My First Experience With Curling

This blog was originally written and posted on Myspace on February 17, 2006

Around 4am this morning, Donny and I were watching a rebroadcast of the Olympic games.  I never really pay attention to the Olympics unless there’s some scandal beforehand.  Like when that trailer trash girl paid someone to maim the horseface chick.  Good stuff.

Oh, and then there was the summer the Olympics were here in Atlanta and I turned into a female gymnastics groupie…but that’s for another blog.

It was during this rebroadcast that I discovered the lamest of all Olympic sports.  Curling.  As far as I can tell, it goes like this:

I’m not sure how many are on a team total, but one guy pushes this heavy ass round stone with a handle on it down an icy lane.

While it travels towards the goal (a bulls eye set of circles)…

… two other teammates kind of mop the floor in front of it with these Swiffer brooms.

This is done to keep the stone moving and increase the ridicule factor.

The objective is to get your stone as close to the middle of the circle as possible, earning points for where you land and to knock your opponents’ stones out the way….I think.

Why is this sport lame?

Where is the fucking skill in this?  A really conscientious housewife could rack up the gold medals. And not to mention all the mexican housekeepers.

I was alarmed to find out that my husband knew way too much about this “sport”.  As the Swedish pusher pushed the stone down the ice he began to yell and chant.  It was in Swedish but I’m pretty sure he was yelling, “Mop it, mop it, mop that floor you bastards!  Go, go, go!”

At least that’s what I would have been yelling.

And then the commentators felt the need to pepper their analysis  with little known facts.

“Sven is also a Rubik’s cube world champion.  He can solve one in 25 seconds.”

Me: These guys get no pussy.

Donny: Shhh!!!

Sven and his buddies manage to knock out an opposing team’s stone and land theirs almost dead center.
Donny: See, they get three points for that.  Did you know the U.S. team is the only team that makes its members try out for this?

Me: We partake of this madness?

Donny: Yup.  The other countries handpick their teams so they usually have the same members from like the 70’s!

Obviously, he doesn’t want anymore pussy either.

Oldie But Goodie: The Daughter Becomes the Mother

This blog was originally posted on March 23, 2007

It’s a scary moment when a woman realizes she’s becoming her mother.  Not that there’s anything wrong with my mother. She’s beautiful, strong, generous, and funny. She went from welfare to the NYPD. No, she wasn’t arrested you ding-dongs! She was a cop.

I’m not saying I’m a better mother.  Sure, Kali’s life is different than mine was at her age. She lives in a house now that is much nicer than any house I ever lived in.  As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t say I’m a better mother than anyone who loves, takes care of, provides for, and protects their children.  We all do the best we can. And that’s exactly what my mother did. The best she could. We were always healthy, happy, and safe. Everything else is just packaging.

I will say I’m a lot more fun than my Mom was with me. Then again, she also had four other kids, a house to clean, and a dangerous job. Hell, she wasn’t having fun with us because she loved us less, her ass was just tired.

Imagine how scary it is to not only realize you are becoming your mother, but that your child is turning into you, all at the same time. Yesterday, Kali had a meltdown. Why? The batteries in her DirecTV remote were dead and she couldn’t change the channel to watch her favorite show. Yes, I know. Back when I was growing up I didn’t have my own television in my room. If my mother was watching Donahue my siblings and I had to imagine what was going on with our favorite programs.

Nina: Then Rog says, “You’re not gonna tell Mama, are you?”

My sister: And Dee says, “No. I won’t tell…if you give me a quarter.”

(canned laughter)

My brother: Then Dwayne comes in, “Hey, hey, hey.”

So, last night Kali storms past the study in a blur of pouty lips and wild hair.  I hear her rummaging through the kitchen drawers.  Donny asks her what she’s looking for. She growls a response. I barely make out the words “batteries.”

“Here, Kali,” I called out. I handed her two batteries from the computer desk. She stomps upstairs. Donny comes into the study, “That girl is so much like you it’s scary.”

“I don’t act like that!”

I totally act like that.

As she reaches the top of the stairs I hear a thump and then a wail.  In her huff she managed to wack her hand against the banister. Here’s what my mother would have said to me, “That’s what you get for flouncin’ your butt around.”

I settled for the more succinct, “Good for you.” Don’t worry, she couldn’t hear me. I was downstairs, remember?  After we realized I’d given her bad batteries, and with her hand throbbing, what followed was about five minutes of pure hysteria. By the time I figured out a solution (we just gave her the DTV remote from our room) my child was a heap of quivering, sobbing, flesh and tears on the floor of the formal living room.

I laid down with her. Rubbed her back and wiped her tears. I kissed her wet face. I explained that she couldn’t react that way every time something went wrong. Donny was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed watching the whole thing.

“Hello, Pot. Have you met Kettle?”

The one thing that all parents have in common is that we ask our kids to lie. We teach them not to, and we damn sure make it clear that they can’t lie to us, but all parents will ask their children to lie at some point. Anyone who says otherwise is…well, lying.

Kali’s school is having a Fun Run fundraiser to obtain a new gym floor.  For the next week the kids get pledges from family, friends, and local businesses.  Everyday they bring in their pledge sheet and get prizes. So, if I pledge $10 for every lap Kali will walk/run she gets a camera. A $3 per lap pledge gets her a ball.  The prize for the $50 per lap pledge is an iPod Nano.  Of course, that’s the only prize that the child has to complete the race, and collect the money, before they can collect.

I explained to Kali that normally that iPod would cost about $150. I told her if I pledged $50 per lap, and she did one lap, we’d get the iPod she wanted for her birthday for $100 less, and we’d also help the school get a new gym floor.  I then made her familiar with the terms, “can’t beat that with a stick” and “win-win.” The problem, of course, is that I have to trust that my child will not do more than one lap. She assures me she can handle doing one lap only and then sitting the rest out.  We decide to practice to be sure.

“Ok, Kali. I’ll be the Fun Run people, and you be you. You just finished running/walking one lap. You ready?’

“Wait.”

She then proceeds to run through the kitchen, foyer, formal living and dining rooms, and back to me in the kitchen.  She stands before me huffing and puffing, leaned over with her hands resting on her knees.

“Ok, I’m ready.”

Hey, my child’s a professional.

“Hey, little girl. You only ran one lap. Don’t you want to do more?”

“No, just one.”

“Are you sure? All your friends are doing more. You can really help your school!”

“No, that’s okay. I just want to do one because my Mommy said we can’t afford an iPod the other way.”

Yeah, so. We still gotta practice that part.

I Love You The Same

Over the course of 34 years I’ve loved boyfriends and friends, lovers, and husbands, parents and siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins and associates, pets and even some pretty nifty material things. I can say that hands-down, nothing compares to the love I feel for my children.

I realized the other day why it’s so mind-blowing… to me, anyway. The love for my children is so great and consuming that I have a hard time believing that it compares to say, how much you love your children. But going even further, there’s no way that my parents could have loved me this much. If my mother loved me even a fraction of the amount that I love Kali and Jack, how she didn’t lose her shit every time I was out of her sight is beyond me.

I had all these worries about loving two children when I first found out I was pregnant. Would I love them differently? Would I favor one over the other? Would I, God forbid, love one more than other? Honestly, my first concern was that I wouldn’t love Jack enough because my love for Kali was so strong. Then as my pregnancy progressed, and the love for my unborn child grew (along with my waistband), I worried that I might neglect Kali or that she would feel slighted with all the attention lavished upon Jack.

I needn’t have worried. Those of you with more than one child know what I mean. Just as we are amazed over the changes in the human body as we prepare to give birth, we really should marvel over the way our minds and souls are conditioned to adjust to this new life as well. If your capacity to love is a balloon, and you feel it’s filled to dangerous proportions with how much you love your children and spouse, family and friends, don’t worry. Mine did not burst when Jack came along. It magically expanded to include him. We don’t talk about that enough and we should.

Of course I relate to them differently now; Jack is at an age where he needs me for everything, while Kali is entering a stage where she’s becoming more independent. And I’m sure this will continue on as I’ll relate to them on different boy-girl levels as well.

It’s either a credit to how great Kali is, or kudos to me and Donny as parents, but she really is extremely helpful and in love with her brother. I’ve yet to witness any competitive urges from her, and hopefully I’ve done my job in letting her know that my love for her is undying and unquestionable.

Last night, I asked Donny if he were over Jack.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we waited so long and now he’s been here half a year already. Is the thrill gone?”

“No. Of course not.”

Then I said, speaking for Jack and in a baby voice, “You better not be over me. I’m your only son… unless you got some other kids out there we don’t know about.”

“If I got other kids out there, I don’t know about them either.”

“Um, honey, it’s okay if I joke about it. But when you do it? Not so much. Just the idea of you having children with someone else kinda makes me wanna stab you in the neck.”

Anyway, I’ve decided to take a cue from Sophie and implement a little guaranteed Mommy/Daughter time. Beginning this Sunday I will make it a point to do something special with just the two of us. Sophie has already inspired some great ideas:

Hot chocolate at iHop

Library visits

Matinee movies

A trip to Barnes and Noble for a book

Ice cream!

Also, this weekend we’re gonna begin working on the dollhouse she got for Christmas.

Any other special things you can suggest?

Why I Write

When people marvel at, what they perceive to be, my ability to wear many hats I wonder if I’ve somehow inadvertently inflated my responsibilities. I’m great at multi-tasking and it never occurs to me that I’m getting more done than the average stay-at-home-Mom. Then Jack came along. And now I have to ask that you allow me to toot the hell out of my own horn.

Best case scenario? Jack sleeps from midnight to 8am. I’m allowed to get Kali off to school in peace and grab a quick breakfast. When he wakes up, it’s only to nurse briefly and go back to sleep until 10am or so and I usually take that opportunity to nap as well. What follows is a day of cat naps for him, every 2 hours or so.

Worst case? He goes to bed at midnight and wakes every two hours to nurse, play, fidget, and watch T.V. I get little to no sleep, Kali barely makes it to school, and all the thoughts in my head meant to come to life in my novel, my blogs, and my short story stay jumbled up.

When the latter happens I am like a bag filled with bees. The bees are words and they are confined and angry. They want to get out and I want to let them out. Every moment that I don’t, they sting and cuss and I worry that I’ll forget my plan for those bees. That I’ll finally have the time to let them out, they’ll stare at me like, “Now what?,” and because they were pent up for so long I’ll have forgotten the what – and the who and why – and I’ll let them fly away.

The fact that I can even write this eases my burden for it came to me last night (well, this morning) at 1am, as I lay down after hours of waiting for Jack to sleep, that I have to write as most people need to sell or teach. I’d even go so far as to say I need to write like everyone needs to breathe.

As I started to drift, I framed the blog that I was going to write for today (now set for tomorrow), this blog, the short story I’ve been working on, and the 31^st chapter of my novel… all in my head. More than once I thought that I should be writing and not sleeping, and almost got up to do so. Then I remembered my motherly responsibilities and knew they were best met with a rested, albeit cluttered, mind.

Next week it will only get worse. I am taking a biology class with a lab, my final Spanish course, and two Journalism courses. Add some academic bees (with glasses and backpacks if you wish) to this bag. They are going to be fighting with bees named Chloe and Patrick who just want to have their happy ending, damnit! And a bee named Chris who may or may not be flying across the country to certain death… or maybe it’s a bit closer to home. A bee named Tara whose inability to be on time seals Chris’ fate. And the four bees who were girlfriends in college and covered up a crime. Those bees will fight bees who are detectives tracking a serial killer and bees whose sole job is to frame all of that into query letters.

Having to do all of this doesn’t drive me insane. The thought of never getting it done does.

I write because it is all I’ve ever wanted to do… even when I tried to do other things. I write because my inflated ego assumes that people actually care about my thoughts, opinions, reviews, and observations. I write because I love the characters in my head and I want them to have their happy endings… and deaths. I write because to not put fingers to keys and get it out would have me jumpy and scratching at those bees like a crackhead. I write because I’m tired of observing and not participating. I write because I’m good at it.

So, why do you do whatever it is you do?

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button: Movie Review

“I was just thinking how nothing lasts. And what a shame that is.” – Benjamin Button

Benjamin Button (Brad Pitt) was born in New Orleans on the day World War I ended. He was born with severe arthritis and sagging skin. Benjamin was a baby that looked like an old man. Abandoned at a nursing home by his repulsed father, after his mother died in childbirth, Benjamin is raised by a caring, black, nurse that believes he is a gift from God.

As a child growing up in a house full of elderly people, Benjamin fit right in. And though he looks like them, he gets younger as they die and are replaced by other ailing seniors. He learns many life lessons from his housemates, but still needs to experience the world for himself, and so at the age of 18, but looking like a man closer to 60, Benjamin sets off on his own.

What follows is a story very much like Forrest Gump; we view the world through his unique perspective as he spends decades experiencing love, friendship, and loss. Cate Blanchett plays Daisy, the woman Benjamin has loved since they were both children. As he gets younger, and she older, they meet and build a life together somewhere in the middle. The movie is told through flashbacks as an ailing Daisy lies in a nursing home in New Orleans and Hurricane Katrina bears down.

Brad Pitt commands the screen with all the charm and sex appeal of a young Robert Redford, and though Cate Blanchett may receive an Oscar nod for her supporting role, Tilda Swinton gives an emotional and layered performance as a married woman Benjamin has an affair with as he’s out discovering the world.

The movie looks amazing; particularly the costumes from different eras and the special effects as most characters age and Benjamin does the opposite are impressive. It’s a long film at almost three hours long and it’s sad. I cried like a teething child at the end. I suspect Donny cried too. The lessons of Benjamin Button lie in how we choose to measure our lives and what we leave behind when we’re gone.

Gran Torino: Movie Review

Walt Kowalski (Clint Eastwood) is an equal opportunity bigot. Blacks are spooks, his Hmong neighbors are fish heads, and his barber, who he likes, is a dumb Wop. Even so, Walt Kowalski may be Eastwood’s most likable and rooted for character since Dirty Harry.

As the movie opens, Walt is burying his beloved wife. He seems more annoyed that she left him alone with their ungrateful children and grandchildren than heartbroken. Walt is set in his ways and resists all attempts by his children to “make his life easier” read: move into a nursing home. He recognizes their true motives; to get their hands on his home and mint condition 1972 Gran Torino.

And they’re not the only ones. After his teenage neighbor, Tao Vang Lor (Bee Vang), unsuccessfully tries to steal his Gran Torino due to pressure by neighborhood thugs, Walt takes the shy boy under his wing. He teaches him a trade, how to stand up for himself, and how to get the girl. Their friendship at first seems an odd pairing. Walt is old-fashioned and set in his ways; as a Korean War veteran the American flag flies proudly outside of his Michigan home though he is obviously emotionally scarred by the things he did there, his postage stamp sized lawn is mowed frequently with an old-school push mower, it seems on the outset that he despises foreigners and change, and he drinks and drives American.

But Walt recognizes in Tao someone who wants to work hard and has a good spirit, which is more than he can say for his own family whom he seems offended by with their foreign cars and entitlement issues. He makes it his personal mission to see that Tao doesn’t fall to the pressure of a group of neighborhood thugs and that provides the movie’s real tension.

Clint Eastwood is known for casting talented newcomers and minorities in major roles, and at times it seems that he is the only one in this film with real acting experience, but it works with the character Tao who really comes off lost and in need of direction.

I was surprised by how funny, I mean laugh-out-loud funny, this movie is and it was all in Eastwood’s snappy lines, facial expressions, and growls. Not many actors his age could pull off the following line so believably. Said to a group of black guys harassing a young girl, “You know how every once in awhile you come across someone you shouldn’t have fucked with? That’s me.”

Don’t be surprised if this film doesn’t garner a few Oscar nods. Written and directed by Eastwood, Gran Torino is one of those rare films driven by story and character.

Rediscovering The Joneses

There’s a family in my subdivision that I really can’t stand. Well, to be fair, a couple I can’t stand. Their children never did anything to me. Their father is a real douche-drippage when he drinks, which is often, and their mother is a busybody. When we first moved in she and I served on a committee within the Homeowner’s Association. She quickly struck me as one of those smile-in-your-face-talk-behind-your-back people. I’d heard her tongue lash so many people in my presence I cringed to think of what she said about me when I wasn’t around. Also, she was one of those white women that felt the need to talk with exaggerated neck rolls and pepper her sentences with “girlfriend” whenever she spoke to me. Then there was the time she asked to feel my hair as if I were some rare specimen in a petting zoo.

Here we have the urban negress not often found in suburbia. Notice her coarse hair and gazelle-like limbs… most beneficial in running from the authorities.

For some reason Donny really seemed to care what this couple thought. Probably because he knew they were the pipeline through which all community gossip flowed. When we were considering selling our house and placed it on the market to test the waters, it got back to me via another neighbor that Mr. and Mrs. Busybody had speculated we were in serious dire straights. Never mind that Mrs. Busybody and I hadn’t spoken in years, she was convinced her information was truth. I’d started to confront her Brooklyn-style, but thought better of it. It seemed Donny had a really warped idea as to who Mr. and Mrs. Busybody were. He bought into the hype. I had to break it down for him.

“You know, it’s real easy for them to pass judgment on everyone else and it’s even easier for everyone to assume that their lives are so great. Yeah, Mrs. Busybody stays home with her kids, but she also has to babysit some of the neighborhood kids for extra money. And every room in our house would be fully furnished too if your mother lived with us, and brought all her crap with her.”

That’s right. It seemed that Mrs. Busybody couldn’t help but dish out her own personal info a bit too much. After one visit to her home I knew that her mother-in-law lived with them and helped pay the mortgage. In exchange, she got the master bedroom and Mr. and Mrs. Busybody slept in one of the smaller bedrooms.

“Donny, at least we get to live in our own home like grown-ups. You know what they say about all that glitters.”

My point was further driven home a few months later when we were at one of our favorite pricey eating establishments for Sunday brunch and who should we have as our server, but none other than Mrs. Busybody.

Donny didn’t learn his lesson though. Awhile later when it seemed that everyone around us was getting pregnant Donny got depressed. He wanted a son badly. And though I’d felt a twinge of envy listening to others plan their blessed event I knew that one couple in particular, that Donny seemed to envy the most, were having serious marital and financial woes.

“At least we’re happy,” I told him.

Earlier this spring a new family moved in next door to us. A young couple with three small boys. We shall call them The Joneses. Shortly after they closed on the house, but before moving in, they did some renovations. Hardwood floors were installed on the entire first floor (I knew this because the work often interrupted my pregnancy induced naps), the rooms were repainted, and I believe they installed carpet in the garage. They would come by daily, each in shiny and expensive cars, to check on the work. Once they moved in, every other day there were boxes placed at the curb: a flat screen TV box, new computer, stereo equipment, and toys for the boys. A new SUV followed soon after.

“Must be nice,” Donny and I had said more than once even though we had just purchased a 52″ flat screen, a PS3, an SUV, other new electronics, and furnished a nursery that would make Martha Stewart say, “Damn!”

My Brooklyn upbringing keeps me from placing boxes for pricey items at the curb. My garage stores boxes for both flat screens, both XBOX 360s, the PS3, the Wii, all the TiVos, my laptop, and any other electronics we’ve purchased in the five years since buying our house. I’d like to say this was done to make sure that should we ever move we’d have the original packaging for all of our expensive stuff, or hell, even that I suffer from a form of O.C.D., but the real reason is that growing up where I did you didn’t place boxes at the curb. That’s how you’d let mofos know which house to rob. I pointed out to Donny that had we placed our trash out that way, there would undoubtedly be some nosy neighbors (like us, though I prefer observant) thinking, “Must be nice,” though they knew nothing of our circumstances.

On Halloween I took the kids trick-or-treating along with the Joneses. My journalistic instincts always take over when I meet new people and I found myself asking lots of questions. The wife stays home like me, and the husband owns several gas stations. He’s from a small island off of Madagascar or some other place I couldn’t find on a map and starts with an M. Even though this was back when gas was over $4 a gallon and he admitted that he now made most of his money on the food items his stations sold, it seemed they weren’t really hurting.

And then it just so happened that yesterday I was thinking about this couple, and as Donny and I drove to Walmart for our Christmas dinner groceries and last minute presents I wondered out loud if now that gas was down to less than $1.40 a gallon were the Joneses doing any better. “Well, she still stays home,” Donny pointed out.

We had just finished using the self serve checkout lane and were pushing our cart towards the exit when Donny said, “Isn’t that our neighbor right there?”

“Who?”

“The new girl next door.”

“Where?”

“Right there at register eight. Checking people out.”

I whipped my head around to look.

“I think so. Can you see what her name tag says?”

He looked and told me.

“Yeah, that’s her.”

We quickly left before she could see us. I don’t know that she’d be embarrassed. She had no right to be. The first time Donny was laid off and couldn’t find work in his field he had to take a job in that same Walmart’s garden department… and then had to deliver pizza to boot. You do what you gotta do. But just in case, I thought it best to dip out.

As we pushed our cart filled with food and presents, and Jack in his stroller, to the car, I realized that I had gotten caught up in the very thing I would lecture Donny on. It’s not so much coveting your neighbor, but making assumptions. And somehow that seemed worse.

I shook my head. “Huh. You never know.”

“Yeah,” Donny replied.

And we drove home grateful for what we had. And left it at that.

Prostitots

I am a firm believer that the buck stops with the parents.

Despite the outside influences of television and magazines, we are the ultimate deciders in what our children eat, watch, and what they wear… or don’t wear for that matter. As I’ve shopped for Kali’s Christmas presents over the past few weeks I’ve witnessed a disturbing trend: inappropriate, sometimes sexually tinged, clothing and other items aimed at little girls. I was even more disturbed to find that there’s a name for little girls who wear such things. Prostitots.

A few weeks ago I noticed an item in Sam’s Club that I considered buying for Kali. It was a pink container filled with beauty items. The box looked cheap and all the products inside were inappropriate: eye shadow, bright lipsticks, and loud nail polish. And according to the label it was supposedly for girls Kali’s age. Kali’s nine. I thought I could do better than that so I purchased a white box with polka dots on it and filled it with stuff I thought Kali would like, but more importantly, things that were more appropriate: fruit flavored lip balms, nail polishes in pinks and purples with sparkles, and bright colored hair accessories among other things. Not only was it cheaper to do it my way (Sam’s wanted $45 for their “beauty box”), but I controlled what went in the box.

For instance, Walmart sells these lip glosses, lip balms, and nail polishes for little girls that cost 88 cents per item. Some of the lip glosses come on a little chain of beads that spell out words. I bypassed one that read, “Juicy” for, “cool”, “fun”, and “awesome.” Why does a little girl need to have anything that says juicy? What’s that about? I am by no means an expert. Kali’s my first child and I’m learning as I go, but I’ve already decided on some things I can do to avoid turning Kali into a prostitot.

• Girls under 18 have no business wearing underwear with writing on them. Unless they’re under 7 and the words are the days of the week. And this is not because we expect anyone to see them, but because it helps in promoting good personal hygiene and learning the days of the week. Those of you without kids, I tell you this so you won’t be surprised when you realize that your own young children think that bathing and wiping are optional.
• Speaking of underwear, girls under 16 don’t need thongs.
• Girls should not wear pants, shorts, or skirts with anything affixed to the ass. 12-year-olds don’t need hearts on their butt cheeks. And definitely no words. I saw a pair of jeans for young girls with the words, “You wish” on the ass. Why? Good rule of thumb, Moms… don’t draw attention to your daughters’ asses.

• If your daughter is under 16, stay away from clothes with the words SEXY, DIVA, and HOT, on them.
• No heels before middle school dances and even then they should be those low, boxy, Grandma heels.
• Under 16? No eye shadow, no blush, no eyeliner, no red nail polish, and this is just my own personal peeve: no perfume! Fruit scented lotions; however, are okay.
• A 5-year-old has no business in leopard print or fishnet.
• No one needs to see a 12-year-old’s belly button.
• Stay out of Limited Too.
• Do you really need to put your little girl in t-shirts with arrows pointing to their nether region?

• Body glitter is for strippers.

What are some disturbing trends you’ve noticed in girls’ fashion? What are your rules for your own daughters? Am I not the best Mommy ever for making my daughter such a kickass beauty box? I’ll take pics on Xmas morning.

Seven Pounds: Movie Review

Seven Pounds is a heartbreaker. Pure and simple. It is unashamed in the many ways it will tug at your heartstrings and almost demands your tears. If you cry easily, have the tissues at the ready. Ladies, if you have a man that mocks you and ruins a good cry during a movie – and I think we all know that sometimes it just feels good to cry during a movie – then leave him home.

Will Smith plays Ben Thomas, an IRS agent on a mission to improve the lives of seven strangers. He uses his many connections to get information on these people to determine that they are truly in need, but also that they are good people. The latter stipulation is of great importance as he wants to ensure that they’re prepared not to waste the second chance at life he’s willing to provide. This is key to a plot point revealed early in the movie, but kept out of all press for the film, and I will not ruin it here.

Rosario Dawson is Emily Posa, an artist struggling with a congenital heart disease and a possible recipient of Thomas’ goodwill. It’s pretty obvious that they will fall in love which is fine because at its heart – beyond all the hush-hush surrounding the plot – Seven Pounds is a love story. It’s a love story between the two characters, and a love story to lost love, to generosity, to sacrifice, and to life.

I had pretty much guessed the gist of the plot due to the trailers (which will only reveal more now that the movie is out, so if you don’t plan on seeing it for another few weeks I would avoid commercials for it if you can), but even if I hadn’t the movie is quite predictable despite the red herrings bandied about. Even though the plot offers no real surprises, if you’re paying attention, it’s worth your time for Will Smith’s performance alone.

One standout scene, and there are several, involves Smith’s Thomas questioning of an elderly woman in a hospice. He was able to convey compassion, disappointment, sadness, and anger with his face and body language more artfully than someone who also rocks big budget, action hero, summer movies should.

Rosario Dawson, who I’ve always liked, really shines here as well. Emily is ill throughout the whole film and spends almost every frame pale and with sunken eyes, yet Dawson manages to breathe a life into the character that makes it easy for you to understand how Ben Thomas could fall for the fragile, yet strong when she has to be, Emily.

Seven Pounds is one of those films that played its hand early on. You know the ending from the first scene, so the challenge becomes making the audience interested in sticking around to figure out the why when you’ve already revealed the what. It has capable help from supporting performances by Woody Harrelson as a blind man Ben Thomas may help, the sexy Michael Ealy as Thomas’ younger brother, and Barry Pepper as Thomas’ best friend and partner in his plans. Though Seven Pounds unfolds predictably during its several flashbacks, it succeeds, due in large part to Smith’s ability to make you care about what you know is happening to him and those around him.

There are some feel good Forrest Gump type movies coming out for the holidays (Curious Case of Benjamin Button), so it’s understandable if you don’t feel like seeing a tearjerker this time of year, but I’d see it if you can. And if you find yourself having to wait for DVD, that’s fine too. It’s a must see either way.

Big Girl Jeans

When Jack was three weeks old I’d had enough. Cabin fever had set in and I wanted to get away. One Wednesday I decided I wanted to see my Mommy in North Carolina. That day. So, Donny and I packed suitcases for us and the kids and we loaded up the car with the XBOX 360, the PS3, some games, Jack’s bouncy chair, and Jack’s stroller. I shot off a bullshit email to Kali’s teacher about a death in the family and informed her we’d be picking Kali up early. As Kali climbed in the backseat she took one look at the cargo hold of the Sante Fe and asked, “Where are we going and are we ever coming back?”

The trip from our house to Durham, North Carolina usually takes five hours, but with our gas/bathroom/food stops now including breastfeeding sessions for Jack in the backseat we didn’t arrive at my mother’s house until after dark. Though she was surprised by the earlier call that we were on our way she was pleased at the opportunity to meet Jack for the first time. The visit was extra special because my Aunt was also visiting from Seattle. We crashed at my mother’s that night with plans to see Donny’s mother the next day.

The next morning my mother was relaxing my hair in her kitchen.

“I can’t believe you got me relaxing your hair.”

