shoes, and her funny daughter, and she is clever. I promise.
November 27th, 2006 by Blythe
The best part of any James Bond movie is the first five minutes. It’s like a little movie-within-a-movie. James looks suave! James drives fast! James gets the girl! There’s a plot twist! And (this is my favorite part) it ends with that unmistakable Bond music, the James Bond silhouette, and the inevitable animated title sequence over an entertaining yet forgettable theme song. (Except View to a Kill, you can’t forget double D).
I’m a bit of a punctuality freak even in the most relaxed circumstances. In college, I may have showed up to my 7:50 Psych class in my jammies, but I was always five minutes early. When it comes to movies, I practically suffer a panic attack if I think I’m going to miss the previews. I LOVE the previews. I once attended a film called Trailer Camp that consisted of nothing but previews. And if I miss the beginning of a film, I may as well just walk out of the theatre and go home because I spend the next hour and fifty minutes wondering if I would understand the nuances of the story so much better if I’d seen the beginning. And I pout. And blame everyone else in my vicinity for ruining the movie for me.
You can probably guess where this is going. On Saturday, we showed up at the theatre five minutes after the scheduled kickoff of Casino Royale. I had arisen from a nap just a few minutes late, you see, but we weren’t in a rush. Because every other time we’ve attended a movie at this theatre, we sat through twenty minutes of avant-garde ice cream bar ads and the same trailer for that Harrison Ford bank heist movie with German dubbing. So we figured, no problem. WE WERE WRONG. And when we stumbled into the theatre, the credits and clever animation were already onscreen. CURSES! So I scowled as I watched Daniel Craig leap off the construction crane, and kiss the girl in the skin tight red dress, and Jeff tried to comfort me with gummi bears.
It took me at least 30 minutes to get over my pout (and to stop cursing myself for my nap addiction), but eventually I was able to follow the movie. All in all, a good flick. I like Daniel Craig as Bond, he’s got the smarts and the focus, but I missed the twinkle in his eye and the smoothness of his predecessors. He seems to have become a bit of a thug, beating his enemies to death and stomping around like the Terminator instead of using his clever gadgets and dispatching the baddies with a silent shot. But I sense that the storytellers are hoping the audience will stick with them on Bond’s journey from killer to spy, and I’m willing to trust them for at least one more film. As long as they continue to employ the actor’s personal trainer.
Just to demonstrate how very neurotic I am, (and how well my husband knows me and how nice he is to me), I’ll admit that after the movie ended Jeff asked the usher if we could stick around five minutes for the next showing of the movie and watch the beginning. So we did. And here’s where I was disappointed. No plot twist, No kiss. A bunch of blood and violence. AND NO BOND THEME. So, Barbara Broccoli, I’m not going to stop watching your movies, but next time I promise to be on time if you’ll promise to return to formula. Or I’m going to get cranky and start blaming you for my bad mood.
November 24th, 2006 by Blythe
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Notice that I am wearing actual, non-sweatsuit, clothing in honor of the holiday.
November 22nd, 2006 by Blythe
On this, our second Thanksgiving in Germany, I bring you my thanks for reading The Blythe Spirit.
Via Ferris Bueller.
Enjoy your turkey and your mashed potatoes and your John-Hughes-eye-view of the world.
November 21st, 2006 by Blythe
I’ve never been such a perfectionist that I understood that kid in school who didn’t finish his English paper because he wrote and wrote and nothing was good enough so he just didn’t turn it in. And that’s not because I thought what I’d written was genius; it’s because I was all about getting it done as quickly as possible so I could go out for frozen yogurt with my friends, or watch more MTV, quality be darned. (80′s much?) I just thought to myself, “Slacker,” and skipped down the hall after class in my Normandy Rose jeans.
But I’ve developed perfectionist performance anxiety about cleaning. I sit on my couch and think, “Gross, there is a dead fly lying under the TV stand. I should really walk over there and pick it up. Well, I should probably sweep the floor. Actually, I should sweep the floor and mop the floor. And the baseboards should be scrubbed. Holy cow, I don’t have enough energy to scrub the baseboards, I will just stay here on the couch drinking my vanilla Coke and watching Dr. Phil.” So there lies the fly corpse, RIP.
It doesn’t help that I am now barely able to rise to a standing position unaided. I don’t think I’m so humongous (well, maybe I’m humongous, who knows) but my balance is thrown off to the point that I find myself holding on to the furniture like someone’s grandmother making her way across the room to where she left her walker. I would post a photo so you could see my shape for yourself, but frankly I don’t really enjoy having my photo taken in the best of times, and right now I’m not feeling at my most lovely. I promise to remedy the situation one of these days, when I’ve washed my hair and put on some makeup and am wearing something besides velour sweats. A wise few among you just reminded yourselves not to hold your breath.
