The Girl With the Uber-Hot Movie Poster

I will start by saying that I am not a fan of Daniel Craig. He's a bit weasely for my tastes.

I will continue by saying that I am also not, as a rule, a fan of American re-make of foreign movies.

I will continue further by saying that I think Noomi Rapace embodied Lisbeth Salander perfectly in the Swedish Millenium Trilogy. She is my current, and strongest, girl crush.

Given these parameters, it's kinda funny that every time I see the poster for the American version for The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, I just about have a mental orgasm:



The pirated trailer for the US version was compelling enough, but this poster? Omg, omg, hawt!
Daniel Craig looks as weasely as ever--not to mention possibly constipated--but seriously? He is so much better to portray Mikael Blomkvist than this dude:

I'm a ladies' man, yeah! No one is impervious to my charms.

Lest I be accused of being a typical shallow American, with no concept of beauty outside our narrowly-defined standards here in the big ol' US of A, I will say this:

Uh, well, maybe guilty as charged. But! I simply don't see how the Swedish version's Mikael Blomkvist could possibly be so appealing, and it strained credibility. In addition to lacking physical appeal, I just don't see how he even offered any sort of charismatic je ne sais quoi that Larsson's character possessed. Vaguely rodent-like though he is, I think Craig's a pretty good choice for our American remake. Not conventionally attractive, but still--there's something so elementally raw and sexy about him (at least in the movie poster) that no amount of feigned dyspepsia can diminish.

Psychologically, the poster is hot. I can't even begin to go into describing how, exactly, without giving you (and perhaps me, too) an unwanted picture of my psyche. But even that movie picture pales in comparison to the uncensored (that's right, it gets hotter) version:

So completely NSFW

I will, however, lament the lack of Noomi Rapace in the American version. Have I mentioned she's my current girlcrush and I would happily let her kick my ass and steal my lunch money? Yes, plz!

Let's just save some time. You give me your lunch money,
and I won't have to kill you dead. I have piercings that could impale you.

Reflections from a Barren Womb: God is in the Details

"After 30, I think (if you have any sense at all) you begin to contemplate your mortality more. You begin to be aware that your youth is, by and large, behind you, and your days are far more limited than you ever imagined. The days are long, but the years are short, and there's terribly little time left to do what you think is important. I can understand, now, the reason why some people choose to have children--they say they want to live on. I had always thought that was an arrogant statement; after all, what's so special about us that we should live on? And who is to say that our kids will be like us? Now I know, it's not that our personalities themselves live on; in our children, a tiny portion of ourselves does continue on, to carry on our work and our lives, or rather, their own variation of it.

Those of us who still opt out of child-bearing, therefore, are working with a more limited time frame. All we've got is this life, however much or little of it is granted to us, with no accommodating offspring to carry it on. So we've got to work harder, and faster, to make our lives as fabulous and wondrous as possible. Without children to give our lives profound meaning, we have only what we can generate with our own hands and minds and spirits and hearts. And maybe all we generate will be small things, quotidian things that are unremarkable to all but ourselves. Perhaps our fulfillment will come from little selfish luxuries as we carry on what others may see as a pointless, childless existence.

But god is in the details, yes?

This is a quote from a letter I've been writing, on and off, over the past few days. It will be sent to a friend of mine, back in Indiana. I love writing letters; I can express so much more through my words on paper. Plus, there's some really beautiful stationary out there! Back before I moved to Indiana and got all burdened down with the nonsense of adulthood, I wrote religiously to a friend of mine. I would savor his letters; back and forth, we would wax philosophical, in the most delightfully unselfconscious way. Whenever I would sit down to write him a letter, I would light a candle, put on some music, haul out some stationary, and the words would flow. It was tn intensely spiritual experience for me; it is one that perhaps I should try to take up again. This time I shall add a glass of wine to the mix, and once more savor the candlelight and the scratching of the pen as word by word, I draw closer to my own essence, and hopefully closer to my recipients.

