Mortgage Movies

Look at me, getting in a post early. Actually, the reason is I have a splitting headache, so you guys will get a short and sweet one tonight- a topic that was meant for Monday, but as I mentioned, I was detained.

A quick stroll down the aisles of a video store (or perhaps I should say, quick scroll through the Netflix listings) is bound to make you realize just how many bad movies exist. For every good movie there are at least 15 truly painfully embarrassing ones. Most of the time you can forgive the actors involved- after all, did anyone really expect the 4th sequel to American Pie to be Shakespearean?

What's not forgivable are the great actors that sign on for such movies. Nothing breaks my heart more than when I am watching a preview for a movie I know is going to be lousy, and see some of my favorite legitimate actors trying to hold it up. I have to figure these people know they are in the middle of a crap-fest, but hey, someone's gotta pay for the private jet and house in Bora Bora. Therefore, I have lovingly dubbed these films, "Mortgage Movies"- movies actors do simply because a bill is coming up and they could use the petty (and I do mean petty) cash. Here's my short list of what happens when bad movies happen to good actors...

1.) Angelina Jolie- "Alexander". I used to be on the fence when it came to my opinion of Angelina Jolie as an actor. I finally tipped in favor of her when I saw her in the epically chilling "The Changeling" as a frightened yet strong mother in search of her son. However, I can not yet forget that she actually signed on for the big budget-gusting "Alexander," which was all lustre and little substance.

2.) Robert De Niro- "Analyze That". In general, sequels of movies always have a harder time of being great. And while he was able to deliver magic in "The Godfather Part II" the same can not be said for the second "Analyze This". I recall seeing it on television a while ago and thought I'd see what it was about. I tried to stick it out, but I still couldn't figure it out. Laughs never came' just disappointment and the eventual click of the remote.

3.) Laura Linney (and Robin Williams)- "Man of the Year". This movie had all the makings of a good comedy- topical humor mixed with Williams seemingly back to some classic comedy maneuvers. Plus, adding Laura Linney, one of the finest contemporary actresses today, would certainly guarantee its' success, right? Uhhh...not so much.

4.) Brendan Fraser- "Journey to the Center of the Earth". Ok, granted, when you think great acting, Brendan Fraser might not be the first person you think of. But I felt the need to include him simply because the man has literally made a living saying yes to ANYTHING that comes across his desk. I figure he keeps shooting at targets just in the hopes that one day he'll get a bulls eye, but he couldn't have been further from the mark with this one. He basically took one of my favorite novels by Jules Verne and WB/Disneyfied it, covering it in such sappy dialogue and overused effects that it was painful to watch.

5.) Morgan Freeman- "The Big Bounce". The Big what? Exactly. I'll admit, I never saw this one (or "Alexander" for that matter, but I still stand by my assessment and welcome any challenges), but when I went to scroll through some of Morgan Freeman's roles this one popped out and stands out as the paragon of Mortgage Movies. Flimsy dippy idea about a get-rich quick scheme, or at least that's as far as I can deduce from IMDB. For such an iconic actor as Freeman is, I can only imagine he agreed to this one for the free trip to Hawaii.

I always thought actors would say yes to anything and everything only when they weren't famous and needed the exposure (and money). But at a certain point, when they hit that certain level of success, they could begin to be more choosy; opting for the artistic or avant garde roles rather than the quirky sidekick or brooding henchman. I guess what really changes is not the need for exposure and money, it's the want. And maybe it's not even for the exposure...it's just for the mortgage.

Door to Door

I hate walking into doors. Not to be confused with the idea of literally walking into doors (which I have done and does suck. Stupid ultra clean glass and screen doors). Instead, what I mean is that awkward moment when either you are holding the door for someone or they are holding it for you.

Yet, before I begin this rant of my own psychosis, let me address the reason I did not post yesterday. I was all set to go downstairs to write but I just wanted to get Joe's take on the topic I had in mind. Somehow we got on the subject of the movie "Forrest Gump", and suddenly our bedroom became the setting for CNN's Crossfire. He claimed the movie to be shallow and falsely nostalgic while I defended it saying it's character development went alongside the brief moments in history. We got so deep in our debate by the time we had found a small chunk of common ground it was nearly midnight. So, I'm making up for it by talking about walking through doors. You lucky readers, you.

