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In simple, non-movie crytic, non-overly descriptive unintelligible terms, this movie sucked.
I expected funny. I shouldn’t have. Vince Vaughn plays Gary, a tour bus operator and Jennifer Anniston plays Brooke who works for an eccentric and pretentious art gallery owner. The opening scene shows how they met at a baseball game at Wrigley Field. It was bland. It set the tone for the movie. I kept waiting for things to get better and funnier and it never happened.
After the scene of them meeting at Wrigley, the opening credits begin and it’s a barrage of great photos of Gary and Brooke all around Chicago and taking trips. The pictures depict them in love, kissing, laughing and being silly. I enjoyed those but that, sadly, was the best part of the movie.
I also expected a huge, dramatic and funny break-up to follow those pictures. Bland, yet again. It wasn’t even a well defined break-up. It was more subtle and understated and implied because it was one-sided. Brooke gets angry at Gary after a dinner party they had and unleashes on Gary then ends it with “I’m done!”. That is pretty much it. After Gary realizes that she broke up with him (although Brooke just thought it was a big fight and regretted what she said and thought they would make up) I figured the fight over the condo would begin.
Well, not really. I think Gary states one time that he isn’t moving out, that Brooke should be the one to leave and I don’t think Brooke ever even mentions moving out. They both just stay there, in separate areas. There is no truly funny division of things or anything remotely resembling humor. The fights they have are much more depressing than funny. It’s more just a bland, predictable game of who can piss the other off more. There are only a few funny moments thrown into the mix but nothing very sustaining. The funniest moment just might be Jason Bateman’s character “Riggleman” sitting with the couple after a “game night” at the condo. He is their realtor and acts more like a counselor and suggests that the only way to fix things is to sell the condo.
The whole movie was a big let down. The pointless supporting cast made this film even more pathetic. I have never seen such useless characters in a movie before. Cole Hauser is on my “list” of totally hot men and he plays Gary’s brother, Lupus. Useless role. There was no point to him nor any substance. Brooke’s friend Addie and her silent husband weren’t pointless but they were boring and had no depth. Brooke’s brother Richard was funny, but again, pointless. Gary’s friend Johnny O (John Favreau) was funnier than all the characters put together. But, you can’t go wrong with John Favreau. In fact, his t-shirts worn in the movie were funnier than anything. One said “I’m a drinker, not a fighter” and the other, my personal favorite, said “Pinche Rio” (river bitch).
So in summary, the characters were weak, lame and useless. The movie was bland and far from “Laugh-out-loud-funny” as the pitch claims and I wouldn’t waste your time on it, unless it’s possbily the last “new release” left on the shelf, but ask for a discount. Don’t make the mistake of having high expectations of this movie and buy it without watching it first, like I did. Now I’m stuck with it.
Anyone want to buy “The Break Up”. New DVD, viewed once. I’ll sell it really cheap.
I think people tend to take for granted what is actually in their own “backyard” sometimes. Milwaukee is a great city. I completely enjoyed it up there and can’t wait to go back. We can’t afford European vacations or extravagant cruises so we make do with our own surroundings. Sure, there are plenty of places in this world that I dream of traveling to but until I have the means to travel abroad, I’ll enjoy my own scenery, locally. Places like St. Louis, Milwaukee, Michigan lakeshore cities and back country roads that we love to travel on hold a lot more beauty and character than most may realize.
I worked for an airline for 4 years and had the freedom of free travel and could have traveled abroad extremely cheaply. But I only visited a handful of cities more out of necessity than for fun. I told my hubby this weekend that I have actually traveled more with him in our 4 short years together than I have my whole life and while working for an airline.
I have seen common, uninteresting places that I have fallen in love with. While I’m staring out my car window looking at gorgeous rolling hills covered with fields growing corn or soy, I think, “wow, I’m only in Wisconsin and I’m taken in by the beauty.” I wonder how someone in Spain feels when they travel simple, backroads between Madrid and Barcelona or something of the like. Do they take it for granted, too? Do they realize the beauty they have around them that American tourists would surely marvel at? Do people from other countries drive American backroads in astonishment at the wonderful countryside and marvel at the beauty? Who knows… but, I know I sure do. I appreciate what I see, no matter where it is.
