It’s good to know that I have standards.
I have watched Michael Fassbender play, among other things, a sex addict, a nasty Irish gangster with face tattoos, a supervillain with control issues and a magical Nazi, but I can’t sit through 2 hours of him playing horror-movie stupid.
This week I tried to watch Eden Lake, which is the one where he and his girlfriend are menaced by Lord-of-the-Flies-type British teenage hooligans. The first bit was mostly him walking around being pretty without a shirt on, but then the Bad Things started happening and the character kept doing the exact opposite of what a sane, intelligent person would do and apparently I will happily watch him play homicidal but I can’t put up with idiotic.
There are lines I will not cross. I’m so proud of myself.
For those of you keeping track, my earhole count is holding steady at 9, with 7 occupied (I have two old holes in my left ear that I don’t use).
I just found out that a hellacious former boss was in the area this weekend, and apparently my personal growth isn’t what it could be because my prevailing urge is still to kick his balls up into his body cavity.
I embraced yet another cliché of parenthood this weekend when I threw everything on Eliza’s floor into trash bags and told her that whatever she hadn’t taken out and put away by Sunday morning was going in the garbage. I feel a little bit like a jerk, but mostly I am just so happy I can see her damn floor right now.
Eliza and I have been playing a new car game: One of us gives the other three random words as prompts, and the other uses those words to compose/tell a short story on the spot. Zaniness is encouraged, both in the selection of the words and in the way they are used together. Somehow, though, they all seem to be about animals eating disturbing or incongruous things.
We drove to Williamsburg VA last week. The George Washington Bridge is pretty in the fog:
We went to Busch Gardens, which really just cemented in my mind how much I hate amusement parks. When you are dragging around a baby who can’t ride anything yet and you get queasy in the car when your husband hits the gas so you can’t ride anything yourself and you can’t eat anything because processed foods almost all have milk products in them and the baby is still nursing and still allergic, stabbing yourself in the face is almost as much fun as an amusement park.
But I did my motherly/wifely duty and applauded as Jim and Eliza went on various rides and dutifully recorded the evidence of Eliza steering the bumper car:
Lucy mastered some new skills including climbing:
… and dressing herself (that is my shirt which she has somehow managed to get herself into):
As you can see she is extremely smug about being such a talented baby.
Eliza spent enough time in various bodies of water that she actually accrued enough skills to pass her camp’s swimming test this week. Many highs were fived in celebration.
I watched lots of Olympics and I would like to know who decided the world needs THAT MUCH beach volleyball.
If you manage to sit through the hours of people leaping about in the sand, they show the actual sports like gymnastics and track and field at about 10:30. I like Mustafina, the Russian gymnast, because she is cutthroat without apology. I dislike the commentators. I get that you’re supposed to hype your own team to some degree, but when your chick screws up the vault and you still call her awesome, and then you say of the eventual winner, who nailed it, “Well, I guess she gets the job done,” then you are just being kind of petty.
I would also like to claim a spot near the front of the line of people who want to dopeslap Mary Carillo.
After Oscar Pistorius reached the semi-finals, she did some fatuous interview with another TV person wherein she smarmed, “Oscar’s not broken, is he?” WHAT.
The thing I dig about Pistorius is that he’s not a special snowflake.
One of the things I find is a better predictor of karate success than any innate athletic ability is how much beginners feel they need to tell me about their various injuries and conditions. The more info they give me, the less likely they are to be in for the long haul. What I love about my fellow practitioners, and what I strive for myself, is that we can be aware of whatever our stories are and carry that with us in our practice without thinking that we’re somehow separate and terribly unique for it. We can practice through divorce, through miscarriage, in the wake of abuse, in recovery from knee surgeries and cancer, and commend and acknowledge the effects of that without having it be the dominant aspect of our training. What I cherished so much about training while pregnant this second time around over the first is that I had gotten over myself — and so had everyone else — and that for all our humorous asides before class, during the class I was still expected to train to the fullest extent of my abilities and could count on being asked to help lower ranks just as much as ever.
Pistorius’s story resonates with me because I feel like while he isn’t in denial of his difference or anything crazy kumbaya-ish like that, in the end, what he really wants to do is be done with the bullshit and run.
I dig that Kirani James —the 19-year-old who won his and Pistorius’s heat, exchanged bibs with Pistorius, and went on to be the eventual gold medalist— gets that better than the TV commentators meant to be enlightening our lives with their insights.
I guess I have had my Olympic moment in spite of my curmudgeonly self, dammit.