I didn't love Brokeback Mountain

So it does take a bit of time to get US movies over here in the UK sometimes. Add to that the fact that we haven't been able to afford to go to a movie since we moved here so we rely upon the UK's many versions of Netflix to get by ... and, well, we just watched the gay cowboy movie this weekend.

I do feel guilty that I didn't love it. As one of my very best friends is a gay man living in Gay Boston, I think it struck me as especially odd that I wasn't a big fan. [As an aside, he didn't like it much either.] I don't think it was the violent love scenes that bothered me as much as it was that the love story itself just didn't seem plausible on screen. Much laud to Annie Proulx and I do plan on reading the (book? novella? short story?) sometime soon, and I also hate to do any disservice to the mighty Larry McMurtry, but I just didn't get to know the characters well enough before they "fell in love."

I thought all the acting was fantastic. [Who knew Michele Williams could actually act? I watched Dawson's. I didn't know.] The scenery was beautiful. But 30 minutes into the movie, I was flat-out bored, and after about an hour, I said to myself, "OK, so it was hard to keep your relationship a secret; I get it." But weren't interracial couples going through the same thing at that time? Why was this one different, aside from the scenery and the gaiety? I just wasn't moved. I needed more initial substance, either in character or subplot.

So there you go. I love gay people. I love that a "gay movie" was made and so widely accepted and viewed and flummoxed about. But I just didn't love the movie. Sorry.

Poser

I'm just posing in this land of shortbread and meat pies. The thing is I don't even look like just any other mum out there. I wear t-shirts and either jeans or shorts (dammit when you live in a place that's too cold for shorts in June) every day, along with tennis shoes because I walk so much. I haven't seen another "mum" walk as much as I do, or care as little about her clothes. It must be some sort of joke to see me on the sidewalk with all my groceries that I don't even get delivered and my child who is dressed pretty well, compared to me, who is just in a constant state of disarray.

But I do have that damnable stroller. I'm now angry with myself for purchasing it. (See earlier post re being careful for what you wish ...) I feel like I'm conforming without a better plan. A brilliant but otherwise asshole-ish guy in my high school class once told me he envied me because I was able to conform. I honestly think he meant it as a compliment at the time, though I didn't take it as such and if anything, now I abhor the thought.

That's my problem: I don't want to conform here but I don't see that I have any other choice. It's not about me anymore. It's about my poor kid who is going to grow up thinking friendships are evil, and that making fun of everyone around you and being cynical are normal responses to disapproving of your environment. Dammit I feel like Jack Nicholson in that Helen Hunt movie (ah! revelation: As Good As It Gets) when he says to the dog, "Do not be like me!" This, I'm afraid, is the omnipresent fear throughout parenthood.

Never trust a thin cook

I do believe this, truly. But it's so hard to really drill it into your head before you bake something. You're saying to yourself, "I can lick the bowl. I'm entitled to it. I need to know if it tastes good and then I need to revel in it to prove I'm not some skinny twerp who thrives off self-deprivation and I deserve it anyway for putting all this effort into food." But then the thoughts come back: "I won't lick the bowl. I won't lick the bowl. I won't even try it to see if it tastes OK. I won't even eat any when it's done." It's like the devil and the angel on opposite shoulders, only I don't know which is which because my neuroses are constantly getting mixed up.

Somehow today I ended up licking the chocolate pan in which I made the main element of a chocolate meringue pie. I don't even like chocolate. In fact, I relish hating it. Not only did I defile that pan of chocolate though ... I also ate about half of the leftover crust (my sister would have eaten the other half, if not more; I know it) and I totally wiped out the meringue bowl. What is with me? It's like I'm pregnant. I didn't even use Splenda! I have been baking for years and not licking the bowl (I'm dead serious (and embarrassed)).

It's almost like I feel that I have an excuse, being this miserably homesick. I feel like I can get away with filling my body up with rubbish. (Ha! I said, "rubbish.") But then the angel or devil or whoever says to me, "Why do you need an excuse?"

And this, my friends, is the story of my life, day in, day out, at least eight hours a day. The lifelong battle with food. I don't think I trust the people who don't wage that war as well.

This Candace Bushnell book sucks almost as badly as that Carrie Fisher one

What is the deal? What am I missing? I'm about to start resenting myself for liking a few episodes of Sex and the City. I just need some good book recommendations I guess. Or, yeah, a life. That could help, sure.

Obsession: purchased

We have bought the Phil & Ted's E3 stroller, for about $200 less than we would have paid over here. We are psyched. We have only to pick it up when we are in the States in about 10 days, assuming it arrives at Mark's parents' safely. We'd better like this damn thing once we finally get it, and Vaughn had better learn to like it.

It's kind of sad, when you obsess over something and then finally get it. Sort of like chasing after a boy and then getting him to like you ... then you realize it was all about the chase. Besides, as long as we stay in this country, I just look like the rich, smug mothers of two. *sigh* OK, I'll try that out for a little while ...