Maybe I’m just a sappy lamo who is easily amused. Ok, well, I really AM a sappy lamo who is easily amused. However, I find a lot of pride in this characteristic of mine because I enjoy life and all it offers. I don’t need fancy vacations (although they are nice) to enjoy time with my family. I don’t need to travel to exotic places to see beautiful things. I just need my own two sappy lamo eyes. So, I guess I truly live by the “stop and smell the roses” mentality. I really do stop to smell wild flowers and take their pictures just to try and capture an ounce of what I see.
Maybe I’ll post a few pictures later….. must develop the film first. I didn’t really take any with my digital.
Sappy, lamo, philosophical moment over.
This morning, I woke up and went downstairs, as usual on a Saturday morning. The boys were still sleeping and hubby was watching a nice light hearted morning movie, Judge Dredd. Yeah.
8:30am comes around and he says, “pack a bag, lets get out of town.”
“OK!” I say excitedly and I run upstairs to throw some clothes on and pack.
I think hubby was surprised at my reaction. I guess usually I come up excuses as to why we can’t really go, or I say “OK” in a less than enthused manner so he takes the hint that I don’t really want to go anywhere.
By 1o:01am we are pulling out of the driveway and heading for Milwaukee. I packed clothes and necessities for the boys, I secured a dogsitter, booked a room online, got the address of the hotel and we headed out… all in an hour and a half! I was shocked I did it! LOL! But we had nothing pressing to do this weekend so we decided to take a short family get-away.
Spontaneity is awesome. We do better with spontaneous things than making plans.
We got here around 12:30, checked in, had lunch and went to a museum. Now we are back just resting before dinner. The museum was pretty cool and for a Saturday is was very quiet. There was no rush, no crowds, no fighting our way thru people with a big stroller. They even had one of the coolest exhibits I have ever seen. A butterfly exhibit with live butterflies flying around you and sometimes even landing on you! I got a bunch of close-up pictures of some gorgeous butterflies. I cannot wait to develop those.
Tomorrow we are heading to a children’s museum and the lakefront, then back home in the afternoon sometime. It’s so nice to chill and enjoy a new city with my family.
My husband’s cousin just won a trip to the Dominican Republic off of the radio. She was just here for my birthday last weekend and I adore her. She won the trip off of a station that hubby and I listen to every day. She just had to be the 99th caller, and she was. Hubby happened to be listening at the time and thought nothing of it until the caller squealed in delight and then gave her name.
Un-freaking-believable. Any ideas on how I can get her to take me?
Another instance today has inspired this post. It’s just me thinking I’m clever, again, and trying to entertain the masses while in the end the attempt will have been futile, I’m sure.
However, on with the show.
I just left a comment for Kristi on her “Overheard” post and in the end, this post of mine was born.
She has claimed trademark to the phrase “showing some love y’all” so it is her’s and her’s alone. I respect that. Therefore, I decided to lay trademark to some of my own things and think it’s a good idea for anyone to do it.
For instance, The Chad should trademark his “What Do I Think” segments.
Kristi should trademark her “Dear Diary” segments which are by far some of the most hilarious things I have read in her blog.
Now, as for trademarks I wish to lay claim to:
- The phrase “seven shades of fucked”. That is mine and all mine. I’m proud of it. Don’t steal it without giving me credit.
- Calling Matthew McConaughey “Matthew McConahottie”. That is also mine and all mine. Use it if you wish because he is all hot and mighty, but know it came from me.
- The phrase “gettin’ drunk cures the funk”. It was a post title of mine awhile back and I just like it. I think I’ll keep it.
That is all.
