Lawyerish

Worth Repeating

Halloween, 1988.  I posted this about a year ago, but I think it bears another view.  I was dressed as Jon Bon Jovi, God help us all. And that sneer is supposed to be me looking like JBJ, with his pouty rock star expression.  I believe we were asked by every house if we didn't think we were maybe a little too old to be trick-or-treating.  (We were in eighth grade.  And yes, we went trick-or-treating in eighth grade.  Our coolness was unassailable, let me tell you.)

Does anyone out there like Bit O' Honey?  For some reason, I always ended up with a disproportionate amount of Bit O' Honeys in my treat bag when I was a kid.  As candy goes, especially when lined up next to Snickers, Skittles and Tootsie Roll Pops (did you used to look for the Native American shooting the star with a bow and arrow, too?  that was supposed to signify something, but I've no idea what), Bit O' Honeys left something to be desired.  Like flavor.  They were always the last thing left in the big mixing bowl on top of the fridge, where our haul ended up once we'd eaten our alotted three pieces of candy on Halloween night.  Months after Halloween, when my mom would finally discard the remnants of my loot, it would consist of some rock-hard Bit O' Honeys, powdery Necco wafers and perhaps a handful of crumbling Dum Dum lollipops.      

Oh, and those little flimsy cellophane packets with three candy corn in them were not my fave, either.  I mean, THREE candy corn?  Come on!  Also disappointing:  toothbrushes (funny joke -- now give me some CANDY!), apples (seriously? I can eat an apple ANYTIME), and homemade cookies or brownies (which I would have liked, but they were immediately discarded by my vigilant parents for the possibility of containing poison and/or razor blades).  (See also: this list, originally brought to my attention by Jonniker -- this is a truly appalling display of Halloween party pooper-ness.)

On Halloween night, we will not be answering our door with handfuls of candy for all the neighborhood children, because the neighborhood children go to the stoop and vestibule of each building, rather than to each individual apartment on the block, to trick-or-treat.  Which I learned last year when I sat expectantly by the door, armed with a giant bowl of Butterfingers, Reese's Cups, Twizzlers and Tootsie Roll Pops, and...nothing happened. 

It was our first Halloween in the new apartment, and I thought that our block association's signs exhorting people to prepare for trick-or-treaters meant they would be letting kids and parents go into each building.  Nay.  Families and residents gathered outside -- in costume, natch, and with pumpkins adorning the sidewalks and stoops -- and the kids wandered about collecting candy in front of each building while the adults socialized and managed the escalating sugar high chaos.  It was plenty festive, and I can't wait to do it next year with our own little squirt -- but I am mildly bitter that I don't have an excuse to load up on candy.

Anyway, what we'll do instead is watch "Night of the Living Dead," the classic from 1968, which we bought on DVD a couple of years ago when we were jonesing for a scary movie, and nothing on TV would suffice.  The movie is hilariously ridiculous in all sorts of ways, but the best part is that there's a Mystery Science Theater-esque commentary track on the DVD, and hoo boy, is it ever funny.  I highly recommend it.

Happy Halloween to you all!  I hope your treat bags are full of the good stuff (not Bit O' Honey) (unless you like those, in which case, enjoy!) (freak) (oh, I kid!).    

Mrs. Sunshine

Can someone explain to me why our grocery store chooses to restock its shelves on Saturday afternoon, when everyone in the neighborhood is trying to do their weekly shopping?  The aisles are tight enough as it is -- city grocery stores look like regular ones that you put in a shrinker; they have mostly the same stuff as your Publix or Kroger out there in non-city land, but everything's a bit...compressed.  And sometimes the stock is unpredictable; some weeks they have my Puffins cereal, some weeks they don't (daaaaaamn theeeeeem). 

Even more maddening than the uncertainty of whether Hershey's Special Dark will be there from week to week is the difficulty of navigating four-foot wide aisles with a shopping cart when there's a stock person every three feet with a giant step-ladder and fifty boxes.  I think they track my progress through the store and rush to where I'm going next (she's headed for the hummus!  oh, wait -- quick, start restocking the frozen foods!) to maximize the irritation. 

