Rusted Root Coot: Million Dollar Stapler

The other night, I was watching Mad Money when I thought, hey, I know that craggy-faced ginger.  He's the stapler guy from Office Space!  For yes, none other than Stephen Root plays the holier-than-thou head honcho at the movie's main setting of the Federal Reserve.  It was a little weird seeing him as "the man" instead of as a basement-banished cog in the wheel.  Although not as weird as it could've been given that he's also Bill Hader's boss on Barry.  

Still, despite making such an impression on me, Root's character in Mad Money is minor.  The story is about his underlings, a trio of blue-collar female Reserve workers including ringleader Diane Keaton, single mom Queen Latifah, and free-spirited kook Katie Holmes. Sick of life screwing them over, they hatch a scheme to steal greenbacks so old they're marked for destruction.  You know.  Kind of like when Ron Livingston and friends use their programming prowess to try to skim some off the top in Office Space.

Almost, but not quite.  The women are far craftier.

That said, please enjoy this pic of my, not red, but pink polka-dot stapler adrift in a sea of Monopoly money.  I got it at Marshalls for less than ten dollars.  But to me, it'll always be priceless.

Pieces of April, A Thanksgiving Staple

A few months ago, I watched an old movie -- and by old I mean from 2003 -- called Pieces of April.  It's about a girl, April (Katie Holmes), who invites her estranged family for Thanksgiving.  April has partly pink hair and an overall punky appearance and lives in a seedy apartment in New York City with her boyfriend Bobby (Derek Luke), who is black.  April doesn't really know how to cook, and then her oven breaks.  Also, Bobby has gone on a secret mission to borrow a suit to impress April's family, and it's not going well.  The movie shifts between April's endeavors and her family's strained conversation as they drive from Pennsylvania to see her.  We watch April bang on one apartment door after another to beg to borrow an oven, then listen as her mother (Patricia Clarkson) laments about April's awful ways even as she pukes up her guts at a rest stop.  It's from her chemo because she has cancer.  But being sick hasn't softened her, nor has the intervention of April's well-meaning father (Oliver Platt).  

Having a front-row seat to April's plight is unsettling.  It's hard to watch her put herself out there only to meet one obstacle after another, her Katie Holmes girl-next-door-appeal seeping through her tough exterior.  One of her "helpers" is played by a withering Sean Hayes; another is more kindly but disabuses her of the notion that the best cranberry sauce comes from a can. (I'm with April on this one; it's just not Thanksgiving without that JELL-O-like substance for smothering otherwise tasteless turkey.)  As April struggles to put dinner on the table, her family struggles with its reservations, at one point going so far as to throw in the dish towel and stop at a diner.  

For me, the low point is when April tears down her carefully handmade decorations.  There's something so vulnerable about them in their crepe paper homeliness, the way they expose and then shatter the optimism that April clings to despite the odds.  Because this movie takes all the tension that percolates within families during the holidays and puts them in a pressure cooker -- pun intended.  April's poverty, her mother's death sentence, and the stereotypes that April's family unfairly and inaccurately ascribes to Bobby deepen the fault lines that spread between them.  But these are also the reasons why they need to break bread together.  Pieces of April may not be Planes, Trains, and Automobiles or A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.  But in its own offbeat and, yes, dreary way, it tells us everything we need to know about this holiday.  

That said, it shouldn't come as a huge surprise that I'm breaking my quarantine again to have Thanksgiving dinner with my parents.  It'll just be the four of us, including the husband, but it's kind of ironic that I'm busting out now that the pandemic is surging again.  As recently as just a few weeks ago, I stayed firmly put, even opting out of my sister's birthday.  Everyone, the husband included, was beginning to worry about me and my refusal to engage with the outside world, however safely.  Then fate did its thing, and my work laptop broke, forcing me to go to the office to get it fixed.  It was a nail biter of an experience.  But I got through it -- with some humor, I like to think -- and learned that I'm stronger than I know.  The truth is, being an introvert/loner/whatever who's afraid of stuff means that I depend on my family a lot, even when I think I don't need anyone.  They're more than my family; they're my friends.  So I'm extremely thankful for them, on Thanksgiving and always.  