I wish: That I was given one mulligan day per quarter. That would be 3 mulligan days per year. This way I could hit that sale I missed, rethink something I said to someone and say it better or fix a parenting mistake. Whatever the case may be. I think we all deserve some do-over days. Today might even be a good day to ask for a mulligan… that way I wouldn’t have dropped my toast on the floor twice in 10 minutes (yes, I still ate it), I could have woken up a bit earlier and maybe my kids’ screaming and whining wouldn’t be like nails on chalkboard to me right now and I wouldn’t have let the Beast take the lid off of his sippy cup therefore dumping milk down the front of his shirt… just little things like that.
- Mul-li-gan(mul-li-ghan) N. Golf term basically meaning “do-over”. Not used in PGA play, only informal games.
I like: Cinnamon toast, Dr. Pepper, the new show Heroes, wine, long hot showers and good sales.
I hate: People who can’t drive, people who don’t give a courtesty wave when I make a nice gesture to let them in, being a clutz, always having cold hands and feet, blowdrying my hair and cleaning up dog puke, it’s the worst.
I think: Martha Stewart is the Devil, Fall is the best season, everyone should get their birthday off from work, medical insurance companies are the root of all evil and yet incredibly necessary therefore they yield too much power and that the Bears are going to the Superbowl this year.
I want: A long hot shower right now, to shop at a great sale and actually have money to spend, my sisters sitting across the table laughing and talking with me, to be in Cabo San Lucas vacationing, and a girls night out very soon.
I don’t: Have any idea where this list came from or why I wrote it, but oddly enough, dropping my toast on the floor, the first time, inspired it.
Is it wrong to hate feeding my son? I don’t mean I hate feeding him food, nourishment and sustinance for life, I mean I hate the act of sitting down and spoon feeding him his meals. Is that wrong?
He’s a monster, after all, and if he isn’t getting the food fast enough he squeels and screams loudly. Then after a while he starts reaching for the spoon or fork and if he grabs it it’s like a death grip and I can’t pry his little fingers away which means whatever food is on that utensil gets flipped off and onto the walls, me or himself. Then at some point he decides he doesn’t want the food anymore and just spits out whatever I give him. Then he still squeels and screams and rocks his body in the chair so hard that it moves. He makes a huge mess and while this is happening I’m just thinking of hundred other things I could be doing but I’m stuck here feeding a true monster.
I love my boys, I love playing with them and hanging out with them and I love being a mother. Changing dirty diapers, wiping snotty noses, getting them all bundled up in snowsuits and hats and then strapped into their car seats and dragging their poor souls out on errands is fine with me, all of it. But there are just some acts of motherhood that I do not like. In this case, it happens to be feeding Monster.
Confession over.
I have nothing else to say today so I guess I’ll continue on with a bit more about my life and subsequently, my dad.
If your parents are still alive and well, no matter how much they may drive you crazy, if they truly love you and are in your life, cherish it. Because one day they will be gone. Say what you need to say now. Make sure they know that you love them. Don’t be left with regrets after they are gone.
Today, I’ll give you a different view of the story. Growing up, my dad was always sick. Apparently he was 37 years old when he had his first heartattack. It went downhill from there. I don’t know whether he was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes before or after that heartattack. I would have to check with my mother on that… and at this point, I’m not sure I would get the truth. Yes folks, due to the circumstances surrounding my father, I’m not sure I can trust my mother to get the truth. She could very well be hiding things or, she may have been lied to as well. I just don’t know. I love her dearly, truly. But I can’t quite trust her answers 100% and there are things she will never tell, I’m sure. But she’ll play the “I just don’t know honey” card.
Anyway, after he was struck with his first heart attack he basically retired. I guess when I was born my dad was working for some big companies (I still have no clue which ones or if that was all true) and just left the workforce on disability and my mom took the reigns and went to work. So, I had a stay-at-home-dad. He raised my sister and I and as we got older we took care of him as much as he took care of us.
As a result of his poor health, I ended up walking on those proverbial eggshells throughout my entire childhood because I never wanted to upset my father and have him end up in the hospital because of being angry with me. Do you have any idea how that would feel? Let me put it this way, in my mind, I believed that if I upset my father enough, I would kill him because he would have a heart attack and die. My stomach is turning as I type those words. I have said those words before but they always resonate strongly in my body.
