My Playlist

On the checklist for the childbirth hospital bag, in addition to a toothbrush, a “coming home” outfit for baby and aromatherapy scents, there is always a box to check for music. You can and are encouraged to bring music with you. As music has played such a large and pivotal role in my life, I was very excited to make a playlist for the arrival of my daughter. Though I’m not sure why, I also found it an intimidating prospect and spent a lot of time putting it off. I was trying to come up with an entire CD worth of songs about, or that at least mentioned, babies. When I came up well short of 74 minutes, I decided that I would add to the list when and if I thought of new songs, and burn whatever I had to disc when I started labor, then take it to the hospital with me. (If you’re wondering, the hospital had iPod docks but I have a generic mp3 player so I was planning on listening to my CD through the DVD player.)

I did in fact burn the CD when I was sure I was in labor, and when the three of us returned home, there it was, sitting in the popped-out CD tray of my computer. There was no music in my delivery room and I don’t really have any regrets. I was, in fact, very concerned that I might come to associate certain songs I otherwise loved with massive amounts of pain and then not be able to listen to them anymore. More likely I would have associated them with a great day, but you never know.

Anyway, the regret I do have is that I put a lot of thought - well, okay, some thought – into the playlist and didn’t get to use it, so I’m going to share it here now.

#1: Here Comes My Baby – Cat Stevens

The first track to kick off the album because “here comes my baby, here she comes now.”

#2: Isn’t She Lovely – Stevie Wonder

This is a song that is actually about the birth of a baby girl, so I wonder why it so often used in movies and television as a romantic song.

#3: Jive Talkin’ – The BeeGees

Apparently my parents listened to a lot of BeeGees when I was a newborn. This is one of only two of their songs I like, and there is talk of children in it. “Oh my child, You’ll never know, Just what you mean to me.” However, I liked it for the lyric, “If there’s somebody you love ’til you die, then all that jive talkin’ just gets in your eye.”

#4: Forever Young – Bob Dylan

This is pretty self-explanatory though I will say I think I understand it better now than I did before.

#5: Got to Get You Into My Life – Earth, Wind and Fire

This is a Beatles song and I’m the world’s biggest Beatles fan, but I think I might like Earth, Wind & Fire’s version a little better. Either way, it was the title that I liked for the birthing playlist.

#6: Picture Book – The Kinks

My oh my was Ray Davies a terrifically evocative lyricist. “Picture book, pictures of your mama, taken by your papa, a long time ago… Picture book, when you were just a baby, those days when you were happy, a long time ago.”

#7: That Was Your Mother – Paul Simon

Couldn’t possibly have a birthing CD without at least one song from the album that was the subject of my college thesis. “That was your mother and that was your father, a long time ago dude, before you was born. Now you are the burden of my generation, I sure do love you, but let’s get that straight.”

#8: Beautiful – Paul Simon

This is a song from a recent Paul Simon album about adopting a child. It’s nice.

#9: Short People – Randy Newman

Because my dad used to sing it me all the time when I was a short person, and because in spite of that torture I love Randy Newman

#10: We Belong Together – Randy Newman

This year’s Oscar winner for best song, and a damn good one at that. “The day I met you was the luckiest day of my life and I bet you feel the same – least I hope you do.”

#11: Brown Eyed Girl – Van Morrison

There was 0% chance this girl would have anything but brown eyes.

#12: Birthday – The Beatles

The other songs were for me for labor, this song was for her.

#13: The Long Day is Over – Norah Jones

A very calm and peaceful song that I love listening to after a long, hard day. Figured that would fit the bill after she arrived.

And that’s all I came up with. I know there are millions of songs with “baby” in the title or lyrics but I wanted to be a bit more clever than that. I was tempted to put Paul Simon’s “St. Judy’s Comet” and Randy Newman’s “Memo to My Son” on here because those are great songs about babies, but alas they are about boy babies. While they didn’t make the birthing CD, they will make an appearance on the playlist of bedtime tunes I’m currently compiling for my daughter.