And, of course, the painfully slow elderly shoppers always find me (usually they're in front of me at the deli counter, asking if they can taste that potato salad or how much sodium is in the rotisserie chicken, and I stand there with my list and pen in hand and contemplate stabbing myself in the jugular), as do the parents who let their toddlers roam around unattended with their own miniature carts, meandering from side to side and slamming into the backs of my legs, and it's all I can do to get out of the store with my sanity intact. 

This weekend, to intensify the near-nervous breakdown experience, the people in front of me at the checkout -- in addition to restocking during peak shopping hours, they also keep a maximum of two registers open at a time, with one person doing the ringing up and the bagging -- seemed to have some confusion about how to use their ATM card to pay. I was convinced that I would have to go away for a long "rest" in a locked ward after I got out of there.

And then I made the mistake of going to the drugstore.  Oh, dear.  I gathered some items and headed to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription, whereupon I had to wait for some woman to complete an inordinately lengthy transaction (I'm not completely sure, but she may have been taking out a second mortgage on her home).  Once she finally shuffled away, the person who had been helping her disappeared. 

I stood there for a couple of minutes, trying to look conspicious to the five or so employees who were standing eight feet away, avoiding even a sidelong glance in my general direction.  Finally, a guy came out of the back and asked if he could help me.  I gave him my name and told him I had called in my prescription that morning.  He slo-o-o-o-wly perused the bins and muttered that it wasn't there.  He then slunk over to the pharmacist and made some vague indication that he wanted to see if my prescription had been filled.  And then, for no apparent reason, he picked up the phone and starting BS-ing with someone on the line.  A few minutes later, he hung up and strode off toward the front of the store.  I stared after him helplessly.

I did everything but shoot off a flare to attract the attention of another employee, but a good eight minutes or so passed without anyone acknowledging my presence.  Finally, the pharmacist moseyed over and asked if I was being helped.  I gave my name again and he wandered away, and then another few minutes later, still another person came and asked if I needed help.  Well, hallelujah, this person actually managed to locate my prescription, ring up my things, and release me from the harshly-lit confines of the store. 

Honestly, I know it sucks to work at a drug store for minimum wage and to deal with, I'm sure, a lot of cranky and rude people.  But I don't see how that gives you carte blanche to treat everyone who walks in the door -- every customer, mind you -- like an inconvenience to your personal time, which you would prefer to spend on the phone or huddled in a corner with your fellow employees.  And yet, they get away with it because this store is so ubiquitous in the city, and you'd have to go to great effort to shop elsewhere.  I swear, every time I go in there it shaves a few months off my life.

(Well, that was cranky, wasn't it?  I don't know if it's the decrease in daylight hours or the prolonged allergy season or my ever-growing need to see our baby's face and know where and who she is, but I have not been in a good mood lately.  I kind of feel like taking to the couch and watching "Felicity" and eating brownies for...oh, a month or two.  Anyone care to join me?)      

Overjoyed

Well, y'all.  I think this officially counts as an outpouring.  You guys absolutely made my mom's birthday; she had such fun reading all of your comments, as did I.  And now I have so many new blogs to check out!  Very exciting.  Thank you so much for popping in to say hello and send your best wishes.  I am really touched, and ever so glad to know that all of you are out there. 

Since several of you mentioned that you read this site to get a glimpse into daily life in New York, I will close out the week with a couple of random tidbits:

1.  Wednesday night, I was walking home from the subway, and I passed a woman standing on the front steps of this sort of Parisian-style prewar building that's around the corner from us.  I glanced up at her as I strolled by, and it turned out that I was looking right into the (lovely, seemingly un-Botoxed) face of...Kyra Sedgwick. 

I've seen Kevin Bacon in Central Park a few times, but I'd never encountered her.  She was wearing a darling little dress, something white and flouncy with black appliques, and she's teeny tiny (as most celebs are, but it never ceases to amaze me just how wee they look in person).  I didn't get much more than that, as one doesn't want to gawk, but she was talking to a younger woman (personal assistant, maybe?  nosy neighbor?  adoring fan?) in a velour track suit.   

Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I ever had the dog with me and came upon Kevin Bacon with his dog in the park.  Naturally, because Miles always wants to say hi to every dog in the universe, I'd slow down and let Miles work his charms and see if KB would let his dog stop, too.  But then what?  Do you just say, "Hey", or maybe ask what kind of dog it is or engage in some other typical dog-people small talk, or do you acknowledge that you know who the famous person is and say something lame like, "Now I'm one degree of Kevin Bacon" or, possibly even worse, "I loved you in Footloose/Diner/that movie about the child molester"?  Because it seems sort of disingenuous to act like you haven't a clue who they are, but then again, if you haven't been properly introduced it seems awfully rude to carry on like you know them personally.   

These are the sorts of things I think about.  And, by the way, it goes to show you how living in New York is so weird, in the sense that my husband and I are this utterly normal, office-going couple, and around the corner there are these bazillionaires that you see on TV and in movies all the time.  And then around the other corner there are public housing projects.  Oh, wait -- I think they call that a melting pot!  Heh. 

2.  Tonight when I left work, I was heading to the subway, and as I rounded this corner where (yet another) condo is about to go up and there's scaffolding over the sidewalk, this guy came out of nowhere and SLAMMED into me at full speed.  He was a short guy in a disheveled suit, and he was sprinting down the sidewalk right up against the wall so there was no room for error by that corner, and WHAM!  Right into me. 

It happened in a bewildering flash; I was knocked off balance but he sort of grabbed my arms to steady me and then kept running, without a word.  I think when we collided I yelled, "JESUS!", but with no other recourse than an icy glance, I shook myself off and pressed on.

That's the kind of excitement you get, living in this grand city.  Movie stars and...random guys running into you.  And, tonight, you get a delicious full moon, slightly blurred by cloud cover, that gleams over the light-strung Brooklyn Bridge, reminding you that it's fall and it's October and the Charlie Brown Halloween special will be on next week. 

Have a wonderful weekend!

Hey, All You Lovely People (A Request)

Is anyone else inordinately pleased that baseball players have, for the most part, stopped tucking their pants legs into their knee socks?  I find it makes them look far less bubble-butted, which can only be an improvement. 

Generally speaking, baseball players don't do it for me.  Between the constant spitting and the paunchy guts, they just seem a little...unsophisticated to me.  Not that football players, say, are all effete intellectuals, but I guess the baseball guys strike me (HA!) as awfully similar to the dudes who drove around my hometown in monster-wheeled pickups with naked ladies and/or Confederate flags on the mudflaps and who considered "muddin'" -- that is, driving around in circles for the sole purpose of kicking waves of mud up over the body of the truck -- a viable hobby.

I've also never really enjoyed the exercise of going to a ball game; for me, the visual thrill of the brilliant green of the grass and the flash of the Jumbotron, and the excitement of guzzling watery beer while munching on a pretzel the size of my head, are quickly overcome when I realize that an hour has passed and we're only one-ninth of the way through the game.  Football at least has some action to it -- the guys move around the field a lot and make dramatic catches and tackles and whatnot -- but in baseball, the greatest kinetic displays are made by the ball itself, not the players.

Well.  That went on a little longer than I intended.  Can you tell my husband's watching the World Series?

The point of this post is to ask a favor.   

I've explained before how dedicated my mom is to being involved in whatever is important to me, and blogging is no different.  Mom logs on every evening to see if I've posted, and she usually sends me an email commenting on the topic du jour.  She also gets a little up in arms when I post something and few people chime in with comments -- she actually refreshes the site throughout the day to see who's saying what, and when things are quiet she writes me to ask why no one is commenting.  I think she takes it a little personally, to be honest. 

I've never outright asked people to delurk before, but today (Thursday) is my mom's birthday -- a significant birthday, with a zero on the end! -- and I'd love it (and so would she) if you'd leave a comment to wish her well.

If you don't feel like it, no worries -- my mom will just be sitting at her desk, refreshing her browser again and again with bated breath, and I guess one day she'll get over the disappointment of the day she got no birthday greetings from the Internet.  No, really.  Just go on with your business.  It's only my mom and her sensitive soul.  And her birthday.

