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Archive for December, 2015


Tuesday, December 29th, 2015

You know. I’m not kidding, here, people. Two steps back if you don’t want things ruined. (DAD THIS MEANS YOU. Call me, we’ll go see it, THEN you can read this post.)

Ok, first and most brilliantly of me:

When Adam Driver took his helmet off (what, halfway through the flick?) I started laughing and couldn’t stop. I’m not sure what it was about his Kleenex-you-took-out-of-the-box-for-a-sneeze-but-then-forgot-about-when-you-didn’t-sneeze-so-you-just-left-it-and-it-got-all-dusty face that did it, but it just brought it out in me. Fortunately I had Crockett on one side of me and one of the theater’s only empty seats on the other, so I didn’t wildly anger anyone who was able to make eye contact with me.

Literally could not stop laughing, you guys. I had to pull my hat down over my eyes so I couldn’t see him just to calm down. You know how when someone has been tickling you, and then they wave their fingers in the general direction of your foot or armpit or whatever, and you laugh because you just can’t help it, even though your stomach muscles hurt from the laughing and they’re not even touching you? It was like that, except the tickling was Adam Driver’s stupid fucking child-making-a-bust-and-only-has-white-playdoh-left face trying to pretend he was HAN SOLO’S KID.

I digress.

Oh, wait, one more thing on that note: Crockett has been saying things like “Hannah, what are you talking about?” in the Kylo Ren voice and it slays me every goddamn time. Girls and Star Wars are two franchises that are not actor compatible, is what I’m saying. (I just had to google Adam Driver to remember that it was Kylo Ren and not Rilo Ken (Jenny Lewis, shades of) and again I started laughing. His face is just the everlasting WORST.)

We went to the flick on Christmas morning, with Crockett’s fam – mom, dad, brother, sis-in-law, nephews, and niece, and I think that was 100% the right way to do it. Everyone from brother on even got Star Wars shirts for Christmas! There was appropriate kid excitement, good camaraderie, I don’t know. The whole thing was super. Except that some of the pre-preview commercials were, um, not particularly child appropriate, which was weird. Like, guys, it’s STAR WARS. There will be kids. Maybe Cutty from House and the slobby guy from Private Practice banging in a car is best for a different audience?


I’m not going to do a recap or anything, because if you’ve gotten this far, you’ve seen it or you’re a glutton for punishment. Instead, I have three critical questions.

  1. WHEN did Leia know that Han died? No one told her when it happened, and yet we cut to a scene of her crying. The pilots (hey, Poe, call me. I’m engaged and you’re fictional and look a lot like my fiance, so that should work out nicely) didn’t have info on what was going on in the … octagon thing. I asked Crockett and he said she knew immediately because she has the force. I asked my mom and she said it’s because Leia loved Han. Crockett, mom: I love you guys but those are stupid answers. Leia was surprised to see Han when she saw him on the tinyglasseslady’s planet, she doesn’t psychically sense him. She’s a general now, she gives orders, she doesn’t listen to wavelengths or whatever. I think someone told her and I think it was Chewbacca – she slipped him an ear peanut thingy (wow it has been a long day … you know, those little things? The little earphone microphone things? Am I wrong in believing those even have a name?) and he told her. Feel free to correct me as long as your answer is better than mom’s or Crockett’s.
  2. WHO is Rey? (Yeah, yeah, me and everyone else. I’m going with Luke’s daughter, but then WHO is Rey’s mama?)
  3. WAS (who what when where was, that’s how it goes) Carrie Fisher being filmed with a Barbara Walters interview lens? You know, the one with a little bit of Vaseline on it?

I’m going to go see it again, and this time I’m going to take blacked out glasses to put on when Adam Driver is onscreen. That way I miss the Solo tragedy AND and won’t be removed from the story by his if-he-were-on-GOT-we’d-assume-he-was-inbred face.

EDITED TO ADD: I just saw Carrie Fisher tweeted about people being mean about her aging, and I want to be clear. She is the best. While she is obviously super hot, she also has a dog named GARY FISHER and he has his own Instagram. My comment re her filming was not a dig at her at ALL but a legitimate question regarding the fuzziness of the screen when she was on it, it felt like. She’s lovely and I love her and would invite her to dinner with Tiny Fey and Amy Poehler and Regina Spektor and a) I would be the ugliest woman in the room and b) I would die damn happy.

good face bad face

Thursday, December 17th, 2015

Maida has an excellent little face. That’s important, because we were just at the vet for the fourth time in five weeks (and only that long because I put off last week’s appointment), and if she didn’t have a great little face I wouldn’t have something adorable to look at to remind me of why it’s worth it to do all her appointments and pills and stuffs.

Like, I had to ask a girlfriend recently if I could bring Maida to her NY Eve party, because otherwise I’d have to be home at 9:15 to give her medication. She graciously said yes, but I felt like a dummy. However, Maid’s med schedule is one of the dominating factors of my life at the mo (and for the foreseeable future).

The biggest deal is that she has to take seizure medication every eight hours. The margin of error for that is pretty narrow, because the half life of that particular medication is 3.3 hours in dogs. Plus side, her seizures are under control! Minus side, 5:15 am, 1:15 pm, and 9:15 pm are sort of gospel times in our household. (Doesn’t have to be those times but you try to distribute eight hours in a way that makes sense with both a full nights sleep and a work day.)

Anyway, she has new morning eye drops for her ongoing eye infection (replacing the three kinds of eye drops we’ve already tried), plus her old routine of twice daily potassium bromide and two traditional Chinese herbal meds (vet prescribed!) and the three-a-day Keppra. Plus other, soothing, eye drops at night.

The point is that it’s very helpful to see her lil face while organizing (and of course funding) this pile o’ treatments, cause it’s an amazing face and you only have to glance at it to want her to be healthy and happy. (I used to know someone who used ‘you have a good face’ as a compliment and damned if it didn’t usually work for him, by the way.)

On the other hand…

(When is ‘drop the mic’ appropriate? Not here, I guess?)

I was making notes today, for my own reference. Things to do and buy and prepare before Christmas, etc. I sat down a few minutes ago to review them.

One of the notes just says ‘how much I hate adam driver’s stupid face‘.

What did I mean by that? Did I intend to write about it? That seems mean. I don’t know anything about him, in real life, only from Girls and that movie with Tina Fey and Jason Bateman. (I mean, I am writing about it, but I like to think I didn’t intentionally plan to just write about hating one dude based on his complacent, supercilious lookin’ face bones. See, now I’m weaving it into a (weak) narrative. This is was less insulting.)

No matter what my intentions were, I think it’s safe to say that if it came down to it, Adam Driver could not count on me to treat any epilepsy he might find himself with. His is not a lil face that I love. Not a face that makes me want to make sure he’s healthy and happy. More, and I’m disappointed in myself for this, a face that makes me want to bite his nose just to see if he’d look less smug.

So, you know: Maida=good face, Adam Driver=bad face.

party like it’s goddamn CHRISTMAS

Wednesday, December 16th, 2015

Sometime in the last eleven months, I lost half a Christmas tree.

Here’s what happened.

Last Dec 15th, I moved into a new house. At that point, I put up the five (six? five.five? I don’t know) foot pre-lit fake tree from Target that I’ve had since my age started with two and Agnes and Dean were just twinkles in their doggy daddies’ eyes. (I assume dog’s eyes twinkle when they’re thinking about puppies. You know, like how everyone’s eyes twinkle when they think about puppies. A Santa-style twinkle, not, like, a dirty twinkle. We’re talking about puppies here. Also, I’m sure Maida’s doggy daddy’s eyes twinkled too but she was already born when I bought the tree.)

So the tree was up, and then last January 17th, I had a housewarming/birthday party. At that point, the tree was down. The tree box was under the garage stairs.

This recent weekend after Thanksgiving, I pulled out the tree box. (See, Crockett won’t put up the tree until Advent starts cause his dad wouldn’t put up their tree until Advent started. It’s a cute tradition right up until the second I want to put up the tree and it ain’t Advent yet, but in this case Advent happened to start on the day I wanted to treeify the place, so everybody won! Except…) The tree box had half a tree in it.

