Husband and I, thanks to my folks, actually get to see more movies than most new parents. Inception was weird and cool, and I enjoyed, but itâ€™s long. I liked the mix of special effects and acting effects — there were some computer generating thing-a-ma-bobs, but the extras contributed to the creep factor by breaking conversations and staring at Leonardo DiCaprio at the same time. There’s a fight scene that’s very Matrix/Lionel Richie’s “Dancing on the Ceiling.” About halfway through, I looked at my watch and said â€œThis is not worth being away from the baby.â€ However, that is an impossible standard to measure a film by. Whatevs. I like calling anything remotely weird as Inception. Like â€œThat is so Inception,â€ â€œso totally Inception,â€ or just â€œInception.â€ In the movie, the characters adopt totems to help root their mind in seeing the difference between reality and dream state. After the lights went up, I told Husband my totem would be the used aluminum foil he used to sneak in his veggie burger into the movie. I am so Inception.
Anyway, itâ€™s good, itâ€™s entertaining.
So Husband has never met a sport he didn’t like. He watches it all — the World Cup, the World series, the NBA play-offs, and that football thing that happens at the end of of the season…what’s it called? Oh yeah, the Superbowl. He even watched that winter Olympic sport where one person pushes a gigantic puck and two others scrape a path in front of it with like chimney sweep brooms. (I’m sure there’s like a one-word name for that sport, but I’m sure I never knew it.) The only sport that I’ve ever gotten sucked into is tennis, and that’s only recently. I played tennis in high school (not well. I would run for shots screaming the s-word, only stopping once I got to the other side of the court and missed. Whenever I won a game, it was the result of pure accident, an event I could never recreate at will), so I actually understand the rules — all this helped me get interested in the sports memoirOpen by Andre Agassi.
I don’t know how this book is so well written — there is no co-writer listed on the jacket. If it’s the case that Agassi is both gifted at tennis and writing, I have only one thing to say: SCREW YOU ANDRE AGASSI! NO FAIR. Yeah, got no good sportsmanship. It’s not just that the book has a winning voice in its prose; the author also chose just the right anecdotes to convey certain periods of Agassi’s life. Who has that kind of perspective on their own story? It’s totally dishy — he talks about his dates with Brooke Shields and walking out on her Friends taping because she licked Joey Tribiani’s hands, he talks about how boring and cheap Pete Sampras is in real life, and he reveals his insane dad who gave him speed at age 9 so that he’d win his kid matches. What the what. He also talks about how embarrassed he was about going bald and wore a hair piece, and he lost one final match because he kept worry about whether his sweat would make his hair piece fly off. (Jees, can you imagine playing with that kind of distraction? Ay caramba.) But what I’m most impressed with his how he captures his ambiguous feelings about his calling — he repeatedly says “I love tennis. I hate tennis. I can’t stop playing tennis,” which pretty much sums up how I feel about…a kabillion things.
I ate the whole thing up. What’s funny is how inspirational these books can be. When I read about how he has to get a cortisone shot in his spine in order to stand up, so he can go battle a match, it makes me go, “You know what? I can wake up at 7 a.m. and get on that rush hour subway ride!” You know what I mean.
There, I wrote an entire blog post on sports. That’s a first.
In the movie version of Open, they should have Colin Ferrell play Agassi, and like Kristy McNichol, circa 1982 play Steffi Graf. Thank you.
So having this wonderful baby (because truly, he does rule) has given me ample opportunity to examine how I deal with stress. Seems that the answer is not so well. In part, I seem to snap more easily, possibly because of sleep deprivation, hormonal sea changes, and the fact that I feel like Iâ€™m overseeing a NASA shuttle launch every freaking day. The piles of housework literally feel like piles weighing on my mind. Oh boy. So here are the techniques I’m using. Feel free to post what you do to cope and I will try it. Stress is no fun.
1) Listening to cousin Edâ€™s snow day mix
2) Not calling my mother (love her, but sheâ€™s actually talented at winding me up)
3) Making sure Iâ€™m breathing
4) Taking a walk
5) Letting my subpar standards go even lower, like subterranean low
6) Reading Oprah.com
7) Thinking about what Mia Michaels would do (So You Think You Can Dance judge who thanks everyone for sharing their gift.)
8) Saying “Ay Caramba.”
11) Blogging (for reals)
The other day, my friend Nancy asked if Baby had passed any interesting milestones lately, I didn’t have anything good to say. I mean, he burps and drools and grabs things. He looks like an earnest physical therapy patient. I told Husband my feelings of inadequacy over Baby’s achievement, and he said “Well, last week, he did write a scathing review of The Stranger.“
I couldn’t stop laughing because that joke was custom-made for me.
And today, just today, Baby did hit another milestone — apparently, he rolled over today in day care! (I’ll believe it when I see it…but I guess that would mean making room at home for an actual crib instead of just a bassinet. Um…)
I don’t know a whole lot about Roman Polanski. He made some critically acclaimed films, he suffered some tragedy (eg, his wife Sharon Tate was part of the grisly Charles Manson murders aka Helter Skelter), and he drugged and rapped a 13-year-old girl, for which he never stood trial. Right now, he is under house arrest in what looks like an amazing Swiss chateau mansion (see pic). That about sums what I know.
Just to state the obvious, I don’t approve of rape, and I don’t care if some people interpret a precocious 13-year-old as “asking for it.” That’s BS. Despite this, for some reason, when I heard Polanski is not going to get extradited, I felt relief. Is that not bizarre? The crime really does sicken me, and yet, I’m so ticked off at Polanski. Is it because I believe in a statute of limitations? Not really, I mean, I’m down with bringing in Nazis, even if they’re 90-year-old grandpas now, but for some reason, in this story, curiously, he is the character I identify with. I have no idea why. Thereâ€™s something about the notion of a crime being committed an eon ago that comes back to haunt you that I relate to.
I read the phrase “totes ridic” today in an online article, and assuming that I didn’t understand “ridic” due to my weak vocabulary, I looked it up in the dictionary. Sadly, “totes ridic” is a shortened and slang version of “totally ridiculous,” originated by Paris Hilton. Ay caramba.
Today, after bringing the baby to day care for his transition week. I’m set to go to the doctor. I’m bringing my dad to hold the baby, while I go get checked out. And although we’re in the middle of a fantastic city, there’s something about my today list that makes me feel like Indiana Jones chopping down a path in the jungle with a machete. It’s a 101 degrees out, the elevator to my building is out of order, and the lights in the stairwell are out, so it’s pitch black. Yeah! This makes me concerned about Dad, since he has trouble with depth perception, particularly going down, and can’t see out of one eye. We got up okay to eat lunch, but going down is another adventure. I’m about to pack a flash light, but Dad said “Don’t bother. I’m pretty blind anyway,” which made me laugh.
Day care seems awesome. The three ladies in the infant room are pretty on it. While I was there, one of them entertained FIVE BABIES AT THE SAME TIME. Skills, people. They have bubbles and family photos on the walls and floor, and all that jazz. Baby will be in good hands. It’s the rest of us who need counseling in order to let Baby go.
Um, so I don’t always have time to cut Baby’s nails and he likes to rub his head and face to settle into sleep, which makes him look like he got in a fight with a cat. Our Baby was the only one with a scratched up head in day care.