Les Mis: A Fangirl's Review

(Spoilers abound, but we all know the story by now, right?)

Oh, Les Miserables.  I wanted to love you.  I was one of those girls who fell in love with you at a fairly young age, and it happened completely through my cassette tape of the original Broadway cast album.  (I didn't see the show until at least three years of obsessive soundtrack listening.) Like so many other girls (not that I realized it at the time), I knew that Eponine was not just the role I was born to play but my sister in unrequited love.  No one could understand her like me!  When I finally saw the show, it was bliss.  Oh, how I cried--beginning, middle, end.  Les Mis rocked my world.

Christmas WTFery: The Polar Express

I took Charlotte to a special showing of The Polar Express this morning.  I figured it would be a fun, Christmas-y thing to do since we won't be decorating or making crafts (see last year's Christmas entry for more on that).  I've never read the book, nor had I seen the movie, so I was a blank slate.  What follows is not a review; it's more like a Festivus-style airing of grievances.

A Quest

Me, resting.

I know that I should be on a quest for something substantial: enlightenment, maybe, or adventure.  But no--I'm far shallower than that.  I have been wearing boot-cut jeans for fifteen years, dammit.  I want something else.  So I'm on a quest for non-boot-cut jeans that don't make me look like I'm walking around on two state-fair turkey legs.  Because y'all: I am pear-shaped.  A size medium top at J. Crew fits like a dream, but I have to wear pants so big that they can barely bring themselves to carry them in the store.  It's ridiculous.  And the conventional wisdom for pear-shaped people is that we must wear boot-cut jeans to balance ourselves out.  I get it.  But...fifteen years.  I need a change.

Anatomy of a Mental Health Day

I didn't go to work yesterday, and y'all, it was awesome.  Here's what I did:

• Slept an hour later than usual, then had some coffee and read Jezebel.
• Got Charlotte ready for school, dropped her off, and went back home. I could totally handle being a stay-at-home mother of a school-age child.
• Walked on the treadmill while watching Season 3 of RuPaul's Drag Race (Manila and Delta Work's LSFYL to "Macarthur Park" was pretty incredible), then had some candy.  As one does.
• Made some soup.
• Had delicious soup while watching What Not to Wear.

That was pretty much it.  It doesn't sound like much, but I haven't taken a sick day when no one was sick since before Charlotte was born, and it felt like such a luxury.  I might have to do it again sometime in the next six years.

Haiku Review: Rosebud Salve

Note: Back when I was lucky enough to advise the finest trio of student jornalists [sic] ever, one of our recurring features was the haiku review.  In honor of them, I'm bringing it back.  

Let's get one thing straight: I am a lip balm addict.  I love the stuff, and I'm on a perpetual quest for the perfect one.  Currently I use Burt's Bees, but I feel about it the way Republicans do about Mitt Romney: it's okay, I guess, but I'm certainly not enthusiastic about it.   (Burt's Bees Fantastically Fresh shower gel is another story; my devotion to it knows no bounds. And actually, it's body wash and not shower gel, but the phrase body wash grosses me out.) Enter Rosebud Salve.  I've read a bazillion celebrities raving about it in InStyle, and I finally picked some up in Sephora the other day.  It's available in a lovely, retro tin and a charmless tube; I opted for the tube because I don't want to stick my fingers in goop.  Anyway, here's the verdict:

Makes my lips feel so
Fine, unfortunately smells
Like baby diapers.

Best albums of the '90s, according a non-eminent non-music critic

I absolutely, without a doubt, indisputably am a product of the 1990s.  I love the '90s the way Baby Boomers love the 1960s--in an uncritical, hazy way that makes me quite annoying.  The '90s are, as the adage says, like sex and pizza: even when they were bad, they were still pretty good.  So, in that spirit, here's my list of the top albums of the '90s.

What Really Makes You Beautiful

You might expect me to be the last person to criticize a boyband (NKOTBSB 4-eva!!!), yet here I go.  Though I love that there is a boyband resurgence, I must take issue with the ubiquitous One Direction hit "What Makes You Beautiful." I understand the appeal: the target audience for this group is awkward-age girls who don't feel pretty.  Of course they want to hear that they're actually beautiful, even if they don't realize it.  So many girls need to believe that there's a swan just waiting to emerge from the ugly-duckling facade.  So yay, One Direction--you're making girls feel good about themselves!  But hold on--something isn't right here.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

In the week since Whitney Houston's death, I've seen a lot of pearl-clutching over society's misplaced values. You know you've seen it too; you may even have been among those posting it on Facebook.  Many people have expressed the view that we shouldn't celebrate Whitney Houston's life or mourn her death because other, less well-known people have also recently died (and continue to do so every day--they are relentless!). These other people tend to have nobler jobs than Whitney, and they usually aren't addicts, which compounds the sense of injustice.

Rainy Sunday

Supper's in the Crock-Pot, cheesy shows are on TV, Mark and Charlotte are building with Legos*, and we're all in pajamas. Not too shabby.

*I know that Lego is an adjective, but I just can't. In my world, it's a noun.

The Evolution of Valentine's Day

In the last 24 hours, I have witnessed the three stages of Valentine's Day.  It was like being visited by Jacob Marley's ghost, only his chains were made of construction paper hearts (and he smelled kind of like Drakkar Noir).

Beauty and the Beast revisited

Beauty and the Beast is my favorite of the great animated movies Disney made in the '90s.  I first saw it at the dollar theater with my best friend and her mom (along with The Cutting Edge--if you were 16 in 1993, you know how awesome this was).  I love the gorgeous visuals (the ballroom scene!) and the over-the-top Broadway-style musical numbers.  Plus, Belle is a reader--she is clearly my homegirl.  So of course I was excited to see it on the big screen again, and in 3-D, no less.

Politics

I was kind of sad about Mitt Romney's inevitable march toward the Republican nomination: I felt I was being deprived of the kind of delightful shitshow that Republicans enjoyed during the fight for the Democratic nomination last go-round.  But wait!  Santorum won Iowa?  (Heh, Santorum.) Gingrich has a shot at South Carolina? Yes!  Get me some popcorn!  I'm sorry that Perry's gone; he provided so much entertainment: pouncing on his wife while wearing a black turtleneck, forgetting stuff, acting drunk, shooting a coyote while jogging...those were the days. The man made George W. look like an intellectual.  I need him in my life!  Oh well--at least his dropping out will likely prolong the inevitable.  I mean, we all know Romney's got this and will go on to have his plastic ass handed to him by Obama in November.

Cheeri-oh HELL, no!

All I wanted was some cereal for Lou and me: something semi-healthy, something sweet enough, but nothing you'd mistake for a bowl of milk-sodden candy. So I got Multigrain Cheerios. Innocent enough, right? Not when you look at the back of the box, which features two slender women, mid-stride and delighted-looking, bookending some insipid text about small things I can do to (all together now) manage my weight! Yay! First of all, are you kidding me with this? Get back to me when you've got something fresher than "drink more water" and "take the stairs," Multigrain Cheerios. Second of all, I'm trying not to plague my daughter with body image issues. I don't want her to think that weight management is the only reason to eat stuff like whole grains. Last of all, I take serious umbrage at their cheery-yet-creepy tag line, "More grains, less you!" That sounds like you get a free amputation with each box. Anyway, I like me. Less me is a bad thing, as far as I'm concerned. In short, screw you, Cheerios.

New Year's Day

So it's January 1; cue the reflection.