The Final Days of November Post

Today Lea was singing along to Adele's Chasing Pavements, her voice as rich as her 9-year-old body could muster. Full of emotion, she crooned, "Should I give up/or should I just keep chasing cavemen..."

Oh, the hilarity.

Also today: my husband pulled up to our house in a cab, jumped out, opened the front door, and kissed me hello. Then he tilted his head to the side. "You look beautiful," he said. And then he ran back outside, jumped into the cab, and was gone again.

Oh, the hilarity. But also: why did he tilt his head like that?

I saw two movies over the weekend, both adapted from graphic novels. We attempted a go at The Descendants, but it was sold out, and so we ended up at...Immortals. It was filled with eye candy in the enviable shapes of Henry Cavill (yay The Tudors!) and the glorious Frieda Pinto; gasp-worthy violence (oh, the poor faux virgin oracles!); a campy Mickey Rourke; and sets that looked like they were straight out of a Hellenic-themed Vegas spa. In other words: so excellent.

On Sunday I took the girls to Hugo, a book much beloved by all three of them. So dreamy, this movie, what with the steam and the snow and the enormous clocks. And the automaton! Anyways, go see it. Make it a holiday gift to yourself.

Keeping Myself Company

The other day, at 11:00 in the morning, I went and saw a movie all by myself. It's possibly the first time I've done any type of solo spur-of-the-moment activity in years, and it produced a giddiness not at all commensurate with the actual deed. I'm going to the movies by myself I said to no one. Oh my GOD, I'm going to the movies by myself!!

Seriously. What a dork.

Anyways, my movie of choice was Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. I procured a small popcorn and a diet soda. I put my feet up on the chair in front of me. I stole furtive glances at the other people in the audience and made up stories of how each of them had orchestrated their lives to be present in the theatre. Then the lights went way, way down and I slunk (is that a word?) way, way down into my chair.

I was easily charmed by the time travel element in the film, while being simultaneously annoyed that Rachel McAdams' character was of one dimension: the bitch dimension. I was fascinated not only by the ethereal beauty of Marion Cotillard, but by the singular nose of Owen Wilson. I thought casting Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein was an inspired choice. I thought the whole thing was so clever and fun, even though I will forever be squeebed (is that a word?) out by Woody Allen.

Afterwards, I admit to a twinge of regret at not having someone to eat and chat with post-movie. But I went ahead and took myself to lunch, and for entertainment I eavesdropped on a couple of men, advanced in age, discussing a business idea that I did not understand and that I nevertheless felt sure would never materialize. One of the men was a conversation hog, I noted. His companion's plate was clean, while his remained full.

Maybe I will see a photograph of these two men one day, accompanied by an article that describes them as "famed venture capitalists," or "Silicon Valley kingmakers." And I will remember that they were the two men I saw that one summer when I went to see a movie all by myself.

Kids Books & French Gangster Films

Last night I read Lea the story "The Giant and the Mite" from The Little Bookroom. The other two characters besides the giant and the mite are the Angel in the Sky and the Angel Below the Earth. These two angels aren't pitted against each other in the same-as-it-ever-was good vs. evil trope. Instead, they work together to keep everything that exists between them, i.e. the earth and all its goings-on, on an even keel. It was the first time I'veever run across that idea, and I think it's a keeper.

In other reading-to-the-kids-news, we finished The Horse and His Boy and, as I said I would, I poked around to see if they had picked up on the racism. And the answer is...no. I'm all baffled and shit.

Anyways, now we're reading The 13 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear by Walter Moers. It is an enormous, 700-page, insane novel. I'm in a constant state of hysterics while I read, and the girls are always saying, "Calm down, Mom."

Bluebear's first life takes place shortly after he's born and, for reasons unknown, floating naked and alone in a walnut shell. He is rescued from the maelstrom by Minipirates. Bluebear explains:

"Minipirates, as their name implies, were pretty small...The little creatures sailed the seas in tiny ships, ever on the lookout for something small enough to capture. This happened very seldom—never, in fact. Truth to tell, the Minipirates had never managed to capture a single prize, not even a rowing boat, in the whole history of navigation. Sometimes, usually in desperation, they attacked bigger ships...but their efforts passed unnoticed as a rule. The tiny buccaneers hurled their grappling hooks at the big vessels and were towed along until they gave up."