God is in the details, yes, but god is also in the relationships of those around us--not just with our children, but with our other family, our spouses, our colleagues, our friends past and present. The only immortality I need is in the ink of a pen.

It's a Blog's Life

It must be the heat.

Last summer, I was a blogging fool. I had actually built up a following! Of two people, mind you, one of whom was an Indiana-based stalker, but that's beside the point. She needed someone to aspire to be, and I like to think that I gave her a good example. By-and-by, however, in typical Gemini fashion, I wandered away from the blogosphere.

But now it's summer again, and the punishing sun here in the desert is exacting its terrible price that we pay to live here. On the first day of summer, we maxed out at about 115 degrees. In the face of such terrible weather, I unfailingly retreat to the comfort of our condo. Once inside, I turn the air down (now that I think about it, our electricity bill is the terrible price we pay to live here), draw the blinds, and keep the home as dimly-lit as possible.

And then my fingers get a metaphorical itch. I want to revive my blog, I want to develop an online presence, blah blah blah. It should be as simple as type, edit, post...and maybe it is that simple. But at this moment in time, it's not. I think I am just overthinking it. Do my posts have to follow orderly themes; do I have to limit my posts to one time a day; should I restrain from making the occasional political commentary?

Does it fucking matter? Aside from using correct punctuation and grammar, shouldn't my only goal simply be to get it out there? Since when did I give a frickety-frack if people liked me or noticed me? (Well, I'm sure I've always cared; I am certain we all want to be liked or well-regarded. If you say no, I say "liar!") But that's beside the point. It's my space. Without all the perverts and lousy bands. So, I suppose this is my blog's kingdom. My blog's domain. It's a blog's life. It's my blog's life.

Coming Up For Air

Once again, the Prodigal Blogger returns.

No particular reason for my absence, other than the normal laziness and business that seems to occupy my days in equal measure. My work hours are long and filled with lots of tasks, and that means I spend my off-hours engaged in pointless frivolity, resenting and avoiding any tasks that are expected of me on a habitual basis. Laundry, phone calls to family and friends, blogging, dishes--if it is expected of me, it pisses me off.

Still and all, I always come back. Maybe I am a hopeless Gemini, or maybe I have not yet found my groove in the blogosphere. When I put some thought into it, it occurred that there were many things I wanted to write about--my work and profession, my California life, my wishes and dreams for my "ideal life", various creative projects, my willy-nilly attempts at housekeeping, all the little things that make my life so damned lucky...little by little, I am trying to formulate a plan and see how my blog can bear fruit. Or at least be a reflection of my life. I'm not giving up.

Stay tuned for more details!

I hear voices

Not literally, thank god. 'Cause that would suck, royally. But there's been this voice in my head, for a very long time. Back during my Indiana years, my heaven-sent talk therapist helped me to identify it as my "fear voice." I am pretty sure that everyone has a fear voice. And it is not only part of their life, it is part of them.

My fear voice is one of the many things that compose my identity. It's the voice that is always there, at the back of my mind, positively (or, perhaps I should say, negatively) screaming whenever I undertake...well, anything. It's the voice that screams "what's the point? You'll never be good enough/creative enough/attractive enough/driven enough/patient enough." Whenever I want to do something, that voice is there, nay-saying me. It was there tonight, when I was trying to play around with some of my art supplies.

"What's the point? You can't even coordinate these colored papers and cardstocks! Forget layering them in an attractive and original way!"

"What's the point? You can't even successfully lift a design from someone else, let alone come up with an original sketch all your own!"

"What's the point? You can't even master techniques with tutorials, let alone come up with your own variations on the same! Let alone think up an entirely new technique with different mediums!"

"What's the point? You can't even teach yourself or learn the technical skills of drawing, of shading, or color blending! Forget trying to render an original work!"

Hello, world. Welcome to my head, where it's a veritable feast of ugliness day after day. Is it merely a subconscious, self-inflicted cop-out, to keep myself from trying or doing anything new?

