Wednesday, February 27, 2008

I watched Juno

So with the Oscars last Sunday, and my knowledge of this year's films anything but nuanced, I was kind of surprised to see Juno in the running for Best Picture. Sure, I loved it, and sure, there was the strike on and all, but really? Best Picture? Isn't that the hallmark of stunning epics and things with lots of violence? I haven't even seen any of the other nominees and it was clear that Juno was not going to win, which it probably shouldn't.

Don't get me wrong. I was charmed. Ellen Page? Delightful. Allison Janney? Exquisite as ever. Rainn Wilson's cameo almost made me burst a seam. I laughed, I nearly cried, I said "aww" at all the appropriate bits, etc. But the problem with Juno is that it doesn't have much of a sense of resolution. I'm not asking for an anti-sex moral, or an anti-abortion moral - I'm not anti either of those things - but we never really saw the consequences of Juno's pregnancy. There were a couple of scenes in the school, but she never really seemed ostracized, or at least not any more ostracized than she had been as the weird girl. She was huge, but she wasn't in much more discomfort than that, and her parents still let her run around all over the place.

Part of Juno's charm is its lightheartedness, but at points it's a little too lighthearted. It doesn't confront the realistic consequences of teenage pregnancies, or the difficulty of finding a good solution. Juno doesn't confront the idea of giving away her child, though the weeping at the end was convincing enough to me.

The other problem is the relationship between the adopting couple - they hardly have any rapport, even at the beginning of the movie. It's a puzzle as to why they're together at all. I couldn't be sympathetic at all to Jason Bateman's character: he's cold at the beginning and a jerk at the end, never getting over the selfishness we see in his first scenes. He was cruel and inappropriate to put the problems in his relationship on Juno's shoulders when her load was already heavy enough for a high school girl. One wonders just what Jennifer Garner ever saw in him.

Juno is a movie I'd gladly watch over and over, but it isn't a Best Picture. Its scope is too limited, and it isn't nearly gory or sweeping enough. The soundtrack is quirky and sweet, but not epically moving. I'm sure No Country For Old Men fit the mold much better.

I was still pleased that Diabolo Cody got the award for best screenplay, but maybe Helen Mirren can teach her what to wear - nobody does classy and non-transparent like Helen Mirren.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

fat-phobia

Americans are afraid of fat.

We spend vast amounts of money on gyms and on fat-free foods and diet pills. We get all up in arms if someone calls someone else fat, as seen in this blog post by Dick Cavette, or even the comments to this NYTimes blogpost by Tara Parker-Pope about the importance of fitness in emergencies. Fat people sit around stuffing their faces all day! say some, and nuts to them if they can't get down the stairs! Cruelty! trumpet the others, and how would you feel if someone left you to roast in a fire? Admittedly, Cavett's mention of Nazis and Mafiosos in the same breath as the obese is a little over-the-top, but he's from a generation less likely to grasp for slights and victimizing remarks.

We're a nation of fad dieters and gym rats and couch potatoes, obsessed with celebrities who are thin to the point of appearing malnourished. We get riled up about clothing sizes, about portion sizes, about video games that will supposedly keep us fit. We watch "The Biggest Loser". We tell each other, "Of course you aren't fat!" We're mostly lying.

Why are we afraid to be called fat? In India, salespeople would look me up and down and give me a size bigger than I asked for. "Big size!" they'd insist. The local population was much slimmer. The Indian-American girl on my study abroad program was thrilled that at long last she wasn't being "penalized" by being made to pay the same price for her smaller, less-fabric-intensive clothing. The French didn't care enough to remark on my size, but I had trouble finding jeans that I liked (this did have something to do with the fact that I'm not big on rhinestones or pre-ripping, though).

