Mellowdrama

Winifred and I kicked off the summer Saturday by watching our first melodrama of the season. Every summer in the Quimby home includes a marathon of black and white dramatic talkies. In 2003 we plowed through nearly every Hepburn movie we could as a dedication to Katharine Hepburn's pants-filled legacy, a filmfest I consider a tremendous victory because most of her movies were filled with laughs (and bonus feminism) instead of tears (Philadelphia Story and Woman of the Year were the focus).
Unfortunately the crux of a melodrama is that it will break your heart, toy with your emotions, crush your soul, and force you to question all that you truly know about humanity. Fortunately Winifred allows comedies (classic, of course) to soothe my fragile emotional state.

We started with Leave Her to Heaven, 1945 technicolor classic that is part of my personal collection. (It's beneficial to alphabetize your VHS and DVD collections! Who knew?) Delightfully over-the-top, Leave Her to Heaven is based on a novel of the same name by Ben Ames Williams. The trailer:



During the movie I tried to compile a short list of films for us to watch as the summer continues. We usually go to Charlotte, who holds a Masters in film criticism, but the truth is that we never get to the movies, and then we hurt her feelings, and we don't like letting her down. (Moreover, the films on the list have been reccomended by Charlotte before.) It was several years before we watched The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and if only we'd rented when she told us to we wouldn't have waited years for our lives to change forever.

In Alphabetical Order:

All That Heaven Allows (allegedly part of the inspiration for another family favorite, Far From Heaven)
Back Street (1961)
Rules of the Game (1939)
Touch of Evil
Wings of Desire

We're watching Back Street again, though it will most certainly kill me. IMDB alludes to three versions of the Fannie Hurst tragedy, which seems unfathomable that the ultimate heartbreaking film could be re-made and re-made. With that much dedication over the centuries you'd think someone would have stepped up in the 90s and made another. I'd work on getting it financed but I feel too conflicted. First, if a Fannie Hurst movie is going to be made into a movie for wide release in our modern world, I'd nominate Imitation of Life first. (It's marginally less emotionally devastating.) Second, I feel conflicted over Back Street. Our heroine is a feminist icon yet she sacrifices her personal life for her career--not a message I'm willing to promote--and then suffers again and again at the hands of the man who loves her--but is unable to shrug his wife (a character who demeans the image of women everywhere) and her prize for her undying love is some other dude's kids! Oh, GAWD, WHERE ARE THE TISSUES, I CAN'T HANDLE THIS.

My retribution for the intense pain I've agreed to again withstand is forcing--if I can--Winifred to watch Rules of the Game. It's not really a melodrama, instead it's a strong, passionate film exploring social class, war, impending doom, government...a movie that leaves me empty yet full of dispair. It's probably an unhealthy obsession, yet on par with Winifred's love for all-things-Fannie Hurst which seems, ya know, fair:



Didya see that trailer? Mystery! Intrigue! That comes pretty close to the sensationalism of a melodrama, no? Post-script: a big part of a melodrama are indiscretions and adulterous affairs built on True Love, which just happens to be a major plot point of Rules of the Game. (I WIN.)

We could watch melodramas intermittenly through the year, too, but it's not nearly as much fun. (When I had the flu Winifred and I watched Martian Child and under the influence of medication it was as emotionally destructive as a melodrama, so we can win with that, right?)

As for Touch of Evil, any film the Coen brothers call "disturbing" sounds like a great idea to me. Wouldya look at that typeface? It screams drama! Plus the trailer includes explosions with its mystery, intrigue, and hysterical screaming. I think it's a tease to show an introdcutory film class the opening of the film and not the rest of the film, but I'll willingly do the same to you:



I know that's a lot of videos I've forced you to watch but it's still June and I think we can do it. There are other movies too, and we've promised Charlotte to wait for her. (But I can't find those few movies right now.)

Happy Day After Groundhog's Day!

Illustration from Cat and Girl.

Groundhog's Day was frustrating to me in my early digits until I realized that six weeks of more winter was the same thing as six weeks left of winter. Oh, you mean either way it's six weeks of unbearable cold and unfulfilled snow days? Gee willikers, I wish I hadn't wasted my angst on an oversized rodent. Now it's closer to a sad realization that this cold has only lasted 31 days and not 31 weeks.
I think adopting New Year's Resolution for the sake of following in line is completely bogus. So do the perfect Quimbys--Charlotte spent a month traversing across Europe, so there's nothing left anyway, Emily is a modern day superhero, and The King has already talents in wit, smarts, and responsibility--leaving Winifred and I to grasp at qualities to better ourselves while our family scoffs.
Or they should. I doubt anyone scoffs at Winifred, except me (today she called and asked if I was watching the America's Next Top Model marathon and I scoffed and said, "No, I'm watching Real Housewives of Orange County).
It's not the bettering of one's life that is bogus but the need to adopt it on a predetermined date. Instead of, you know, right now. You think, I should de-clutter my life! So instead of cleaning up two weeks before Halloween you wait until January 2.
Winifred decided to keep her mouth shut. ("This year I will keep more opinions to myself.") There was also some tie-in about being nice to people with different opinions, by which she means, when someone says they're going to vote for Obama because they hate women, she'll only launch a verbal counterattack for ten minutes instead of 60. This was a crushing blow for someone trying to blog about her but 33 days into 2k8 and she's failing miserably. (This is the 39th post on The Gospel if its any indication.) See, look here:

I just heard on the news that Caroline Kennedy has
endorsed Obama! This was a POOR time to make such an
asinine resolution--though I really meant it more on a
non-political scale.

But wait, there's more!

Having read Suckabee's quote I realize this is the worst possible year to enact that type of resolution. How ridiculous to have made it. I will attempt just the kindness aspect of the resolution.[Editor's note: the other Quimbys have taken to "#$%uckabee"]

Seriously. Given that I write three other blogs and can't keep my mouth closed, I think we both lack the genetic infrastructure to support closed mouths. Winifred will persevere, but I remain victorious!

I debated on a couple of ideas before Christmas. I thought I might "use more condoms" after accidentally watching a Tila Tequila special on MTV. "From now on, I'll use more condoms," a Frat boy solemnly promised, and I wondered why he wasn't using them regularly to begin with. Given that I'm a chaste woman, I thought this was especially ironic. Then I thought that I might "do less smack!" as Biscuit gave up smack for Lent one year (she's not Catholic or an intravenous drug user). Neither of these can be repeated to Winifred so I decided that I'd try and lessen my envionmental impact. I have 365 days to change my ways and a year and a half of residual guilt from buying an Ikea plastic bag and intending to reuse it on my consumerist-based shopping trips.
I'm a little smug when I say I've made serious progress.
I decided I'd start right away though. I made serious efforts to read the following books:

1. The Green Book: The Everyday Guide to Saving the Planet One Simple Step at a Time by Elizabeth Rogers and Thomas M. Kostigen. Unfortunately with a forward by Cameron Diaz (and William McDonough) short essays from Martha Stewart (pretending I’m Martha: Well I have SOOOO many horses I fertilize all of my organic vegetables—enough to cater my HUUUUGE parties—myself!), Owen Wilson (pretending again: I was like whoooah duuude the environment’s not popular so I’ll tell people I’m not sensitive to those issues when they ask about my Hybrid from Toyota! It’s cool now though because I’m in this book!), Ellen Degeneres, and other MTV-friendly celebrities.

All of it is made from recycled paper, which I think I like the most because it seems ironic and counterproductive to buy a book about saving paper among other strategies. That said, I'm never getting an electronic book because the collector in me needs to savor the space bound novels take, and my love for reading type and paper will never be satiated by pixels, no matter how revolutionary the technology becomes. I knew it would be easier to read a book that waters down the facts (though this is trying: the solutions are calculated without mathematics for readers but instead , "Every additional ten pounds per traveler requires an additional 350 million gallons of jet fuel per year, which is enough to keep a 747 flying continuously for ten years.") Still, the other small tips help me make small gradual changes. I'm already turning off the sink when I brush my teeth, my thermostat is low, and I dry most of my shirts on a rack instead of in a dryer.

2. The Live Earth Global Warming Survival Handbook: 77 Essential Skills to Stop Climate Change by David de Rothschild

The truth about this book is that I found it in Daedulus on clearance when I was supposed to buy Harry Potter during Harry’s midnight sale. It’s also the truth that I liked the book’s design: as an instructional manual for the globe’s untimely doom the illustrations mimic flight disaster plans and I think that is so cool. But the results of Live Earth are so head scratchingly frustrating—the amount of energy output and trash produced is dumbfounding—that I feel dirty owning it. I went to last summer’s Oregon Country Fair where everything was recycled and vendors did not offer plastic utensils. Silverware was used, washed at the nearby high school, and returned clean for another use. I like that the tasks are rated by time, personal financial impact, overall global impact, and effort, but I hate that the last twenty or so items are impossible (#68 Buy a Camel), that the least frugal have the least effect (#47 Install a Windmill; cost has declined 90% and I love wind power, but it's not happening Rothschild), and the residual hipster-related guilt.

aforementioned recycle center

Speaking of guilt, this cause is increasingly popular. Ew. Today's Washington Post style section listed environmental friendly alternatives to Valentine's Day (may require log-in) and American Eagle is taking up the cause with hand bags urging to recycle and ride bikes. See?


