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It's been a while since I actually used a catalog item for an article. But the latest Solutions Catalog inspired me. When I began my television writing career years ago, my mentor told me two things to remember: chicken singing is always funny and don't tell fart jokes. Chicken singing is still funny. And fart jokes? They used to be for fourth graders, but since just about everything on TV or the movies is now at a fourth grade level, fart references abound. And let's face it: farts sound funny--especially when they come from someone else. Laughing at your own farts takes steely self-confidence. And when you do laugh at them, it usually makes you fart more--like a gassy "laugh track" to your own joke.
Thank heaven for ladies' rooms. Especially at the movies. Once your movie lets out, every woman dashes there, and in between the flushes and rolling paper, you often hear salient discussions of the movie that just ended. I am sure men do not discuss the movie over the urinals. But in the ladies' room, listening to anonymous comments as you piddle is like watching the extra features on a DVD. Fun, and often instructive.
For instance, last night we went to see The Ghostwriter, Roman Polanski's latest film. I had read some amazing reviews, describing the film as suspenseful and "Hitchcockian." Reviewers don't usually toss Hitch around lightly, so I figured it must be good. Plus, it wasn't at the multiplex, but at the "art house" which also has an impressive concession array. More than Goobers, Dots, and popcorn. They have Dots and popcorn, of course, but also herbal tea, flavored coffee and cream cheese filled hot pretzels. I did not eat any, but knowing they were there made me feel confident that this was a movie for people like me: plump and intelligent.
So we got seats at exactly the perfect part of the theatre (not too far up, not too far back, centered). We watched, and I tried to understand it. Really I did. I kept waiting for all the "twists" and "double punches" a reviewer had mentioned, especially the one at the end. The foreboding dunes, the cold New England rain and the music...especially the music: these effects convinced me that there was a sinister plot twist coming any second now. Wait for it. Wait for it. I kept waiting. The gray, misty, stormy scenery made the film seem black and white even though it was in color, and thus did remind me of Rebecca, one of my all time favorite Hitchcock flicks. Soon the twists were coming...any second. But when the surprise came at the end, it was one of those "What?" moments for me. I didn't get it. My husband said he did, but husbands will never admit if they don't get it.
I was saved from my incomprehensibility in the place it is always best to do so: a safe haven where you can keep your stupidity anonymous--the ladies' room. When I entered the stall, some women were already discussing the film. I jumped into the fray. "Why did she do it?" I asked to someone out there. One unseen but savvy "stall-mate" called out an answer. "Remember the part where they said she always gave her husband advice? Well, that's why..." she went on. Now I got it!
By the time I flushed, my movie mentor was gone, but as I washed my hands, I realized that without this ladies' room discusssion, I would have thought I was an idiot who couldn't get this sophisticated "smart" film. Now I realized that I didn't get it because there wasn't much to get. The big end surprise was that there was no surprise.
Instead of reading reviews, maybe I should start going to the ladies' room after the last show lets out, before my movie starts. Women know their movies. Unless it has George Clooney, but if it's got Clooney, I'm with them: who cares about the plot?
I just returned from an inspiring first grade "art exhibit" night at a local public school. Since public schools no longer have art teachers, the first grade teachers developed their own art program. They spend four weeks teaching the kids about Van Gogh, Matisse, Picasso, and O'Keefe. The children learn about the artists, and finally they imitate each one by re-creating their own versions of famous paintings. The room was full of kids literally all dressed up with no place to go--except where the cookies were. Parents snapped away with cell phones and digital devices. I have no grandchildren yet, so my friend Bonne (who has 5) takes me along to these things. We call it my B.I.T. project: Bubbie-In-Training. Her grandson Noah was supposed to be our docent, but it was obvious the kid wanted to be elsewhere. He was a dervish looking for a place to whirl.
Noah finally pointed out his self-portrait in the style of Van Gogh. Then his mother Judith tried to get him to stand still long enough for a picture in front of it. She held up her camera and counted "one...two...THREE!" She did this several times. Each time she got to "THREE," Noah jumped up the air, flailing his arms and gleefully ruining the photo. Judith was completely cool about it. I would have been pissed and yelling at him to stop being such a pip. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I asked Judith why she kept letting Noah mess up all the pictures. With a twinkle in her eye, she explained: "Oh, he thinks he is so clever, but he is my son. He can't outsmart me. I snap on "TWO!"
So tonight I learned something new about the art of mothering from a young woman who is obviously a master!
I want to get down to the weight on my license. I want to stop hiding my chins in photos or asking the photographer to snap my picture while standing on a ladder--because when you aim the camera down, it doesn't show chins. I want to buy a box of 100-calorie Oreos and eat only one bag. I also want world peace.
I am a lifetime member of Weight Watchers, but the last time I was at my goal weight was 1983. I have been going to Weight Watchers on and off since I was 14 years old. I remember the original program when you had to eat fish seven times a week and liver once a week. There were no frozen diet foods. There were no Weight Watcher desserts. But deep-fried Twinkies hadn't been invented yet either.
I used to find Weight Watchers easy. The weight would slip right off. That was B.M. -- yep...Before Menopause. Like the Toyotas that won't stop, my metabolism won't start. Also I am a yo-yo mama. I walk, swim, eat broccoli and fruit salad, lose a few pounds and then gain them back by not walking, swimming, eating broccoli or fruit salad.
This morning I went back to Weight Watchers. (I am sure I hold the record for starting over more times than any living Weight Watcher.) My friend Bonne came with me, and she has just lost 30 pounds by sticking with the program for more than 40 weeks! I wish I could tell you that Bonne is 26 years old, and it was easy for her, but it ain't so. She's my age; she's a gourmet cook, and she cooks big meals every weekend. She did it! And so I am gonna use her as inspiration and try again.
