Saturday, May 8, 2010

Demotivation for a Saturday morning

To get things started off with a chuckle, check out Shit's funny. And considering I always try to write positive crap on my Facebook status (inspirational quotes, etc.), I figured a little swing in the opposite direction was necessary. Keepin' it real. I'm not an idealist; I'm a realist. Or something like that.

I wanted to apologize to all the drivers in the local area/into Burnaby last Thursday for giving you a fright when you drove past the gold Dodge van with a crazy woman wearing a Santa hat. Princess is in an acting class, and as part of it, they're doing a film. A 34-minute undertaking, no small feat, written by the guy who runs the Young Actors Project ( Cool program. Princess has had a ton of fun and she's enjoying the role as the film's lead, Caroline. All in all, it's been a terrific experience. I recommend. (If you click on the link, that's Princess, front and center, in the movie poster for Thirteen. Yeah, she's cute. Doesn't look a thing like her mom.)

In my desire to recapture the glory of my youthful, medication-free twenties, I volunteered to help out with the class film (Thirteen) because, as you likely don't realize, I am a trained ack-tor. Yes, I spent a lot of money and time in the '90s trying to be the next Meg Ryan. Goes without saying that my big dreams didn't quite work out. (That's where the realist thing comes in.) So, the director, believing that I'm not a liar and that maybe I have had some training that would make me more credible than, perhaps, a depressed, bored housewife trying to seize some of that lost glory, said, Okay, sure, yeah, you can play the role of Mom. 

We shot my amazing scenes a few months ago when the weather was sucky--after all, the scene is supposed to happen at Christmastime--but due to a problem with a wide-angle lens adapter (or something), the scenes didn't work. We had to reshoot. In May. Not Christmasy at all. We chased patches of shade like addicts looking for heroin on Thursday,  in the director's minivan, me at the wheel with my ridiculously embarrassing Christmas sweater (thanks, Mom!) and a red and white furry Santa hat, and we drove around, trying to shoot this scene with my ONE line.

You do realize that when people are driving in the movies, they're not really driving. They're on a flatbed truck so they can concentrate on their line(s) and not on the road, not worrying about wrecking someone else's family car. (Just for the record, I navigated home, van intact, the gas tank a little lighter but sans scratches, dents, or damaged drive trains.)

So, I'm thinking this will likely be one of those decisions I live to regret, me and my big mouth, in my big screen debut where the HD camera will show all the lines and flaws in my skin. In my twenties, those lines and flaws were fewer, and the camera technology was more forgiving. But none of that changes the fact that I can't act for shit...and that is why the Meg Ryan thing never worked out.

Reality sucks.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. Shout out to all of you who gave up the pristine, unstretched condition of your most intimate parts to grant passage to the next generation. Thanks, Ma. 

Tomorrow is also Day 30. She said to wait thirty days before contacting her again (via email), but when I sent the rewrite, did that start the clock over? Man, I need a vacation from the tempest raging in my brain.

If you're looking for a fun rom-com, check out my review for Leap Day at Yeah, it was mushy. Yeah, it was predictable. But that doesn't mean it wasn't fun. And Matthew Goode is hot. I heart Ireland.

Sun's out. Finally. Time to pull weeds.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

No mercy for the wretched Evil who slither among us

I'm seething.

I heard on news radio last night that a substitute teacher in our district was arrested and charged with nine sex crimes against 7- and 8-year-old girls. THIRD graders. I have a third grader. On their Web site, the radio station was kind enough to publish a complete list of the schools where the "alleged offender" taught--and included is all three schools in my immediate area, all of which I either have a child at or have had a child attend in the past. Right away this morning, I asked my third and tenth graders if they recognized this guy, hereafter referred to as Evil; thankfully, they said no. 

But there are three sets of parents in my local community whose children would have to say that yes, they recognized that chubby, child-molesting face. I don't know how these parents live day to day, knowing that someone hurt their child in that way. In any way. I don't know how people go on after something like this, how they don't go out and arm themselves and wait outside the courtroom for Evil to show up for his court date.

On Planet Jenn, if you touch a kid inappropriately, you will be executed. There will, of course, be days of torture where my minions will remove parts of your body (the parts you're most obsessed with, naturally) while you are conscious, the number of body parts equivalent to the number of egregious acts committed against innocents. You molest five kids, you lose five body parts. Or smaller, more painful pieces of those body parts.

To err is human. To forgive is divine. Perhaps. But on Planet Jenn, there is no forgiveness for doing something heinous to a kid. Ever. Save me your soap box diatribes on offender rights, innocent until proven guilty. STOP. 

There is no forgiveness for crimes against children. None. I hope this guy rots in hell. I hope that the local magistrate (notoriously soft on criminals--must protect the offender, re-victimize the innocent!) throws the book at him. But before he does, in that book I'm going to embed razor blades laced with the neurotoxin of the world's most venomous arachnid, so that when the book nails Evil in the face, Evil is cut to shreds and then suffers the fallout from the poison seeping into his pores.

Because from the day of commission forward, those poor little girls will feel his poison every time they breathe in.