Again: I watched it this year; it may not have come out in 2009.
.
1. There Will Be Blood
2. Slumdog Millionaire
3. Two Lovers
4. Adaptation
5. Let the Right One In
6. Synecdoche, New York
7. The Visitor
8. American History X (I finally watched it)
9. The Brothers Bloom
10. Inglorious Basterds
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Top 10 Songs of 2009
(This doesn't necessarily mean it came out this year; It is just a favorite of mine from this year)
.
1. "Eet" by Regina Spektor
2. "A Falling Through" by Ray LaMontagne
3. "Sexy Bitch" by David Guerra
4. "I'm Not Your Toy" by LaRoux
5. "He Lays in the Reins" by Iron & Wine (& "Burn That Broken Bed" & "Dead Man's Will")
6. "Looking Up" by Paramore
7. "I Don't Need a Soul" by Relient K
8. "Day and Night" by Kid Cudi
9. "The Verb" by The Swell Season
10. "All I Need" by Radiohead
One more: "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley.
.
1. "Eet" by Regina Spektor
2. "A Falling Through" by Ray LaMontagne
3. "Sexy Bitch" by David Guerra
4. "I'm Not Your Toy" by LaRoux
5. "He Lays in the Reins" by Iron & Wine (& "Burn That Broken Bed" & "Dead Man's Will")
6. "Looking Up" by Paramore
7. "I Don't Need a Soul" by Relient K
8. "Day and Night" by Kid Cudi
9. "The Verb" by The Swell Season
10. "All I Need" by Radiohead
One more: "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
2010 Resolutions
1. Beat my sister in our "Biggest Loser" contest. Winning is the only motivating force in my life.
2. Train for the Vienna Frauenlauf 10k
3. "Be kind, Be kind, Be kind."
4. Submit, submit, submit (not in the biblical sense)
5. If you don't have anything intelligent to say, don't say anything at all.
6. Stay true to my vow: I will never read the Twilight series.
7. Visit 10 new countries
8. Let go of the guilty bitch inside..."Sciencedamn you!"
9. Be 100x hotter at 30 then I ever dreamed of being at 20. Growing up is pretty sexy, after all.
10. Hang out with my best friend on the French Riviera (no bitching out, Girl, it's a resolution!)
2. Train for the Vienna Frauenlauf 10k
3. "Be kind, Be kind, Be kind."
4. Submit, submit, submit (not in the biblical sense)
5. If you don't have anything intelligent to say, don't say anything at all.
6. Stay true to my vow: I will never read the Twilight series.
7. Visit 10 new countries
8. Let go of the guilty bitch inside..."Sciencedamn you!"
9. Be 100x hotter at 30 then I ever dreamed of being at 20. Growing up is pretty sexy, after all.
10. Hang out with my best friend on the French Riviera (no bitching out, Girl, it's a resolution!)
Monday, December 28, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Engrish???
Okay, I saw this T-shirt in a shop window on the Hauptstraße and wondered, wth? At first I thought it was some idiot attempt at English and then I decided to research it on the web. Turns out this phrase is quite popular in Deutsch; it's considered highly amusing and is often plastered on T-shirts. It translates loosely to "Caution: When you get on my nerves, I will put you down the drain, close the lid, and you will never come back to the daylight!" It's interesting how often you hear a hybrid of English and German spoken here in Heidelberg; they are incredibly fluent, though their grammar is sketchy.
Frailty, Thy Name is Mother!
I've had one of those weeks: the kind that make you feel like a total failure as a parent. Looking back, I would say the vast majority of my parenting experience has felt like a failed experiment, and I've only been a parent for 5 years and 4 months. My son has been in trouble at school this week because he showed his penis on the bus. Most parents would keep this information in-house, but I'm going to broadcast it, because, well, it's just funny as hell; And I want other parents to know they aren't alone, kids do some very embarrassing crap. My son and one of his friends thought in their 5-year-old brains that showing their butts and penises would be hilarious. One of the little girls on the bus didn't find it hilarious, and went home to her mother, who called the school principal, who called me in. And what am I to say? I mean really, when I relate this story to grown men, they just laugh, because apparently this is hilarious even when you are an adult man.