 

My Weird Obsession

I currently own 67 tank tops. That’s right, 67. And that’s not counting the 24 I use as pajamas. I think this might be an insane number on any account, but as I live in the Pacific Northwest, which is very beautiful but boasts roughly 3 days of summer per year, it’s kind of ridiculous. To be fair, I do wear a majority of these tops year round, and not because I’m a total lunatic who thinks tanks and shorts are acceptable December attire. I find them useful as an extra layer of redundant torso fabric (my motto: if your core’s not warm, you’re not warm!), and I generally need something to cover the skin that v-neck, off-the-shoulder, or sheer sweaters leave exposed. In fact, I own very few tops that don’t legally require another shirt underneath them. I don’t know if that’s the style, but it’s definitely my style, and as I am most comfortable this way you’ll probably see me wearing scoop neck tanks and v-neck sweaters well into my 90s.

I’d say two-thirds of my tanks are utilitarian. I have clothes of many different colors so I have tanks of many different colors to go underneath. Some for matching, some for adding a spark of color to an otherwise solid colored outfit. That’s not so crazy, right? The others are fashionable items of clothing that I love breaking out on those three warm summer days. Perfectly reasonable, I suspect. But to tell the truth, if I lived somewhere like Hawaii where it’s warm year round and I only needed to wear the tank tops, I would be fine with that. More than fine. I don’t know why. I’m not looking to show off my Michelle Obama arms* and I like the variety of my wardrobe. In fact, I think my husband’s side of the closet is a bit homogenous, overflowing with blue jeans and t-shirts, and only a sweater or two and pair of slacks for the rare occasion that requires something fancier. But oh, if we lived in a warm climate I’d probably ditch all the variety and fill my side with tanks. There would be the scrappy and/or adventurous tanks for weekend wear and fancy dress-up ones for a night out and practical but sophisticated ones for the work week. It would be grand, this tank-top-only life I would lead.

I try to live in the here and now and not obsess over that which cannot or will not be. I love the northwest and I’m not planning on moving. If I ever did, I think I’d probably go to San Francisco, and I’m pretty sure they only have the one day of summer. But I can’t stop buying tank tops and it’s hard not to let the mind wander to a warm, sandy beach when standing in the closet in front of 67 of them.

Some of my many tank tops

Actually, looking at them now for the purposes of the above picture, it occurs to me that 67 is an odd number. (Literally and figuratively.) I think I should go for the gusto: an even 100. Donations accepted.

Me wearing a tank top on top of a tank top.

*Because I don’t have them. My arms more closely resemble Bugs Bunny’s.

My New Philosophy

Shortly after bringing my baby home from the hospital, my approach to buying things altered dramatically. Before it had been an excruciating process of hemming and hawing, wondering if I really needed this particular product, and if I should wait for it to go on sale or if could get it cheaper elsewhere. Whether or not I bought it depended on a precise equation of value to usefulness. If it was expensive, it’d better be something I used everyday or loved to wear. There wasn’t much I deemed worthy of retail value, so cheaper equaled better. Then, we got home with the baby and my philosophy immediately changed. Anything we “needed”, that is, anything that would make our lives even slightly easier, was worthy of having money thrown at it. I didn’t care what it cost or how long I thought we would use it, if it had the potential to make our lives better for a week or a day or an hour, we were buying it.

So throw money at things we did and for the most part, everything has been worth it. Life is a smidgen less hectic at the moment, but still I retain my new philosophy and I am pleased with it. Though my life is now weighed down with worry where before there was none, and though my body has aches and pains where before there were none, I feel a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Part of allowing the new philosophy to stick around has to do with an article I read while pregnant. I remember nothing about the content except for the well-duh newsflash that you can return ANYTHING to the store. Even diapers. I did this once with a pack of newborn diapers that the baby outgrew and it worked. You really can take most anything back for any reason. I guess I knew this already but always wanted to save myself the hassle of having to return something by being sure beforehand if I wanted the product. But because of all that time spent hemming and hawing, I have found it tremendously quicker to stand in the return line knowing I don’t like something than to stand in the aisle and imagine the product in my home.

