Brush those teeth

I suffered from some sort of sleepy syndrome this past week.  I was exhausted all week long – with nothing to explain for it.  Last night I was so tired I could barely wash off my makeup, let alone work up the energy to brush my teeth.  [collective gasp!, I know]  So I fall into bed and, apparently, into some fairly bizarre dreams. 

Take this one for example …

I was getting ready to go hiking with some friends (that, in itself is just plain weird).  I’m in the restroom – somewhere – getting ready with my good friend Angelina Jolie.  She, of course, is looking gorgeous.  She’s even wearing a dress.  To go hiking.  “Gosh,” I say, eloquent-like, “you look so good!  Maybe I should change my clothes.”  Angelina looks at me with disgust.  “You better at least brush your teeth.” 

Needless to say, I was ruined.  RUINED.  So tonight, no matter how tired I may feel, I will brush my teeth before jumping into bed.  Promise.

Chicken with wings

I was the “guest” at a wedding last Sunday.  It turned out to be a lovely affair – amazing considering they had no flowers as of last week.  Proof you can do amazing things in a short amount of time, with a small legion of friends and family who care.  And I’m happy to report there were no incidents.  At least no major incidents.  I did have a renegade spicy chicken piece jump down the front of my dress.  That was a shock – to me and anyone who happened to see me reach down and retrieve it.  Sure, I could have left it there and everyone would have been none the wiser.  Unfortunately, it lodged in the middle of my bra and began burning a hole in my flesh.  Seeing how I’m none too keen on pain, I really had no other choice … 

Memorial day

poppy_remember

You see them every year–veterans selling small paper poppies.  Every year fewer of us seem to take note–we simply haven’t the time.  We should take the time, however.  For poppies, you see, are rather amazing flowers.  Though they appear frail, they are quite valiant.  Their seeds can remain underground, sleeping, for years.  All it takes is a good churning of the soil to awaken them from their slumber.  And that’s exactly what happened on the fields of Northern France and Flanders during WWI.  Amid the death and destruction of the battlefield, red poppies began to bloom.  One day Lt. Col. John McCrae, a physician from Canada, looked out over the crimson blossoms and penned the following:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow; Between the crosses, row on row; That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly; Scarce heard amid the guns below; We are the Dead.  Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved; and now we lie In Flanders field…

McCrae died a few years later–joining those of whom he wrote, with a cross marking his place, in a sea of poppies, far from home.  But McCrae’s words continue to remind us of the countless men and women who have given their lives for freedom.  They paid the highest price.  The least we can do is be thankful for the sacrifice.  So this Memorial Day let us take the time.  Buy a poppy.  Say a prayer.  Remember.

Stepford wives

So, I’m meeting a friend at the theatre on Saturday. We watch the movie and on the way out we chat about the Stepford Wives. We agree it’s creepy. We laugh. We part. I come back out to my car and parked next to me is a new Beetle. Now Beetles are usually friendly fellows – they tend to make you smile with just one look. This one, however, gave off an air of sinister. Why would you say such a thing? I will tell you why – because the whole back window was filled with mannequin heads. GASP! It was morbidly disturbing. So I did what any rational person would do – I took a picture. I ever-so-inconspicuously held up my cell phone, looked the other way, snapped the picture, jumped in my car and quickly drove away. Who knows what would have happened if I had stuck around …

Oh, and in case your wondering why said picture is not posted – here’s the thing: I got a new cell phone.  And I can’t figure out how to download.  Pitiful, I know.  Therefore, only close, personal friends get to view the alarming image – the rest of you must rely upon your imagination …

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (2008)

“Every woman will have her day”

Genre:  Comedy-Romance

The gist:  Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day is the story of a day in the life of Guinevere Pettigrew (Frances McDormand) – a dowdy, down-on-her-luck governess.  The daughter of a minister, Miss Pettigrew feels it her duty to speak her mind about her employee’s indiscretions, attempting to get them on the straight and narrow.  Needless to say, such “helpfulness” is not-so-very appreciated; when she is fired from her third assignment, the employment agency refuses to be of further service.  So she steals an assignment – becoming social secretary to Delysia Lafosse, an American actress.  Suddenly her life is anything but boring.  But it is her truthfulness and concerned meddling – the very things that got her in trouble in the first place – that will ultimately save the day. 

My take:  I LOVED this movie.  To anyone who has called me a throw-back … or even thought it … this will come as no surprise.  Set at the dawn of WWII England, I loved the setting, the styles, and the music.  That much is given.  But it’s so much more.  The story (based on the novel by Winifred Watson) is heartfelt; the screenplay (written by David Magee and Simon Beaufoy) simply charming.  Bharat Nalluri’s direction depicts life on the verge of WWII like a symphony; and the actors bring a hint of magic as witnessed in films of the golden era.  But that which holds it all together is the chemistry between Frances McDormand (Miss Pettrigrew) and Amy Adams (Delysia Lafosse).  Given the nature of the two parts, lesser actresses would have been little more than annoying.  Instead we are granted a rare glimpse at two opposing worlds – the carefree innocence of youth and the reserved wisdom of maturity.  And oh that we should be so lucky to have our own Miss Pettigrew touch our lives.        

An aside:  Yes, this movie is a chick-flick.  We had a pair of couples sitting behind us.  As we were leaving the theatre the “boys” were bemoaning the fact that they had to endure such agony.  The “girls” were of course trying to appease said boys by promising to go to 88 minutes on the next go around.  Of course, most of the comments from the peanut gallery came from the guys behind us.  And they were not snide remarks, I might add.  So whether they would ever – in a MILLION years – admit it, they too were engrossed in the film.