Yesterday afternoon, Kurt and I saw a middle-aged couple, in some egregiously ill-fitting tank tops, taking in the sunny weather in their rather large boat, enjoying a beer and a cigarette.
Nothing particularly unusual about any of that except that their boat was parked in their driveway. They had to have been at least five or ten miles away from the nearest body of water.
I wanted to stop and congratulate them for not letting the whole no-water issue get in the way of their booze cruise.
Me: You need to get an Air-Soft gun so you can shoot the neighbor kids.
Kurt: That would be fun…
(You can be horrified if you want, but those kids are noisy.)
Sometimes, just for kicks, Kurt and I like to discuss the names of our future children. Just for kicks, ok? My eggo is not preggo, and won’t be for a long, long time, because I don’t know if you know this, but babies are really needy and scream all the time. Also, they poop themselves.
Anyway, Kurt’s red hot baby name idea last night was Socrates. Yes, Socrates.
“What would you call him for short?”
“Socks.”
Can’t argue with that.
I suggested Dominique.
“Dominatrix?”
Ahem. Moving on…
“What about Jemima?”
“You won’t even buy her syrup but you want to name your kid after her?”
“You know, just because I prefer 100% real maple syrup doesn’t mean I can’t like the name Jemima.”
I love 30 Rock and I want to be Tina Fey when I grow up. If you don’t like 30 Rock, we can’t be friends. Sorry. The season finale last Thursday was a whizbanger (Do people still say ‘whizbanger’? Let’s be honest: I’m not even sure what it really means.) and not just because Matt Damon played a handsome doorman… to the SKIES! (That means pilot, to the person-who-didn’t-watch-the-show-and-therefore-can’t-be-my-friend.)
The whole Jack/Avery/Nancy love triangle is over, thank goodness, because Julianne Moore’s Boston accent MADE ME WANT TO DIE. The only thing that kept me going was Alec Baldwin, because, you know… he’s Alec Freaking Baldwin. (Alec, if you’re reading this, call me.)
(Kurt, if you’re reading this, I’m totally kidding.)
(Alec: NO I’M NOT.)
Speaking of accents, there’s a clip of Avery Jessup before she lost her Maryland accent, and it made me laugh, because people from Maryland actually talk like that. No, really. They totally do!
I know that everybody and their dog has already written exhaustively about Coco Before Chanel, but I just saw it last week, ok?
It was good. It definitely shattered some of my notions about Coco Chanel as an independent, self-made woman– which she was, but… anyway, she had some help. Which is fine. I guess. It just made me feel all squidgy inside. I had to make a word up to describe my feelings.
Like all French movies, it made me want to pack up and move to France. I liked the sparse dialogue. Audrey Tautou was wonderful, as usual. Here’s the thing though: for some crazy reason, I though it would be about fashion, which it’s not. Yes, I got caught up in the love triangle, but mostly I was just interested in what everybody was wearing.
And guess what? Coco pretty much wears the same dress throughout the whole movie. Which is realistic, I suppose, but also a bit dull.
Without further ado, the best part of the movie, aka the fashion porn:
