i obsess.

Toy Story 3: After Which, I Am Left a Beautiful Wreck.

No spoiler in the title of this post for the film, unless you *haven't* seen the trailer, in which case, see the trailer, and then all will be made clear (the spoiler, yes, is that Andy, the kid from the original film, leaves for school as a grown-up boy).  My heart was smashed in the process of watching a little boy grow up and leave for college.  Smashed and made whole and smashed again.  And cycled.  But I didn't come here just now to tell you about the movie.  Instead, I must report on the viewing experience, *my* viewing experience of Toy Story 3.

Some background is required.

Toy Story was the first truly beloved Pixar film in our house.  Before my kiddo was born, my brother, in the Nineties, loved Toy Story.  He collected several film posters, which were all left behind with the rest of his things when he removed himself to crazy-people-who-hang-about-under-bridges lands.  My parents, when my son was very small, asked if we'd like to have the blue-and-white-clouded homage to Woody and Buzz art from the collection of posters.  I said, oh, lordy, yes, because Jack was already besotted with those two.  In fact, the only things we gave him for his second birthday were the Woody, Jesse, Buzz and Bullseye dolls I spent much time earning on ebay in advance of the day.  He was mad about them, too.  Still is.  Still plays with each of them.  Ironically, though we've been to Disneyland three times since he began his idolization of Woody, we have yet to encounter him.  Well, not entirely true.  The second trip brought us face-to-face with Woody and Jesse but the line for photos had been closed only a moment before we discovered them.  Disappointing, but we figure we have lots of times left to find Woody and get some photos with his kindly yellow-plaid Sherriff's arm draped about our kiddo's shoulder.  (And honestly, we were thrilled on our last trip to find both Buzz *and* Jesse and get some snaps.  And by we, I DO NOT ACTUALLY MEAN ME.  Please know that I haven't lost my mind to that extent.  Jack was the happy one.  I was only glad to participate in his excitement.  You believe me, right?

*sigh*)

So this movie.  I cried for about the first ten minutes, give or give ten + more minutes.  SHUT. UP.

It's good.  I know you've heard about the positive reviews on rottentomatoes.com.  WE ALL HAVE, LADY IN THE THIRD ROW OF THE THEATRE WHO WAS PROUD TO KNOW THINGS THAT GO ON ON THE INTERNET.

*ahem*

(The lady in the third row wasn't, in case you were wondering, me.  Probably.)

So after I got through crying and focused on the moment, because I did a quick mental check and realized I was doing what I already do in life, I focus so hard on how it will end and how I need to be prepared to feel about the ending I forget to be here, now, living it.  I kind of feel like I'm not alone, here, with this manner of dealing with how life comes at us, tsunami-style, but it's something I'd like to change nonetheless.

Then -- the movie.  The improvement on the art alone is worth the price of entry.  The story is, well, it's Pixar.  You need feel no less trust in their ability to take your heart and shine it up and then drive a freight train over it and then lovingly kiss and clean it and shine it back up again, good as new, no, BETTER, than you ever have had before.  

THEN I kept having to shush Jack.  He was randomly talking VERY VERY UNQUIETLY during the film.  At first I simply said, babe.  We need you to whisper if you have something to say.  But his stage-whispers shook the seats, they were so ALSO UNQUIET.  After a few repetitions of the whisper-requests, I simply started to say, also in not-so-quiet whispers, WE DON'T TALK DURING THE MOVIE.  But then, he said one thing more, one last statement, and -- I thought about it.  His comment was a reference to the film's action taking place.  After I shushed him, I heard, *really heard* his sentence.  It broke through.  It wasn't "MAY I HAVE PLEASE HAVE SOME MORE LICORICE PLEASE" and it wasn't "I DON'T WANT ANY MORE WATER THANK YOU" and it wasn't "I HAVE TO GO POTTY DADDY/MOMMY."  It was (and here I am refusing to spoil with recognizable plot line references) a comment on what was taking place in the film.  And he said it loud.  Not because, I slowly realized, he had forgotten to whisper. 

He was trying to reassure himself that everything was going to be okay.

