Monday, March 17, 2014

Flogging A Dead Horse.

On the weekend, while in the Big City, we took the boys to see the Lego Movie. My favourite part was the Kre-O ad that played during the previews. My second favourite part was when my 12 year old nudged me and said, "Wake up. You fell asleep." To which I replied, "Yes. I did. On purpose, because this movie is terrible." It was the stupidest excuse for a movie I have ever seen. I can't even formulate a list of complaints about WHY it was terrible because the terribleness was so pervasive.

"I love you, but you have crap taste in movies," I told my sons as the credits rolled. Neither was put out by this, however the three twenty-something hipsters in the row ahead of us gave me a dirty look. I would be chagrined about this except that they were obviously losers and/or perverts.

We also stopped by the independent bookstore in the Big City. In doing so, I felt I was betraying those bastions of socialism, public libraries. Confession: I love reading, but I don't often buy books. This is because I don't place a high premium on owning books -- an offshoot of hating clutter and being raised by a librarian. I was making an exception this time because the kids have government money leftover for curriculum and because I'm presently obsessed with The Musketeers on BBC (but if you are following my tumblr blog, you probably know this already) and wanted my own copy of the Dumas book.

Another reason I seldom frequent bookstores is because they are not arranged properly. Books are shelved and displayed by theme or subject. There is no reliance upon the Dewey Decimal system. Alphabetization is not strictly respected. The shelves aren't even lined up in nice neat rows. It's a mess.

After a few fruitless minutes trying to find the book, I gave up and asked a teenage clerk to check the store's inventory computer for a copy of The Three Musketeers. She typed in "Three Muskateers" and chirpily informed me there were no copies in stock.

"I think there are three -Es in Musketeers." I said, because I thought it was a more clever/passive-aggressive alternative to "Hey dumb-dumb, you spelled that wrong."

[In hindsight, is it possible she thought I wanted her to search for The Three Muskateeers?]

"Nope. That's how it's spelled. And we don't have any copies in stock. I could bring one in though."

I declined the offer because I felt like it was wrong to financially support idiocy and arrogance. Well, other than my own idiocy and arrogance. That's different.

Monday, February 3, 2014

At the end of this post there is a cute picture of a puppy and a kitten! You might want to skip to that part.

In the mind of Mia Farrow there are two kinds of people:
1. People who believe that her daughter Dylan/Malone was sexually abused by Mia's ex-partner Woody Allen,
2. People who condone sexual abuse.
I'm more impartial than Ms Farrow so I'd actually describe the groups as:
1. People who believe Dylan/Malone was sexually abused by Woody Allen, or
2. People who do not believe Dylan/Malone was sexually abused by Woody Allen.
But I also believe there is at least one other faction:
3. People who are really uncomfortable tossing aside the legal principle of "innocent until proven guilty."
I'm in this latter group.

This doesn't mean I'm a rape apologist. This doesn't make me Woody Allen's stooge. This doesn't mean I found Dylan/Malone's New York Times' column less interesting than Robert B. Weide's Daily Beast post.  It simply means that I'm uncomfortable voicing an opinion on a decades-old news story that is so muddled and convoluted it makes my head spin. I don't have an opinion about it. I should NOT have an opinion about it. None of us should.  The American judicial system is flawed, to be sure. But in this instance I'm more than happy to throw my hands up in the air, announce "No charges were filed against Allen? Fair enough. I'm good with that!" and carry on.

Quite frankly I'm much more interested in the different names that the various Farrow/Allen children have adopted thru the years. Ronan = Satchel = Seamus. Malone = Eliza = Dylan. Moses = Mischa (I'm not sure about that one, actually). What does it mean that Malone reverted to 'Dylan' for the purposes of the NYT article? Same thing with the Vanity Fair article in 2013 (the one where Farrow dropped the bomb about having an affair with Sinatra). Meanwhile she tweets under her current alias and does not hide her connection to her famous mother. Huh.

And as I promised...

Just a reminder, everyone: Ronan Farrow's new show debuts February 24 on MSNBC! And Woody Allen is nominated for an Oscar!

Saturday, February 1, 2014

In the long interlude...

In the long interlude between seasons 2 and 3 of Sherlock, I turned to Pinterest as a coping mechanism. I created a board called Renovating 221B Baker Street.