This isn't the only embarrassment he's caused me recently. A couple of weeks ago, we were at the dentist, and when his Korean dentist spoke to him in her heavy accent, he replied rather irately, "Speak English!!!" Of course, she was speaking English. I wanted a hole to open up in the floor so I could crawl in and die privately of embarrassment. Thinking about it later, I realized his reaction is the result of living in a foreign country and having people speak to him in a language he doesn't understand. He's already really tired of hearing German and feeling like he's on the outside of whatever is going on here. I'm tired of it too, if I'm being honest.
These two anecdotes alone could serve to prove my failure as a mother. Why haven't I trained him better? Why haven't I coached him on proper behavior; why haven't I foreseen the situations he would be put in and all the possible actions he would take? Why? Because I can't. Because we never know what our children are going to do until they do it. And that's the beauty of parenting children; they are these incredible amazing layered trifle dishes, each dip into them reveals new things. I've finally realized I'm not responsible for all the impossibly varied personality traits and quirks. And I really want to glory in this diversity and the surprises my children present.
This spring I took a class called "Life Writing" in which we wrote personal essays and then workshopped these pieces. I wrote an essay called "Mommyhood" which I've since re-titled "The Job That Took Over My Life" (I'm going to post this essay when I have a chance to type it out here on the blog). This essay was met with such resistance by the female population of the class that I was shocked and dismayed. The essay was meant to be humorous, a meditation on how motherhood has changed me; it was snarky and sarcastic. The first line is, "I hate being a mom." This was supposed to set the tone for a sarcastic look at the woes of motherhood, but the women in the class were horrified. How can you hate being a mom? How can you admit such a negative emotion about the highest calling women have on earth? Even the women in the class who are not mothers attacked me with vehemence, which I found both amusing and absurd. I was really hurt by the reaction, but it was a good experience for me, because my workshop experience is limited and I needed to be reminded not to take critique so personally. I've pondered the polarizing effect my essay had in the class (the males were immune to the rage; they thought the essay was funny and accurate) and my conclusion has been that women take mothering very personally because it says something crucial about their selves. A woman sees motherhood as more than an identity; she sees it as an expression of her innermost self. The child becomes a mini-me in which to mirror my finer points. The problem is when the child disappoints, embarrasses, loses. If you've ever seen the mom who is gussied-up at the mall with her toddler daughter in tow, wearing a matching outfit and gaudy lip-gloss and nail polish, you know what I'm talking about. If you've ever seen the agony of a dad on the sidelines of any sporting event when his son makes a crucial mistake, you know what I'm talking about. If you've ever seen the shame of parents when their teenage daughter gets pregnant or they find out their son is addicted to meth, you know what I'm talking about. They way we react as parents is so crucial in these moments. If we see our kids as mini-me's, our self-image will be shot. And our parent-child relationship can be damaged for a lifetime.
For me, I'm slowly learning that I have to be my own person with my own life and my own interests, or I can so easily fall into the trap of obsessively living vicariously through my children. I'm also learning to let my kids be their own divine little souls, with their own spark of fire, entirely unique to them. And when that spark flares, and embarrasses me, I try to remind myself of all the ways I embarrassed my own parents, and all the times they graciously ignored the little fires I set.
Blessings upon you, Mom and Dad.
This isn't the only embarrassment he's caused me recently. A couple of weeks ago, we were at the dentist, and when his Korean dentist spoke to him in her heavy accent, he replied rather irately, "Speak English!!!" Of course, she was speaking English. I wanted a hole to open up in the floor so I could crawl in and die privately of embarrassment. Thinking about it later, I realized his reaction is the result of living in a foreign country and having people speak to him in a language he doesn't understand. He's already really tired of hearing German and feeling like he's on the outside of whatever is going on here. I'm tired of it too, if I'm being honest.
These two anecdotes alone could serve to prove my failure as a mother. Why haven't I trained him better? Why haven't I coached him on proper behavior; why haven't I foreseen the situations he would be put in and all the possible actions he would take? Why? Because I can't. Because we never know what our children are going to do until they do it. And that's the beauty of parenting children; they are these incredible amazing layered trifle dishes, each dip into them reveals new things. I've finally realized I'm not responsible for all the impossibly varied personality traits and quirks. And I really want to glory in this diversity and the surprises my children present.
