Book Review: The Color Purple (1982)

The Color Purple is a beautiful book anchored by a powerful voice. The main character, Celie, narrates her life as a black woman in the south. She grows up a broken girl -- enduring rape, sexism, ignorance, and violence -- and only becomes truly alive much later in life. Along the way, she meets other people carrying their own burdens, who choose to live in different ways. Celie's and the supporting characters' (Sofia, Shug, Harpo, et al) journey is one of oppression and overcoming, whose telling won author Alice Walker the Pulitzer Prize in 1983.

My darling Philippines has a different take on race relations, in that we actively stereotype the most common non-Pinoys (e.g., the Chinese are stingy but work hard, the Indians are also stingy and charge high interest rates, and Americans are friendly and rich) -- but in a non-violent, non-oppressive way, or so I would like to believe. Please feel free to update me about any horrific, systematic injustices you have detected or personally experienced.

My point is, it's taken me about a decade of living in the US to understand just how frequently a story like Celie's occurs, and it's a crushing of spirit that is related to the unfortunate circumstances of her birth: she's 1) a woman, 2) black, and 3) poor. The title is all the more moving because of what it signifies: an awakening of hope and a commitment to living.

But words cannot adequately convey the emotional ups and downs I went through because of this book.  I was unashamedly weeping on the train, it was that bad. Let me portray my feelings via chart:

This post brought to you by Fragrant Husband's chicken parmesan and Argentina's Malbec! Wooo!!!

Still Not Married, Despite Wedding and Honeymoon

Massachusetts regulations dictate that a couple wishing to become Smug Marrieds (Bridget Jones' Diary, anyone?) must:

a. Apply together for a marriage license at City Hall.
b. Have the wedding officiant sign the marriage license and send it back to City Hall.
c. Pick up copies of the marriage certificate.

I've gone to City Hall four times now, in the hopes of securing copies of the marriage certificate so I can get the ball rolling on getting my name changed.

(Incidentally, my decision to trade my exquisitely exotic last name for a surname that sounds like fluffy winter hand gear is based on my burning desire to finally stop having people getting it wrong ALL THE TIME. Rrrrgh.)

I assumed that, since almost a month has passed since the ceremony, and the officiant lives about 45 minutes away from us, that step (b) was complete. I was wrong. I got a big fat nothing burger all four times I made the trip to City Hall, making my failure rate an impressive 100%.

So, mothers, lock up your sons, Fragrant Elephant is not legally married yet! Still a Singleton! Wooooo!!!

And now I shall cry giant woman tears of sorrow into my goblet of sangria.

Confessions of a Reformed Neat Freak

I love cleaning. It represents the pinnacle of responsible household activity. So many things out of place, so many items crying out for categorization and proper placement. I hear your cries, my children.  I'm coming for you. I am your salvation.

I led a monkish existence when I lived alone. Only the basics survived under my roof. I allowed a bed, dining room furniture, and a futon for guests. I borrowed books from the library. My hard drive held all my movies. The hardy little PlayStation Portable served as my video game console.

Then I moved in with Fiancé. Here, I saw the peril of home ownership: stuff. SO. MUCH. STUFF. Laserdiscs, VHS tapes, DVDs, Blu-rays, boxes of paper, boxes of unknown content, textbooks, paperbacks, hardcovers, board games, pictures, shirts, sweaters, mom jeans, pants, coats, costumes, suits, XBox games, D&D paraphernalia, knick-knacks, mismatched glasses, expired alcohol, expired medicine, I've-never-seen-that-before thongs, Mason jars, office supplies...and that's not even counting an entire room of things in the basement.

My head exploded. So much stuff, none of it mine. I couldn't go on a cleaning rampage and donate everything to Goodwill.

Evolution favors not the strongest or the fastest, but the most adaptable. I adapted. I took the 65% closet space allotted to me and obsessively organized my clothing by Professional, Casual, Flirty, Formal, and Hobo. I stacked my important papers, all arranged by subject, in the space under my bedside table. I sorted what books I had by size. I won a petition for a space exclusively for my bags. I put my shoes in a space-saver and classified them according to seasonal use.