After that, I took his hand and I said, "babe, everything is going to be okay.  Remember, Woody and Buzz and Jesse and Bullseye and the others are all smart and awesome and they love each other and they're GOING to BE OKAY."  (Guess who felt better after hearing that.  It wasn't the child whose ears were the objective of the statement.  *points with thumbs at self*)

Then I held his sweaty paw and we watched.  It got kind of scary, I suppose, if you're a little kid.  I mean, it *definitely* got scary if you are a little kid whose parents haven't let you see the Wizard of Oz yet, or even the old-school Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  (We are NOT that overprotective.  We're just waiting until we know he can handle seeing those images and still sleep that night and for the rest of the week's worth of nights after *that*.  What.  Okay.  We *might* be a little overprotective.  Of our nighttime rest.  IT'S JUST WE REALLY LIKE SLEEP.  DO.NOT.JUDGE.US.)  It's a wild ride.  A great, exhilarating, thrilling, SCARY wild ride.  During the most intense part I took Jack onto my lap and held him close while he sobbed and shook.  I wanted to be a part of the action for my own sake, in that moment, but I wanted more to care for him while he rode out the difficulty of it.  I let go of my own needs, my own desires, in that moment.  And cried harder than he did again at the end when I was still holding him and Andy was saying goodbye and leaving, though Jack sobbed quite surprisingly hard in his own right.

(It was also interesting and eye-opening and heart-saddening to think of my brother while I watched, because I know he loved the original Toy Story and I can't help thinking of his having left boxes of things at my parents' house, never to be reclaimed.  I would give anything to pass that poster on to *his* child.  A child I know won't ever exist.  So -- that's pretty sad.  It's also comforting, somehow, to know that at least I have the child who loves those films.  And that my brother can take some random, unknowing comfort in his presence on Earth fractalized and carried on by my kid.  Jeff, if you ever read this -- yeah.  That.)

And all of these epic revelations and epiphanies, it's because of a Pixar movie.  The Toy Story 3 film.  The one that took me beyond myself. 

If a movie can do that, uh, yeah.  It's a pretty good movie.  Go see it.

pictures make up for lost time, right?

If I distract you with some nice pictures, you'll like me better, you'll grow a new layer of fondness for me, you'll not be bothered by my inconsistencies and my lack of focus, you won't mind my irritating habit of shearing my mental wool and spreading it out across this page in a wild tumble of fuzzy verbal disarray, you'll be nice to me still and you won't hint to me by word or grimace or oh-so-slightly-raised brow that I have underwhelmed you at any given point in our acquaintance.

You'll take me into your arms and embrace me and be glad I'm alive, glad I made it through the rain, Barry-style, won't you.

   

Camping self-portraits are such a rite of passage.  At least the camping part.  For, indeed, we finally gave Jack his first encounter with tent-sleeping.  Explaining the mechanics of houses-without-indoor-plumbing is so ridiculously inferior to simply experiencing it, after all.

Check out the fish we ate for dinner after we got back from a four-hour tour of the lake via canoe:

And while you might be on the point of assuming we caught it ourselves, you're nearly right; we caught it once it had been aimed at us from another guy's boat, where the five, yes, FIVE fish he tossed at us had been formerly languishing, because he hadn't caught any terribly large ones, and he was at his limit, prevented by the rules from the REALLY big score, so we were helping him by taking those into our boat (and, subsequently, our bellies). 

They were delicious.  They tasted like fresh air and sin.

 

 

(Caleb cleaned them, laid them on a piece of foil, placed thin-sliced apples and heaps of butter slabs and hefty douses of salt and pepper over and in and around them, wrapped them in the foil and laid them over the fire to cook for somewhere between thirty and forty-five minutes, then pulled them off when the butter and juice began to forge its way out of the packet.)

 

This is Jack, before we got into our canoe.  He was kind of excited to venture onto the lake.

 

This is the cabin where the life vests are stored.  It reminded me of a J Crew catalog.  Without the fashion juxtaposed against the rustic colors.  Just raw and pink and faded.

See?  Those vests are begging for a lanky, sun-kissed poser to drape herself across the log for perspective.  They'd be so perfectly offset.  PLEASE KNOW I'M SORT OF KIDDING.

I mean, I am.  Sort of.

