Wrong Numbered

OK...IF you were reading this blog at oh, three or so yesterday afternoon, you may have seen a post put up by me, a long rambling soliloquy (if you read out loud to yourself that is, as I do) about lots of different stuff that then mysteriously disappeared into the ether an hour later.

Last night when my popsy discovered I'd been erased from the hallowed Fraters pages, at first I felt the same way I felt on prom night lo these many years ago...when I sat waiting until the wee hours for my "date" to pick me up, finally giving up and falling asleep in my tafetta gown, a half-eaten brownie in my mouth. I showed him, though, he's been blind in one eye ever since.

Kidding! I'm kidding, I totally ate the whole brownie. Anyway, once my ego recovered I started to think, hey, this whole incident could be my "Lily White Sessions", my lost recordings shrouded in mystery that when finally unearthed, really weren't that good. I'm all for adding an air of mystery to things, I'm all for weird mythologies and dark rumors of deceit and backbiting, especially when they come at my expense. At any rate, here's that post from yesterday:

My worst fear:

Grizzled old dude in a rocking chair on his front porch, a glass of moonshine in one hand and a fresh squirrel in the other:

"Ahh didn' learn ta read and buy m'self no G-dern computer so's Ahh could read the estrogenous-laced rantings of no G-dern woman!" (Slams down hand holding moonshine, liberally dousing himself with it, which only further enrages him.)

"See whadda mean? And hennyways, dudn't 'Frater' derivate from the latino 'fratra', meanin' brethren? Las' tahhm Ahh looked, no dern womanly genders in the word 'brethren', lessen they the kind of gal who's partial to them preeformance enhancin' East Germany swimmin' pills, you know whaddamean...heh heh..."

That's not really my worst fear, of course; that's a tie between nuclear annihilation and someone calling me while I?m watching "Entourage". And that whole scenario is stupid anyway, since the only one making a big deal around here about my having two 'X' chromosomes is me (wait...does that mean I'm female or that I have Down's Syndrome?) and hillbillies probably don't even read blogs, certainly not this one. I just want to reassure everyone that I'm not here to throw out all the Farrah posters and cover everything with Laura Ashley wallpaper.

Went to the movies last night and saw a preview for M. Night Shamalamadingdong's latest effort, "Lady in the Water". From what I gleaned, it's about a portly sad-sack (Paul Giamatti) who discovers his swimming pool is home to a creepy lady who looks like if Laura Prepon had been left in a bucket of bleach for too long. Then a bunch of scary things happen, and then of course comes the patented Big Reveal. I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that this time, it turns out that Paul Giamatti is really the one who lives under water. What?? That M. Night, he's fooled us again! Bravo!

I'm also quite sure that the studio execs are hoping the phrase (uttered by Mr. Giamatti in a panicked stage whisper) "I hear splashing sounds at night" will be the "I see dead people" of this summer. Not nearly as bone chilling, in fact anyone whose spent any time in a frat house has heard that too many times to count, but it seems none of the execs are willing to inform M. Night that he jumped the shark two movies ago. Heck, I'll even go so far as to say "The Sixth Sense" was a one-off.

What was the main event? Oh yeah, "The Devil Wears Prada", starring Anne Hathaway and, uh...who is that old actress...you know, accents, awards, what the hell is her name...oh yes, Dustin Hoffman. It was fine, frothy and silly and watchable even though it slurped from the rote-movie-template well way too many times.

Anne H plays this dowdy journalism student who dreams of writing for the New Yorker (the only possible reason I can imagine any young girl wanting to write for the New Yorker would be the off chance of meeting sometimes contributor Steve Martin, and consequently starring as his way-too-young girlfriend in the next excruciatingly dull movie he makes. "Shopgirl" was what would've happened to Scarlett Johanssen and Bill Murray if they'd hooked up at the end of "Lost in Translation"--I know, ick double ick, after watching them kiss I wanted to scrub my brain) so she accepts a job as the assistant of a horribly mean fashion magazine editor.

Her new boss actually expects her to work a lot for not much pay and this TOTALLY MAKES HER MAD until her gay friend tells her she should dress better.

Here comes the music, it's time for a fashion montage...see Anne Hathaway try on every outfit in Kingdom Come while Stanley Tucci gloats! Told you so, Annie, told you you'd look better if you combed your hair, you silly twat! Why, underneath her shapeless sweaters and unplucked eyebrows she's beautiful, and now she loves her job.

Of course, her dopey boyfriend doesn't like it: "I don?t even know you anymore! You should stay home and indulge my bitchy whining, not do what your boss wants even though it's your first job out of college!" I think we're supposed to root for him, but I couldn't really tell. I thought he was a tool.

I won't say any more in case anyone reading this wants to see it, but it's not like I can wreck it anyway since the story's been told a thousand times. It was at least done pretty well, Meryl Streep was fun to watch, I give it a B.

In the back of yesterday morning's Strib was a piece by Beverly Beckham of the Boston Globe lamenting the perpetually sour demeanor of someone she considers a friend, and how she wishes this woman would look around and see that life's not all bad, she doesn?t have cancer, she's pretty, she's rich, would it kill her smile every once in a while? A lovely and true message, but the piece made me chuckle anyway, imagining the situation from her "friend's" point of view...

(Cue swirling Romper Room-esque dream sequence graphic...interior, cocktail party. We see a woman, she is having a terrific time, laughing and chatting until...)

"Crap...here comes Beverly...'Beverly Beckham of the Boston Globe! Beverly Beckham of the Boston Globe!' Cripes is that annoying...Oh, what a surprise, she's wearing that stupid cat sweater that's apparently never seen the inside of a washing machine... Ugh...I swear on my Appletini, I'll choke her if she tells me one more time I've got a case of the Mondays...no, toots, I've got a case of the Beverlys...dang, she could try the patience of a saint...no, Beverly, I haven't read 'Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul'... "

All I'm saying is, it's a two-way street.