Daughter: Have you noticed I haven’t asked for very much for my birthday?
Mother: Yes, I did wonder a little about that.
Daughter: Well, I’ve been keeping a few things from you.
Mother: Oh.
Daughter: See, I didn’t want you and Dad to have to spend all your money on my birthday presents. So I’m going to save up all my wishes and ask Santa for them.
I’ll be the first to admit, I haven’t been out to the movies much in, say, oh … the last seven years. Yes, coincidentally, since I’ve become a parent. So, I might be wrong here, but the movie Julie & Julia was the first movie that I know of with blogging as a central focus.
Even though I couldn’t care less about Julia Child, and cooking in general for that matter, I was excited to see this movie. And that had everything to do with the blogging.
I first became fascinated with blogs when I was on maternity leave with my daughter in 2002. I had gone from running on a non-stop ride of intellectual stimulation as a full-time senior communications advisor who was also finishing up a Master of Arts thesis (yeah, baby, I collected that piece of paper with a very big belly!) to spending my days with a creature (sure, I grant you, an enormously cute creature) who didn’t speak, much less seem interested in discussing literature. So, during nap times, I turned to the internet.
The internet granted me a way to connect with others. The internet was my best friend.
Well, that’s not exactly true. But it was a friend that could meet an erratic feeding schedule, a friend that could comment and share opinions on being a new mother, and a friend that assured me I wasn’t the only one who was knee-deep in culture shock.
The books at Chapters didn’t tell me the real scoop on this new motherhood thing; they were full of rosey tales or sanctimonious pronouncements. The internet, on the other hand, had a wicked sense of humour. And although it seems to be considered an “inferior” form of blogging these days, the mommy-bloggers were a salvation of sorts.
From there, I started lurking around on all sorts of blogs. I loved reading people’s perspectives. Un-edited perspectives.
On blogs, one finds marital spats, frustrated swearing, blissful swearing, dirt and fairy dust. In short, real life. For someone like me who can’t stop reading, blogs are reality tv – but better.
And just like reality tv, blogs can get messy. Dooce got fired. Raymi the Minx got undressed. And countless others shut themselves down voluntarily to stop the hate mail.
I expected a movie about blogging to step into some of this mud. Afterall, it was the real life story of Julie Powell, who started up a blog in 2002 when she was a newly wed and still searching out a career path.
Julie & Julia does touch on some key topics, like balancing the blog with your other real-life relationships and the fine line between expressing yourself versus invading the privacy of your loved ones. But it didn’t go deep enough for me. Or real enough. Or just enough — maybe I just wanted more.
What did you think?
Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind. ~Dr. Seuss
Like a dog with a bone, I’ve been racing through Eric Bogosian’s three novels and raving about them on this blog. The first one I came across was his most recent, Perforated Heart, while the second one I read was Mall. Sandwiched in between these two, he wrote Wasted Beauty (2005).
All three novels focus on American culture, and I think it’s safe to say it’s a fairly scathing perspective. Or as Hillary Frey says, “this is the stuff of ugly American living.”
Do you hear a “but” coming? Okay, here it is … But I’m not sure I like all this ugly anymore. I do like “dark.” Dark is delicious. However, I think Wasted Beauty leans more towards “bleak.”
It focuses on two people. Reba, who at the age of 20, is left parent-less, penniless and without hope for the future:
Reba digs out an icy brick from the freezer and runs hot water over the pink and yellow slab of frozen flesh, letting it soften under her thumb. Above her head the rolly-eyed Felix-the-Cat clock swishes his stiff tail, marking time, second by second. The fridge growls just as Frank’s car starts up outside. So that’s that. I will swab the green and dirty-white linoleum tiles, thaw and fry the food, sponge Billy’s [her brother] pubic hairs off the toilet, iron his work shirts. And I will stand behind a counter at the bank all day, just like Mom did. I’ll take my cigarette breaks, a half hour for lunch and all the peppermints I can eat. Maybe someday I’ll grow a few tumors of my own. (p. 6)
A stumbling series of events find her in the big city, and working as a highly successful professional model. Okay, I know you’re thinking, “that sounds like a happy ending.” No, no, I’m afraid we’re heading into very dirty territory here — heroin addiction. An addiction described so well that you can almost feel the heavenly highs, as well as the sickly lows.
Rena’s life ends up intersecting with Rick’s, a doctor going through a major mid-life angst session. He, like Rena, doesn’t hold much hope for the future:
Just get on that old conveyor belt of life, pal, enjoy those golden years and reserve your space in the assisted community (with the attached Alzheimer ward), where you will wander anonymous corridors until you lose your mind completely. Senile and incontinent you will lie in bed day after day after day, a few photos of unrecognizable grandchildren taped to the wall beside you, TV set aflicker, a world spinning on without you. (p. 132)
I’m 156 pages into Wasted Beauty, and I know I’ll keep on reading until the very last word. I have this gnawing feeling though, one that I didn’t get from the other novels, that all this achingly talented writing (“beauty”) might bring me no where worthwhile (“wasted”).
I’m at Jiu Jitsu with my one-year-old and we’re watching and waiting for my 6-year-old to finish her class when bounding-in for the next class come a sibling pair aged 5 and 7.
They immediately approach me (as us Moms know, babies attract the hoards!) and start ogling and asking questions: “What’s he doing?” and ”Can he walk?” and ”Does he have teeth?” but ”Can he talk?”
Their interest is so genuine, so adorable.
Then out of the blue, the little girl asks: “How does the baby come out?”
Uncharacteristically, I hesitate before answering
Instead, I say: “I think you better ask your Mom or Dad that question.”
She looks disappointed and says: “I have. My Mom always says it’s a looooong, loooong story. “
Welcome to my coffee break!
Here’s where I chat about whatever is percolating in my brain on a given day … silly family anecdotes, travel tips, a new movie or book, or just life in general.
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