Okay, now that the serious stuff's over, it's time to explain what's up with this pie crust.  As you know, I don't like to cook or bake.  I find it boring, tedious, and, on some level, out to get me.  So, I'm all about the pre-prepared everything, and Pillsbury pie crust is no different.  It also happens to taste great -- a little salty, a little sweet -- and, in my opinion, is even better than the homemade kind.  So, I smashed it down into my pie plates and fluted the edges and didn't balk (too much) when the KitchenAid mixer-made pumpkin goop sloshed over the sides and obscured the crust completely.  Because holidays aren't about presentation (although I do have a mask to match my dress).  They're about being together.  Laughing and talking and wearing our masks when we're not shoveling in cranberry shaped like a can.

Whatever your plans, I wish you a very happy and healthy Thanksgiving.  And all the misshapen food you can eat.                             

Pretty, Gritty, Wily, and Witty: A Damsel With Finesse

"You shouldn't wear such lovely outfits.  You make yourself a target."

"I don't change my style for anyone."  

So goes the exchange between Miss Meadows's neighbor and Miss Meadows in the Amazon original movie called -- what else? -- Miss Meadows.  The neighbor (Mary Kay Place) is concerned about Miss Meadows's (Katie Holmes) safety in their questionable neighborhood.  It's a pivotal scene, and it struck a chord with me, both in the context of the movie and in real life.  

Miss Meadows is an upbeat, beribboned substitute teacher who believes in good grammar and manners.  An unusual combination of sophisticated and childlike, she dresses like a doll and keeps an impeccable yard.  Instead of saying "good-bye" or "catch you later," she trills, "toot-a-loo."  She reads poetry while she walks down the street.  She takes her responsibility as an educator seriously, imparting to her students her passionate belief in treating others with kindness and respect.  Yet her love of fair play reaches much farther than her classroom door.  You see, Miss Meadows has a secret.  And that secret is that she's a vigilante.  (Vigilante, by the way, is one of my favorite words, both for the way it sounds and for what it means.  I like it so much that I used it in my last post to describe my lint trap.)  Intent on ridding the world of evil, Miss Meadows eliminates child molesters and murderers as if they're weeds in her garden.  The only person who knows about her alter ego is her mother, a prim woman (Jean Smart) who calmly advises her to rid her dresses of bloodstains with equal parts lemon juice and cold water.  Miss Meadows keeps to herself, so her secret seems safe.  That is, until she's stopped by the handsome town sheriff (James Badge Dale) while holding up traffic to rescue a frog.  The relationship that develops between them is offbeat, intense, and sweet, causing Miss Meadows's mask of mysteriousness to slowly melt.           

One of the reasons I like this movie is that it has a cute noir vibe not unlike the one in A Simple Favor.  It's playful yet subversive, like a bouncy castle in a cemetery.  Furthermore, it's thought-provoking, raising countless questions: Is Miss Meadows a vigilante because she wants everything to be clean?  Or, does she want everything to be clean to absolve herself from what she does when she's a vigilante?  Is she a hero?  Or is she a villain?  Is hers a case of two wrongs not making a right?  Or a case of breaking the rules to do the right thing?  Does Miss Meadows's secret threaten what she has with the sheriff?  Or, are her demons -- and his -- the thing that draws them together?  And last but certainly not least, can a thirtysomething woman pull off Mary Janes?  

To say that Miss Meadows is fresh is an understatement.  It celebrates femininity in all of its frills even as it challenges the stereotype that femininity equals weakness.  It's dark -- I watched it alone, in the wee hours of the night, and I won't deny that some parts gave me the willies -- but it has a vulnerability mixed in with its steel, much like the roses and thorns that coexist in Miss Meadows's garden.  Yet it's the steel that prevails.  As Miss Meadows says to that well-meaning but clueless neighbor, she's not willing to change her appearance -- or, more importantly, who she is -- for anyone (not even a pedophile who snarls, "No offense, Miss Meadows, but you do tend to over accessorize.").  And that's something that I, and I think many women, understand.

