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Yesterday afternoon was chilly and overcast. While my wonderful, wonderful man replaced the brake pads and changed the oil on my car for me, I got the pleasure of curling up in bed with my laptop and my most recent Netflix rental. The Flight of the Red Balloon (La Voyage Du Ballon Rouge) is based loosely on the 1953 (?) children’s film The Red Balloon.
The pacing of this movie is lovely … slow and easy. It’s not very plot driven, but still engaging. Juliette Binoche, who is one of my favorite actresses, is perfect as always. Such a relaxing way to spend a gray afternoon.
Since our house got an internet subscription in September, I have become addicted to trash television. Me–me! In the past, I even came to terms with Braden’s video game habit because at least he wasn’t mindlessly zoning out in front of Sport’s Center.
I hate television, in theory. After all, isn’t that one of the things that white people like? Making you feel bad for watching television? However, with the internet came access to America’s Next Top Model. Uh-oh. I’ve always had a strange fascination with this show. It wasn’t long before I was watching past seasons, as well as episodes of Project Runway and 30 Rock.
My TV habit was pretty well in check and not too embarrassing until last Friday night. Cranky and extremely bad tempered, I walked into Natalie’s room and flung myself down on the second bed.
“Do you want to watch Joyeux Noël with me?” she asked pleasantly.
“No!” I humphed. “Too much thinking and emotional involvement.”
“America’s Next Top Model?”
“Still too much.”
“Uh … less than …? Hm, Newlyweds?”
“Perfect!”
I sat transfixed for an hour, sipping hefeweizen and watching the horror that was Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey’s marriage. Wowzer. In a short sixty minutes I felt infinitely better about life. So much so that I went to the used media store the next day and bought the first season for $3.95.
Talk about a bad trash-TV addiction. Oh, well. At least we don’t have cable. Then I’d really be in trouble.
but I like GOOP.
For those of you who are unfamiliar, GOOP is Gwyneth Paltrow’s website/weekly e-newsletter in which she shares recipes, her secrets to being sickeningly self-satisfied, and the vital truth that you must work out eighteen times a week to maintain a tight bum past the age of twenty.
Despite the fact that I get this image of her with a halo around her head, cheerfully typing her newsletters to all of us little people about how great life can be in Balenciaga, I really love her. I really, really do. She’s an idealist (secretly, I think she’s an INFP, too) and therefore, sometimes her tone comes off condescending. As a fellow idealist, I kind of get that.
Even though the newsletter’s name is terrible, it’s kind of charming to get weekly updates from my favorite, skinny blond actress that stole my future husband (not bitter). If you’re not signed up, try it. Either you’ll find it charming, like me, or it will provide fodder for your anti-elitist diatribes.