Minipirates: I want one. I need one.

In addition to lots of reading with the girls (I think I'm cramming in as much as possible because I'm afraid that very soon my 11-year-olds will want nothing to do with me and my novels about blue bears and their various lives), I've been mildly obsessed with the stories of French criminals as told via French films. I started with Mesrine: Killer Instinct, which stars the ubiquitous Vincent Cassel in a kinda campy turn as the real-life nutball gangster and France's "Public Enemy #1," Jacques Mesrine:

I don't know if it truly lives up to its billing as "The French Scarface," but I'll watch Part 2 anyways.

And a few weeks ago we watched A Prophet, which I cannot recommend highly enough. Just watch it, learn enough about the Corsican mafia to make you believe that you could totally take them on, and then join my club that I just made up. It's called The I Will Watch Any Film That Stars Tahar Rahim Club:

In unrelated news: allergy season. Boo.

The Post in Which I Start with Lord of the Rings and then Veer Off Course

For reasons unfathomable, I picked up a copy of Lord of the Rings, pondered briefly, purchased it, and now cannot stop reading it. I don't know why I've never read it before, though I have a vague memory of thinking that it must be exceedingly dorky. Now I don't care if I'm dorky. Frodo rulez!

On the same day, I found a new, hardcover copy of The Dictionary of Imaginary Places (which I have wanted for quite some time now) for twelve dollars! So if I ever get lost in Middle-Earth, I can refer to it, and all will be well. But seriously, it's difficult to pass up a book billed as "...an invaluable guidebook to more than twelve-hundred places-that-never-were," including Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, Eco's Island of the Day Before, and...how much do I love this?... a two-column entry for Dictionopolis and Digitopolis from The Phantom Tollbooth!

As I continued to ride the train of consumerism that day, I also purchased Hunter rain boots. But I did this for good reason, as heavy rains were imminent and my current boots had a hole. And also I bought other things, for reasons not as logical.

Moving on...

The spousal unit and I recently watched two films which I thought were excellent. First, I Am Love with Tilda Swinton as the lady-what's-in-charge of a villa-dwelling Milanese family. Super rich folks have major issues, people, but they also have dreamy shoes, textiles, food, and wait staff:

And then there was The Kids Are All Right with Julianne Moore (on whom I have a huge crush) Annette Bening, and the charming, rakish Mark Ruffalo. It was hilarious and true and good:

While I'm on the subject of recommendations, I shall now call your attention to my Pinoy/Pinay lit recommendations for this holiday season, which were cross-posted at the PAWA blog and the Re: Angelica's Daughters blog.

Finally, I will post a picture of my youngest, who now appears to be not-so-very-young. I post this because she was so extraordinarily overjoyed on this day and it made me—by maternal extension—extraordinarily overjoyed, as well. She performed in a holiday dance show, you see, getting all jazzy to the strains of U2's It's A Beautiful Day. I find these dance shows absolutely hilarious, but they also make me cry. Life is confusing.

Hey, the doorbell just rang and it was the UPS guy (did you know I harbor a not-so-unreasonable belief that one day I will open the door and the UPS guy will be an old high school classmate? Well, I do) with a big old box of holiday cards for me to address, so...yeah. I have to go.

Trip to Nowhere

Every year I reference an albino deer sighting, and every year < exaggerate > hordes and hordes < /exaggerate > of you cry out, "Nay, Nesting Ground Mistress, this cannot be so! Mistress, it cannot be so!" But at last I possess the visual proof to supra-contradict those who would doubt me:


* strikes the hands-on-hips-I-told-you-so pose *

In other (semi)remarkable news, our recent trip afforded the opportunity for me to share with my girls one of my favorite childhood movies: A Little Princess, Shirley Temple-style.


Can I just say? Today's child actors have nothing on Miss Shirley Temple. What a freaking pro. And I'm not just saying that because I burst into tears during several scenes. I'm saying that because I...burst into tears during several scenes. You can watch the entire thing on You Tube. I had no idea.

Where am I going with all this? Absolutely nowhere. And it is in keeping with my rambling nowhere-ness that I present to you an object that will no doubt consume you with a jealousy unlike any jealousy you've experienced before. Behold! Behold the necklace newly acquired by your Nesting Ground Mistress:


Hmmm.

Hmmm.

Hmmmmmmm.