The diabetes he had made his moods volatile as well. I would dread coming home because I never knew what to expect from him. He could be happier than anything and take us to lunch and go shopping and other times he would be furious over a dirty fork left in an otherwise spotless kitchen and I would be screamed at for it. Little things would send him over the edge on his “bad days”. He took naps every day. Our family plans would always be cancelled last minute because he wasn’t feeling well and we never knew what to expect from one day to the next. Being let down and living in fear of him was just a part of life my every day life.
No matter what though, I never walked out of that house without giving him a kiss and telling him I loved him. He could have just spent an hour yelling his head off at me but if I was leaving that house, I would go over to him, kiss him and say “I love you daddy” because I believed that the one time I didn’t do it, I would come home and he would be dead. And, I truly loved him, no matter how much he yelled at me and no matter what nasty things he would say to me. It was like I completely understood that he didn’t mean them and I knew that in an hour, he would come into my room, hug me tight and say I’m sorry and I love you. That happened all the time. He would blow up and in an hour he would apologize. He was my daddy. He would have done anything for me and despite everything, he was wrapped around my finger and I was wrapped around his.
In my first post I said that I was not writing this story for therapeutic reasons or any reason other than to tell my story. What I did not expect is the flood of tears streaming down my face right now as I type. I guess this particular angle of the story is more painful and heart wrenching to me because I’m remembering my daddy… not my father who lied to me. I’m remembering the man that I tried to take care of and the man that would spoil me and tell me how much he loved me. I miss him so much. I know, that if he were here today he would be proud of me. He would be there whenever I needed him and I’m pretty sure I would have never moved away from him. Never.
He was my world and every day I tried to please him. I really did. I never liked disappointing him and I was a good kid. But, the harder I tried, the more I screwed up. I wasn’t good enough sometimes. I didn’t get into trouble like a lot of other kids, I wasn’t “cool” in school so I didn’t have parties and drugs in my face. I was too scared of my dad to screw up big like that. But he demanded perfection from me, so it seemed. If I didn’t meet expectations he would be furious. So even though I wasn’t a bad kid, I would screw up because my grades weren’t good enough, I didn’t clean the bathroom, I didn’t do the dishes or I didn’t remember to give him a phone message. That was how I got into trouble.
I don’t want to use the word “traumatic” to describe my childhood but it’s close. There are things about my childhood that I do not remember. There are things that I see as “dreams” but don’t really know if they actually happened and no one can tell me. It’s as if there is a mental block, or my memory really is just that bad. To me, when I think of growing up I see flashes of certain events, certain things but that is it. There is no flow to it. And most of what I see is sickness, hospitals, yelling, fear with the occasional happy day thrown in the mix.
My dad and I “butted heads” more as I got into my teens. Because that is when I apparently got very selfish and didn’t think about my family enough. That is when friends became more important than him and he couldn’t deal with my teens. That is when my grades slipped because I didn’t “apply myself”. That is when our relationship turned into a daily battle. I wasn’t perfect. I chose friends over family. That just wasn’t tolerated by him and he didn’t understand that I was a normal teenager.
My father was also an alcoholic. That added an entiredly new dynamic to our lives. So, lets tally these things up so far….. diabetes, heart disease, alcoholism, hospitals, daily shots of insulin and syringes, nitroglycerine pills, knowing terms like “arterial damage” and “angina” at 10 years old, quadruple bypass surgery, rehab and AA were all just normal for me. My dad was moody, drunk and sick but he had some good days. Heh. My parents both smoked like chimneys too. I mean, road trips with them smoking and the windows cracked, kind of thing. It’s a wonder I don’t have lung cancer now but I sure as hell won’t be surprised if I end up with it some day. I remember being sent to the store with handwritten notes from my mom or dad allowing me to buy them their cigarettes! Yes, the convenience stores actually sold me cigarettes based on a note from my mother. Crazy times, eh?