“Are you new? You always relax my hair when you come to see me. Did you think just because I came to see you for the first time since moving to Atlanta five years ago that this would be different? Don’t think so. Naps are naps.”

She smacked me on the top of my head with a comb.

Getting my hair done was part one in feeling more like myself. My suitcase was light because all I’d packed were some nightgowns, underwear, and toiletries. I only had two maternity dresses to my name towards the end of the pregnancy and had refused to buy more. That day I wanted to get some inexpensive Capri pants, tank tops, and maybe a new pair of flip-flops and so those were exactly the type of clothes folded over my arm as I took the ticket for the dressing rooms in Target later that morning.

I entered the dressing room, disrobed, and could not believe my eyes. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that I’d lost all of my pregnancy weight in three weeks, but I totally didn’t recognize the big girl in front of me. Standing there in my big girl panties and nursing bra I wanted to die. And was that… yes, that was back fat.

Back. Fat.

I swiveled around to check all the mirrors in case the one in front of me was full of shit. Nope. Still fat. I put the mumu back on and took the clothes back to the racks to find bigger sizes. Those were the bigger sizes. I stomped over to my mother.

“We’re leaving.”

“Why?”

Before I could answer Donny returned from the children’s section with an outfit for Jack to meet his other Grandma in. I was so angry that he had gotten me pregnant, which in turn had gotten me fat, that I was more brisk than I ordinarily might have been.

“Donny, corduroy in August in North Carolina. Really?”

He took one look at my face and took the hot ass baby outfit back to where he found it. I told my mother what was wrong – I’d just had a panoramic view of how fat my ass was. I was filled with a cornucopia of emotions, but shame and disgust were tops on the list.

“Nina, you just had a baby three weeks ago. It’s not going to disappear over night. You know where you should go? There’s one nearby. Lane Bryant.”

Oh. Hell. No.

“What? They have cute stuff.”

Cute stuff was the fashion equivalent of saying a big girl had “a nice personality” or “a pretty face.” I had no choice. So while my mother took Kali and my little sister to Chic-Fil-A, Donny, Jack, and I went to Lane Bryant.

As a former model I know that a model’s and mannequins sole purpose is to make clothes look good and damn if those Lane Bryant mannequins weren’t doing their job. I was actually thinking that this wouldn’t be so bad. Until I started to look through the jeans. The ass span on them was plain ridiculous. And I did what any hot woman who’d gained about 50lbs would do. I cried. Big, fat, juicy tears to match my thighs. Poor Donny just rubbed my succulent back sympathetically. The more I tried to stop crying the harder I did. I saw a sales girl approaching and turned my back leaving Donny to deal with her. She was a big girl too and I didn’t want to offend her. What could I say?

“I’m… I’m… crying… because… because… I look… like you! Waaaah!”

Once the tears dried up, I got angry… at Donny. I figured the least he could do for knocking me up and getting me fat was to spend a lot of money on me. So, I picked out an expensive pair of 7even jeans, a pair of cargo capris, and two tops. I had to admit that though I didn’t like the size on the label, I appreciated being able to zip up a pair of pants and breathe like a human. There was still one problem though…

“Excuse me, um, I want to get these jeans, but I’m not used to being… I mean, I’ve never… what are the best panties to wear with jeans like this?”

She directed me to a table of bikini cut panties – 5 for $25. I snatched up five in different patterns and got the hell up out of there. Back at my Mom’s I changed into my new jeans and a top. When I came out of the bathroom with my new outfit and new hair my Aunt said, “Wow! You look much better. No wonder you came to town under the cover of night.”

Nice. I didn’t think I had looked that bad.

I dumped out my other purchases on my mother’s bed. My Aunt quickly grabbed a polka-dotted pair of panties. “See this isn’t so bad. They can be sexy. You can make a game out of it. Follow the dots, Donny. Follow the dots. Follow the dots.” As she danced the big girl panties in front of my husband’s face I wanted to die, but I didn’t. I just laughed through the pain.

January 1^st I plan to get back on track. I did it before and I can do it again. And it’s hard to get too worked up over the weight when I look at what I got in return. My handsome baby boy with his chubby cheeks, dimpled knees, and thick thighs. Thighs like his Mama’s.

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