The other part of the “buy now” philosophy comes down to time. I just don’t have it to waste anymore. I was having a discussion with a friend the other day who hit the fat nail right on the head when she said that after she had kids, she became ruthless with her time. I feel this in many, many ways but for the purposes of this topic, it manifests itself as such: When I’m out and about with the baby, debating the unknown merits of a product in my head (do I really need this? Will I use it?) or a piece of clothing (will this hold up? When will I wear it?) for half-an-hour while I wander around the store aimlessly with a glassy-eyed stare is not an option. So I just take my best guess and move on with my life. It’s really worked out well so far.

This new philosophy was born (ha!) in the baby aisle of the local Target, but it has extended its usefulness to my life. If there is something I want, rather than reading a bunch of reviews online, I just bring it home and test it myself. Far more efficient and provides definitive answers to the question of whether I will like it. I also received some gift cards for clothing for Christmas and have bought several items online, with the reassurance I can take anything back to the local store.

Life has become exponentially harder* but this one teeny tiny aspect has made it easier. It might not seem like much but to me it is such a giant relief. It’s somewhat akin to the old adage that the only cure for a hypochondriac is an actual illness. The only solution to overthinking is underthinking. (Or something like that. Give me a break, I’m trying to write this with a squirmy 4-month old in my arms.) I bet it’s not the last epiphany child-rearing will bring.

 

*Harder but of course better.

My 2011 in review

Stats courtesy of WordPress. I guess my new year’s resolution has to be to blog more often.

My favorite line from the round up is “Some of your most popular posts were written before 2011.  Your writing has staying power!” Even though the reason for the popularity of older posts is because they only had six new entries to compete with in 2011, I still found it flattering.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,300 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 38 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

My Meal Ticket

I am fortunate to have a husband who knows how to cook and likes to do so. This year he prepared Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner for our families. He likes to cook when inspiration strikes, usually on the weekends. He inspired and taught me how to cook as well, and often the daily cooking chore falls to me. A while back, when we were both commuting long distances, I decided to come up with a meal calendar. The idea was to plan out meals in advance so we would be less desperate at the end of a long, hard day and eat out less often. I had the idea for the calendar long before I executed it, for lack of the right supplies. One day, a box of what can only be described as crap showed up on our doorstep via FedEx. One of the many, many, many companies Shaun orders from online had picked his name at random for some “prizes.” Chintzy, cheesy, cleaning-out-their-own-closet-to-fill-ours “prizes.” In the box were several dry erase calendars with a New York Mets theme. I’m not a sports fan but this board was free and almost exactly what I was looking for. Thus the calendar was born.

Behold.

It quickly became a kind of retrospective on the month’s eatings, instead of its intended use as a planner. But the retrospective worked. It allowed me to see how many meals we prepared at home throughout the month, and it also reminded me which recipes to try again and which to throw away.

Shortly before I had Sonja, the calendar was becoming sparse. I had no energy to cook and very little to go out. A lot of days were filled out as “misc,” the term I came up with for fending for ourselves. Not leftovers, just whatever we could find in the house. Sandwiches. Frozen dinners. Ice cream. Finally, Sonja was born and she stopped the calendar. My husband made quite a few meals the first couple of weeks and our parents brought over food as well, but no one was paying any attention to calendar. When Shaun went back to work I wasn’t able to resume a normal cooking routine (still can’t) for not knowing when the baby would sleep or how long or if she’d be awake but in a good enough mood to watch me cook.

I overheard on both Christmas Eve and Christmas our guests talking about this calendar, frozen in time. The last day that was filled in was Sonja’s birthday, three months ago, and that was just a message from me. So now I have to decide whether to continue this funky tradition or to let it go. It seems like a bit of an intimate view into our lives so I’m always tempted to take it down when we have visitors. Against my better judgement, it remains steadfastly and stubbornly on the wall, and has proven to be quite the conversation starter. Which is weird, because you would probably never ask your friends to recount all the dinners they’d had the previous month. I’d have to say the calendar has also served its purpose, which was to encourage us to have more meals at home. (Sonja, by the way, has furthered that cause as well.) So while I no longer need the calendar to provide momentum to cook, perhaps I’ll keep it as a talking point.

My All-Nighter

Now what?