Because of my dads health and moods, spontaneity was normal too. One time, when we lived in Phoenix, he said, “lets drive to Vegas!” at 9pm! We left within an hour. Again, that was normal to me. Those were exciting times but also very nervewracking for me because even as a kid, I worried and thought the worst. So on most of our road trips I was constantly watching the road for my dad, trying to calmly and subtly tell him things as he was driving so he’d pay attention and I always worried about accidents. Even now, as an adult, I like being in control of the car because I feel better. I don’t like not having the control. But that is besides the point.
As an alcoholic, dad drove drunk, a lot. He drove drunk with us in the car, a lot. And it was a joke in my family that he drove better drunk than he did sober. That was fairly true. He also loved taking us to the American Legions (he was an veteran afterall…. or so we believe) and neighborhood bars. He would drink, be fun, humorous and jovial, tell stories and we loved every minute of it. We would get a sandwich and some fries and sit there listening to my dad with pride. He was proud of us too. I think he liked showing us off, but he also loved to drink, so why not combine his two loves, right?
I’m starting to get random here so I’ll stop. More will come, if anyone is actually interested. I just need a break for today.
Yesterday I barely scratched the surface of a subject that is pretty remarkable in my life. I don’t mean “remarkable” as in wonderful. I mean “remarkable” is in outlandish, crazy, unbelievable and so on.
I’m not an author or a writer so my telling of this subject may be unorganized and sporadic but I’ll do my best. I’m not writing it for theraputic reasons and I’m not trying to release hidden aggressions or anything like that. I’m simply telling my story. I know I’m screwed up. I know why I’m screwed up and I still love and miss my father despite the fact that he is the very reason I am screwed up. I’m not really angry, I’m just left with a million unanswered questions that I assume will only be answered when I see my dad again, someday.
Maybe in telling this story you will find a greater appreciation for your parents. Maybe you will see that your disfunctional family isn’t really that disfunctional compared to mine. Maybe you will finally understand why I am the way I am. Who knows what you will get out of this if anything. Maybe you will just shake your head and say “what the fuck” over and over again. I find myself doing that a lot anyway.
I’m an open book. Too open. I bare my heart and soul as if it’s show and tell time in class. I don’t hide many things. So, I have never kept the subject of my crazy father under wraps. The only reason I wouldn’t say anything is because it wasn’t the right time to bring it up. But, if the subject of my ethnicity or childhood ever came up in conversation, the person asking would get an abridged version of the subject or I would hit some highlights, enough to wet their appetite, and then say “Someday I’ll tell you everything”.
“Crazy father” is quite a derogotory term for my dad. When I speak it the guilt consumes me immediately. But I know he’s up in Heaven nodding in agreement, smiling and probably saying “You’ll have your answers someday honey…. I know it seemed I was crazy… it’s ok”. I don’t say “crazy father” to be disrespectful to my dad. I say it because the entire story IS crazy and it’s the only term I can come up with. Eccentric doesn’t really apply, loony is too much and after that, I’m out of dictionary terms. I settled on “crazy”.
I can tell you stories, situations, factual data and events that happened. But I have no answers for them. Only questions. Even though I am left with questions that no one seems to be able to answer, I’m not angry. Just confused.
In the summer of 1997 my whole world was turned upside down. I was 21 years old and was basically told that my dad was not who he said he was and subsequently everything I knew was a lie. Even my own ethnicity. I was raised believing that my father was Italian and his parents emmigrated over to the U.S from Italy. My mother was a hodge-podge of Irish and Scottish and northern European descents so I was raised thinking I was Irish/Italian. I even had my father’s “Italian” last name. Ha. That was not really his last name.
The mystery and confusion surrounding my father started well before I was born. His place of birth, date of birth, his childhood, his parents and everything surrounding those subjects was a lie. They aren’t all necessarily far from the truth, but they were none-the-less lies. I was able to find out his true place of birth and I know who is real mother was, but that is as far as I can get. His mother disowned my father and subsequently disowned his offspring. She apparently said she wanted NOTHING to do with my father or his children, ever. So getting answers from her was futile and she has since passed away anyway. She might have been the only person to give me any answers. The reason she disowned my father is still a mystery as well. But it would have to be pretty bad to disown your own son and his future kids, don’t you think?