That said, here I am in my yard in my girly best despite the possible dangers. 

Until next time . . . toot-a-loo.

Restasis Oasis: Arizona Iced Weeee! What a Well Watered Cactus

It's no secret that I love cacti.  So much so that I decorated my office to be a little paradise of these prickly pals.

Now that I've shamelessly showed off one of my sanctuaries, let's get back to our regularly scheduled (and equally shameless) show-and-tell of my crafts and closet!  Still stuck on saguaros, I decided to make more cacti barrettes.  I've always been a fan of that whole iconic cactus against a sunset aesthetic, so I decided to play with that.  To me, the contrast of cool green against the red/pink, orange, and yellow explosion of a dying sun is dazzlingly dramatic.

Tops from top to bottom: Fifth Sun, JCPenney; Derek Heart, JCPenney; Almost Famous, Boscov's

 Fabulous Felt Green Cactus Barrette

Fabulous Felt Mint Cactus Barrette 

Fabulous Felt Green Rainbow Cactus

Fabulous Felt Mint Rainbow Cactus

Anyway, cacti come from Arizona, and so does Busy Phillips.  I just finished reading her autobiography, This Will Only Hurt a Little, and binged her new E! talk show Busy Tonight, and I can say that she's as sharp and tough as the Southwest's spikiest succulent.

I was expecting This Will Only Hurt a Little to be a laugh-out-loud lark.  But it isn't.  Busy's breezy, conversational writing only ups the intensity of her memoir, which is emotional, raw, and sometimes hard to read.  (You know, hard to read as in contains heavy stuff.  Like all those Oscar-nominated movies that are hard to watch.  Which is also, incidentally, the title of Tracy Jordan's [Tracy Morgan's] EGOT-bait feature film on 30 Rock.  Fun fact: Tina Fey produces Busy Tonight.  Coincidence?  I think not.)  I should've realized that This Will Only Hurt a Little wouldn't be a sitcom anecdote-studded giggle fest made R rated by a few f-bombs.  First of all, there's the title.  Sure, it'll only hurt a little -- but that means it will still hurt some.  And then there's the front and back covers, which feature a pink suit-clad Busy perched hopefully yet apprehensively on what can be only a waiting room chair on account of its uncomfortable-looking 1970s-era harvest gold pleather.  It might be the waiting room of a doctor's office or for an audition, but the message is clear: whatever's on the other side of that door has the power to make or break you (and Busy.  Because this is her book.).

So, what makes This Will Only Hurt a Little an uneasy read?  It isn't just the Time's Up/Me Too-tinged accounts of chauvinism in Hollywood -- although those certainly make an impact.  It's Busy's teenage years.  Some seriously scary things happened to her, the kinds of things that could destroy a girl's faith in herself and in men for the rest of her life.  We all know that high school can be awful and about as far from a sock hop as a corn dog from a vegan buffet.  So, it's all the more meaningful when Busy describes rising above her own chilling chapter to follow -- and achieve -- her dream of becoming an actress.  Even when one of her high school boyfriends steals the credit for writing Blades of Glory.  That's right; Ms. Phillips is responsible for that hilarious Will Ferrell (and okay, John Heder) movie about competitive male figure skating.  Which, now that I think about it, makes perfect sense, as it's funny and glitzy and raunchy and has lots of heart, just like Busy.  As for that old plagiarizing ex, no one even knows his name.  He's probably selling corn dogs somewhere.

Now, there is a part in the book where Busy says that fellow Dawson's Creek star Katie Holmes was "very sweet," but "wasn't really like a hang-out-and-smoke kind of girl," (171) which gave me pause, as I'm no hang-out-and-smoke kind of girl either.  But then I reminded myself that for better or worse, this book is Busy's truth (she says so on page 8), and if she and Katie didn't click, then so be it.  Also, Katie doesn't have a book or talk show.