Anyway, the reason I got the idea for this topic was from what happened today at work. As I was walking in, I could see in the reflection of the glass door that someone was coming up behind me. I set myself in door-holding position and waited. I misjudged her distance, and instead of waiting a second, I'm waiting several. I'm starting to feel a bit like I'm making a faux pas until she gets to me and takes the door.

"Oh thank you, but you really didn't have to hold the door for me."

Ok, as I think I have made abundantly clear, I am not a fan of high pressure confrontations, no matter how minuscule they actually are. Take this "holding doors" thing. In essence it's a no-brainer. If you are opening a door and you know someone is behind you, you simply lock your arm in place to keep the door open so either they can grasp it easily or slide in behind you. Of course if you are feeling especially giving (which is what these coming holidays are all about), you might even go so far as to physically pull the door open from the outside to allow the person to walk in, like a freaking VIP, without the degradation of touching the door itself.

Now, here's where my neurotic mind takes hold. In most instances I can follow polite social protocol. If I am opening a door and I can tell someone is right behind me I'll wait and keep the door propped open. However, what do you do when the person is not right behind you? What if they aren't 2 steps away, but 12? You make the eye contact, you know they see you ahead of them. I start to panic. If I stand here like the doorman, the person will either think I'm a weirdo and ignore the gesture until they get to me or else the realize they need to hurry up so as I don't need to hold the door for very long. The latter is usually what goes through my head when the tables are turned and I find myself turned into a power-walker just to get to the door fast.

On the other hand, if I simply let the door close behind me the person could think I'm an asshole. If you don't think I'm slightly psychotic because I actually worry about holding open doors, I'm even more obsessed with making sure everyone, even strangers, like me. And when they don't, I have a small mental meltdown. Take this time about two years ago in a movie theater. I was with my two girlfriends watching all the Best Picture nominees when I wanted to stretch my legs and make a phone call. I walked into the vestibule for some privacy and when my call was completed, I tried to pull the door back open, only to find that it locked behind me. I tried to call my friends but they didn't hear their phones. So I simply waited for someone to happen along so I could grab them to let me out. Finally a man walked in to walk through to the other side, and as I realized the next movie was starting I said a brief thank you to the man and began to walk out. He suddenly spun around and said, "A 'thank you' would be nice." I thought for a second he was joking so I turned to smile and realized he was scowling. He was serious! He didn't hear my thank you and so he walked off thinking I was some spoiled ingrate who didn't appreciate a good door-hold. It eats away at me still.

So, I've always erred on the side of kindness, even keeping doors open for people still in their cars. And if someone holds a door for me, I take them by the hand and kiss their palm like they just healed leprosy...which is what that guy was expecting I guess. Anyway, I'ma sleepy one. See you kiddies tomorrow.

Bedtime Buddy

If there ever was a day that most tempted me into borrowing someone's cable, the day I was long fearing since I began this venture, it would be today...cold, rainy, no where to be, and Joe out in Ocean City till tomorrow.

But I managed to muddle through by reading this huge novel I've been chipping at for over a month. Then of course I ended up passing out on the couch, which ate up a little more time

The worst part about being alone is not the television temptation, though. It's the quiet. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned that, after years of inundating my brain with episodes of CSI and Law & Order, I have become quite paranoid when left all alone. I tend to turn all the lights on, leaving radios blaring in every room, and trying to stay up as late as possible to avoid darkness.

This was one of the reasons we adopted a dog. I wanted some company whenever Joe was practicing late or had to go somewhere overnight. Thankfully we got the right dog for the job. In fact, I haven't even noticed my usual neuroses kicking in. I was even able to do my new shower aerobics.

Yeah that's my new thing: shower aerobics. Because my wonderful little watchdog jumps all over me thinking it's playtime whenever I try to do some crunches, I've had to resort to doing lunges and tae-bo kicks while shampooing and conditioning. In fact, I was in mid-side curl when I started to hear a scratching noise. It freaked me out enough that I stopped and peered around my shower curtain. When I looked I saw my underwear and sweatpants being tugged. Georgia was pulling my clothes under the door. For what, I have no idea. But it did make me smile.

Anyway, I'll leave you with that weird image- can't avoid the night anymore. Good night folks!