Now that I'm really looking at it, I'm not so sure. It was purchased in a fit of sorely needed retail therapy, and I believe my taxed mental state may have clouded my generally sound judgement. I'll let you know if I ever actually wear it. For now, um, just forget what I said about the whole jealousy thing.

Netflix Pins Me Down

I was just taking a moment to put some DVDs in my Netflix queue, which is a process I find generally annoying because navigating the site is—for me—so, so, so anti-intuitive. As I bumbled along, I noticed they'd added yet another unhelpful navigation feature. This one suggested films based on my previous choices, and then broke the films down into hilariously-named categories. Ready? I am, according to Netflix, someone who enjoys...


..."Visually-Striking Gritty Independent Movies." To which I ask: Is there a category called "Badly Lit Independent Movies?"

..."Critically-Acclaimed Cerebral Comedies." To which I say: "Cerebral?" Let's not kid ourselves.

..."Inspiring Dramas." To which I proffer: That's weird. I usually like the un-inspiring ones.

..."Emotional Movies Featuring a Strong Female Lead." To which I wonder: Do you really mean, "Good To Watch While in the Throes of PMS?"

..."Dark Movies Based on Contemporary Literature." To which I admit: Guilty.

Here's hoping iTunes doesn't start doing the same thing because my results, I'm sure, would be far, far more embarrassing. Like, "Incredibly Corny Ballads by the Most Incredibly Corny Singers Ever. Ever."

Occurrences

In the throes of my continuing and miserable illness—it's mono, did you know that?—the following things have occurred:

1) Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died on the same day. Somehow, this made perfect sense to me.
2) Iran turned into a different country.
3) My friends forced me to go to the doctor, made me chicken soup and drove my kids back and forth to their camps every day.
4) I cried for no reason (although maybe items 1, 2, and 3 had something to do with it).
5) I finished a book called The Twelve Kingdoms, Volume 1 Sea of Shadow, which as far as I can tell is some sort of novelized, YA anime. Thoroughly enjoyable in a mindless, I-have-a-raging-fever-and-a-goiter-on-my-neck kind of way. It's seven volumes in all; I think I'll bring the next one to the lake.



6) Alone in the house all day yesterday, I watched Sense and Sensibility, something I can't remember, and what I believe was almost the entire season of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. About the latter (which I have never seen before) I can only shake my head in bewilderment, for it was truly disturbing. Those shows should be referred to as "Alternate Reality" not "Reality." And yet I could not make myself change the channel or even get up to vomit. Later, after the family returned home and the kids were in bed, the spousal unit and I watched the ethereal Kristin Scott Thomas in I've Loved You For So Long, and the bad memories of botox, "getting my boobies done," and purchasing $103,000 worth of furniture in cash were swept away.

7) I slept. I slept a lot, a lot, a lot. In fact, that's what I'm going to go do right now.

The Post In Which I Gush Over Eleanor Farjeon Again

No Man's Week is winding down, even as I type. Yesterday we spent the afternoon at the library, then came home to a fire in the fireplace, a semi-quiet game night, and—yay!—takeout. It's not a complete hunkering down, of course. Little bits of real life impinge in the form of bills, lesson plans, laundry, thank you notes, to-do lists, and the endless loop of bad news on CNN.

I'm starting to think about the weeks to come when I'll have larger blocks of time to write. I have three pieces that are thisclosetobeingdone, and I don't have to look any further than my blogroll for inspiration. There is Jean, for example, who resolves to submit (or make that send) more work this year, Marianne who already has stories about to appear in print, and the ever-prolific Grace, who doesn't allow anything—including tragically hemmed pants or hospitalization—to break her writing stride. I'm also trying to organize my reading a little more. At the moment, I'm all over the place.

Circling back to our library trip...I found a circa 1950 copy of Eleanor Farjoen's novel, The Glass Slipper, and I cannot wait to read it. I discovered Farjoen—an English children's book writer—last year when I picked up her collection of stories, The Little Bookroom. I thought I bought it for the girls, but have since come to the realization that I didn't. At the end of every story I have the same visceral reaction: a tiny, sharp intake of breath. If you want to read a quick one, I posted it here.