This was in addition to my Trekkie Cumberbitches board.

Neither should be confused with Possible Replacements for Benedict, a board I created when I'd (quite naturally) overdosed on CumberKhan.

One of the pins from my 221B board is this:

Since I posted it in the summer, it's been "repinned" 152 times. As far as I can tell, every single repin has been to a board for kitchen renovations or dream homes. And none of those 152 people have bothered to either read or edit my caption about using it to store body parts. 

I can't tell you how much this amuses me. 

Monday, January 27, 2014

Day 526.

Today's entry in my prison diary finds me in the hole. Or in the parlance of my jailers: my dog crate.

What crime has lead to this spell in isolation? I once again attempted to build a rapport with the other inmates, aka The Cats. My latest ploy: grooming them. It seemed like a fair idea. They are constantly cleaning themselves and one another. It stood to reason that my larger tongue would do the job in less time. Alas this overture of friendship was not well received. And in my haste to escape the hail of cats' claws, I overturned some furniture.

I wish to state for the record, that I do not have any genuine affection for the cats. I prefer the company of dogs and no other. I was merely hoping that the fostering of convivial relations with the cats would lead to our joining forces to rise up and overthrow our "owners," aka the Hairless Long Dogs Who Imprison Us. But the cats are stooges who appear to enjoy this "life." They even sleep with the Long Dogs. Furthermore the cats are allowed to defecate and urinate INSIDE THE HOUSE.  The three-tiered system of privilege in this jail turns my stomach.

No. Wait. That's the worms I got from eating a mouse last week. Or maybe it was from eating that rabbit poo this morning?

Meh -- that is not the point.

The point is that my life is MISERABLE.

The Long Dogs sometimes say they "rescued" me. This makes no sense.  What did they rescue me from? My life was perfect before they brought me here. Running free around the reserve with a pack of my brethren. Drinking from puddles. Eating anything/everything I found. Playing games of chase with other dogs. And with cars. Sleeping outside at night. Barking whenever the mood struck me. I miss my freedom.

Now I have to wear a leather collar with metal tags that clang on the garbage can when I attempt to feed myself.  I am scolded for barking. I drink from a metal dish. My (admittedly delicious) food comes from a factory and I am only fed twice a day. When I go outside I am tethered -- often to a Long Dog's wrist. There is no appreciation for the way I can jump a six foot tall fence. There is no praise for the way I rip through the plastic of a garbage bag in seconds. I am now only permitted to be free of my restraints when far away from "civilization" and its delicious buffet of garbage.

[At this juncture I would like to point out that my eating food from the compost bin is very environmentally friendly. It is recycling at its most elemental. Why don't the Long Dogs understand this concept?]

 Their cruelty is limitless.

Can it really only 526 days since I was imprisoned?

When will my sentence be over?


Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Laughter is the best medicine. But modern drugs are also pretty damn fantastic.

"You have a really big uvula!" my doctor told me this morning, his voice filled with awe.

I replied, "If you're going to talk like that, at least buy me a drink first."

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No. I did not say that. I thought it. But I kept my mouth shut, thereby disappointing my husband.

"I'd only met the guy 3 minutes beforehand. We had no rapport." I answered Mr Wrath's query of "Why didn't you say that? That would've been funny!"

Also I am 40 now and the doctor was significantly younger and I really, really don't want to be labelled a Cougar. That's what happens when you hit 40: you start to be concerned about unseemly behaviour.

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This is actually the second time I have returned home from the doctor's office and immediately called my husband with a story. The last time was almost exactly 10 years ago, after the birth of our second child when I went to my doctor for a pap smear.

After the smearing of the pap (honestly, I have no idea what a pap smear technically entails so please do your own research on the topic and then go get one -- provided you are female), the doctor and his nurse/witness left the cubicle so I could change out of my paper gown. A few minutes later the doctor returned, clipboard in hand. He asked me a few questions about my general well-being, my moods, the baby, and so on. Then he went to make a note on my chart.

He reached into the left hand pocket of his lab coat. Then the right. Then the left breast pocket. Then the right.

"Huh. I can't find my pen."

Again he search those pockets.

"I just had it a minute ago."

He pulled back the edge of his lab coat, reaching into the front pockets of his trousers. Then the back ones. All the while muttering. "I know I had it when I came in. It's my favourite pen. Where could it be?"