Serious Tissues

If you've ever wondered what that bulge in my front pockets were, I can tell you, it's not because I'm happy to see you. Well, maybe I am, it depends on who you are. They're actually something much more special. Much more precious. Much more...two-plyed.

Yes, dear friends, if my love of Glenn Miller, "I Love Lucy" and "Golden Girls" re-runs, and my driving ability weren't enough, the fact that I feel absolutely helpless without a tissue would solidify the theory that I AM, in fact, an old lady.

I don't really know when this became such an obsession. I guess because too often I can recall situations where I was suddenly struck with a runny nose and had no way to help it. I can clearly remember one incidence in middle school in which our class was in the middle of some big test; the kind they didn't even allow you to get up from your seat once it began. I was fine up until I was about halfway through. My nose felt cold and suddenly I realized my nose was runny (you ever get those kinds of runny noses? Where the mucus is body-temperature so you don't realize till you feel it get cold on the outside of your lip? Sorry, too gross?) I tried to carefully reach into my desk or pockets for a tissue without drawing attention from my teacher. As my nose continued to run, I became more panicked, suddenly hoping to find something, ANYTHING that might help me not look like "that kid": the kid in your class that looks disheveled and messy, and might even have a certain odor. I was petrified of being labeled "that kid." When I had searched every pocket and every crevice in my backpack, now not even caring if the teacher thought I was cheating or not, I was forced to use my hand by pretending my nose was just itchy. That, of course, made it worse. By the time the test was over, I had become more concerned over my nose than my score, and had lost pretty much all concentration. I tell you, I might've been in Harvard had I just 1 damn tissue with me all those years.

It still took me a few years to finally choose need over style, and so I'd simply stuff each pocket with a fresh tissue. Anytime I spotted one of those cardboard cubes anywhere I'd take a tissue, whether I really needed it or not. Of course, at times I would still be caught unawares, and would therefore have to rely on desperate measures. Here's my quick run-down of tissue-like back-ups...

1.) Toilet paper- Probably the most obvious second-choice paper product. Easily accessible, usually still soft on the nose, and flushable. However, unless it's a good quality brand you are likely to end up blowing your nose on your hand, anyway.

2.) Napkins- Again, depending on the brand, could be soft and sturdy enough. However, usually not-so kind to the nose and because they are usually thicker it's difficult to stuff one in your pocket.

3.) Paper towels- Not kind to the nose at all. Not flushable and not pocketable. But will get the job done.

4.) Sheet paper- Yes, I do mean an actual piece of notebook lined paper. And yes, at one particularly desperate point in my life I have used this. Aside from the obvious negatives...like it can cut your nostril and oh yeah...its GROSS...there is a way to use a piece of paper to wipe your nose. You just have to know the method to my madness (and this was actually taught to me by someone. I forget who, but if you're out there and by some miracle actually reading this, God Bless You). Take the single sheet and crumple it up into as tight a ball as you can. Unravel it and repeat. You basically continue these same steps at least 6 or 7 times, and believe it or not, the paper begins to take on a cloth-like feel. I was quite amazed at the transformation. By crumpling it up over and over it begins to breakdown. If you have the time (or interest) I highly suggest trying out this little science experiment.

Anyway, sorry if this was a gross one, but I think you got the idea. So the next time I am around you and I sneeze, instead of saying 'Bless You', try saying "Tissue?" My jean pockets, my purse, my laundry dryer, and I will all thank you.

It's Dempsey Time!

November already?? Yeah, I know I missed out on posting yesterday but I was so damn tired I couldn't handle it. Not just because of my crazy busy weekend, but because the allergy medication I had to take was knocking me out (more on that tomorrow).

As I mentioned before on Thursday, Friday Joe and I made the three hour trek to New Jersey for my cousin Graham's wedding. Despite my obsessive worrying about getting there before the reception was over, I was pleased that we not only made it in time, but a few minutes early. What's that you say? Me? EARLY? I know I was pretty shocked too. If ever there was a person who could be diagnosed as being on Dempsey Time, it's me. In fact, it's especially embarrassing when your friends know not to expect you for at LEAST an extra hour or so. I try to fight it, but I truly believe there is some force out there watching over all of us and whenever I try my damnedest to get somewhere on time or even early it points me out.