And I may have coaxed Jack to interact with the all-wood Bigfoot, but it was worth it for the resultant photos.

 

I kept insisting that he find out what that guy's deal was.  Naturally, he repeated me in parrot fashion.  HEY!  GUY!  WHAT'SYOURDEALMYMOMWANTSTAKNOW?  GUY!  HEEYYY!

Mom, he seems to be saying, I don't think that guy's gonna tell me what his deal is.

Caleb and I were unsure as to who to pitch to sponsor this series of photos; Coleman stoves?, Fat Tire Ale? (now!  IN CANS!), or The Agencies Who Represent Small Children That Stand and Mold the Disagreeable Faces of Old People Who Resist Smiling Unless the Hands of the Small Children Are Involved in the Manipulating of Said Disagreeable Faces.  See?  It's a true conundrum.  Bet you're stumped, too.

Or we could skip straight to a strategic pitch to Hansen's Junior Juice, a high favorite among the nearly-five set in our family, and beautifully featured in the above photo.  Sigh.  Hansen's, you're scoring free ad-space this time.  *shakes fist uselessly*

We didn't forget it was Memorial Day Weekend.  None of us are much for war, but that in no way interferes with our deep appreciation, admiration and respect for those who are willing to sacrifice all to protect us and our way of life.  Thank you, active and veteran troops and your families.

Remy the Rat is the only welcome rodent in our camp.  All others, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

The fish was scrumptious.  Totally worthy of desert.

Which he decided he didn't like.  Too burned for his palate.  He preferred to eat pale, raw marshmallows straight from the bag.  Shocking, I know.

But -- where's the rain, Debbie?  Where's this mysterious, supposed rain, you ask?

 

Let me assure you:  it came.  We managed to ensconce ourselves in our tent just after it began, and it commenced to rain for twelve solid hours.  I know this because I was awake for most of it.  We packed up and were on the road toward Hood River by 7 a.m., because that was when the tent finally quit holding the rain outside and began allowing liberal amounts of water to drip onto us inside.

But we survived.  Rain isn't enough to scare us away.  Not for good, anyway.

lady gaga's telephone interruption of my decidedly non-suicidal weekend.

I'll link to the video at the end because there are possibly fourteen people left on the planet who haven't seen it.  After I scramble to organize my thoughts around what just blasted (or, in less-refined terms, eye-fucked) my retinas.  Full disclosure: I bought the latest Gaga the morning after its midnight release, kudos to Karen Sugarpants for being a total Gaga-pusher when the Bad Romance video came out and for thereafter tweeting the imminent reveal of the album's date-drop.  Otherwise I'd have done my usual "whaaaat?" around thirty months after Gaga had been everywhere and then I'd have said, "huh.  Yep.  Now pass me some zwieback toast and gimme my teeth, Grandpa."  And pushed my walker to the corner store for some hairnets and a soft banana. 

But because that didn't happen, and instead I bought into the Gaga line, I was hooked, and particularly so by the super-engaging, uber-danceable Telephone.  When Caleb and I were installing the Ikea bathroom sink unit (where he worked the plumbing and I put the cabinet together, DAMN that sounds dirty, which is surprising for a sink), I had the song on replay.  I had a hard time (god, SORRY.  I don't know what's come over me today) focusing on the piecing-together, I was so distracted by the mandatory dancing required by said music. 

Watching the video just now reminds me of lots of things.  The Pussy Wagon, of course, a pointed Kill Bill reference that is metaphoric and also just really awesome visual dynamite.  The metaphor?  Because they're bandits.  Killers.  Lovers with pussies.  It's hilarious, really, and stunning too.  Great work, whoever done thought of its inclusion in the piece.  And there's LG's stud-encrusted jacket/torn fishnets/bra/panties/boots costume in the jail scene, which is a pointed reference (IMO) to Miss Patty in The Jerk (I'm nothing short of THRILLED by this particular image, as The Jerk is one of my hands-down all-time favorite comedy films, and the Miss Patty character is a really great early feminist punk-rock homage, whose brazen sexuality and to-the-wind concern for others' perception of her had its share of paving the way for women in film, and, thus, women in life, to be some amalgam of such free-wheeling (she's a circus-act, a female Evil Knievil) spirit.  