Why have I been cursed such organizational skill that my own mother sends me her stuff in advance of a trip so that I may pack her suitcase for her? Did some childhood trauma involving insight into entropy and chaos forge in me some determination to exercise control over my surroundings, preferably with the help of a label maker? Did I inherit it from my grandma, who makes a list of all the contents of the refrigerator and tapes it onto the door, for the benefit of anyone who could possibly be interested? Did I learn it from my sisters, who painstakingly organized their beauty items in small, easily accessible pink trays?

Whatever the case may be, I know I am now a reformed neat freak. Reformed neat freaks are those individuals who have no choice but to accept the lower different neatness standards of those with whom they co-habitate. We conceal our tics whenever we see stacks of board games on a chair instead of on shelves on the entertainment center. We secretly indulge in our fixation for neatness by conducting unannounced raids on cabinets and refrigerators, and throwing out items years past the sell-by date. For health! For safety! For the ability to argue for neatness by pointedly putting four bottles of grape jelly side-by-side where the culprit will see them as soon as the culprit opens the fridge! See, if the fridge had some semblance of order, one would know that one already had three bottles of grape jelly!

RRRRAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!

In the meantime, I continue to joyfully clean the bathroom. A sparkling tub provides comfort and reassurance. A hair-free floor promises prosperity. Neatly lined beauty items, one side for him, the other side for me, allows for efficient ablutions. Yessss, my precioussssss, we must have the neatnessssss...

This post brought to you by Puppy Bowl IX!

My Inadequacy is Overwhelming

My boss' boss brought his two little sons to work, and after the mandatory "Oh, new interns!" jokes subsided, the older boy (who was clutching a hardcover copy of Quantum) solemnly told us about his blog and handed out his business cards. He's a tutor. He's 10. His blog is about quantum physics. I read it and cried giant woman tears of inadequacy. You, too, may read it and weep! theoriesofquantum.blogspot.com

"First World Problems" meme from quickmeme.com.
Workaround for saving the file from this tumblr site.

With that, I bid you Happy Friday!

Movie Review: Magic Mike (2012)

I cried giant woman tears of happiness when I watched Magic Mike. Steve Sodebergh of Ocean’s Eleven fame directed this tale of male strippers, friendship, and lives filled with money, sex, drugs, and booze. Channing Tatum’s portrayal of the title character, Mike, holds the movie together. The script is also good, although the story needed tighter pacing. There was a point when I got bored. That is just plain wrong, when muscular hotties dance every ten minutes.

Speaking of dancing, two numbers stand out – the group dance to “It’s Raining Men,” and Magic Mike’s solo. Ho. Ly. Lord. That solo. Tatum slithers and arches across the floor like all my dreams come true, his hard body at once flexible and supple, grinding manfully and gliding deliciously and—excuse me while I take a break from writing to calm down. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. That’s it.

There’s more to Magic Mike than vicariously fulfilling our naughty fantasies, though. The movie is set in Tampa, where Mike does roof tiling and window detailing on the side, to save up enough money to start his own custom furniture business. Matthew McConaughey’s character sees him as the top act of the Xquisite Male Revue, and has promised him a cut of the profits when they move their act to Miami. Mike seems to be set until he helps out Adam (Alex Pettyfer), a 19-year-old living with his sister. This lost soul becomes known as “The Kid” in the revue, and his rising star, not to mention his sister, complicate Mike’s life.

The script gets uneven in the middle of the movie. It starts out light and raunchy, with McConaughey in tight leather pants and a vest, his rippling abs and smiling banter drawing in the audience (swoon). We laugh as Magic Mike shoves the inexperienced Adam out onto the stage, and double over at McConaughey’s ridiculous gym outfit when he teaches The Kid how to strip-dance. We smile as Adam earnestly tells Mike: “We should be best friends.” And then he goes deeper into the stripper lifestyle and bam! instant dark drama, just add drugs! Viewers watch Adam spiral deeper into the pit he never sees, and at that point, everyone on screen becomes annoying and dumb. Fortunately, the smart ending comes in to save the day.

The gals in my group commented that the only sore point in the movie was Cody Horn, who plays Pettyfer’s sister. She does have bone structure that makes her seem to be simultaneously pouting and jutting out her jaw, so I guess that hampered her acting? She seemed okay to me. I really liked her tête-à-tête with Tatum—they had the best funny lines in the script. The best dark lines go to McConaughey and Pettyfer, who are both excellent.

In conclusion: I WILL WATCH IT AGAIN, WHO’S WITH ME?