Post with 57 notes
Yesterday I went to Ralph’s in Studio City by myself. I usually have one or both sons in tow; strolling through the aisles unencumbered felt both nostalgic and novel. It was a real Calgon moment for old Brookie.
I saw that they had Birthday Cake Oreos. I don’t buy that trans-fatty Mississippi shit for my kids, but I definitely eat it myself. I threw them in the cart next to all the lame organic fruit, salmon etc. that I impose on my family. Suckers!
“Birthday cake” is my favorite flavor of anything. As a descriptor, it makes me laugh because we all know a birthday cake can be anything from Fudgie the Whale to a Princess situation. And yet, if you see a snack food or frozen novelty that claims to “birthday cake”-flavored, you know what it means. Yellow cake with white frosting and perhaps a suggestion of Blue No. 1. You know. BIRTHDAY CAKE. I love that flavor. Adore it.
I told the cashier (Sandra, who had been partying the night before, and was just about to clock off) to keep my Oreos seperate from the rest of the haul because I intended to eat them in the car privately. She gave me a weird look, but complied.
I placed the Oreos on the front seat of my car and peeled away the convenient self-adhesive Diabetes Flap that Oreos come with now. I began driving and eating the Oreos. For a brief, emotional moment, the sun came out. I mean that figuratively. The moment I start “Private Car Eating,” my serotonin levels surge past baseline and go supernova. The roof of my mom SUV becomes the shade of the bodhi tree; my knees and other attachment points seem to sublimate, I am limbless, I become happiness.
The moment passed as I realized that the Oreos were not exceptional. They taste like regular Oreos with a faint, buttery, cake-like foretaste. Honestly, I thought it would be big. I thought it was going to be like being butt-fucked by Duncan Hines. I expected something like the Ann-Margret pudding scene from Tommy, except with birthday cake. Imagine someone inserted a series of tan, medical-grade rubber hoses into all your orifices, then used a flywheel-type launch system to quickly, brutally deliver cake/frosting sludge into the network of hoses, killing you but also flooding your entire carcass with the memory of your fourth birthday party. That’s what I wanted, Nabisco.
I’ll eat the rest of them, but I’m disappointed! 2.5 stars.
I’m going to give my daughter my crystal at her engagement party.
Post with 54 notes
“I’m a mom myself, I have a five-year-old son, and he’s fierce and people constantly ask me “What are you going to do with your son and [how will you] tell him about your career?” And I respond, “You teach children as it’s appropriate.” Ultimately I want to teach him use his penis for good and not evil! This is a gift. This is your body. Yes, it matters who you share it with because it will matter to you. It’s not from any place of “Don’t have sex till you’re married… Don’t do this… Don’t do that.” I’m not coming from that place. Just when you do it, do it with someone you really love the first time. These are the things I want him to know.”
Post with 66 notes
Today I was driving to the doctor’s office and listening to the ’90s station on Sirius. The song “Hand in My Pocket” by Alanis Treadwell (née Morissette) came on, and I instantly became unstuck in time. I used to drive around to that song in the actual ’90s.
Back in those days, I had a silver Ford Escort I called “Rocket Girl”— this was a perfectly mid-’90s name for a car; everything then was all about rockets and girls and silver polyester and Marvin the Martian and D’arcy Wretzky and whatever. If you were there, you know what I’m talking about. Anyway, I used to drive around in Rocket Girl and listen to Q101, Chicago’s rock alternative. At the time, I pretended to be too cool for Alanis because I was in a funny-punk band. (There is no Wikipedia entry for funny-punk, but I assure you it was a thing.) But whenever one of Alanis’s songs came on the radio, I’d crank it. And sing. And play air-harmonica at stoplights.
Today I drove to Beverly Hills, not as a teenager, but as a boring mother of two wearing J. Crew. And yet it seemed like no time had passed at all. I did some math. 17 years. “Hand in My Pocket” is over 17 years old, which means I’ve been a licensed driver for a long-ass time. TL;DR: I’m old.
Tracie nails it so I don’t have to.
Ever since I got pregnant I sort of had this idea in my head that I’d want to write an essay about how I’ve gone about reconciling my past as a self-identified slut and transitioned into being a mother. But the words wouldn’t come to me when I was pregnant, so I figured I’d get to it once I actually had the baby and experienced motherhood. So I waited and waited, and now, six months later, I’m still unable to write about it. It’s not because the subject matter is too difficult or too sensitive. It’s just that I’ve come to realize something: What is there to reconcile?
Post with 27 notes
Mystery: The song “Miami” by Will Smith seems to be extremely popular on New Orleans radio. Like, I hear it daily. DAILY. I don’t think I need to explain why this is mystifying. As far as I know, this fourteen(!)-year-old jam doesn’t even get regular airplay in the city it praises. My brother lives in Miami. I should ask him.
Post with 66 notes
I’ve been in New Orleans for about 7 weeks now, prepping the movie formerly known as Lamb of God. We had to change the title for a couple of reasons, one being that explicit references to G_d don’t fly in certain foreign markets. I actually like the new proposed title better, but can’t announce it until it’s cleared. “Clearance” is an unsexy concept that’s really affecting my day-to-day life as a director. I swear if a character sneezes, we have to clear that shit with the AMA. It never ends.
I’m having a nice time here with my son, and especially enjoying the Southern hospitality and human interaction. This morning, I walked out to my car and discovered that someone had knocked off my driver’s side mirror during last night’s Mardi Gras revelry. This nice man rushed to help me attempt to repair it. You’d think I was being mugged based on his rapid and sincere response. I thanked him and decided to stroll down to the corner and get a coffee.
Inside the coffee house, I’m paying for my iced decaf Southern Pecan when an elderly gentleman comes up to me and breathlessly says “ARE YOU THE GAL WHOSE MIRRAH GOT BROKE?” I mean, my broken mirror was already news on the block. That’s how polite and concerned these folks are. In L.A., nobody would give two fucks.
We start shooting very soon and I *suspect* we’ll have a newly minted Oscar winner in the house. Cross your fingers and toes for Octavia! The character she plays in this movie is extremely un-“Minnie”-like, but in a fun way; you’ll get to see her sing and make out with guys and stuff. I really can’t wait to roll camera. P.S. I’m gaining so much weight. Po’boys and king cake; food of the g_ds.
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“I refuse to conform to any narrative conventions that say, ‘Well, if you begin a film with voice-over you at least have to bookend it, have it at the end. You can’t just have it at the beginning and let it taper off.’ I’m thinking, I’m 50 and I’m going to use whatever cinematic device I want to.” -Alexander Payne
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