 

(And what is it with Tarantino and keychains?  Zed's, then the Pussy Wagon's. (And others?)  It's an interesting minor theme with him.  I'll have to think about that and get back to you.  I'm sure you'll be haunted by it until then.  Hey!  There's the non-starting VW bus in Jackie Brown, driven by Robert De Niro's Louis, as Bridget Fonda's Melanie lies dead in the parking lot nearby.  A pretty strong reference to Zed's death just prior to Bruce Willis's character Butch's acquisition of the hog, and also to Uma Thurman's The Bride's struggle into the Pussy Wagon, having slayed the vehicle's owner/her rapist.  Woah.  Zed *tried* to rape Butch, and *did* rape his frenemy, Marsellus Wallace, played brilliantly by Ving Rhames.  De Niro's character, for the record, didn't rape Bridget Fonda's Melanie, though they did have quite passionless sex earlier in the film.  A rape of sorts, because she was expected to turn over the nookie by her (?) pimp, Ordell (Sam Jackson).  (It's never clear whether he's her dealer, her boyfriend, or her pimp.  Or some of them.  Or all three.  Though he supports her and her weed habit, and some of the dialogue between Ordell and Louis seems to imply her membership in his stable of prostitutes.)  So the keychain connection is significant for Tarantino.  Anyone catch something I'm missing?  Please fill me in.)

Of course, there's a reference to Thelma and Louise overall, but instead of tossing the Brad Pitt character around in a hotel room for several hours and then letting him steal their money, they just dump some poison in his pancake syrup.  Which is more Bound than T&L (especially the truck scene, where Lady Gaga and Beyonce talk after LG has been released from jail).  And Tyrese Gibson is not exactly a Joey Pantoliano x Brad Pitt blend.  He's an action star, but I don't know much about him beyond his imdb page, so there may be some symbolic element there that I'm missing.  (I'd love to know if there is one. ??)

The neon-yellow neoprene theme is the ultimate piece de resistance, IMO, because I once had a total fascination with the color, in a similar costume, as a would-be pop-tartlette.  And am now a little sad I never went for it.  Though I couldn't have done it justice like Gaga has.  I don't know if I can get my head around the symbolism of the yellow that prevails throughout the last third of the video aside from my own old ideas, but I like it.  (It's possible Lady G went with the yellow to reflect back on the significance of the lightning-yellow-with-red-flames-licking-the-sides Pussy Wagon, to keep it in the viewer's head as they cavorted through the rest of the video.  And yet the patriotic flag-erie both Beyonce and Lady Gaga don in the post-death dance routine, down to Beyonce's stars-and-stripes-painted nails, doesn't support my theory.  The patriotism represents - what.  Nationalism?  Lesbians are patriots, too?  Even the murdering ones?  No.  Must! Think! Cheekier!  Subversion is Lady Gaga's middle name, so if she's subverting the symbolism of flag-wear, she *could* be saying she's loyal -- to her girl?  She's loyal to Beyonce's character, Honey B, even while she flouts conventions of every, uh, stripe.  Sure.  Why not.  Unless you've got some better ideas.  You know you do.  As I've settled absolutely nothing about any of the potential symbolism/metaphor-laced imagery mincing throughout the film.  BUT.  I did settle one thing:

Lady Gaga is ALL GIRL.  I kinda think she's trying to let us in on that not-so-secret information, too, in the fishnets/boobie Xs.  Don't you?)

And, finally, the viiiiiideo:

minimal effort posting.

The dark-chocolate trim pops nicely against the new house color, I (would like to) think.  I'm a little bowled over by the fact that close to a G in paint and supplies for the overall job didn't really do much; it wasn't until the addition of the $12 can of trim paint and three dark brown plants placed in front of the window, at $8 per, came into play, making the entire effect pop beautifully.  I mean, damn.  $36 to blow it all up.  That's crazy.  But somehow always the way things work in design.  Accents!  Accents are key!  Or whatever.

