I had a rant-heavy blogpost at the ready tonight, dealing with fine particle air pollution (um, there was indoor recess today because the air is unsafe for children to inhale?!), delving into a frustrating conversation with my daughter’s father (who told me that by playing Santa I was perpetuating a colossal evil myth, thus our child would grow up to believe I was a corrupt liar?!) and finishing up with a nice little tidbit about the massive migraine that left me reeling in bed for 73 minutes earlier this evening. But I’d rather write about Juno.
I was given free passes to see Juno at Sundance last night and I shared the wealth with two of my dearest friends and fellow single moms. It’s rare that stars align (read: childcare lines up) so that we can all hang out, and we planned to arrive a little earlier to chat before the movie began. Rolling up to Sundance we discussed the upscale vibe of the revamped Hilldale shopping center. L’Occitane, The North Face, and [oh-how-I-covet-thy-wares] Anthropologie gleamed to our left, hugged by a parade of new restaurants. Sundance has really upped the ante over there. At least that section of the parking lot is reminiscent of Park City, Utah; you know, the Park City I’ve seen numerous times on TV.
We traded our free passes in for tickets. I was irked that this show was a guaranteed sellout as a promotional premiere, yet was also the only movie I’ve been to at Sundance where I did not have the privilege to reserve a seat. But ’twas a free movie at a posh place, so I’m not complaining.
The ladies and I headed upstairs to the bar for a pre-show snack and a few drinks. I’ve eaten at the bar there before and the food was decent. Last night everything was perfect. We had a small array of appetizers, including a decadent pear/gorgonzola/toasted walnut/spinach/pasta dish that was meltingly fabulous (and I say that as a staunch pasta hater). Even though the place was bustling and there was only one bartender and one server on, the service was quick and impeccable. I had no idea that Sundance allows food and drinks from the bar into the theater! We got some snazzy coffee drinks to bring into Juno which was a definite improvement on my typical Diet Mountain Dew.
The movie was written by Diablo Cody, whose rise to fame was catalyzed by her memoir, Candy Girl, a detailed and irreverent account of the feisty Gen Xer as a stripper in the Cities. I’ve kept up with her blog from time to time since hearing of her book. As a screenwriter she’s golden (and she’s got the Globe nomination to prove it). The movie was nuanced in a way that was, at times, almost completely subtle (I’ll just say: panties clutched in his hand) and at times in-your-face awkward (“pork swords”?!). It’s an echo of real life, especially real life while in high school.
And real life is what this movie’s all about. I know every mother in the audience could relate to the transformation of the main character from independent autonomous human being to freakishly huge womb-for-rent. Likewise, every teen and everyone who’d ever been a teen had to have found something relatable in the trials and tribulations of maturation. So pretty much the whole audience was covered. To that end, if, for some reason, there was someone watching Juno who had never had a moment of discomfort in high school, nor were they a mother, chances are the stellar soundtrack would grab them (because chances are, with a charmed life like that, they are a music snob). Kimya Dawson did the music for the film and not only is it obviously hand-picked, the DIY sound wove around the storyline like it was written right along with the screenplay. Huh. Maybe it was. Actually some of the music was written into the story… but I’m not a spoiler. So there.
At one point I winced and thought I was getting old. I am so not hip to the expressions the kids these days are using, I thought, after hearing Juno say “do me a solid” and “for shizz” and a few other phrases that confused me. Then I realized that her quirky posturing was a big part of the movie’s charm. I wasn’t out of touch, she was being ironic. Sent up as a big fat example for her whole generation, she was following theirs language-wise. The effect was hilarious. And touching for someone like me, who grew up, dork-style, a complete social outcast (minus the adorable male friend to make out with and play guitar with– did I mention he’s played by Michael Cera? Yeah, no, not the guy from Superbad. Well, yes, he is from Superbad. But he will always be George Michael to me). Juno could be this generation’s Angela Chase, with a bun in the oven and a little more edge.