(I figure I should start working on my guilt trip skills now so that, by the time our kid gets here, I'll be a pro.)

Seriously, though, I know you all will come through because I have the best readers in the blogosphere, and you've always been so generous toward me (and my mom, come to think of it), even without being asked.  You were all obviously raised right, and I bet you know how to write proper thank you notes, too. 

Thanks, y'all!  Have a great Thursday!   

Out of Touch

I'm not sure if I've ever felt as old as I did yesterday when, on my flight back to New York, I opened up an Us magazine for my requisite dose of travel-time trash.  Some plenty familiar folks were featured (hello, what is with my alliteration today?) -- Suri, Britney, Brad and Angelina -- but outside of that, I had no idea who 95% of the "celebrities" were. 

I realize I'm a little out of touch, but I was unaware just how much.  Heidi Montag?  Diane Kruger?  Nicole Scherzinger?  The hell?  These people are famous? I never knew that my having failed to see a single episode of "The Hills" has somehow placed me under a very large rock vis-a-vis the bulk of today's pop culture.

I had a similar feeling this summer during "So You Think You Can Dance" when they would have live musical performance as filler during the results show.  I had previously managed to avoid exposure to Mika (what was going ON there?  it was like someone's 1980s-era talent show act, complete with skin-tight aqua jeans and a popped collar), "Get It Shawty" (??) and, come to think of it, the aforementioned member of the Pussycat Dolls, who apparently is, uh, good enough (heh) to go solo.  All I know is that her performance inexplicitly involved a very large box, and mostly I wanted to shove her into the box, nail the lid shut and send it off the side of a cliff.

But I do have to admit that Suri Cruise is a super cute baby.  And I was pleased to find that Us has finally stopped referring to Connor and Isabella as Tom Cruise's "adopted children" and just calls them his "children."  Much appreciated, Us.

As long as I'm admitting my utter lack of sophistication, I will confess that I downloaded Britney's new song.  There it is, on my iPod, for all the world to see.  Oh, the shame, the unmitigated shame!  I hesitate to call it a song, since it has little to no singing in it, and I'm not sure Britney can really claim it as her own since her appearance on the vocal track is mostly limited to some giggling and moaning.  But there's something about it that's kind of catchy.  Or maybe part of my brain has recently melted and I'm confused and disoriented and electronic pops and beeps and thumps sound like music all of a sudden.  I feel like that could only help me connect with the younger generation, though, so maybe that's ok.  Yo.   

Grateful

On Saturday, near sundown, my mom and my aunts and I sat out on our balcony and watched a wedding on the beach.  From our perch on the eighth floor, we could see the whole oceanside ceremony unfold, from the flower girls tottering about to the barefoot processional to the newlywed kiss. 

As we watched the bridal party gathering beneath the palm trees before they walked down the petal-strewn aisle to the white arch, we commented on the pretty pale pink of their dresses and the vibrant salmon of the roses they carried.  Then, as the bride floated toward her groom, her veil trailing behind her on the white sand, we realized that her dress also had a pale pink tint to it.  And then we saw the empty chair next to her father when he sat down after giving her away.

My aunt Katie mused that it was October, which is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And of course the color associated with breast cancer support is pink.  We leaned in, touched by the apparent tribute, as the officiant announced that the congregation would be releasing butterflies after the couple exchanged rings, in honor of the bride's late mother.  As a cluster of tiny fluttering wings appeared in the air, one butterfly hovered over the couple, then alit on the bodice of the bride's gown, just over her heart, where it stayed for the rest of the ceremony.

We were quiet for a while as the wedding moved from poignant to celebratory and as the guests meandered along the beach toward the reception, lingering with shoes in hand to watch the clouds burn orange with the setting sun.  All I could think of was how grateful I am that I didn't have to go through my wedding day without my mom at my side, and how every single day I am thankful that I have her, and that we can have such a close relationship.  And then I thought of how extremely awesome it is that I have this amazing group of women in my family, who gathered this weekend to fete my mom for her birthday.

I've spent lots of time over the course of my 32 years with my various family members in different settings, but we've never gotten together, just the girls, with both my mom's and my dad's side of the family represented. I hope we do it again, though, as it was a blast.  We strolled and swam and sat and shopped and, more than anything, talked.  We chattered about girl stuff like first periods and parenting advice and Britney Spears, and larger stuff like presidential candidates and hybrid cars, and everything in between. 

I share something unique with each of the women in my family -- my aunt Gloria and I can talk about our dog-babies back home and the ins and outs of demanding professions (she's a top-notch veterinarian with her own practice); Katie and I can bond over athletic challenges (though she has way more bragging rights than I do, having just finished her first triathlon); Sharon and I have the same passion for travel and good food and wine, and a similarly barbed sense of humor -- she can make me laugh until my stomach hurts; and Mom and I....well, we've got more in common than I can describe here, but over this particular weekend, it was pointed out just how much we both communicate via wild gesticulation -- an important trait, to be sure. 

So, anyway, to top all of this off, I got to spend a few hours hiding out from a torrential downpour in a pub and then a Starbucks with the ever-wonderful Jonna, and again it was a stretch of time filled with wall-to-wall conversation of the best kind, and honestly if she didn't have some schmancy black tie thing to attend that night, I would have taken her hostage and made her join us for the rest of our girls' weekend.  Oh, AND, I got to see my granddad (my dad's father), who at almost 91 is just as fit and spry and adorable as ever -- his hugs still could break your ribs, and the look on his face when he opens the door and says, "Oh, look, it's my family!" could break your heart. 

Meanwhile, my husband was in Charlotte visiting Allison and family -- and by "visiting" I mean "helping them move into their new house.  He and David flexed their muscles and declared themselves the Old Dude Moving Company and unloaded furniture, boxes and sundry items in what I understand is record time.  I'm sure the hubs will come home sore and exhausted, but cheerful from seeing them; likewise, I have post-girls' weekend fatigue (scratchy throat from constant talking, bleary eyes from well-past-midnight bedtimes, and a mild hangover), but I couldn't be more content.   

An Inauspicious Start

I got up a little late this morning and went for a run, then did some work and puttered about doing pre-trip things (i.e., throwing random items and miniature toiletries into a rollaboard suitcase and hoping for the best). 

You know what I like to do before getting on a plane after going for a 3-mile run in unseasonable heat?  Shower.  Well, a little after 10, I went to do just that and...nothing came out of the bathtub faucet when I turned the knob.  I had a vague memory of a sign downstairs by the elevators, notifying our building of a water shutoff from 10 to 4, but it was dated yesterday.  Nay.  Apparently that was meant for TODAY.  Awesome. 

By some miracle, the water in the kitchen was still on, so I hunched over the sink and washed my hair among untold numbers of food particles, then did a stand-up sponge-bath of sorts, which culminated in me basically throwing handfuls of water over my body and, of course, all over the kitchen.  The upside is that, after I mopped up the inch or two-deep puddles, the floor was especially sparkling clean, and our kitchen now smells of Pomegranate-Mango body wash.

Let's hope the trip improves from here.

Letdown

I got my official marathon entry the other day.  I haven't canceled it yet, but I will.  The motivation just never hit this year.  I had promised myself last year that I would run it if we didn't have a referral yet, to occupy my mind and pass the time, but...yeah.  Anyway.   

I'm a little disappointed in myself, maybe, and I think I'll be even more bummed on race day when I'm not out there blasting my iPod and pumping my fist on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, or pounding up the steep incline of the 59th Street Bridge or slogging my way through the Bronx.  I won't get a space blanket identifying me as one of the victorious finishers, nor will I have that satisfying soreness the next day. 

Hmm.  Now that I think about it, maybe I can train for it in three weeks.  What do you think?  I'm up to a whole five miles for my long run at this point -- 26.2 should be no problem, right?  Heh.

Separately, I cannot believe that we had that whole (hilarious) discussion about the worst movies ever, and I failed to bring up the cinematic horror that was "Gigli."  Oh.  My.  GOD.  I can't imagine what possessed me to watch it in the first place, except perhaps that I thought it would be hilarious in its absurdity.  As it turned out, it most certainly was not.  It was, instead, shockingly terrible, and for the life of me I will never understand how it got made in the first place.  How does that happen, exactly?  How does a studio agree to put up millions of dollars to finance a movie that includes the line "Gobble, gobble, it's turkey time"? 