I really dig the reddish mulch (we just tried one bag for effect, and will throw the rest on tomorrow night, in advance of the appraiser's visit on Thursday - curb appeal, or so they say, counts).  I don't generally thrill at reddish mulch; it reminds me too much of the pain of angry barkdust splinters from childhood days.  But this does so well because our chimney has remained true brick red, and requires a little color balance to pull it into the other elements.  I can't wait to see how the mulch will look around the new plants below the front window.

Caleb shaved Jack's head on Saturday, in hopes of staving off massive heat discomfort (our a/c quit on us on Thursday afternoon, just as the heat wave really got underway; our spoiled asses did NOT know what to do with the 89 degrees the upstairs portion of our house was registering).  Also, who knew?  Cookies and moisturizer don't hold together so well in that kinda heat, either.  Surprise!

Silly monster faces are the new smile.

The back route to the beach from my parents' RV spot at the campground near Tillamook, Oregon, where we stayed last weekend.

A few minutes' walk from our camp site; maybe fifty yards from the bay near our camp ground.

Caleb took this one.  I don't know WHAT he said to that bee, but DAMN.  Maybe he mocked his, uh, "wingspan."  Whatever the case, super glad I was hiding under a rock while this was snapped.  I believe in duck-and-cover.  I have ovaries of gelatinous goo.

Headless man is usurped by small parasite near coastal town!

Sand:  Toddler cryptonite.



Strawberry-headed.  Possibly an affliction resulting from overconsumption of massive quantities of late June Oregon berries?

 

Ocean attack!

Mom!didyouseeit?thatlittlethingyinthewateritwascomingandthenthewater cameduptomyfeetsanditwasso!cold!mommmy!mommy!mommmmmy!!!

This is certainly a look-back-and-sob-in-twenty-years'-time kinda shot, no doubt.

Finally.  FINALLY.  The boy/dog co-entertainment possibilities begin to unfold.  And not a moment too soon.  My (dying-to-be-sedentary) ass has been begging for this moment for three + years.

Idyllic.

A husband who can garden.  He did *all* of this.  I have, uh, real, REAL bad, uh, hay fever.  REAL bad.  *cough, cough, sorta-convincing sneeze*

And the husband pickled these *after he grew them and picked them*:  a mix of lemon cucumbers, pickling cucumbers, green tomatoes and sweet purple peppers.  At first I was all, what kind of girl are you?, and then I realized I may be damning the probability of his ever doing something so kick-ass again, simply because I couldn't let a shot-at-the-funny go, and then I realized I didn't care, because, DUDE.  WHAT A FUCKING GIRL.  THE BEST GIRL IN THE WORLD.  *MY* GIRL.  *swooon*

We gathered eighteen pounds of these bad boys.  Jack even helped.  By not eating what we'd picked.  Seriously.  My husband is a bad-ass.  He culled most of them.  I kind of mostly just grazed and thought about possible blog posts I'll never, ever write down.

"Babe?  This smile is starting to slide south (note gritted teeth) unless you deliver on that promise-of-beer, the one you gave me around an hour ago, back when the dinosaurs still roamed the Earth?"

It has begun.  For the record, I'm totally fine with that.  After all, we'll always have beer.  And that one summer -- which summer *was* that, anyway?  Alright, so maybe it was a weekend.  Or just one night.  Maybe it didn't even happen.  Here's to that possibly-made-up memory, babe.

Note the handy.  Caleb put the whole damn thing together.  It took two days, and saved us a G in installation costs. 

Guess who adamantly refuses to play in it.

Babe, it's a cheesy shot because you're so darn cute in it (but let it not be assumed that I refuse abjectly to post shots of my partner wherein he looks hot, because that assumption would be incorrect.  General apparent behavior of avoidance of deliberate highlighting of attractiveness notwithstanding, just for this particular post).  You almost make me want to have sex with you, you're so ruddy and kinda totally hot.  (It is like. walking. on hot. coals. to say this about my partner on the blog, btw.  I loathe and abhor verbal pda.  Dunno.  Guess I just think it's -- below me, somehow.  I'm a snob about the weirdest shit.  I won't overanalyze it.  He deserves to be recognized for the hotness.  The.  Fucking.  End, Debbie.  Jeeeeeezus.  Letitgo.)