He dropped to his knees and began to peer under the furniture.

"I swear I just had it."

He stomped on the lever of the garbage can, the lid swung open and he peered hopefully inside. "Where could I have left it?"

This entire time I was sitting on the edge of the examining table. My lips clamped between my teeth. My face bright red with suppressed mirth.

Finally he turned to me and said, "Do you kno--" and stopped short.

If this was a comedy sketch or a rom-com movie I would have replied with a shrug of the shoulders or quipped "Search me!"

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

And I didn't need to, because as soon as he made eye contact with me, he knew exactly what was going through my head.

"AAAH! Here it is!" he said suddenly aware that it was in the front pocket of his dress shirt. "Great. Good bye.  We'll see you in a few weeks!" and he hustled out the door with admirable speed. And I melted into a puddle of goo -- laughing-like-a-maniac goo.

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Anyway back to my big uvula...

I am mostly recuperated from having the flu, all that remains is my cough. This isn't particularly alarming to me, because I have a lot of difficulty in shaking coughs. Long after the rest of the family is back in fighting form, I'm still coughing. Today I went to the doctor, not for the cough, but because I hurt my back WHILE coughing. More particularly I have strained muscles in my back, torso, chest, breast, upper arm, and ARMPIT. The blame lies with that stupid  "Cover Your Cough" pose were suppose to strike:

I am 40, I have a big uvula and I got the flu despite getting the flu shot -- HAVEN'T I SUFFERED ENOUGH?! Do I also need to contort my body into this ungainly position? And honestly -- is it really all that more effective (at preventing the spread of germs) than coughing into the back of your hand?  If we're going to get serious about spreading the flu, these need to be funded by Health Canada:

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And now I'm off to bed, just me and my big uvula, my new puffer and my codeine ("Those muscles are never going to heal if you are coughing constantly. We need to treat that first." said the doctor about my chronic cough). 

So...good night. 

Saturday, January 4, 2014

How to organize your home in 2 easy steps:

Step 1: Get rid of shit.

Step 2: Don't buy anything to organize your shit.
The problem is you already bought too much.

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Please note: neither Step 1 nor Step 2 works if you spend hours everyday on Pinterest, collecting organization and de-cluttering ideas that involve shopping.

Friday, January 3, 2014

Guest Post by Kate Winslet, famous actress.

Hello, Wrath of Mom readership.

This is Kate Winslet. Yes. THAT Kate Winslet.

Nan is still feeling under the weather, so I generously offered to author a blog post for her. I think it's really important for me to have a direct line of communication to the public, since I have had a shitload of bad press recently.


A shitload.

Do you have a problem with that turn of phrase? Too fucking bad. Just because I have a plummy accent and wear fascinators and corsets, doesn't mean I don't enjoy cursing. As you will see in a minute.

Let's get to the meat of the matter:

Firstly, my movie Labour Day is opening at the end of the month, and you must all go see it:

Secondly, I have received a lot of grief for comments I made in the autumn about the custody arrangements I have for my two children from my first two marriages. When I said that we have:

None of this 50/50 time with the mums and dads – my children live with me, that is it

I did not expect my words to be used in an ad campaign entrenching fathers' legal rights. If you go back and read the original interview it is obvious that I was not denigrating the value of fathers. I was denigrating the value of OTHER mothers who are less amazing than myself.

Thirdly, this week Glamour UK published an interview with me that includes a quote I made about giving my third child the Winslet surname:

We haven't ever really had that conversation; it was always going to have
my name. Mia and Joe have it as part of their name, so it would be weird
if this baby didn't. Of course we're not going to call it RocknRoll.
People might judge all they like, but I'm a fucking grown-up.

Did I imply that my husband, Ned RocknRoll, is NOT "a fucking grown-up?" Yes, I did. I love that man-child very much and would thank you kindly to not judge him. Judging him is my job.  And I love that he is NOT "a fucking grown-up." Obviously.

Fourthly, shut up about my new baby's first name. Yes, his name is Bear. Yes, it was Ned's idea.  But I'm fine with it. After all it's not like the last year was rife with examples of celebrities using nice, normal names for their children.

To wit:

Everest Hobson Lucas, daughter of George Lucas and Mellody Hobson. It's never a good decision to name a girl after a famous mountain. Of course Everest's parents are rich enough that maybe her high school classmates won't make jokes about mounting expeditions up her east slope.