I'm a fat girl. I've always been a fat girl. At five foot three and 165 pounds, there's no way you could call me normal weight. This is not to say that I'm not healthy - I don't have breathing or joint problems, and my cholesterol levels are fairly enviable. I eat pretty well - not too much, mostly vegetables (I can't help but think that Michael Pollan would be slightly proud and slightly dismayed, given that I'm not an omnivore). I don't have to shop in the plus size section and my BMI doesn't qualify me as obese. I don't consider myself unattractive. The reason I'm overweight is because I'm lazy. It's only in recent weeks that I've started going to the gym regularly. Though I played outside as a kid, it was mostly dreamy introspective games that involved building tiny playgrounds out of twigs and aquarium pebbles, not running and jumping. I wish I'd kept playing soccer after second grade, because it might have instilled some healthier gym habits in me. I wish I could say that I have a grand health plan in mind with all these gym hours, but really I just like the look of my collarbones, and I'd like to be fit enough to be less sweaty when I work out.

I suppose being overweight is something of a vicious circle. It is irritating to go to the gym and see all the skinny girls bouncing along on the ellipticals at two miles an hour, as if they don't have to work at it, or the massive guys heaving massive weights around on their massive shoulders. It is hard to schedule that treadmill time into your day. It isn't entertaining to diet or do crunches. And the heavier you are, the harder it gets to convince yourself to do something about it.

Why are we so afraid to be called fat? Sure, fat kids get bullied. But skinny kids get bullied too, and bookworms, and poor kids, and all sorts of kids. Children are cruel at times. I don't really buy the argument that a bunch of five-year-olds can ruin someone's life forever. Fatness shouldn't imply a lack of mental acuity or a dearth of social skills, but it seems to. Maybe I just didn't experience these damaging taunts because in addition to being the fat girl, I was the smart girl, and you don't want to alienate the person whose help you want with your homework.

Listen up, Americans: we are fat, we do need to get off the couch, and we need to stop playing the victims and acting offended that the rest of the world thinks we're porky, with our Twinkies and our burgers and our spread-out towns that make it inconvenient to walk anywhere. I'm not going to go so far as to say that fat people endanger society, but they do make us a source of (more) amusement for the rest of the world. Sure, some people have gland problems or other health conditions that contribute to their weight, but most don't. It isn't a moral judgment when someone points out that you're overweight. Someone might be implying that your will is weak or your motivation is lacking, but I wouldn't bet that way. Fat is a fact.

Meanwhile, skinny people (and don't think I believe that all of you just have high metabolisms), it's not really your place to be making people feel disgusting and awful. Exposed ribs aren't what I want to see at the beach, so if you and all the celebrities can just eat a sandwich now and again, I think we'll all be better off.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

things that annoy me about the gym

As someone who's now at the gym pretty frequently (and will no doubt be at the gym even more when she suddenly has several extra hours of free time in the morning), I have some beefs with my fellow exercisers. No doubt they have beefs with me too, but they don't necessarily have blogs, so nuts to them.

01. What's with wearing makeup to the gym? I come to the gym straight from work and I don't even have on as much makeup as these girls do. In fact, I try to remove it before I get all sweaty, because how is it possibly a plus to have mascara on while you're lifting five pound weights? Seriously. That can't be good for your skin, to have all that stuff getting into your pores. And I know they had time to remove it, because while they all seem to go to class in Victoria's Secret sweatpants, they don't go to class in hotpants or leggings and sneakers.

02. Gym couture. When did it become necessary to have fancy fancy clothes for the gym? I was just showing up in old t-shirts. Now I have a tanktop and yoga pants made out of microfiber or some nonsense, but that's not nearly as fancy as the clothes a lot of the girls wear. Coordinating, specially tailored to be aerodynamic, ergonomic bicycle shorts? And the best part is that they have ruffles on them and cost $50. Actually, I think my favorite part is the tiny tailored coordinating hoodies - why would you want to be more warm while you're kickboxing? And why do so many girls wear hats? It boggles my mind. Not that the men are much better, in their Underarmour and their wifebeaters.