Happy (fourth) anniversary on Thursday, babe.  You so deserve a toast.  What you don't deserve?  Me ditching for a week to attend the Convention while you hold down this end, and we cross even all of our smallest hairs in hopes that the refinance isn't a bust, and put off celebrating our anniversary, again, one more result of the purchase of this home (last year's awesome celebration being, lamentably, the day we moved into the hell hole in the first place, and we postponed our real celebration that time, too).  I'm sorry it's been such a rough go this year.  I'm sorry I pushed us into moving last year, and buying this house, and all the time and energy spent fixing it, and then my being such a mess because of finding out about the adhd, and just generally having too many breakdowns and epic fails to count. But I guess you're still sticking it out, after almost ten years together, and I promise to keep trying, trying my hardest.  Always.  You're so fucking worth it.

the only thing missing is edith piaf on the radio, tinny and scratchy.

Saturday morning goodness. 

(After a successful trip to the downtown park blocks farmer's market; rain dripping from the lip of each vendor's awning, basil, fragrant as hell, parsley that *smells* like parsley, carrots that melt my nose with their wild, intoxicating allure, spinach with big, bright green leaves, strawberries - oh, my, the strawberries.  There's a reason that only about 5% of Oregon's berry bonanza actually make it out of the state each year.  And it's not because they aren't sought-after.  No, no no no.  Also:  fresh, free-range, hormone- and additive-free alder-smoked pork sausages, and fresh, free-range, veggie-fed eggs.  Eggs sold to me by a nice, older fellow, baked out of his gourd at 8:40 in the morning.  Fabulous.  Dude.  If I raised hens and sold their eggs for a living?  I'd be baked outta my gourd at 8:40 in the morning, too.  I would.  You KNOW I would.  Oh, and one last yummy item:  a baguette from the Pearl Bakery's stand.  Tomorrow's french toast.  AWEsome.)

Eggs scrambled with basil, sausages cooked to a turn, strawberries beautifully arrayed, a dollop of sour cream on the berries to balance their gorgeous sweetness, a sprinkling of parmesan on the eggs, and a warm beverage (coffee, chai or hot chocolate, dependent on the party consuming said beverage's preference/ability to manage caffeine).

La Vie en Rose, indeed.

p.s.  Ultraman Love.

(And, yes, that's a very good vodka.  Local-y, too.  I'm getting to be quite the locavore snob, kinda, huh.  Only, not really.  Just - mostly.  It feels good.  Right.  And I do adore being right. 

Or so my partner tells me.)

gross, but in a minor, non-R-rated fashion, and also!, helpful!

One of the things that has bothered me about our new/old home since we moved in is that it was in such a state of filth and neglect in the nooks and crannies (I wasn't smart enough to pull open drawers and peer into the corners *before* we signed the papers, sigh) -- the old owners didn't apparently possess any cleaning implements, is kinda all I can conjure when I ponder WHY things hadn't been cleaned in what seems like possibly years of neglect.  But one of the most icky things is that there's always mold in our master bathroom toilet.  There was so much mold on the walls that when I wiped them down with a sponge and bleach-water, the bucket's contents were black.  EW. 

And despite cleaning the toilet a zillion times, I haven't been able to get rid of the mold that shows up almost immediately after I scrub it until my arm hurts.  It's usually there by the next morning.  And the sink starts getting moldy within a few days of having been scrubbed, too.

I've been feeling really frustrated about it, but I just used my extra brain, ala google, to figure out how to resolve it, and while I found not very much on the topic that doesn't involve heavy chemical compounds and hazmat suits, I did find this for cleaning sink clogs (I know, you're all, wow, Deb, that's really helpful and yet totally unrelated!, because I'm a random, confusing, segue-loving fool that way):

Clogged drain remedy, using eco-friendly mat'ls:

baking soda
white vinegar
boiling water

This recipe will free minor clogs and helps to prevent future clogs. Pour 1/2 cup of baking soda down the drain first, then 1/2 cup vinegar. Let it fizz for a few minutes. Then pour down a teakettle full of boiling water. Repeat if needed. If the clog is stubborn, use a plunger. If very stubborn, use a mechanical snake.

Anyway, if someone has a green remedy for ridding toilet bowls of narsty mold spores, and sinks, too, I'd be very grateful, and very stoked.