Nan's already taken care of mocking North West and Lincoln Shepherd.

Jimmy Fallon's baby was given the moniker Winnie Rose. I asked Nan for her opinion and she said, "It's cute, but Winnie is just a nickname for Winifred and I wish they'd used that name instead." I gently broke the news to her that the baby is actually named after  Lake Winnipesaukee. When she stopped crying, Nan agreed that Winnie was the best of a bad situation.

Emile Hirsch has a son named Valor. Personally I'm not a fan of virtue names since they often take on an ironic meaning if the child goes astray. Think about it. Clumsy women named Grace. Slutty girls named Chastity. Career criminals called Justice. Alcoholics named Temperance. Valor has a hard row to hoe. Speaking of hoes, let's all agree to stop with the names Desiree and Destiny. 

Nan and I are both on board thinking that Axl Jack is a name best suited to a line of automotive equipment.

Carmen Gabriela Baldwin is a solid name that will not lead to playground teasing. All the same, I'm pretty sure that Carmen will be teased at school, but not because of her name. Because her father is Alec Baldwin and he is a lunatic. An attention seeking lunatic who courts press attention but wants it strictly on his terms.

When we announced the name of our child, Ned and I issued a statement via my publicist. By doing so, we managed to avoid the spectre of sluttiness that haunted Hugh Grant when he announced the birth of his second child, Felix:

Then had to add:

The first rule of announcing a baby's birth is not creating even the slightest hint that your child's mother may be promiscuous.

Lula Rosylea Adams'  birth was also announced on her father's twitter feed:

Rumour has it that Adams was planning to use the name Titfer if the child was a boy.

And for those of you who think it was outlandish for me to name a child Bear, Adams' first daughter is named Mirabella Bunny. BUNNY! See? It could've been worse.

At least I didn't give MY son a name with violent overtones, such as:

…Dekker: son of Mark-Paul Gosselaar. Sounds like he's going to keep the school psychologist busy. Maybe he'll hang out with...

…Shooter: son of filmmaker Julian Schnabel (about whom I know zilch). Shooter and Dekker could from a trio with…

…Rekker Radley: born to Cam Gigandet. The kid's sister is Everleigh Rae, so at least when they're older the two can bond over both having crap names.

Halle Berry and Olivier Martinez named their son Maceo Robert. Nan neglected to blog about this name because she -- and pretty much everyone else -- can't form a conclusion about the legitimacy, ethnicity and pronunciation of Maceo.

Elsie is the name of a cow or a comely dairymaid. Marigold is a flower, and not a pretty one. Put them together and you have the name chosen by Ioan Gruffudd and Alice Evans. If my fourth husband's name is Welsh (as is the case with Ioan Gruffudd) or if Ned decides to change his name again (he use to be called Ned Abel Smith) I promise to give my fifth child a really easy name to minimize the amount of teasing she will endure. Meanwhile, good luck to Elsie Marigold as she goes through life explaining that her last name is said "Griffith."

Vince Vaughn's new son was named Vernon Lindsay. Know what's the only thing worse than naming your kid Vernon? Giving him Lindsay as a middle name. Evidently, the Vaughn family men always have names that start with -V. This is a prime example of a bad habit masquerading as a family tradition.

Back on my side of the pond. Peaches Geldof -- the UK's answer to Kim Kardashian, but even dumber -- strung together some letters and came up with the "name" Phaedra. He is the younger brother of Astala. Both boys currently reside in London, but will someday relocate to a Hobbit hole in Middle Earth.

Really the only "normal" celebrity baby name given in 2013 was George.

Nan lives close(ish) to Prince George, British Columbia and so the use of this solid name made her gleeful." SUCK ON IT, PRINCE ALBERT, SASKATCHEWAN! TOO BAD FOR YOU, PRINCE RUPERT, BRITISH COLUMBIA. Prince George is cooler than you!" she was heard to say.

[This is photo is digitally altered. 
Our future King is NOT made of wood.
Rather this is PG Pete, Prince George's civic mascot.]

As for pictures of Baby Bear Winslet, none will be forthcoming. My family and I value our privacy and will not be releasing information or photos to the press. My personal life and my professional life are separate. Or rather, they will be until I have to do some press for the release of Divergent at the end of March.

See you then.