Also, Ben Affleck sucks.  He just does.

So later this week, I'm heading to Florida to meet up with my mom, her sisters and my dad's sister for an estrogen-soaked weekend in celebration of my mom's birthday.  There will be a lot of wine and much girlie gabbery, and I can't wait.  And guess who else lives in the Sunshine State?  Woo hoo!  Good times shall ensue.  More later.

The Gluttony Report

Most Mondays I come back and report on what I cooked over the weekend, I suppose because eating is usually the highlight of the forty-eight hours between our work weeks.  Our Saturdays and Sundays are otherwise spent on the banal -- shuttling between errands, traipsing through the park with the dog and disposing of dry cleaning plastic (I kid you not, this can take an hour or more; clearly, we have a startling amount of dry cleaning, but also they use an absurd amount of plastic, to say nothing of the paper stuffed in sleeves and folded into sweaters, which itself is enough to drive me mad -- just give me the damn clothes and save the gift-wrapping, thanks). 

This weekend, we did have the rather novel excitement of hosting friends for a most enjoyable evening of drinks on Saturday night (hi, guys!  let's do it again soon!), although there again I cooked, so we're back to the food thing.  And since I hate to be one to break tradition, I will note that I made a delicious red pepper and spinach dip, a recipe I'd gotten from my mom, as well as the oft-mentioned carbonara pizza (I think I skimped on the ricotta and provolone this time, and maybe cooked the crust a little too long, as it wasn't as chewy and cheesy as I like it), and for dessert a pumpkin loaf with a cream cheese filling. 

The dessert could have been a disaster, considering that after it had been in the oven for an hour or so, I went to check on it only to find that the loaf had...well, escaped the confines of the loaf pan, and was rather volcanically spewing molten pumpkin and cream cheese all over the interior of our (formerly) shiny, new oven.  (I failed to note that the recipe calls for a 5-inch deep loaf pan; ours is 2.5 inches.  Heh.  Details!)  I removed the pan, which continued to glop its contents onto the top of the stove for a few minutes until it cooled and the crust formed.  I was able to get most of the escaped portions off the wire racks and oven floor (whereupon I ate them -- it would have been a shame to waste all that) before our guests arrived.  The loaf wasn't very pretty, but it was plenty edible, and damn tasty if I do say so.

So there you have it.  The weekend update:  food edition.  Please take a moment to envy our very, very exciting life.  (Though, in addition to having friends over, we also went out twice last week, DURING THE WEEK, for dinner events, and tomorrow night I have another dinner outing scheduled.  It's like we've had six months' worth of social plans crammed into a week.  And I have really enjoyed it, even though on Thursday I was out well past my bedtime and Friday at work was a miserably groggy stretch of hours.)   

Meanwhile, apparently everyone is blogging about the environment today. I don't have much to add, to be honest.  I mean, I found "An Inconvenient Truth" to be as hair-raising as everyone else, so after we watched it I went out and bought a bunch of CFLs and then sat around feeling a bit helpless about the rest of it. 

I mean, we live in the city, so we don't have a car, which means our carbon footprint is fairly small to begin with -- we have no choice but to walk or take the subway almost everywhere.  On top of that, my husband is a compulsive light, uh, turner-offer (as in, I will leave a room with the intent of returning in .005 seconds, and I will come back to find it dark); we have Energy Star appliances; and we use ceiling fans for cooling whenever possible.  And in the winter I wear 57 layers of clothing indoors because we have no control over the building's heat.  Oh, and I unplug my iPod and cell phone chargers when they're not in use, because they said to do that during the Bon Jovi portion of that big Live Earth concert thingy a few months ago, and I thought maybe if I started doing that, Jon Bon Jovi would come and personally thank me for my single-handed effort to reverse global climate change.  (What?)   