I don’t even need to get into how fan-freakin’-tastic the acting is in this movie. Everyone’s been buzzing about Ellen Page for ages, Michael Cera’s on the upswing,then there’s veteran character actor J.K. Simmons, primetime’s Allison Janney, star power provided by Jennifer Garner, and of course Jason Bateman (a.k.a. Michael Bluth, a.k.a. my future husband).
*this is probably way obvious by now but I simply cannot hold back from saying that I will never forgive television execs (I will not mention the name of their ridiculously horrible network) for canceling Arrested Development. How. Dare. They. I still carry a torch.
Upon leaving I felt refreshed and renewed. Not the way I expected to feel after a movie exploring teen pregnancy. But there you have it. Some are saying that the film falls flat, lack of drama, doesn’t delve into the real issues, blah blah blah etc. To that I say that the movie came off to me like reality with a really great soundtrack and some excellent props (namely a hamburger phone and some orange tic-tacs) and in reality, there are a million Junos. The naysayers probably don’t believe it, because they don’t want to believe that teenagers can be well-adjusted and make good decisions, even in the most difficult circumstances. But even naysayers must admit that the caricatures in this movie are dead-on, from the daddy-to-be who can’t let go of his own childhood or his pipe dreams to the step-mom who owns a nail salon and has lofty aspirations to one day own a wiemaraner.
Nope, the movie’s not just worth seeing because of Page’s star turn or Cody’s screenplay. It’s got a bigger message than that– the message that humanity, flawed as it may be, usually prevails. Some take the high road, while others duck out the back door, but ultimately, decisions that one makes never just fade away. It doesn’t matter how old or experienced someone is, it’s whether or not they can come to terms with that fact. I know this sounds a little obtuse but watch the movie and I think you’ll understand.
Anyway, upon leaving I ran into a gaggle of teens clutching t-shirts. Apparently they’d been given some promo merch while waiting to get in. I bemoaned the fact that as a single mother, perhaps I deserved a t-shirt more than they did. One guy took pity and said, “Here, hey, sure, you can have it.”
But it was ugly and huge so I let him keep it.
I could say more but my neck aches and my bed beckons. Plus I’m of the opinion that reviews can ruin a movie. Suffice to say that in the end we’ve all chosen our own miracles, consciously or not.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I’m sitting in a coffee shop that feels like the reception area of my local dentist’s office. This is a correlation that I can’t actually prove, as my lack of dental insurance these past eight years has forbade me the luxury of waiting, ho-hum, for someone to drill holes in my teeth, or for someone to force me to feel like I’m about to drool on a stranger’s hand (it is also probably the reason that I’m way behind on my Better Homes and Gardens reading). By the way, I’m one of 100 million Americans without dental insurance, and according to the esteemed New York Times, this frightening fact is not hurting dentists one little bit. For all I know, dentists’ reception areas are now chock full of fancy accoutrements, free Wii, cappuccino machines, a bouncy castle. But if they remain as I remember, they’ve cornered the market on Muzak, and at this time of the year, that translates into weary Christmas carols.
Which brings us from my dental fantasies back to my local coffee shop. I’m surrounded by plants jollily perched in bright red bowls, accessorized by faux holly sprigs. The tasteful earth tones of walls and ceiling are jolted into holiday fever by an array of Styrofoam snowflakes hanging hither and yon, and yon, and yon. I remain unenticed by the Holiday Latte. Egg nog should be mixed with liquor, not espresso. I remain unmoved by every holiday suggestion I’ve encountered since Halloween exited stage left. I’ve steeled myself against the advent of Advent.