Anyway, in looking more into Farjoen's life, I found that director/animator Hayao Miyazaki (Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, Castle in the Sky, etc.) cites her as an influence. I like the way they both resist(ed) placing characters and situations into convenient good/bad categories (I know I'm supposed to say "dichotomies." Alas, I cannot...). Instead, they present life as it is: complicated. It makes me happy when authors respect the intelligence of children (or, um, adults) in this way. It's something I try to do in my own writing, but I'm often lazy and miss the mark.

Note to self: stop missing mark.

Getting Graphic

I'm way behind the curve when it comes to graphic lit. Though I am attracted to what I understand to be the stories told in Persepolis or Maus, for example, there's something about the graphic element that leaves me cold. This is a strange reaction, since I think the use of illustration is meant to create a certain intimacy or to draw the reader in with an immediacy that words alone cannot. But a large part of my reading enjoyment comes from being able to conjure up my own images as I go, so to have it done for me already is kind of a bummer. It turns out, though, that I enjoy the form when it's used to deal with history as in Howard Zinn's A People's HIstory of American Empire (adapted from his classic A People's History of the United States).


This is probably because the graphics help me process the historical facts (I'm simple like that). Plus, I love the illustration of the Pinoy soldier who screams, "THE AMERICANS HAVE ATTACKED OUR TROOPS AT SANTA MESA!" and its uncanny depiction of the classic Filipino nose. I'm serious.

Speaking of Mr. Zinn, take a look at the trailer for The People Speak, coming in September 2008:



John Legend increases his sexy with this. As does Marisa Tomei. I'm just saying.

Thinking About Tomorrow

Our attempt to see "There Will Be Blood," was thwarted Friday night when we realized that the 8:30 showing wouldn't let out until 11:30. And so we ended up in a theatre packed with folks of every age to watch "Juno." Not the most accurate vision of teenage pregnancy, but clever and sweet nonetheless. The couple next to us walked out in the first ten minutes, shortly after the hilarious Juno described her obsession with boys and their running shorts. I think it was "pork swords" that pushed them over the edge.

Even though it was a diverse crowd, there was a huge contingent of teenagers. I always get a little sad and wistful whenever I'm around groups of young hoodie-clad women clutching their cellphones and their tiny bags and whispering urgently to each other. I can barely look at them, especially when the SU points out the obvious. "Jesus," he always says. "That's our future." And in my head I scream, "For the love of fish and chips, macaroons, and malted milk balls...noooooooooooooooo!"

It's unfair of me to pass judgement on this teenage tribe. First of all because I was once a card-carrying member. Second, I know they, like all of us, simply find comfort and security in the ways they are alike, and I know this is not bad in and of itself. But every once in awhile I see one who is different in some can't-quite-put-a-finger-on-it way. It's something about the way she doesn't abuse a flat iron, something about the way she doesn't seem as invested in playing follow the leader, something about the way she keeps a book or a journal in her purse instead of five kinds of lip gloss, something about the way her existence doesn't appear to depend on the next text message she receives.

I don't know. But when I see a girl like that, I always secretly (well, not so secretly NOW) hope: Maybe THAT's our future.

-ING

Currently Reading: What Is The What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng by Dave Eggers

also

Deconstructing Penguins: Parents, Kids, and the Bond of Reading

Watching: Rome, complete seasons 1 and 2 (Titus Pullo is on trial at the moment! He will be condemned to death in the Arena! Soon Lucius Vorenus will come—reluctantly—to his rescue in a scene that has no gory rival! Why can I not let this show go?! Why am I yelling?! I don't know!)

Managing: the penning of thank you notes

Sweating: the penning of thank you notes

Contemplating: Wii Fit

Anticipating: Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

Resisting: a cold

Enjoying: the sight of Risa lounging in a chair and reading Roddy Doyle's hilarious (from what she tells me) The Giggler Treatment

Trying: to drink more water (I do this every January; every January I pretty much fail)

Appreciating: The painting by Joy Mallari that serves as the inspiration for this year's Romeo Forbes Children's Storywriting Competition

The Golden Line

Not since Achilles defeated Hektor in the divine cheesiness that was Troy...

Not since Maximus felled Commodus in the spectacle of Gladiator...

Not since Lucius Vorenus and Titus Pullo struck down...well, everybody...in the glory that was Rome...

Not since then has a clash between warriors achieved the greatness of the armored bears Iorek Byrnison and Iofur Raknison (called "Ragnar" in the film) in The Golden Compass:


Post-vanquishing, Ian McKellen (who voices Iorek) delivers his line with bellowing magnificence:

"Bears! WHO...IS...YOUR...KING?"