I don’t want to be a mommy blogger. I have nothing against mommy bloggers and in fact quite enjoy reading the blogs of my friends who are moms. There’s just something about the term that feels so matronly. Yet with a whopping six plus weeks of motherhood under my belt, the mommy blog – like SUVs, a short haircut and sweat pants - is something I am beginning to understand. I need to do something to feel like a human again and since I love to write, this seems like a good option, if I can find the time. (I’ve been working on finishing this post for over three weeks.) At the moment, there isn’t a whole lot to say about the baby – meaning she’s not doing much yet except exuding cuteness – but no time like the present to write down and remember the birth experience. The awful, traumatic birth experience.

First off, let me express my disappointment in the books and information available on labor. It is extensive and I read all of it. And all of it does come with the footnote/addendum/citation that every woman is different and every labor is different. But I wasn’t prepared for how different my labor would be. I would have been more prepared had I gone into the whole thing blind.

Books and childbirth classes are very concerned with the 5-1-1 rule. When your contractions are five minutes apart, lasting for one minute and this pattern has been going on for an hour, then, they say, you may go to the hospital. I started having contractions about 3:30 a.m. on Saturday morning, the 17^th of September. I wrote them off  and tried to go back to sleep, but after I realized they weren’t going away I started timing them. I wasn’t timing length because my alarm clock didn’t have a second hand, I was just trying to see a pattern. 5 minutes apart. 7 minutes apart. 3 minutes apart. 5 minutes apart. No pattern whatsoever. After another hour or so, I stopped timing and started watching TV (old episodes of 30 Rock  on Netflix, actually.) By 7:30 in the morning, I was still in pain and unable to handle it myself anymore, so I woke up my husband.

Another thing I paid particular attention to when researching how to recognize the start of labor was what contractions felt like. A pain that starts in your back and radiates around to the front. I was
having none of this, either. My pain was solely in my back. Back labor. But I wasn’t going to have back labor, I heard that was really painful. So, unconvinced I was really in labor, I called my friend and doula Cammy to check in with her. I didn’t want her to come all the way over here for nothing, so we agreed to wait to see what the next hour brought. Well, they brought more random contractions – now being timed by my husband with a Windows Phone App  – and more pain. After the next hour, I summoned Cammy to the house. While waiting for her to make the drive (about 45 minutes plus time to  drop of her kids at their grandparents’ house) things got really intense. At some point Shaun convinced me to take a shower, after which I inexplicably shaved my legs. I was starting to freak out though as the pain was becoming unbearable. I almost called Cammy from the road to the hospital, but she arrived before we could get out of the house. I tried a couple of pain relieving techniques with her, but it was not long before I wanted to go to the hospital.

At this point, in addition to the pain, I had no idea what was going on and that was disconcerting. I had expected to know exactly what was happening after all that reading and I was confused. The contractions were
random in time and length and I did not have much time in between them to recover. So off we went to the hospital, which was surprisingly only the second most uncomfortable car ride of my life.

When we arrived, I was 4 centimeters dilated. The hospital nursing staff said that meant I could stay. I did not realize there was any question on whether or not I would stay. I was in agony. The nurse asked me if I would like an epidural and my doula piped in, saying she thought I wanted to continue as long as I could before getting the epidural. I immediately shouted, “No, I want one now!” To be fair, it was the plan to go as long as I could and I had.

And yet, it was another TWO hours and two centimeters before I actually got the epidural. Apparently the anesthesiologist had come by after an hour and we “weren’t ready” for him so he left. I’m not sure how on earth we weren’t ready for him, but that was just one of several  mysteries that occurred over the next 24 hours.

It was about 2:00 p.m. when I got the epidural and things were much better (at least for a while.) The next 10 hours or so were spent conversing and trying to rest. At some point the doctor wanted to speed things
along with Pitocin, which I was dead-set against after all that reading I did.  (Pitocin speeds contractions but also makes them more intense, which can lead to a vicious cycle with the epidural, which slows things down.) She agreed to break my water first to see if that sped things up before administering Pitocin. That worked and I did not need any Pitocin, though that was probably the only thing that went according to my plan.