My sisters and I have this quirk--we have this thing, where we don't like to try or do anything new without being GREAT at it immediately. We don't want to make the mistakes, smudge the paper, muddle the paints, miss the pitch. We just want to be perfect at it, without even trying. Practice makes perfect, but we'll be damned if we do that. Only, it does not work like that. (Damn the logic, anyway). But...what if you practice and still don't get perfect? Or what if you are perfect at the technique but still don't have the originality to do your own thing with it

But...maybe it should not matter if it is any good, either immediately or after three years of trying. Maybe it should just matter that I did it at all. That I tried. That I kept on keepin' on. But is that enough to shut that voice up?

Auld Lang Syne, My Ass

So, two days into the new year, and what do you think I've been doing? Conducting the approximately 8 years of research on my novel? Washing the 20 articles of hand-wash only clothing (dear god, why do I have such high-maintenance taste in clothing? It's KOHLS, for chrissakes)? Throwing myself with massive dedication into Operation Get Skinnier than Jim? At the very least, reading something in the condescendingly self-help genre?

Oh-ho. One can only wish.

The fact of it is, my ass is fused to my mattress. And my recently-dyed red mop of hair is leaking and ruining my Pottery Barn Euro Sham. (Turns out I don't care much for my duvet set, so I don't complain too much.) I'm into, like, Day 15 of Epic Sinus Infection of 2011, and I am perilously close to losing the will to live. So forget trying to keep any of my resolutions. Instead, I've been almost a complete layabout, watching Eat Pray Love and reading the Julie/Julia Project and Pioneer Woman blogs.

Shit. 2011 is going to be the Year of Vicarious Living, darn it.

All is not completely lost. I did cuddle my cat Austen a fair amount, stowed away a lot of the Christmas stuff, vacuumed, swept, did dishes, and folded laundry. I even bathed. That's a LOT to ask of a sick girl! And I'm not done, either. I shall do more laundry, and paint my nails, and maybe file some papers. And then I am going to fix a vodka tonic and the last of the gumbo and get ambitious and fuse my ass to the couch.

Whatever 2011 will be, I fear that 2011 is not be the Year of Ambitious Living.

All is Quiet on New Year's Day

They say to be careful of what you're doing at New Year's, because you'll do it all year...

If that's the case, I will be spending the entire year laying on the couch, sick with a sinus infection...but I will also be spending it pleasantly buzzed, chatting it up with my new friend Missi (nickname: Missile) while Himself watches movies blasting on the surround sound.

There are worse ways to bring in the New Year, indeed.

After staying up far too late, talking far too long, and drinking far too much champagne and wine (but damn, that Manina Cabernet, Vintage 2009--can 2009 be vintage, or am I being pretentious?--was good!), I tumbled into bed and passed out. This morning I woke up to a legendarily gorgeous desert morning and set to work; I was expecting friends over for a Vision Board Party, and there was precious little time to prepare the house...

...Yes, that's right, a vision board party, you read that right. It's a combination of an idea ganked from Rhonda Byrne's The Secret, and my friend, Sailor-Lovin' Shauna. She had a vision board party once, the idea stuck with me, and now lo and behold, I now actually have enough friends that were game for it.

So we laughed, we drank more champagne, we cut and paste and encouraged each other and eventually, the first day of the new year passed and four of us ended up having poster
boards with representations of our desires and goals for the year. And the entire time, as I was snorting and snotting and sniffing and blowing my nose, I was also secretly reveling in this lovely way to spend New Year's Day.

My boss made a remark to me last week, something along the lines of, "You're putting down roots here, like it or not." And she's right. As evidenced by the fact that I finally got one of my sisters out here to visit me, as evidenced by the fact that I have all of these people in my life, as evidenced by the fact that I consider my colleagues my family, as evidenced by the fact that I am going into my third year living in the same city (that has not happened since I was in my early 20s), I am indeed settling down. I think that's what 2011 is going to be for me, the year of Roots. They are going to grow deeper.

And I am going to grow happier.