My Best Of Award is a day late, but there was that thing with the baby poo and then me cutting off parts of my body in the attempt to make yam chips. It was a tough Wednesday. Sure, not as tough as breaking rocks in the hot sun, but tough here in Blogland.
So, my first NaBloPoMo Halushki "Best Of" Award is going to my husband.
I know, I know. It looks more than a little fishy, and yes there was rigging in the way of a bottle of Frangelico. Frangelico in my coffee, Franglico on ice, Frangelico over granola in the morning. Oh the wonderful condiment that is Frangelico!
I'm giving my husband this lovely and much sought after award for his Teh Awezome movie reviews.
Here's one here for Open Water.
And this one for The Island made me crack up four different ways.
The one for Marie Antoinette I didn't much agree with. The review gets all "grad school film major" sounding, when really, I so enjoyed the movie for the pretty colors and the soundtrack I could dance to. But I do love when my husband just gets all Mr. Smarty Pants as he writes these reviews, and I close my eyes and imagine him wearing a grey-heather wool blazer, severely trendy eye wear...
and nothing else.
No, no, no, no, no....
I'm just kidding.
We don't need no naked men here.
Smart and funny is a turn on in and of itself.
Walking up behind me wearing only a bath towel and flashing me with a subtle "Woo woo, Baby!" is not. Usually. Unless I've had a lot of Frangelico.
Anyway, what my husband should really do is make use of the nifty Labels feature on Blogger to label all his movie reviews for easy reference. So that if you wanted to find these reviews for Pan's Labyrinth and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, you could find it pronto. Labels, Honey. Easy peasy lemon squeasy.
Now, with that done and done, onto another question from my Seestor. Here's last weeks entry.
This week I'll be answering
If you could pick one day from your past to live over, what day would it be? Would you change anything about it?
I am reminded of the scene in Our Town where Emily is brought to the cemetery after having died in childbirth, and she asks the Stage Manager if she can go back to her life for just one day. The Stage Manager agrees, and Emily must choose which day to relive. Another of the deceased counsels her to choose a day that is unimportant, knowing that it will be important enough, and Emily chooses her 12th birthday.
The scene opens on the town as it was. Emily delights in memorable landmarks, but expresses surprise to see Howie Newsome and Constable Bill Warren because she knows that they are now dead. It is early morning and the milkman, paper boy, and constable appear on the streets. The constable reports saving a man from freezing to death in the snow.Emily’s mother calls the children to breakfast. Emily is surprised at how young her mother looks. She overhears trivial conversation. Her parents discuss Mr. Webb’s trip as well as Emily’s birthday. More in wonder than grief, Emily cries out: ‘I can’t bear it. They’re so young and beautiful. Why did they ever have to get old? . I can’t look at everything hard enough ” Emily comes downstairs; her mother remonstrates: “Birthday or no birthday, I want you to eat your breakfast good and slow ” Emily’s reply is filled with emotion: “Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me . ” Emily’s mother gives her a birthday gift and describes her brother’s gift. Then Emily hears her father’s voice calling her.Suddenly, she turns to the Stage Manager and tells him that the scene is unbearable. “I can’t go on. It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another ” She asks the Stage Manager to take her back “up the hill—to my grave ” As she leaves, she says: “Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you ” Then she asks the Stage Manager: “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?” The Stage Manager tells her no, but suggests that some saints and poets do value life.
Now I'm not much of a poet. And I know for sure I'm not a saint.
But the thought of going back one day...which day to choose? I'd be tempted to go back to a day when I was very young, a toddler, so that I could see my Dad's mother one more time. I don't remember my Grandmother very well...only hazy images. Her pink bedroom, which was later my sister's room. The can of colored hard candies she kept on her headboard. Sitting on her knee for giddy-up horse rides....
And I'd love to go back to the day my sister came home from the hospital after being born. I only have one memory of her as a baby. I was three years old. I was sitting on the green sofa in our parlor, and my mother put a large white pillow on my lap. Then, she placed my baby sister onto the pillow. I remember only how tiny she seemed, and how I was being cautioned not to move too quickly, reminded to sit still. I'd like to relive that moment again. Just to be able to really see her, to gather in the full poetry of this moment.
I'd be hesitant to do anything different. To mess with one butterfly and possibly cause a hurricane in the Atlantic, or to pluck one strand of the spidery web of past decisions and cause some far reaching vibration that knocks a fly off a thread and stops someone's supper, is a risk I'm not sure I'd want to take. I look at my children, and although I am am convinced that they simply insisted themselves into current existence, and that they just happened to use me as a sort of 9-month decompression chamber on their journey out of some past life and into this world on their continued longer journey into lives beyond, I am, nonetheless, quite attached to them now. Knowing what I know, and loving them like I do - which would be more than the ocean loves the moon - I wouldn't want to test the theory that given any other circumstances, we would find each other again.
I know...I know...it's a metaphysical trick-of-the-light to say that any two people are meant to bump into each other again and again and across time lines, and if they didn't, that the absence of those bumps would be noticed.
But still. Even for all the possibilities of other potentially better possibilities, I suppose I'm a regular Hamlet when it comes to choosing the devils I know.
Not that my kids are devils.
I think I've slid into the murky pool of mixed metaphors, again.
But briefly, back to Emily and Mr. Wilder's play...
Going back to any day when my father was alive would be far too bittersweet. I don't think I could be poetic about seeing him alive again; just overwhelmed with sadness once more, feeling the full force of the loss.
Then again, there are times when I think that I would like to go back to the Thanksgiving Day a few days before my father died. I think that maybe I should have gone home to Schuylkill County that day to have dinner with my family instead of staying in Philadelphia. My mother and father ate Thanksgiving dinner alone that day. Although, come to think of it, maybe that day was actually my mom's "one day to relive". Maybe we really did all have Thanksgiving together that year, but my mom relived that day with just her and my father, and so who am I to go back and change that for her?
See how complicated this all is? It's like a house of mirrored clocks.
So, I don't know....
Maybe I'll just go back to yesterday and play some lottery numbers.
And there are at least three perms that I should have never gotten and reliving those days without my hair wound in tiny rods might very well be worth a hurricane in the Atlantic or a kudzu pandemic or whatever.
Or maybe, I'll go back to 1975 and the first day of fourth grade, and I'll pass my friend Amy a quick note telling her she shouldn't be upset about the goofy Jan Brady dress she's wearing; that I'll be her friend anyway, and for a good long time.
Or maybe, I'll go back to the night my husband and I met, and I'll just cut to the chase and warn him that resistance is futile. And freak him out by telling him what we are going to name our children.
And I'll insist that he should listen to me when I tell him about a cool new band called Nirvana, and not let him talk me out of seeing them play at this hole-in-the-wall club on South Street. Boy, talk about regrets.
So, in essence, I haven't answered the question, have I?
Or, I suppose that the answer is that I'm too much of an emotional and metaphysical wimp to time travel. The full realization of just how wonderful life is and how much we take for granted would bring me to a standstill.
I might never blog again.