Late in the evening, some of my back pain returned. Attempts to up the epidural were not having an effect, and this one spot on my back would not stop aching. At one point right after a nurses’ shift change, I broke out crying, and the new nurse (my favorite of the night – young, friendly, empathetic and well-spoken) asked what the tears were for. I said that I was in pain and had been for a couple of hours and I couldn’t take it anymore. Sadly there was nowhere left to go with the epidural but luckily there wasn’t much farther to go. The previous nurse had me start pushing, but for some reason the way she described how to push – not the easiest thing when numb from the waist down – didn’t make sense to me and as far as I am concerned that push didn’t count.  The good nurse explained it much better and I was off and running. Pushing took some of my focus away from my back, and eventually when she moved down I wasn’t in quite so much agony.

I don’t remember how long I had to push, but I do remember that around 11:30 p.m. I realized the likelihood of a birthday on the 17^th, which I had been anticipating for 20 hours or so, was not going to happen. It
was going to be the 18^th, and for some reason that seemed weird.

Sonja Faye Scott Jackson arrived on the 18^th at 1:23 a.m.  It was the first time in my life I pulled an all-nighter, except maybe that time in college when I flew back from London. I say that if I had not been awake for the delivery I would not have believed that the baby was mine. She looked peculiar to me  – kind of flat, dark and square – and though I didn’t have a clear picture in my mind of what she would look like, she just didn’t seem to look like me. Now of course I think she has some of my features and some of my husband’s but I’m just glad I was conscious because otherwise, on top of other new mom worries, I probably would have been fearing a switched-at-birth scenario. Which would have only been fueled by all the confusion we encountered in the hospital, from the nurses not knowing the proper admittance procedure to finding out I was in for a difficult recovery only minutes before leaving the hospital.

So that is the story of Sonja’s foray into the world and even if I don’t want to be a mommy blogger and even if you’ve got your own life and could care less about mine, I hope that at least she will find this story interesting some day. It’s no longer about you, dear non-existent readers. It’s about her, and that’s the best reason for doing anything.

Try It, You’ll Like It

I was just reading a story about the new Harry Potter website, Pottermore, on which all of the Potter books will be available for download as ebooks. J.K. Rowling had not previously allowed any of her works to be published as ebooks due to fear of piracy and wanting fans to experience the story on paper. Then something happened to change her mind. She actually read an e-book.

I just finished reading my first book in the e-format. I’d been avoiding it because I too, like Rowling, love paper and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to concentrate without knowing the specs of the book. The thickness, the scent, as well as the ability to underline at will. But after donating boxes upon boxes of old books to the library (see previous post Sentimental Fool) and thinking more critically about the e-book format (thanks to an old episode of Seinfeld), I decided I needed to try it. My verdict? Not bad, not bad at all.

I borrowed my husband’s Sony e-reader, which is a first generation device that did not emerge as one of the more popular e-readers. Still, my only complaints were the pages turned a bit slowly (I think it should be instantaneous) and the buttons for turning the pages, were not where I thought they should be (though it did have right and left hand options.) Reading the text was easy and the screen size was good (I had been concerned that it might be too small.) It was much easier to hold the e-reader and eat at the same time than it is to hold open a paperback while noshing, which is a big plus in my book (in my e-book?!?) I was able to bookmark the pages I wanted (no underline available on this edition) and now that I’m done with the book, I don’t have to find a place to store the actual, physical book. Hallelujah! A space-saver and a tree-hugger. Consider me a convert.

Technology can be hard to keep up with, and there will always be those who cling to the past. (Not me. Promise.) As soon as something becomes obsolete (like LPs), there is a resurgence of popularity for the technology among those who think things are cool BECAUSE they are obsolete. It was obvious to me even before I read the e-book that despite my reluctance, ebooks would be the way of the future. I don’t think paper books will be discontinued entirely. Like CDs, I think they will serve a certain purpose (hey I need something for Nick Hornby to sign), but the market for physical books will continue to wane. And I’m all for it. Onward and upward, to infinity and beyond.