So, obviously I've stopped saying, "I am Beowulf. I will slay your mon-stah."

New Rule: Grammar Doesn't Matter on Friday

I elfed my children:

Filed under things that mothers can't keep themselves from doing.

Should you find yourself with any downtime this weekend, and you end up elfing yourself or your loved ones, you must —in the long-standing tradition of "I'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours" (but, um, REVERSED)—leave the link in my comments.

Wow. That sentence wasn't even close to grammatical correctitude, but I've no time to waste because...

...tonight I am determined to see The Golden Compass. I only recently devoured the 3-book series, which I had no idea was a huge international phenomenon (head? In sand) with a dedicated cult following (much ballyhoo, for example, about the cinematic Mrs. Coulter being a blonde rather than dark-haired Nicole Kidman). I truly couldn't put the books down. I even read while standing in line at the grocery store. I think I kinda understand Harry Potter madness a little better now.

But first, some holiday shopping. Bundling up now to brave the weather and the frenzy...

How To Make The Spousal Unit Laugh at Random Moments

When you wake up, say "I am Beowulf. I will slay your mon-stah."
Right before dinner, say "I am Beowulf. I will slay your mon-stah."
While your mouth is full of suds and toothpaste, say, "I am Beowulf. I will slay your mon-stah."

***

Adding:

Sasha's Bamboo Cupping Rainwater

and

Libay's Leaflens

and

Marianne's Kanlaon

The Clumsy Post That Happens When You Haven't Blogged For Days

NEW EXPERIENCE: Teaching the 30 girls in R & V's Brownie Troop to play the ancient game of Cat's Cradle.
COMMENTS: Um, my head almost imploded. No, seriously. I felt my brain splintering into several pieces. Also, I felt a deep and abiding gratitude towards my friend, M., who gamely leads this large and fantastically loud group of seven-year-olds. Another thing: I'm sure I had already mastered Cat's Cradle by their age. How can it be that NONE of them really knew how to play?


VIDA UTTERANCE #1: "I can't tell what's corny and what's not corny."
COMMENTS: This is yet another failing of mine. Filipinos have a special relationship with the word and concept of "corny," which I have apparently failed to nurture.

VIDA UTTERANCE #2 (while looking into the frying pan and espying corned beef hash): "Oh. I was wondering what the unfamiliar smell was."
COMMENTS: See previous comment, replace "corny" with "corned beef hash."

MOVIE OF THE WEEK: Love in the Time of Cholera.
RAMBLING COMMENTS: Well, it was okay. I was worried about two things. One, John Leguizamo. In this case, I was right to fret. He was horrible in that he went for caricature rather than attempting to lend some humanity to his character. Also, he couldn't settle on an accent. At one point he was speaking through clenched teeth and channeling a manic Tony Soprano. Annoying. I was also worried about Shakira's music, but it was actually quite beautiful and inobtrusive. Benjamin Bratt is, as the spousal unit pointed out, "aIways Benjamin Bratt." Which is not to say he wasn't successful; it's just to say he was...Benjamin Bratt. As for the the performances by Javier Bardem and Giovanna Mezzogiorno in the lead roles, I will proclaim customer satisfaction. I was so moved by the shuffling walk of Florentino Ariza, which Javier (that's what I call him. I call him "Javier," or sometimes "Javi" if he's being silly with me) affected when the character was still relatively young. At one point, Fermina Daza says about Florentino: "He is not a person. He's a shadow." And this is true. A shadow who gets laid every time he turns around, but a shadow nonetheless.

FORGOTTEN JEWEL FOUND ON MY BOOKSHELF: Critical Fictions: The Politics of Imaginative Writing, with essays or conference presentations by Jessica Hagedorn, Educardo Galeano, Nawal El Saadawi, Angela Carter, Leslie Marmon Silko, Jamaica Kincaid, Salman Rushdie, Ana Castillo and many others.
COMMENTS:This book was published in 1991, not long after the demonstrations condemning THE SATANIC VERSES, so you can kinda imagine the energy of the work included. Jessica Hagedorn's conference presentation begins (and maybe this is a much-anthologized piece?), "Now I will discuss Virgin Mary Power." I've had this book for fifteen years or so, and I read it before I could truly understand it, so I'm excited to re-visit.