The hideous bag is intended as a 3-in-1. The last looks cute in Easter baskets of lapsed Catholics, Amen.
Whenever I feel dirty I read The Simple Family. I don't have kids and Rachel (who I do not know) is putting in far more effort than I am, but I need to see someone eschew this corporate smiley face plastered among recycle signs, flowers, and unicorns.
Ultimately, I've recycled more (there's no pick-up here, so it just piles six feet high) and bought more biodegradeable chemicals. I've had a 70% Ikea Bag increase, and today I told the checkout girl at Target that I didn't need a plastic bag for my detergent and handed it back. She was dumbfounded but I had one less thing to throw away and lose sleep for at night.

Ultimately when it comes down to it, I'm going to vote for the candidate protecting my rights other the candidate who wants to use paper over plastic, proving I'm not ready to move to Oregon. (Ha, GET IT?)

With These Ice Packs Removed

I'm a busy girl. I have big city jobs to go to, big city jobs to apply for, blogs to write, French fries to eat, films to articulate, and trains to catch. I am not exactly running after men--I am not trying to bag a boy, net a husband, or tackle a suitor. At a comment through a family e-mail--made by a non-family member--that someone, somewhere, anywhere, was, I responded, at large:

It's not like I have sneakers strapped to my feet so I can chase down a man. UGH.

I mean, puhhhleease, homegirl has things to do! And The King, recognizing this, set out December 19, 2007, the night the e-mail was sent, to find me a pair of sneakers for Christmas.
...Because the Quimby's celebrate a woman's singlehood, mmmhmm.
The King is not one to settle. No, he showed refined taste as Winifred suggested various options, which were too bland, not red, not bright, not Captain, unable to balance on a skateboard, too flimsy, incapable of allowing flight, etc. A pair surfaced, not red, but sturdy and most decidedly Captain in its prominent use of plaid (and its name "BEAR KITTY") wad especially fitting.
The streets in the city grew wet the following weeks, and running after a train and a bus through puddles and over hills, slogging through damp detritus, and parading around a sullen town seemed inappropriate for the inaugural outing of shoes that were purchased for that very use.
So they lived under my desk until yesterday, when suddenly everything went seemingly right.

First, the sky opened to reveal a bright blue sky. It beckoned 60 degree weather and a number of spontaneous adventures with Biscuit when my work was unexpectedly finished in little more than an hour: lunch at the Ikea milk bar (we wanted to be more European), an odyssey of Consumer joy through clearance minimalist mass produced products, a secret ninja mission within the blue and yellow walls, unrestrained fantasies of our adult lives beyond college (real jobs, benefits, motor vehicles, painted interiors, unabashed freedom, albeit more bills), a film screening, etc. The earthly joys of 20 somethings. But the air was filled with the promise of good things, and I knew it was either the shoes, still squishy in newness, or, it was The Cake.

We celebrate Three King's Day in Winifred's C + E Catholicism, the results of which yielded a batch of carrot cupcakes and fluffy cream cheese icing. Inside Winifred baked a small, round blue stone, which I received in my cake, theoretically promising a year of good luck. ("A Red Letter Year," I sleepily mumbled on the return trip to Baltimore.) Offline I am not a believe in superstition but...it was either the cake or the shoes. I thought I'd see what happened when I wore other shoes in the printmaking studio.
You know where this is going from the subject, don't you? Everything went horribly awry. Far past so-bad-it's-funny-years-from-now. I'll be bitter when I'm 82 about January 8, 2008. Long after everything went wrong, I accidentally sent my fingers through a printmaking press. They didn't break, but my spirit did, and I bounced from grumpy to near-yarking/sobbing through the rest of the day.
Winifred made me promise to slowly back away from the keyboard, find a couch or bed and TV remote, and reconnect with an ice pack. I did, and later, I reconnected with Chipotle's burritos with carnitas sour cream, rice, corn, and salsa. She also said to wear The Shoes.
Later, to show her camaraderie, Winifred dropped a steak knife, slicing a sizable gash in her foot. The King bandaged her, and I hope, dried her tears. He used Band-Aid brand big band aids, not that sticky stuff from Target that gives me hives, and is probably looking into steel enforced house slippers.
Tomorrow I'm wearing The Shoes to class; if disaster befalls, I'll probably have to wait for another six years before I get another Red Letter Day; either way I'm owed a crown for my Epiphany win, Winifred. That's what Wikipedia says. In return I'll host Candelaria Day next month and serve whiskey. Unless you were dying for Atole?


(Thankfully I already started to type this post last night. Instead of nothing you get a 2-for-1 special!)