03. People on cellphones. You can't take an hour out of your day to not answer the phone? Also, Women's Health told me that if you can talk while you're on the treadmill or the elliptical, you're not working hard enough. I don't need to hear your conversation about omg the party you, like, went to at that frat or whatever, and I wish your phone weren't turned up loud enough that I could hear the other half of your gossip circuit.

04. Men who look sideways at me when I go to the weights area to do squats or bench press. There's a reason I go to the gym at godawful hours of the morning before it's filled up with sweaty grunting guys. Sure, I don't lift a whole lot, but I'm not going to find a 60 pound barbell in the women's area with the yoga mats and the Bosus, so you just keep on keepin' on, men. I like my muscles too.

05. Aerobics classes where no one gets sweaty. What's the point of that, then?

06. When the attendant in the weight room decides that loud rap is the best thing to play. At least keep it at a volume that doesn't make my ears ring when I try to listen to my super classy Pointer Sisters/musicals/Bollywood workout mix.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

cupcake disasters


I'm pretty good in the kitchen. Oddly good in the kitchen, in fact, given that I experiment a lot and hardly ever measure things properly. That only makes the times things turn out badly more of a disappointment, though, when I expect deliciousness and am greeted with something disgusting.

I made the red wine cupcakes again on Monday afternoon. The cupcakes, thanks to my very capable sous-chef R, turned out beautifully. The glazes did not. Because they were so easy the first time, I figured they'd be fine this time. And then I used baking chocolate instead of regular chocolate, so the glaze came out more like a cross between taffy and fudge, all grainy and chewy. It's still sitting in the fridge, oozing that sort of liquor that comes out of dark chocolate and doesn't taste like anything much. I'll figure out something to put it in, I guess, that involves an oven. At least that one came out edible.

The caramel, however, was an unmitigated disaster. I think I didn't cook it over a high enough heat, and the sugar wouldn't brown properly before the water boiled off, so it wouldn't react with the cream, and when I tried to stir the cream in anyway and see if it would reduce, I ended up with a thin, curdled, sugary syrup that I promptly poured down the kitchen sink before it made the whole kitchen reek of sour milk. Good thing I had some goat milk cajeta handy that I could use instead. The ladies at knitting circle appreciated it.

Another delightful case of "Read the Question!". The only saving grace was that we didn't set anything on fire. And warm chocolate cupcakes, I suppose. And that I didn't have to do the dishes.

Oh, well, I guess everything turned out all right after all.

Friday, February 8, 2008

hi-yah!

So, I'm a chubby girl, and in general I'm a lazy girl. I like to go to the gym, but I get a little bored, and I find it hard to stay motivated to go. Ellipticals are fine, but not particularly interesting. The weightlifting section is always full of men. The treadmills are always full and also I tend to overdo it and burn myself out in ten or fifteen minutes. Girl might as well not go to the gym in that case.

But not this week.

Last week, one of the women at knitting circle told me that she'd started doing a Turbokick class at the local gym. It was fun, she said, and I should come along. Since classes are free for university staff, I thought, "Why not?"

Now I'm hooked. I could only go three times this week, and I pouted all yesterday when I had to work late and miss it. Why do I learn about everything so late? I thought it was just a my-gym thing, but apparently there's a whole Turbokick culture. It's a good workout too - kind of a mix of hip-hop and kickboxing. Do that for an hour and tell me your heart rate isn't up. I thought I was going to die after the first class, when I was sore before I even got home (and it's only a ten minute drive). But it was fun, and it was fast-paced, and unlike the regular hip-hop class, everyone was flushed and sweaty, down to the instructor. So I pushed through the pain like a real trooper the next day and lo and behold, it turns out just getting moving will help your aching muscles. And I thought I'd stuffed my brain full of all the knowledge it could use while I was in school.

