I'll Add That to the List
I really need to start reading a summary of a movie before I plop my ass down in a theater seat or on my couch. Usually, if I hear a movie's good, I read nothing else about it and then head off to the theater or the computer to put it in my queue.
For French movies, especially in the days before Netfl*x, I would just go without even glancing at a précis. Back in the day, I used to speak and understand French and now just want to try to keep up the comprehension part until we return to France for my 40th birthday (or until I meet my father's "friend," a French teacher, who I think is his girlfriend, but that's a post for another day).
If I had read about the movie in advance, I would have spared myself and my then boyfriend, now husband the soft corn porn of Pola X, with its brother on sister cunnilingus (they weren't actually siblings, just pretending, but that didn't help either), Catherine Deneuve's boobies floating atop her bathwater, and the random white horses on the side of the sidewalk.
If I had carefully perused the movie listing, I would have also not sat through the end of Western, an award-winning French film that is not a western and not in the least bit interesting. (And I have a high tolerance for films with no plot, little dialogue, and long, meaningful glances.) When I had decided I had finally had enough with the film and was going to walk out of my first movie, I checked my watch and realized that I only had ten minutes left in the movie. So I stayed. How bad could it be? Bad, I tell you. Bad. I had misread the running time. I had 45 more minutes of that drivel. Each time I thought to leave I figured it had to be ending in five minutes. So I stayed. Big mistake.
That might have been the 45 minutes that my eggs decided to protect my future offspring from such torture and just go ahead and close up the farm.
So did I learn from my earlier mistakes? Nope. Last night I pulled out the latest Netfl*x offering, an Academy-award winner, recommended by queen of the infertiles, Tertia herself: Tsotsi.
It's the heartwarming tale of a young South African thug (tsotsi) who carjacks a woman's beamer and shoots her for good measure when she tries to stop him. Tsotsi later discovers the woman's infant in the back seat. He keeps the baby and falls in love. The redemptive, healing power of the infant helps this lifelong thug turn his back on crime.
Of course.
After drinking like a fish, smoking like a chimney, using birth control, smoking crack like a crackwhore, having my tubes tied, letting my husband heat up his boys in hot tubs for days, I am going add to carjacking to my list of how to get a baby.
Because obviously my ways aren't working.
For French movies, especially in the days before Netfl*x, I would just go without even glancing at a précis. Back in the day, I used to speak and understand French and now just want to try to keep up the comprehension part until we return to France for my 40th birthday (or until I meet my father's "friend," a French teacher, who I think is his girlfriend, but that's a post for another day).
If I had read about the movie in advance, I would have spared myself and my then boyfriend, now husband the soft corn porn of Pola X, with its brother on sister cunnilingus (they weren't actually siblings, just pretending, but that didn't help either), Catherine Deneuve's boobies floating atop her bathwater, and the random white horses on the side of the sidewalk.
If I had carefully perused the movie listing, I would have also not sat through the end of Western, an award-winning French film that is not a western and not in the least bit interesting. (And I have a high tolerance for films with no plot, little dialogue, and long, meaningful glances.) When I had decided I had finally had enough with the film and was going to walk out of my first movie, I checked my watch and realized that I only had ten minutes left in the movie. So I stayed. How bad could it be? Bad, I tell you. Bad. I had misread the running time. I had 45 more minutes of that drivel. Each time I thought to leave I figured it had to be ending in five minutes. So I stayed. Big mistake.
That might have been the 45 minutes that my eggs decided to protect my future offspring from such torture and just go ahead and close up the farm.
So did I learn from my earlier mistakes? Nope. Last night I pulled out the latest Netfl*x offering, an Academy-award winner, recommended by queen of the infertiles, Tertia herself: Tsotsi.
It's the heartwarming tale of a young South African thug (tsotsi) who carjacks a woman's beamer and shoots her for good measure when she tries to stop him. Tsotsi later discovers the woman's infant in the back seat. He keeps the baby and falls in love. The redemptive, healing power of the infant helps this lifelong thug turn his back on crime.
Of course.
After drinking like a fish, smoking like a chimney, using birth control, smoking crack like a crackwhore, having my tubes tied, letting my husband heat up his boys in hot tubs for days, I am going add to carjacking to my list of how to get a baby.
Because obviously my ways aren't working.
posted by zhl at 10:56 AM
2 Comments:
Sounds like a lovely, heartwarming kick in the solar plexus. But thank you for the description of those french movies, that made my day.
I thought I'd go on a talk show and get free IVF or free instant adoption. Say maybe Dr.Phi*L or our all American afternoon hero Opra*H.
Dr. P gave a couple two up for adoption babies to "choose" from and they took both (greedy buggers) and he gave another couple (who were fighting over whether they needed a new car or IVF more) . . . well he gave them both as well. Oh, and let's not forget the boob jobs he gave away on his show about learning to accept yourself as you are. I'm just saying. I'll take a car, one IVF, two adoptive babies and a new set of boobs any day in exchange for making my infertility woes public.
Well . . . don't laugh! At least no one dies in my scenario!
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