So why do my eyes well up when an instrumental version of “Oh Christmas Tree” blares from the speaker above? Because I don’t have a Christmas tree. In the grand scheme of things (if there is a grand scheme) I know this is a negligible fact, paling to invisibility next to war and genocide and famine and a Republican president. But let’s just pretend I’m still a mere child of six, like my own daughter. Children are fortunate enough to believe in Santa Claus and flying reindeer– and fortunate enough not to believe that evil people could carpet bomb families out of their homes, even over the holidays. While adults admonish one another “not to drink the Kool Aid” and stay sane throughout an impending economic/oil/catch-all crisis, children are sipping their hot cocoa and writing a long wishlist for Santa. “If I tell Santa I want a computer, he’ll get it for me, right Mama?” asks my wee one. “Because he can afford everything, right?” I try to recall if I knew what “afford” meant when I was that young.
I am certainly aware of what it means now. I can’t afford a Christmas tree.
Every winter when I was little, my father, brothers, and I traipsed through our local tree farm searching for the perfect evergreen. Dad slung a small ax over his shoulder and we examined each potential tannenbaum for height, needle fluffiness, and load-bearing branches (Santa always weighted our tree with an excessive slew of candy canes). When we found a winner, he chopped it down and we hoisted it back to the Chevy Caprice and somehow affixed it to the roof.
Although in retrospect I know that my parents were always toeing the line between poverty and middle class, we had a wealth of traditions like this one. Dad wove the car down the back roads and up the rutted gravel road to our two-bedroom yellow bungalow, where upon arriving we would unpack boxes of ornaments. Some had belonged to my great-grandparents. Some were handmade by my brothers and I. Some had been gifts from piano teachers, handy men, godparents, and others who had touched my family over the years. They had their own stories to tell, stories that evolve from one holiday to the next. Say what you will about the consumerist slant on the Christmas season, but those ornaments were truly touchstones, even as a gauge for which child was tall enough to place the crystal angel out of our cat’s playful reach or which of us would be relegated to placing the heaviest ornaments on the bottom boughs.
Last year, my father, ever the heroic patriarch of a family that has now swelled to include five children, two grandchildren, a son-in-law, and a daughter-in-law-to-be, gave me the ultimate Christmas surprise. I was working late a few nights in a row and had arranged for my daughter to visit her grandparents’ for the weekend. Upon her return, she called me crowing that she and grandpa had a big surprise waiting at our humble apartment. I arrived home from work at 2 in the morning, nearly too exhausted to make it up the stairs, my pockets heavy with not-quite-enough tips and my feet blistered from an almost consecutive 72 hours of schlepping food and spirits.
There in the center of my living room stood a Christmas tree, resplendent with lights and sparkling brand-new ornaments. I had no idea that such a sight would move me to tears, but it did. At the time, I had no furniture in my living room, as I couldn’t scrape the money together to purchase a couch. The apartment felt like an apartment until that night, when it transformed into a home. The Christmas tree said, “People live here. A family lives here. Traditions can be born and carried on here.” The scent of sap and needles was reassuring. It was the first Christmas tree my daughter and I had experienced in our own place together, and suddenly the prospect of carrying on did not seem so bleak. The ghosts of Christmases past seemed fumigated. The next morning I told my father, “Thanks so much!” exuberantly and with a smile, not wanting him to know that his daughter, the resilient and resourceful single mother, had been so desperate and worn out and hopeless that his gift had prompted her to fall to the floor in joyous and reminiscent tears.
I still have the stand, the ornaments, and the lights that were bestowed upon me that night about a year ago. They are in a box in my storage room. What I don’t have is the money to pay for a tree here in the “city” of Madison, nor the resources (namely a vehicle; also, an ax) to venture beyond the city’s borders and rustle up my own. Live Christmas trees range between $25-$65, about 10 percent higher than past years, just another price increase that can be chalked up to rising fuel costs. I could go the plastic route, although I detest fake trees, but my lack of disposable income precludes that as well. If I make a few extra bucks in tips, I’d rather spend it on presents. Or laundry detergent, for that matter.