My father claims to have joined the Navy at 17. That would explain the birthdate confusion. If he joined at 17, like he claimed to have and had to lie about his age, then falsifying his birthdate makes sense. I have seen records with one date on it and records with another date. I still have no clue which one is correct and furthmore I don’t know what his real birth year was and therefore don’t know how old he really was when he passed away.
He always told us that he was assigned to submarine duty and got out after his 4 years was up. After he died I found out that he was in for a bit longer and was given a psyche discharge (or whatever they call mental health discharges). Then, sometime in his young adult life he changed his last name. I have no idea when or why but it was changed. I have a picture of him as a child with one last name on the back and yet I was raised with a different name. His own family doesn’t even know why he changed it. Furthermore, after my dad died and I confronted a few of his family members about it (only two cousins and an aunt and uncle of my father’s that he actually remained close to, the rest of his family was never in our lives, he didn’t speak to anyone) and they had no idea about any of this. They didn’t know he claimed to be Italian (an my father most certainly looked the part, too), they didn’t know that was how he raised us, they didn’t know when/why he changed his last name or why he lied about his birth place and parents.
As I sat there talking with them one day, we compared stories. I told them things my dad had told me while growing up and they would tell me similar stories that he had told them. Everything was paralell but my father was telling us one side of the story from one angle and yet his family would get the same story, only from a different angle. It was an insane conversation and only left us all with more questions. The only answer I got, and still can’t be 100% about, is that my father wasn’t Italian. His parents or at least his mother was Czech. The country of Czecholslovakia has since fallen apart and is now the Czech Republic (how symbolic and paralell to my own life, eh) and Slovakia so I really have no idea what I am. I just say, for statisitical purposes that I’m Czech and a pot purri of pasty eurpoeans.
My maiden last name, my ethnicity, my father’s life and my “legacy”, if you will, is all in question and what I used to know isn’t what it is. What do I tell my children? What do I say about their grandfather? What do I tell them they are? “Boys, you are half mexican and half I don’t have a fucking clue?” That doesn’t roll off the tongue very well.
This is just the beginning. I will go on with the story later.
First things first…Just so the Observer will get off my back here is your picture. I merely mentioned “black lace panties” in another post to get the men reader’s attention back after discussing a certain fabulous purse and ever since then he has been expecting to see a picture of said panties. They sure as hell ain’t mine because I never have and never will be blessed enough to look like this… but here is your picture so you can hush up now.
Secondly, I picked up my meds today. YAY! Since I have gone a week without them I popped one as soon as I got out of the drive through. I opened the bottle and whispered softly to that little blue piece of paradise “Make me feel better”. Wouldn’t you know it! I FELT BETTER after maybe an hour! So, either it’s the whole “placebo effect” theory working on me and I just psyched myself into feeling better because I popped the pill, or it truly did work that fast on my crazy mind. Either way, I really don’t give a shit. My mind is free again, I feel less stress, less aingst and much happier. WOOT!
Thirdly, I’m feelin’ your love peeps. Ya’ll know who you are… those who comment and email me in my moments of distress. Thanks… I really appreciate it. I really really do.
And lastly, I will be changing my nickname to “DramaMama“. That way there will be no confusing me with peanut buster parfaits and dip cone addictions or odd beauty contests in Texas where they seem to actually crown some Miss Dairy Queen. I wonder what she looks like? Hmmmm, 5′2″, 350lbs maybe? Yeah. “MissP.I.T.A” was suggested and oh-so-tempting but I settled for DramaMama. (P.I.T.A = pain in the ass. Fitting? Of course. But it won’t be used)
So yes, I have held out for a long time without changing ANYTHING on my blog, however, I don’t think my nickname really counts for much change. It may just confuse my blog buddies when I leave them comments. Ya’ll will get over it.
Ta-Ta for this evening. I think I might even enjoy a glass of wine with dinner…. and celebrate regaining control over my head.