That said, here's a part of the book that I love:

"Have I talked about being a sparkly human yet?  Well, I have a theory.  There are certain people who are what I call sparkly humans.  These are people who have things just happen for them or to them because other people see them and seemingly inexplicably want to help them.  Because they sparkle.  From the inside out.  I was always a sparkly human (still am, for the most part, on most days).  Adults just liked me and wanted to help me.  Not kids at my school.  Sometimes sparkliness isn't recognized by peers until much later.  Sometimes sparkly people are even bullied as kids.  Because other kids want to put that light out.  They don't understand it and they want to kill it.  The secret is, if you're truly sparkly, you survive all that bullshit and you don't let them put it out.  And at some point, you started to get rewarded for it.  Sparkly humans aren't always entertainers, and they don't always become famous.  There are sparkly humans everywhere.  And there are also plenty of people who are wonderful and amazing, but aren't sparkly.  It's a very specific thing." (126-127)

I think this is cool and interesting, this idea that some people are marked for greatness like characters in a fairy tale.  And also, that this greatness can take many forms.  But that all of the forms are united by this one intangible but unmistakable thing.

Busy brings her sparkle and pioneering, take-no-prisoners attitude to Busy Tonight.  In her book, she talks about being tired of waiting around for casting directors to decide her fate about this or that project, or to tell her that she doesn't have the right look or that she has to lose weight.  Why not do something where she calls the shots?  Why not create a safe space for topical issues and girl talk and silliness?  Why not host her own talk show?  I'm glad she did because Busy Tonight is so fun!  The set is bright and eclectic, like, as Busy herself says, a sitcom living room.  Busy wears great outfits, and her enthusiasm is infectious from the time she runs out onstage to the time she puts on Mr. Nightgown.  So far, some of her guests include Mindy Kaling, Kristen Bell, John Stamos (the first dude, and a gracious one at that), and even Julia Roberts, all of whom Busy ushers into her photo booth before commercial breaks.  And then, at the very end, she comes out in a long, floral, Bohemian-style muumuu (the aforementioned Mr. Nightgown) and sings a goodnight song so endearing and clever that you can't help but hear it in your head all day.  Listening to it, I always think, I really hope this works out for you, Busy, because you seem to really want -- and deserve -- it.

As they (don't) say, cactus makes for imperfect.  Bring on the smudged glitter.

Movie Moment: Jack and Jill

When I first saw the trailer for Jack and Jill, I thought, oh no, that's too ridiculous, even for me.  But, as is often the case when I make such sweeping declarations, I ended up seeing it anyway. 

In a nutshell, Jack and Jill is about polar opposite twins.  Ever the popular one, Jack (Adam Sandler) grew up to be a hotshot LA ad exec with a beautiful wife (Katie Holmes) and two adorable children.  Jill (also Adam Sandler), on the other hand, has always been a little bit . . . different.  Garbed in an endless array of garish prints, Technicolor belts, and kooky accessories, she's socially awkward to the nth degree and desperate for "twin time," a quality that seems to have grown stronger as a result of her and Jack's mother's recent death.  When she visits Jack for Thanksgiving (with a fleet of luggage and her beloved cockatoo, Poopsie, in tow), she doesn't want to return home to the Bronx.  Jill's antics carry on through Hanukkah, her and Jack's birthday, and the family cruise to Europe, during which time she's pursued by both Jack's gardener and, wonder of wonders, Al Pacino. 

Now, what I'm about to say may seem a little strange.  But in a weird way, I identified with Jill.  Her wacky wardrobe and out-there personality sort of spoke to me, a feeling that was cemented when I spied her carrying a cherry-print XOXO handbag I own.  Quirkiness is also alive and well in Jack's kids.  His (adopted) son straps random objects to himself with tape, and his daughter always carries a doll dressed exactly like her.  I was surprised to find myself laughing out loud at the want-to-hide-your-head-under-a-pillow humor (which was all the more conspicuous in a theater full of silent viewers).

Peppered with appearances by "Saturday Night Live" alums Tim Meadows, Norm MacDonald, David Spade, and Dana Carvey, Jack and Jill is a hoot that delivers holiday hilarity worth the price of admission.