Also, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes got married over the weekend, just in case you hadn’t heard.
November 20th, 2006 by Blythe
Instead, you get the following:
-Jeff was in China for a week and brought me back some very nice (not Chinese) chocolate and a killer jade ring that I plan to wear to the next special occasion I attend. I imagine that will be sometime in 2009.
-Our crib was supposed to be delivered today but instead I sat waiting for the delivery people for over five hours while they, apparently, decided that it was best to arrive at my building and sit outside in their truck without ringing the doorbell. So our child is going to sleep in the bathtub.
-Autumn is the best time for soup-making. I made cheddar corn chowder last night. And it was good.
November 15th, 2006 by Blythe
Every year or so, some entertainer comes under fire for his or her list of dressing room requirements. That’s the part of a performance contract that delineates what must be available backstage. (If you’re a gossip geek like me here’s a fascinating roundup of a bunch of these contract riders from The Smoking Gun.) It almost always includes a bunch of bottled water, cold cuts, and, depending on the music genre, Jack Daniels or diet Pepsi, or twelve bottles of California merlot. You probably recall the infamous Van Halen demand for removal of all brown M&M’s from their presence (which evidently led to the demise of all brown M&M’s everywhere because David Lee Roth has that kind of power). Iggy Pop apparently needs a Bob Hope impersonator to prepare him for his act.
Life in Germany is slowly becoming more familiar each day, but there are times when I look around and wonder why I don’t recognize any part of my surroundings. Milk in a box on the grocery store shelf? Five different kinds of trash bins? Gold lame sweatsuits? Interesting, yes, but unfamiliar. All of this new stuff is what makes traveling interesting – I’ve always found grocery stores to be my favorite attractions in a new country – but there are days when I just want to relax and feel like I know what’s going on. For days like that, I’ve come up with the following contractual requirements. All must be within easy reach:
-microwave popcorn (salted, not sweet, bleck) and a microwave
-Trader Joe’s
-Neutrogena Light Night Cream
-boy-style white T-shirts that Banana Republic discontinued three years ago
-Cadbury Dairy Milk with Caramel
-Target
-sweet clementines
-fully charged iPod
-Twizzlers
-a clothing store with a decent sale rack
-Vitamin Water (citrus flavor)
-Netflix (the expensive European Amazon version doesn’t count)
-new episodes of the Oprah Winfrey Show
-unlimited access to English language reading materials
-high speed internet connection
-a kitten (but not a cat, and it doesn’t go anywhere near my bed, I don’t have to change the litterbox)
-frosted strawberry Pop Tarts
What’s in your contract?
November 14th, 2006 by Blythe
A new double-D album is in the works, and it will feature collaborations with the world’s most famous loggers (Timbaland and Timberlake). Simon LeBon’s vocabulary is stuck in the 80′s, but since mine is too, as is my musical and cinematic taste, I’ll go with it:
“We’ve got a lot of really hot producers who are hotly interested in working with us at the moment. We are in a very good space.” – SLB
Also, Andy has left the band (again) so enjoy this album because next time it’s just going to be Simon singing and Nick behind the keyboards and John starring in another ill-advised holiday TV special as the ghost of hair products past.
November 13th, 2006 by Blythe
I spent much of my weekend on the couch, watching Season Two of NYPD Blue on DVD. I became a Blue devotee during season 4, when Andy J was already out of the picture, Andy and Sylvia already had Theo, and Bobby had just proposed to Diane. So it was high time that I caught up on the backstory.
My conclusion, after hours of skels, and slimy informants, and the Lieu, and Grace Adler as Donna’s sister, is that someone needs to get Jimmy Smits back on television. Stat. Also, I have reserved a future weekend to be named later to watching The West Wing Season 7 in its entirety, just so I can see him snap his gum once or twice.
When I managed to drag myself off the couch for 30 minutes, I made Hungarian mushroom soup. It’s tasty stuff, with lots of dill and mushrooms and creamy goodness. This recipe is from the Moosewood Restaurant cookbook, which I understand was the Jamie Oliver/Barefoot Contessa/Nigella of the vegetarian set in the 70′s. Make some, unless you hate mushrooms. If you do enjoy eating mushrooms, but your husband doesn’t really like mushrooms, wait until he’s away from home for a while and then make some and eat it all yourself.