Winifred Has Better Guitar Hero III Scores Than I Do

Winifred and I went to a dinner party tonight and the between food that's made for dipping and caseroles made for scooping a massive Wii tournament was held in which five ladies and their respective parents picked up a plastic guitar and attempted to dominate the rock and roll world via Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock.

I've refrained from releasing my inner rock legend since the game came out because I'm not very good at Dance Dance Revolution, don't like the way the songs are presented, and don't like embarassing myself. (Only, you know, on the internet!) I'm also morally opposed to this game because the developers of the series (which had been making my skin crawl long before Legends' release) didn't contribute to this game (they made Rock Band instead). I like to postulate and say things like, "Real guitarists don't play well anyway," and "It's not like playing a real guitar," and, "I've heard the songs, they're all watered down representations!"
I really do believe the last two arguments but the truth is, for me, it's about humiliation.

I kept telling Winifred, no, you don't have to! It's okay! But no, she was having a good time, and no amount of anxious projection would keep her away from her Rock God Glory, and there she stood, performing--no wailing--Foghat's "Slow Ride."
Foghat! Did you know? Winifred adores Barry Mainlow. She was wearing a winter-themed sweater. She sings "Sunshine and Lollipops" at whim and hates it when I criticize family movies for being so freakin' happy. You know Captain, you shouldn't be so critical, she'll say nicely.

Sunshine and Lollipops found her groove, so to speak, in a Foghat song.
I made it through 21% of Social Distortion's "Story of My Life" which I found was significantly easier than the other songs in The First Level ("Starting Out Small"), like, you know, Foghat. After that 21% I missed a bunch of notes and was booed off the stage.
Oh. Winifred made it through 22% of "Slooow Ride." I'm guessing she's not taking a ride with Foghat, but she's marginally more likely to do that than I am to share much of anything with Social D.

The other parents and a few of the fellow youth performed just as well, except for one 14 year old, who picked up the axe for "the first time" and slaughtered the astronomically high scores established by a real band who borrowed the game a few weeks ago (and beat the game in a few hours, actually).
"I might be better, you know, if you let me learn guitar in middle school," I joked at one point to Winifred, who, in addition to never getting me a puppy, never let me take lessons. She nodded and said something about how I "was really good" but it probably wouldn't help anyway.

...So not only did she beat me. But she wouldn't shoulder the burden of publicly tanking my reputation.


(I'm just kidding. She was so cute playing the game. I'm proud of Winifred for being so much cooler than I am. Admittedly, it's not hard.)

Lest I Find Another Feminist Harangue

It's Christmas in my parents' house, and I know this because there are oodles of cookies--some from Winifred, many from Charlotte--caramel rolls have been baked, and most notably, I am schlepping through the house in the King's oversized slippers. Luckily, he has several pairs, and thusly, we all have toasty feet.
But there are also rolls of wrapping paper in the living room, because as important as it is to "Keep Christ In Christmas,"we are Present People. I have looked high and low in this house for a puppy but haven't found one yet, but my sorrow is overwhelmed by The Washington Post writers who were given gender specific gifts and used white dolls ("You Call That a Gift?!").
The most heartbreaking of these stories is the the woman who didn't get the set of race cars:

Was Santa Sexist?
It was the 1970s. I was around 8, and what I really wanted that year was a race car set. I had my eye on a fleet of tiny, dazzling cars that came with their own looping, twisting track. You pushed them along the track by hand, and if you used just the right amount of force you could get them to spin through a full corkscrew without flying off-course. My cousin, three years older than I and the coolest person I knew, had some.
But he was a boy. And I was a girl.
I never got the cars, even though I spoke to Santa several times about them. I started to think Santa was a chauvinist.
A few years later, I finally got a toy car: a Barbie camper. It wound up in a terrible wreck. Barbie kept trying to pop wheelies.-- Robin Givhan

Under our tree were both dolls and trucks, hand held video game toys featuring Ariel and tool sets, stuffed bears, Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death, and for several years running, K'NEX sets. (Ultimately the K'NEX building was left to the efficient Emily, who was able to complete roller construction in one evening.)
And I inherited two serious sets of race cars--I got Charlotte and Emily's cars, their sets and ramps; The Parents were so gung ho when they were young that ever car was marked with a splash of pink nail polish on its underside, lest one of the neighborhood boys try to swipe one (and those little rats did). Of course I have a speed/force problem--my cars were incapable of making tight turns because I'm more interesting the the clattering catastrophe of metal cars on bare floors.

I could go on, but I just found a Tori Spelling holiday movie on Hallmark; I think it's one of the ones wherein she finds the holiday of the season as the result of a Good Man. Awesome. I should probably find my own shoes because slippers to C and E Mass is probably inappropriate...