So WHO’S EXCITED FOR THE NEW STAR WARS, YOU GUYS. I am, albeit with a soupçon of trepidation. Because, listen, I went on Opening Day to see The Phantom Menace in ’99. My boss let me out of work early and everything. When I left the theater, I could do little else but sputter indignantly for, like, three hours. I SHOULD HAVE JUST STAYED AT WORK.
But honestly, I’ve geeked all over my desk at the trailers for this one, just like everybody else, and I have a deeply personal relationship to the franchise, just like everybody else, and I just want to go in and lose my shit the way I did when I was 6 and my mom took me to see A New Hope in 1977. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
I’m just finishing up a re-read of Bette and Joan: The Divine Feud, which I first read in college. I bewail the fact that we don’t have rivalries like that anymore. What even comes close? Aniston & Jolie? Neither of them could hold a candle to these broads.
I was around 11 when the film version of Mommie Dearest came out, and I was immediately obsessed. I somehow managed to get a copy of the book when I was 13 — around the time of the infamous picture. I have been drawn to scandal and camp (or scandalous camp, or campy scandal) for as long as I can remember.
By the time I was in college, I was squarely Team Bette. I thought she was the better actress, plus the little old ladies who subscribed to my college’s theatrical season would always make a point of telling me that onstage, I gave shades of Bette (I still don’t see it). Anyway, in re-reading this, I have something of a better appreciation for Joan. Maybe it’s time to give Mommie Dearest another read.
(I will say that Joan was totally right about the wire hangers. Never keep your clothes on those things, folks.)
As I’ve been alluding to in my regular ol’ blawg of late, I am battling another bout of depression/anxiety, which has been doing a number on my self-esteem. I feel like I manage to muster a soupçon of confidence, only to have it dashed by what would ordinarily be a pretty inconsequential thing.
This has been more or less a lifelong struggle for me, and it’s only been in the past 13 years or so that I’ve acquired actually effective tools in dealing with it. It’s just remembering to USE those tools, which can be hard when you’re on the mental couch with your pint of mental Ben & Jerry’s and a mental “Party of Five” marathon is playing nonstop on your mental television set. To use the tools would require actually getting up off the couch and walking across the room to get them. And when you’re depressed, that’s not really that simple, no matter how many times people tell you to “keep your chin up,” or “get over it.”
But I’m getting off the couch. And damn it – I am awesome. I am a QUEEN.
I’m 45 years old today. Not gonna lie, not gonna joke about how great it is to be 29. I’ve got 45 well-earned years on me, and while I might have a few more wobbly bits than I did in my “salad days,” I think I’m still fairly smokin’.
Doll cakes were the rage when I was a youngster. I remember having one for my First Communion, but I don’t think I had one for my birthday, and certainly not during 8th grade. So here it is.