This spring I took a class called "Life Writing" in which we wrote personal essays and then workshopped these pieces. I wrote an essay called "Mommyhood" which I've since re-titled "The Job That Took Over My Life" (I'm going to post this essay when I have a chance to type it out here on the blog). This essay was met with such resistance by the female population of the class that I was shocked and dismayed. The essay was meant to be humorous, a meditation on how motherhood has changed me; it was snarky and sarcastic. The first line is, "I hate being a mom." This was supposed to set the tone for a sarcastic look at the woes of motherhood, but the women in the class were horrified. How can you hate being a mom? How can you admit such a negative emotion about the highest calling women have on earth? Even the women in the class who are not mothers attacked me with vehemence, which I found both amusing and absurd. I was really hurt by the reaction, but it was a good experience for me, because my workshop experience is limited and I needed to be reminded not to take critique so personally. I've pondered the polarizing effect my essay had in the class (the males were immune to the rage; they thought the essay was funny and accurate) and my conclusion has been that women take mothering very personally because it says something crucial about their selves. A woman sees motherhood as more than an identity; she sees it as an expression of her innermost self. The child becomes a mini-me in which to mirror my finer points. The problem is when the child disappoints, embarrasses, loses. If you've ever seen the mom who is gussied-up at the mall with her toddler daughter in tow, wearing a matching outfit and gaudy lip-gloss and nail polish, you know what I'm talking about. If you've ever seen the agony of a dad on the sidelines of any sporting event when his son makes a crucial mistake, you know what I'm talking about. If you've ever seen the shame of parents when their teenage daughter gets pregnant or they find out their son is addicted to meth, you know what I'm talking about. They way we react as parents is so crucial in these moments. If we see our kids as mini-me's, our self-image will be shot. And our parent-child relationship can be damaged for a lifetime.
For me, I'm slowly learning that I have to be my own person with my own life and my own interests, or I can so easily fall into the trap of obsessively living vicariously through my children. I'm also learning to let my kids be their own divine little souls, with their own spark of fire, entirely unique to them. And when that spark flares, and embarrasses me, I try to remind myself of all the ways I embarrassed my own parents, and all the times they graciously ignored the little fires I set.
Blessings upon you, Mom and Dad.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Rhyming Part
I've never been afraid of giving.
As a small child I would sit in the back
of our wood-paneled station wagon and sing
to whoever would listen. I can dream, seem,
beam, reem, feem, deem. I'll sing, ring, ling
to the ding dong fling! O, how I'd sing!
Until the day I sang to my sister,
You're a bad meanus, renus, lenus, penis!
And then my mother said I must STOP!
I didn't know what I'd done wrong.
I was only sharing my heart in song,
and so the rhyming part crawled back
to its hole and shivered. It waited
a few years and crept out again on the page
of my first diary. This time it sang about a boy.
The words were all wrong and overused,
all cliché and confused, but I didn't care
for they sang my secret joy, gave voice
to my delight. Longing felt less lonely.
Every once in awhile, to my chagrin,
I feel the urge to rhyme again. It's not
very mature, I know, and I fight it
until I'm lost in the music once more.
The future seems less unsure; The past
a little less regrettable, unforgettable,
terrible. It is redeemed and bearable.
As a small child I would sit in the back
of our wood-paneled station wagon and sing
to whoever would listen. I can dream, seem,
beam, reem, feem, deem. I'll sing, ring, ling
to the ding dong fling! O, how I'd sing!
Until the day I sang to my sister,
You're a bad meanus, renus, lenus, penis!
And then my mother said I must STOP!
I didn't know what I'd done wrong.
I was only sharing my heart in song,
and so the rhyming part crawled back
to its hole and shivered. It waited
a few years and crept out again on the page
of my first diary. This time it sang about a boy.
The words were all wrong and overused,
all cliché and confused, but I didn't care
for they sang my secret joy, gave voice
to my delight. Longing felt less lonely.
Every once in awhile, to my chagrin,
I feel the urge to rhyme again. It's not
very mature, I know, and I fight it
until I'm lost in the music once more.
The future seems less unsure; The past
a little less regrettable, unforgettable,
terrible. It is redeemed and bearable.
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