Sentimental Fool

I hosted a garage sale today. It most certainly wasn’t the biggest sale on the block (seriously, there were about 400 of them in a one mile radius on this rare, beautiful June Saturday.) I like to keep my home clean and clutter free, so I make several trips to goodwill a year. However, we were swimming in a sea of outdated electronics (mostly my husband’s), some of which were too big for me to haul away on my own, and some which were in good condition, making me think I could get some money out of them. And I did. I’m richer than if I’d donated or recycled everything, so it was worth it. Sadly, I still have many things to haul away.

All of this got me thinking about sentimentality. I was having a discussion with a friend the other day about how our habits used to be to have lots of knickknacks and whatsits displayed in order to show off our personalities. At some point along the way, having a clean desk and clear mind became a much better way to live. Now a homeowner, I am pro-active about keeping the decor simple and pleasing to the eye, no doubt influenced by my work on a design show that is all about clearing clutter and making one’s house presentable. But this raised the question, how far is too far?

So many things are migrating to the electronic realm – books, music, films – all things that were once displayed so prominently and proudly in our homes as an expression of self. Maybe if I had a mansion on the hill with a couple of pools, a conservatory and a study, I wouldn’t mind having a room dedicated to showing off all the books I’ve collected over the years. But I don’t. So reclaiming all that square footage once dedicated to books and keeping them on an electronic device no bigger than a paperback is mighty appealing. But if we do that for everything, are we just going to end up looking like the star ship Enterprise?  

And at what point, exactly, did all the sentimentality – the notion that we needed to display books and music and stuff to be expressive and unique – when did all that disappear? Or, put another way, at what point did we donate our sentimentality to the Goodwill of our brains? Somewhere around the birth of the online presence, I’m guessing.

As I prepared for this garage sale, I commended myself on being harsh and unsentimental about what I would part with, but I am happy to say I’m not a complete android yet. While there are many, many things that I have held on to over the years that now seem so simple to let go of, there are still some memories that are too precious to donate. I have a set of dishes, not even a complete set, that I bought when I was in college that I could not bear to part with, even though they are serving up nothing but dust. (Not that anybody bought any dishes anyway.)  I have a pile of concert t-shirts that are never worn yet  never going anywhere, as well as some other “memory clothing”,  mostly bought in foreign countries ten years ago that I have to keep because, well, I got that in France! And two expensive water bottles my husband and I bought rather recently which we both hate, but that are so pretty I remain determined to find a way to repurpose them.

So I suppose this means all is not lost. Memory still has an effect on how we live our lives. As a culture, we are not boring, space-traveling cyborgs just yet. And provided I am able to get out tomorrow to donate and recycle all that we couldn’t sell today, I will consider this spring cleaning effort a whirlwind success. I shall have clean lines, a clutter-free home and utter peace of mind – for just about three months until a baby enters our lives and the whole house is turned upside down.

What’s the Deal with Books?

I was actually channel-surfing the other night (how old school!) and I came upon a Seinfeld repeat. Even when there is new entertainment to take in over the airwaves, most of it can’t compete with a Seinfeld repeat. So I started watching and I was struck by a very prescient line of dialogue.

In this episode, George breaks up with a girlfriend but leaves some of his books at her house. He asks Jerry to retrieve the books for him because he can’t bear the awkwardness of seeing his ex again. Jerry resists, and asks George, “What is this obsession with books? Why do you need to keep them after you’ve read them?” George doesn’t really have an answer to this, except to say that they are his books and he wants to keep them.

This episode was from 1991 and it reminded me of a discussion I had in one of my MCDM (grad school)classes in 2010. We seem to be programmed to collect and keep stuff, such as books and DVDs and CDs. The question was posed to the class that if we have constant access to the things we like through streaming services like Netflix, is there really a need to own them? A lot of the class, I recall, thought yes, they would still want to own those things. When further pressed as to why, the best answer anyone could really come up with was, “because they are mine.”

I fully admit to being in the” needing to own things” camp but I also admit that I’m now wavering. While I”m pretty attached to my CDs and I still find them functional (I listen to them downstairs when cooking or cleaning, but never upstairs when I’m at my computer, which has all the same information), I think I could happily chuck the DVDs if everything was on Netflix Watch Instantly. 