"Oh, the curly-haired girl with the glasses...That's her right? Ok, keep anything that might resemble a possible outfit away from her reach, throw her car keys behind the couch for some reason, and just to make ABSOLUTELY sure, toss on some late night unnecessary construction on the main highway. Is she pulling her hair out and cursing up a storm? Excellent. Good work team."

So my brother and Joe and I all walked up to the banquet hall searching for the entrance. Since it was cold we simply decided to just use the door in front of us. As I jostled the wedding gifts we opened the door to the buffet line. So much for a graceful entrance. My newly added cousin-bride was standing right there but thankfully she was very gracious and unfazed. Whew.

I had also been a little nervous about this wedding because I had shopped for a dress myself. This may sound completely natural and not note-worthy at all. However, as my sister Linds pointed out, "For the Dempsey aunts, weddings and holidays are like the Superbowl." They all take the time leading up to the event game-planning which of the numerous outfits they have bought for the occasion they will wear that night. It is pretty normal for phone calls to be exchanged as quickly and desperately as a hostage situation. We, the younger generation, have picked up where our aunts left off; discussing where to buy a nice dress, what to avoid, what the trends are, who used what coupon, etc.

Being in Maryland, and fashion inept, has its disadvantages in this sense. I was forced to meander over to Macy's by myself and sift through dress after dress, having no idea what exactly would look cheap or gaudy, too old or too young. I had tried to get a head start on it (see, I AM trying) by going to Forever 21 to find something, and I realized...it's name is misleading. There's no such thing as being 21 forever. In most cases with these clothes, you can barely be 18 and still pull it off. I tried on three different "dresses". One was too short to be a dress, one was too long to be just a shirt, while the last just made me look like Dina Lohan.

Luckily, I managed to get the approval of my coach, I mean mother, which is quite the compliment. All in all, it was great to bond with my cousins (many of whom actually read this damn thing, so HI COUSINS!) and my aunts and uncles (whom apparently refer to this thing as Conway Twittey. I'll take any support I can get, even the mislabeled kind.)

I am also going to take my family's advice and shorten this thing from now on (and not just ramble--oh, oh wait, too late). So, goodnite folks.

Find the Smoking Toaster

First and foremost, a big sloppy wet welcome to my 9th follower, Jessica! Hola Hessica! One person closer to double digits. Feels good.

Anyway, if there was a theme for this week it would be....fire. Why? Indulge me to explain.

I was toasting an English muffin in our toaster oven on Monday when I suddenly noticed smoke building inside. Not inside our house, but inside the toaster. It had only been going for a few seconds, but still I turned the timer to 0. I was disappointed, as I hadn't anything else to eat for breakfast and I was already running late. I peered inside to see if a random crumb was on the heater bars when I noticed something that looked like burnt cheese on them instead. I suddenly recalled Joe saying he heated up some pizza the other night and assumed some of it's cheese had dripped off without his noticing.

I considered just going to work without breakfast, but worried I'd get into trouble with food the rest of the day. Quick side note: I heard someone use an old adage that said, "Breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, dinner like a pauper." It does make sense as a diet plan, sort of. If you are full in the morning you are less likely to overeat the rest of the day. However, when I think of eating alot in the morning my mind goes to making things like eggs and bacon; surely not what dietitians had in mind. So then what constitutes a big meal? A really big bagel? Two bowls of oatmeal? It's almost an oxymoron: eat alot of not alot. The only way I could reason in my head was by having a small bowl of cereal with a bread of some kind. Not sure if I'm getting any fitter, but I do find my mealtimes require less binge-eating.

Anyway, back to my toaster and English muffin. I didn't want it barely touched by heat, but I also didn't want to waste it. In the end, I popped it back in for a shorter amount of time and just watched. Sure enough, within a few seconds, the thing started smoking again. I waited as long as I thought safe and then turned it back off again. It had just crossed the not-toasted to toasted line, albeit barely. I slathered on some butter and peanut butter and made do. For the rest of the day I would get a dry charcoal taste in my mouth that reminded me of hamburgers. Not really a pleasant taste at 9:45 a.m.

The next day I opted instead to just buy a bagel from the kiosk in our office library. The guy behind the counter asked if I wanted him to heat it up for me.

"No thanks," I said. "I'll just pop it in the toaster oven in our office."