I don't know why a class gets me to the gym when my own health doesn't. Maybe it's having an on and off gym buddy. Maybe it's being in a whole room full of people punching and kicking and shaking their booties. It does remind me some of my year on dance team. Or maybe it's just that the instructors have enviable bodies and I am convinced that, given a few weeks of jab-cross-hook-uppercut, I'll start to look like them. Just think if I skipped knitting circle and went five nights a week, how fast I'd be fit and fab.

And maybe I'll have a few smooth moves, as long as I don't roundhouse kick anyone in the club.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Super Fat Tuesday!

Ah, Super Tuesday. What more satisfying day for the political junkie? Plenty of candidates, lots of states: much more fun than Election Day, because there's still a satisfying stretch of months.

High school civics classes need to step up their efforts, though, or local news stations do, because apparently many people are wrongly convinced that Super Tuesday is when everyone votes. This ABCnews.com story elaborates on this misconception, though I feel the title of "Dumbocracy" is a little unfair. Super Tuesday is massively hyped and talked about. Other states aren't. The fact that there are primary competitions of some sort until June is hardly discussed at all.

Last time there was a presidential election, I got to caucus in Iowa, which was satisfying. Casting my ballot yesterday was good too. Look at me: I'm in a state which (almost) matters! As if there was ever any doubt that Arkansas would go to Clinton and Huckabee. Still, I was glued to cnn.com's Election Center all night, just for the thrill of it.

This year's goign to be a corker, and no doubt about it. Hard-fought Democratic primaries! The right wondering whether it ought to gnaw its arm off rather than support McCain! Drama drama drama! It's almost a good thing that there's a writers' strike on - all the networks have to offer is election coverage (and reality tv, but let's be serious: I'd rather see a candidate catfight, even if there aren't bikinis or proposals of marriage). On the other hand, no Indecision 2008, or little of it. Can't win them all, as the candidates have learned.

Although maybe somebody could have swept it, if only they'd started flashing for votes in the grand tradition of Mardi Gras. Show us something!

Saturday, February 2, 2008

ready for some football?

So it's Super Bowl Weekend, and I even know who's playing this year. That's an accomplishment, given that I'm one of those pretentious twits who sniff and say, "I prefer real football," meaning soccer, but that's what comes of trying to talk sports with a bunch of French high schoolers whose football is played with round balls by handsome men in shorts with no helmets. Despite my year on dance team in junior high, I never really picked up the fundamentals of the game (by which I mean I didn't understand what downs were), but once it was explained to me, I found it much more stimulating.

This year I'm excited because my default team to cheer for is in the Bowl! Hooray! I know nothing about football, quarterbacks, running backs, and the merits of the various teams, but by God, if the Patriots are playing, I'll cheer for them. I am not sure why this is, whether I liked their uniforms or whether it all started because my little brother liked the Patriots, but I am all over it now. I even know who Tom Brady is (admittedly, mostly because they did a piece on national morning news the other day about how everyone had a mancrush on Tom Brady, except when they polled people on the street, they didn't explain the term mancrush, so everyone denied it at the risk of looking randomly gay, and anyway, he's still not doing as well as Jesus).

It's weird that I never thought about football much until I went abroad. I missed hearing the marching bands practice. I missed the games being on in the background. So I went to a few of the home games this year, despite the fact that I'd not been to a college football game since the tender age of four or so, and that was just the end of an LSU game. Now I almost know what a running back is (with DMac and Felix Jones around, who could help it?), but my appreciation of the game is rather limited to enjoying watching muscled men fling themselves into heaps over a piece of leather, and also trash-talking the other team, even if my insults are more along the lines of, "Your understanding of differential equations lacks nuance! You wouldn't know a trochaic foot if it bit you!"

My Superbowl Sunday will mostly entail waiting for House to come on post-Bowl, but! The Patriots are going to crush the Giants and I don't care who knows it. After all, I'm fairly certain that the Giants couldn't replicate Rutherford's gold foil experiment with a lunchbox, a sheet of paper, and a rubber ball.

For that, you need Quiz Bowl.