As I said above, I’ve become rather stoic about the holidays. In years past, I’ve gotten all excited and happy about Christmas. I’ve shopped ahead, baked cookies, mulled cider. This year I can’t believe it’s only a week away; I’ve done nothing. Maybe being unemployed and basically destitute for about 6 months sucked the anticipation out of me. As a single parent, I’ve come to the slow but painful realization that there are few surprises coming my way. I’m buying Santa’s presents, and I’m setting out his cookies, too. I’m sitting down with my daughter to help her write a letter to Santa, and it’s with a heavy heart, as I suggest that she doesn’t ask Santa for a computer this year. I’ll be the one wrapping gifts in the middle of the night and stashing them far away from her prying eyes; I’ll be the one taking the bus from one toy store to the next. Sometimes, in the most pessimistic hours, every day of flying solo as a parent can feel like being stranded roadside in the middle of the night, with a flat tire and no cell phone. You may hope like hell that someone will come along to rescue you, but you know that in the end you’re most likely going to have to rescue yourself.
That’s why last year’s Christmas tree was so wonderful. I didn’t have to do it, and I didn’t expect it, it just appeared. A beacon of hope. A reminder that there are some things that are still worth believing in– family, tradition, nature. The bittersweet truth is that I can’t offer my own daughter the same simple yet blissful surprise.
Not right now, anyway.
Filed under: Uncategorized
The title of this post is taken from a movie that is perhaps the Velveeta of cheesy movies. Guess what? I laughed, I cried, I pretended to be above it, but I’m still referencing the flick a decade later. The movie was as predictable as its title (“The Story of Us”) . It stars Michelle Pfieffer and Bruce Willis; they get divorced and life becomes maudlin and hopeless, etc. One of their couply injokes? They play [daily] a game called “high/low” where they pinpoint the highs and lows in the day’s happenings.
I’m not going to do that, really, but I am going to say that a few things happened today and then there were a few things that didn’t happen. Judge for yourself, ye reader.
Things that happened:
- I spent hours planting this blog. Now hopefully I can keep it alive (unlike actual plants which have had the misfortune of falling into my care–alas, I used to keep a plant graveyard in my backyard).
- I ate cheap vanilla ice cream mixed with expensive gourmet hot chocolate powder, and it was tres yum.
- I worried about bouncing checks.
- I surf-shopped the web for cute yet cheap shoes for my wee one.
- I read a hilarious-despite-its-frightening-honesty quiz about Giuliani in the latest New Yorker.
- I cursed CBS for replacing The Amazing Race with the Survivor finale tonight, leaving me to eagerly await next week’s Amazing Race installment whereupon my favorite racers, the Goth couple,apparently will start to bicker. I don’t believe it.
- I spoke to my mother who pointed out for the millionth time that my student loans were a waste and my education worth only as much as the job I gleaned from it. (ergo: “that and two dollars will buy you a cup of coffee,” although I generally don’t drink two dollar coffee as I prefer of course the very expensive coffee.)
Things that did not happen:
- I did not do the half-dozen loads of laundry I could have done. This was only partially due to a lack of motivation. It was mostly due to a lack of detergent, and the unwillingness to pilfer detergent from my landlord, even though she probably wouldn’t mind.
- Dishwashing definitely did not happen. Is it strange that I have a paranoia of washing dishes with a dubious smelling sponge?
- Though a friend called to invite me to work out with her at the Princeton Club, even extolling its free child care as a way to suck me in, I prefer sucking myself in. Skipped the gym. Will join the masses who join gyms at the New Year. Yes, I will this year, I promise.
- My ex-husband didn’t call me back, leaving all 4 messages I left him this weekend unanswered. That’s ok, I’m just raising our child completely alone over here in the Midwest while he “lives his dream” in California. I can understand that he might not have the time to return a call.
- I failed to hit the sack before midnight. Insomnia’s a hard habit to kick.
This blog should be interesting.
See how tired I am? I could only muster up an “interesting.” Stay tuned, folks.