The top half, if you’re wondering.

The bottom half has vanished.

So one of four things happened.

  1. I put the bottom half in a trash bag because I was too lazy to smoosh it into the box, and me or someone else accidentally threw it out. Possible! Unlikely, though, because my bags are white and it would have been a pretty clearly pokey, tree like, green-needly looking bag.
  2. It’s somewhere in this small house that neither Crockett nor I has thought to look. Possible, but only if I was drunk or something while putting the tree away. At this point we’ve looked everywhere but the attic, and I don’t recall ever entering my attic in this house. Like, ever.
  3. Someone from the housewarming thought it was a souvenir? A pokey, useless, three foot tall three foot wide souvenir?
  4. Thieves.

It’s obviously 4, and I know why.

This happened to someone ELSE in 2015, and they took my tree bottom to replace theirs. Theirs was probably lost to yet another family doing the same thing, and so on and so forth.

What happened to the first family’s tree bottom, you ask?

Those damn reindeer.


Anyway, we bought a new tree, because we ain’t thieves like the legions of tree stealers before us.

Anyone want a tree top?



Tuesday, December 15th, 2015

The thing about not writing for awhile is feeling like when you start up again, the subject either has to be momentous or explanatory.

So, like, I could have gone with getting engaged (whoop whoop!) as my momentous news, and then eased back into the day to day. But instead I dropped it like a … small subtle thing that you drop? and then stopped again. I also could have gone with our engagement as the explanation for the lack of blogging, but we haven’t set a date yet, much less started doing any work that actually takes any time, so that’d be easily disproved bullshit.

So then you don’t write, and then you’re in the habit of not writing, and that’s much easier than being in the habit of writing.

But every so often, when I’m not writing, something happens that makes me feel like doing it. Tonight, that thing was watching Doctor Who while reading the AV Club Doctor Who coverage.

Because, well. Doctor Who because obviously, Jessica Jones (and because the 10th Doctor is THE Doctor fight me and if you have shit to say about Rose fight me twice). The AV Club because their television writing is just fucking brilliant.

So I think to myself, well, I want to watch TV and write about it, but I don’t really! Mostly because that would involve watching NEW things, and for some reason I prefer my television intake to be about 80% rewatching.

For example, The Man in The High Castle is available and super fun, at least in the whole ‘it’s like the real world only worse in tiny interesting ways’ way. Like the Nazi themed kids magazine Crockett pointed out, Ranger Reich.  The AV Club has fun coverage that hits on the interesting points, ties in past things we might have missed, and bring up watchers gossip. It’s helpful if you love the show and fun even if you don’t. Like very liberal Cliff Notes, sort of.

Crockett hopped a couple of episodes ahead of me while I was finishing NaNoWriMo, and I promised him I’d catch up before we went out of town last week.

And then I watched all of Psych and the 9th Doctor’s season instead. (The 9th Doctor is acceptable. Matt Smith has no place in my heart or this blog.)

I seriously couldn’t help myself.

Crockett and I have very few shows that we watch together, so when we find one we stick with it (because sometimes you want to both point your faces at the tv and do nothing else at all). Add that to the fact that I like The Man in the High Castle, and this should have been a smash hit! (I like the hair and costumes, at the very least, and that pulled me through a whole damn season of Smash, speaking of.) I just couldn’t make myself do it, somehow.

I have two theories. The first is that it’s not the simplest show, and it requires actual focus while watching. I use TV more as company, while I’m doing chores, and rewatching means I can leave the room without pausing or whatever. (I’m suddenly struck by the idea that I’ve written about this before? If so, sorry!)

The second is that I hate new things, like a cranky old lady.

Fifty fifty, I think.

So, momentous: I have watched more than 100 hours of television in the last two or three weeks. Explanatory: same same. Kicker: none were The Man in the High Castle.

P.S. Is Hitler the man, does anyone know? I’m obviously not going to watch, so you can just tell me. I won’t tell Crockett, promise.