And now I have to go make lemon bars. *tap dances away while raising and lowering black silk tophat*

Coming Soon

Javier Bardem as Florentino Ariza? Yes!


I will be one of those first-in-line dorks who arrives filled with hope and leaves—most likely—with popcorn stuck to her sweater and loudly bemoaning all the blasphemous ways the film deviated from the book. I would like to apologize in advance to the SU.

Love in the Time of Cholera, November 16th.

Now Channeling...Joni Mitchell

I've looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose and still somehow...

Eh.

I'm in a funk. Said funk can be attributed to any number of mundane or not-so-mundane things. Lea has lost her first two teeth, for example, a happening which spun her briefly into an existential crisis. For me, it's another indicator that I have no more babies. And dammit, I didn't know I liked 'em so much until now.

Also, I was thinking that I can't write. That my writing, I mean, is whoa-nelly-bad. This feeling eased up when I sent some stories to Cecilia for consideration in her anthology. Whether or not she decides they fit with the project, I realized that my writing is not whoa-nelly-bad. It's kind of whoa-nelly-that's-not-too-terribly-bad. But, still. The whole episode has left residual funk in my funk drawer.

And then there's the fact that all the little squares on my calendar are filling up with distinctly non-thrilling (non)events, resulting in an acute case of claustrophobia.

Date night, where art thou? What with the last two weekends at the lake and the next two claimed by the aforementioned calendar squares, we'll be well into September before I can discover the fate of one Jason Bourne. I see now that the benefits of a lobster roll (no, seriously, this Old Port Lobster Shack joint in Redwood City of all places, serves a c-r-a-z-y lobster roll) and a movie with the spousal unit on a Friday night is kinda like...magic.

Wave if you see me. I'll be the woman sitting on the curb, reading a book, and waiting for my Big Yellow Taxi.

We Pause Now for a "Princess Bride Moment"

via Design Mom

Helpful Hints for the Spartan Man or I Went to See "300" and All I Got Was This Dumb Blog Post

Warrior culture made it impossible for a guy from Sparta to be just a guy from Sparta. He must, instead, be a SPARTAN MAN! His abdominal muscles must be chiseled, his chest heaving, his thighs powerful enough to climb the completely vertical face of any mountain. A SPARTAN MAN!, before he becomes a SPARTAN MAN!, is first ripped from the tender arms of his beautiful SPARTAN MOTHER! at the age of seven, and then shortly thereafter sent naked into the snow with only his spear and wits to aid in his survival. Said survival necessitates killing a huge, fanged, frothing-at-the-mouth beast so that he can, of course, return to warrior camp with his belly full of the animal's meat and his body draped in its warm fur. This is how you become LEONIDAS, KING OF SPARTA!

But on to my helpful hints. And by helpful hints, I mean that if the SPARTAN MEN! had followed my advice they might have been able to defeat the million-strong armies of Asia (about that: must the "armies of Asia" always be depicted as grotesque, hedonistic, dirty fighters? I'm thinking, too, of "Lord of the Rings" and the way Legolas was constantly whispering that something horrific "stirs in the East").

Ahem. Helpful hints:

1) Stop admiring one another's "fine thrusts."
2) Stop discussing the "Hot Gates" and pointing at them with sticks on your make-believe sand map.
3) "Fine thrusts" and "hot gates" can only serve to distract SPARTAN MEN!
4) Leather jockey shorts, red capes, and sandals? Fellas, that is not a substitute for armor.

I'm so glad I got all that off my chest. In closing, I will leave you with my favorite dialogue exchange:

King Leonidas to badly wounded SPARTAN MAN!: I hope that little scratch hasn't made you completely useless.
Badly Wounded SPARTAN MAN!: No Sir! It is just an eye!

***

The Comfort Women House Resolution now has 318 signatures. Does that include yours (thanks Auntie Ginger!)? If not, please sign now.

Pan's Labyrinth

I am freshly home from enjoying the visual feast known as Pan's Labyrinth. It was full of heartbreak and magic and it made me simultaneously weepy, nauseous, and incensed (fascism=bad). Plus, I don't think I'll ever be able to eat grapes again. Why? Because if you eat the grapes that are laid out on this guy's table, he inserts eyeballs into his hands and gets super pissed:


Sweet dreams, all. Muwahahahahahahahahaha...