However the thing that has been plaguing me recently is books. Books take up a LOT of space. We definitely have space in this house but we don’t have a lot of book space. No built-in shelves or anything like that. And e-readers are pretty affordable these days, hold way more books than our house ever could and don’t take away from any design elements. Just one small little handheld device that can be stored in a nightstand drawer. But is this really the way to read books? People who have them sure seem to like them. I just don’t know, I feel awfully attached to page-turning. Sometimes books smell good. I think there is a visceral experience to reading that might be lost on an electronic device. But I’ve never actually tried an e-reader and there are lots of books that I would like access to – old textbooks, software manuals, reference books – but that I don’t want to look at everyday (and let’s be honest, probably won’t access ever again either.)

I think we’ll get to the point where we pay for access instead of paying for product. And whatever sentimental attachment I have to the physicality of books will vanish. But stay the hell away from my CD collection.

A Rooting Interest

It’s that time again – time for the annual Oscar post! (Be still your hearts.) If you’re going to take away anything from this possibly rambling, probably pointless post, let it be this: See The King’s Speech. You won’t be sorry.

I have lamented in earlier posts that movies just aren’t what they used to be. I think I went for most of the year without seeing a single thing I liked. But things took a turn for the better over the last couple of months, when many of this year’s nominees came out in theaters. I have seen 7 of the 10 best picture nominees (same as last year) and I loved two of them (The King’s Speech, True Grit), liked one of them (Toy Story 3), found three of them acceptable though nothing I would watch again (The Kids are All Right, The Social Network, Winter’s Bone) and I didn’t like Inception. I found certain things about Inception interesting, but overall it was a big, long, convoluted mess. I’m looking forward to seeing Black Swan, starring my doppelgänger and probable best actress winner Natalie Portman, and 127 Hours with crazy man James Franco, but I’ll probably skip The Fighter. I’ve seen this movie before, I’m sure of it.

I’ve decided I like the idea of 10 best picture nominees. I’m sure the Oscars did it for the ratings boost (more fun to watch when you have a rooting interest or have at least seen some of the things nominated) but I think it provides a better overall picture of the year in…well…pictures. Each year there are plenty of articles on entertainment sites about past Oscar winners, and many of them are people giving their opinions on which were the worst films to ever win an Oscar. (Titanic!) That will still happen, only now the authors will have a long list to pick from of what movies were better and also nominated that year. Honestly though, it can also be tough to predict what will hold up over time, so when the Academy inevitably gets it wrong, there’s a longer and more reflective list of what else was good that year.

 I usually have a rooting interest in the writing categories and this year I don’t. Last year I think I wanted 500 Days of Summer to win (and was disappointed.) It was a great little film which was insightful and realistic and cleverly written and structured. This year, The King’s Speech is nominated for original screenplay, and that would be my pick, but I wouldn’t call it a writer’s story. I imagine that it would actually be a very hard story to convey on paper, without shoe-in best actor winner Colin Firth bringing that stammer to cringe-inducing life. There is an awful lot of storytelling that goes on in the silences, as we wait and cringe and hope and pray for the words to form. It’s also a very subtle story that does not focus on the historical astonishments and soap opera-ness of the British monarchy like other period films do. This is a film about the dynamics of a friendship and the universal truth that everyone  struggles with something, regardless of position in society.    

I have one other rooting interest (besides Best Picture) this year and that’s in the Best Original Song category. I really know better than to invest in this category in any way, because very year the Academy predictably picks the absolute worst song in the history of songwriting as the winner. But perennial Oscar nominee and my personal favorite Randy Newman is nominated this year for the song We Belong Together from Toy Story 3, and it’s such a good song. It’d be nice to see him win. He’s only won once (nominated 19 times), for Monster’s Inc, and during his acceptance speech, when the clock was running out, he told the musicians in the orchestra that if they played him off, they’d never work for him again. And not a peep was heard until he was finished. Truly one of the great moments in Oscar history that nobody remembers and only I love.

Finally, I am predicting The King’s Speech to win the big award and I am quite sure if it does, no one will regret it five or ten years down the line. It will stand the test of time because the story is timeless and universal, and that’s really what you want out of your Best Picture winner.