Back in our communal kitchen I broke the two halves apart and set them in the toaster. While I was getting some water I looked back and noticed the same exact smoke starting to billow. Although I was surprised at the odds of two toasters in my life starting to smoke, I was more panicked at getting in trouble with my co-workers. I could see the forwarded CC message now...

"To whoever was the dumbass who set fire to the kitchen: Can you go ahead and NOT do that? We here at ******* appreciate an unburnt kitchen but don't appreciate irresponsible temps using bagels as charcoal briquettes."

I quickly stopped the timer again, and waited till the smoke had seeped and slipped out before pulling out my, once again, barely heated breakfast bread.

Finally, today, as I decided to neither use my own toaster nor test the toaster in our office kitchen, I stopped at your favorite neighborhood McDonalds for my breakfast. A few hours later as I sat at my computer desk we were suddenly overcome by piercing buzzes and flashing lights. An unexpected fire drill was sounding, and as we all listlessly gathered our belongings and dared each other to take off for the rest of the day, I couldn't help but imagine some poor schlep was inside trying desperately to put out the flames of their Toaster Strudel.

I'm off to a wedding tomorrow night, folks, so have a good one! See you back on Monday!

Boo X 2

Jeez, I was just rereading what I had written back on Monday to realize where my story left off, and was taken aback by all my typos. For shame, me! What would other half-assed-barely legitimate-former English teachers like you say? I apologize to the actual English teachers out there for my glaring inaccuracies. Anyway, let me bang the rest of this story out...

So there I was, on the line, with no looking back. As we climbed onto the bus and found some seats, the same guy with the elaborate make-up stood up to tell us the rules.

"Please do not touch the monsters as they are not allowed to touch you.." I heard the word "monster" and I suddenly slipped down into my seat, shaking. I know this probably sounds a little melodramatic, but I couldn't help my reaction. I was silent for the whole 45 seconds we were on the bus, and as we started to disembark I briefly considered making a run to the nearest bar to wait for the rest, calling my apologies out over my shoulder. Instead, I knew I was in it. I'd have no choice but to go forward.

Thankfully, the girls were great about calming me down, although I had a slight panic when they led me over to sign a waiver. Yeah, a waiver!? I barely put my pen to the paper, suddenly terrified. Carly led me back towards the line, and as we waited to get in I noticed a girl of about 7 or 8 coming out of the attraction. She was talking excitedly to her family members or friends, and seemed overall unharmed.

I suddenly jolted back in my memories, recalling the time my sisters and I were in Magic Kingdom the last time and they were dragging me onto the Haunted Mansion ride. I was quite literally pitching a fit, when they beseeched the man at the door of the ride to simply tell me it was ok, and not that scary. He looked us over, with his pale made-up face, and said in his spookiest voice, "I wouldn't go in there, if I were yoooou." Thanks alot, Casper. Way to earn that theater internship and complimentary Disney stock.

I was still freaking out, until we noticed several kids, much younger than I, talking about how they had been on the Haunted Mansion ride a bunch of times. Suddenly, one of my sisters turned to me and said, "Really? These kids could be on an elementary school trip and YOU'RE freaking out?" That shut me up. Save a few whimpers, anyway.

I felt exactly as foolish then as I did now on that line. Except I was much older. And the kids looked even younger. I tried to compose myself, but the characters, noticing my fidgety hands and quick screams, found in me an ideal patron: gullible, blind, and already a barrel full of a fear. As we finally made our way into the actual penitentiary, I swear I could hear them whispering to each other in their headsets...

"Glasses, ponytail, and blue sweatshirt. Go go go!" They loved to get right in my ear, breathe on my neck, and wait for me to turn the corner before popping out. Finally as we headed for the last section, the others reminded me to simply avoid eye contact, and then they'd leave you alone. I was glad to listen to this advice, as it did keep them from attacking me full force, as they had on the other three sections.

When we finally made it out, I screamed a sigh of relief. Later on as we were making our way back, the braver and more experienced haunted-house visitors gave their critique.

"That was ok. But if you thought that was scary, you don't want to go to Field of Screams..." You're right, I really don't. I was glad I didn't totally wuss out and make myself an even bigger coward in front of the group. But I'll also be happy to never go to another one of those things again....Which way to the Spinning Teacups and Flight of Peter Pan??