Food-wise, I buy organic stuff when I can.  I guess I could trek to the Greenmarket and seek out more locally grown produce and whatnot, but frankly that seems like a bit much for my lazy constitution.  I also bought a bunch of cheap canvas shopping bags on Amazon that I use for errands, if not for our regular grocery trips (we get everything delivered).   

I think green-ness, for me, is kind of like healthy eating -- I intend to do what I can within reason, but I can't go too crazy over it or it starts to feel rather anxiety-ridden, a compulsion of sorts.  My overarching philosophy is one of everything in moderation so, just as I won't be adding wheatgrass to my diet anytime soon (or abstaining from pumpkin loaves or pancetta for that matter), I don't think you'll find me living by candlelight or foraging for edible leaves in Central Park in the near future.  But I will continue to seek out the small stuff I can do to pitch in, and I'll find ways to support people and organizations who can work on the bigger stuff.  If we all do that, I believe that we can turn this crazy global warming mess around.    

Celluloid Nightmares

What is the worst movie you've ever seen?  Because I have seen some seriously bad ones lately -- I guess my Netflix skills have flagged, or else I've seen everything out there that's worth seeing and now we're just scraping the bottom of the cinematic barrel. 

To wit:  "Scoop" -- Woody Allen's latest travesty, in which Scarlett Johansson strains credulity as a journalist trying to solve a murder mystery.  I mean, "Match Point" wasn't great (as I've mentioned, that was the last movie we saw in the theater, because we are haunted at every attempt for a theatrical experience by the Loud, Inappropriate Laugher/Talker), but it was watchable.  "Scoop", however, bordered on the unbearable.  Woody Allen seems to have decided that every actor in his movies must act like him, so he has Scarlett doing all the neurotic stuttering and gesticulation that he perfected back in the era of "Annie Hall" -- and OH, how it does not work.  It's sad, really; you hate to see someone become a caricature of himself -- but that he has, and I won't be seeing any more of his movies anytime soon.

I'm not sure what possessed me to add "Van Wilder: The Rise of the Taj" to my queue, but that's ten minutes of my life I'll never get back -- that's all we could take of it before, jaws slack in abject horror, we pressed the stop button and sat in traumatized silence for a while.  Don't be fooled by the presence of Kal Penn -- I loved him in "Harold and Kumar," but that was smartly written (no, for real, I swear), whereas this...well.  It wasn't.  Oh, dear God, it was not.

Then there was "Catch and Release" -- a, uh, romantic comedy (I guess?) in which Jennifer Garner's fiance croaks and, for entirely implausible reasons, she moves in with his best friends and ends up falling for Tim Olyphant, who also knows a (rather ridiculous) secret about the dead guy.  Now, this one is worth watching solely for Tim Olyphant-ogling, because he is smokin' and in particularly excellent shape here.  When did he start spending so much time in the gym, anyway?  And why hasn't he been in anything since "Go" (which I love for no discernable reason, even though it always makes me feel like a geezer with a lame social life -- as if, were I not enjoying quiet nights at home or with friends, I would be tooling about meeting hot young drug dealers and going to raves...).  So, if you must, tune in for him, but turn the sound off and fast forward through the rest, because it's too ridiculous for words.  I've seen Lifetime Original Movies that provided better character development. 

What else?  Well, a couple of years ago, we rented "The Bridge of San Luis Rey", and didn't make it more than twenty minutes before surrendering.  The dialogue was plodding and stilted, while the editing managed to obscure the plot even more than the endless introduction of new characters.  You'd think the marquee cast -- Robert De Niro, Kathy Bates, Harvey Keitel, Gabriel Byrne -- would only sign on to a quality project; but the best thing about this movie was the costumes, and there's only so much that fifty thousand yards of brocade can do to make up for an abysmal script and amateurish directing.   

Finally, no bad movie list is complete without "Fresh Horses."  Oh, dear Lord.  Did anyone else suffer through this one back in the 80s?  They reeled you in with the promise of a "Pretty in Pink"-esque storyline and the reuniting of Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy, only to bludgeon you with dialogue so bad you want to throw your TV out the window. 

Oh, wait.  And then there was "Glitter."  Mariah Carey, acting.  That's all you need to know.

So, fess up -- what's your worst movie-viewing experience?