Film Review: DUMPLIN'

Given the state of the nation it was only a matter of time, but finally, being fat is in. And not only is it in, but it's better than being thin. Apparently fat people are nicer, more generous and have a better outlook on life than mere superficialities. Or so the story goes. (Truth be told, they do judge people on looks, and anyone audacious enough to be thin and in shape sucks.)

The Netflix movie Dumplin' brings this point home in spades. Despite the fact that it's not a "real movie" but one made for TV, it's gotten a lot of reviews, all positive, including one calling it a "feel-good hit" and a clear thumbs-up from a New York Times critic who is usually hard as nails to please.

It turns out that I am even harder to please since I found it cloying, simplistic and impossible to watch in one sitting without tossing my cookies. So I watched it two nights in a row, since I wanted to get it under my belt after reading about it in so many places. I am always interested in the portrayal of fat people in films, having grown up in the enormous shadow of my obese older sister and seeing the devastation involved firsthand. Also, I've been a fan of Jennifer Aniston since her days on Friends and wanted to see what she's up to these days. (She was one of the film's producers.)

The movie, based on a young-adult novel of the same name, turns a blind eye to the girth of the main character, an obese teen named Willowdean Dickson (Danielle Macdonald) who goes by the name of Will (she's so strong!). But her skinny mom Rosie (Aniston) still calls her by the childhood nickname Dumplin' -- an obvious reference to her doughy, pudgy body. Rosie also leaves prepared salads for Will in the fridge, which is supposed to indicate how unfeeling and downright malicious she is in wanting her only daughter to lose weight and get healthy. (I thought it was nice.)

There's no dad in sight and we wonder who pays the bills, since Rosie spends most of her time running teen beauty pageants in a small towns somewhere in Texas. She's done it for years since she won the local crown herself twenty years ago. Daughter Will decides to enter the pageant despite her obvious physical flaw, and gets two other friends -- a macho lesbian and an even fatter girl -- to join her as a protest to all those horrid people who value looks and thin bodies and girly girls. (How dare they?)

Blah, blah, blah. The handsomest boy in high school (Luke Benward) falls for Will even though the thin, sexy girl who ultimately wins the pageant asks him to the dance, but he doesn't like her "that way." Instead he wants only Will because she's so beautiful on the inside. (This movie is a fantasy, after all.) The entire soundtrack is comprised of Dolly Parton songs -- she wrote six new ones for this film -- so if that's your thing you'll be entertained. Also amusing are a group of drag queens who help Will and her cohorts transform themselves for the pageant, doing their hair and makeup and teaching them how to strut their stuff.

In the end Rosie sees the error of her ways and the fat friend is named First Runner Up, but Will is disqualified for breaking some pageant rule -- she's such a rebel! -- even though she gave a fabulous performance and the crowd loved her. Buoyed by the applause, she strides out on her wobbly, red high heels and goes straight to the diner where the hot high school boy works and they kiss, out in the parking lot next to the dumpster, because now she knows she's worth a guy like him.

All I can say is poor Jennifer Aniston. She deserves better.

Seize the Day

 

 

Ten Thousand Flowers in Spring, the Moon in Autumn

  By Wu Men Hui-k'ai

   
Ten thousand flowers in spring, 
the moon in autumn,
a cool breeze in summer, 
snow in winter.
 
If your mind isn't clouded by unnecessary things,
this is the best season of your life.

Let's NOT Do Lunch

I just learned about a poet named Rumi who lived in Persia about 800 years ago, give or take a century. Supposedly he is the most-read, best-selling poet in America today, which I find hard to believe since you never hear a word about him. Instead it's Trump, Trump, Trump all the time, and occasionally Maya Angelou. Anyway, I listened to one of Rumi's poems on a meditation podcast and decided to order "The Essential Rumi," and I'm glad I did. Reading his words late last night rescued me from a Darkening Mood that threatened to morph into a Pit of Despair where I might have lain until God knows when, seeing as my husband is out of town and I have no friends in the immediate area checking in on me.

Even if I had any, that's simply not the Maine way -- I could lay in that Despair Pit for a week without anyone noticing. I've accepted that fact after almost ten years here, until today when an article in the Wall Street Journal on the dangers of loneliness among aging baby boomers gave me a start. The claim was made that loneliness "is as closely linked to early mortality as smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day or consuming more than six alcoholic drinks a day. It is even worse for longevity than obesity or inactivity."

So starting today I vow to reach out more. For example, yesterday I never interacted with anyone except with my husband on the phone. On the other hand, I spent hours painting in my studio, which is more rewarding to me than chit-chatting at a cafe with a friend. (Maybe the loneliness thing doesn't apply to artists.)

As for Rumi, he suggested fasting as a way to increase creativity and self-realization: "There's hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness. If the brain and belly are burning clean with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire." So there's another reason to skip lunch with a friend. Or even lunch alone.

We Are All Addicts

Certainly there are better and worse things one might become addicted to, but I have never met anyone who is not addicted to something. (Have you?) I recently heard an expert on the subject, some sort of psychologist, assert that these days children as young as two show signs of addiction to their toys and games. He added that the average child acquires a cell phone at age ten, after which he or she abandons the felt world and enters a virtual reality where they will reside until their death or the loss of their phone, whichever comes first.

Over the years my personal addictions have changed. The earliest one was dieting. This was the result of having a mother who was a former dancer who ate like a bird and weighed about as much as one, coupled with an older sister who got fat as a form of rebellion and stayed that way, giving me a front row seat at the eternal passion play, The Misery of Obesity. I dieted from the age of 12, in between compulsive and binge eating. I did Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, oh who cares -- you get the idea.

My next addiction was running; that was a fun one. I did it six days a week in all sorts of weather. The best part was that I could eat anything I wanted and never gain weight! I didn't stop until one of my hips all but disintegrated, requiring a fake one to be installed. These days I am addicted to writing this blog, and then reading it and re-reading it. And then editing it. But hey, it's not damaging to my health, unless you count the health of my marriage since I require my husband to read it every day and when he doesn't I'm annoyed, or worse.

Other popular addictions I happily do not have include alcohol, heroin, opioids, prescription drugs (although I do love my lorazepam, possibly too much), nicotine, cocaine, crystal meth, gambling, sex, food, shopping, playing video games, mindlessly checking cell phones, scrolling Facebook, watching YouTube, watching reality TV, having plastic surgery and shoplifting. For reasons not yet understood, nobody is addicted to cleaning public bathrooms, helping strangers in need, preparing healthy home-cooked meals, picking up litter from the streets, stopping to talk to the homeless or reflecting on our inevitable death. Those would be some pretty good ones to have.

You Are What You Eat

I recently had the misfortune of spending several hours inside an airport, and then, adding insult to injury, inside an airplane. Both experiences were unpleasant, adding no joy whatsoever to this supposedly joyful period called "the Christmas season."

To wait out the long hours until our flight, having arrived at the airport very early in order to escape an oncoming blizzard where we were, my husband and I opted for a leisurely lunch at a restaurant called Wolfgang Puck's Kitchen, or something like that. The famous chef had lent his name and culinary expertise to the establishment, so we assumed the food would be reasonably tasty and at the same time not send us to the ER, which is about all I was hoping for, what with toxic romaine lettuce blanketing the country.

Besides the ridiculously high prices aimed at a captive audience of travelers already through the security line so nobody's leaving no matter how bad things are, the next insult was the arrival of the wrong entree. I had ordered the Asian Chicken Salad, specifically because it was made with non-poisonous lettuce, my favorite kind. Instead I was presented with a Caesar Salad, easily recognized as a bowl of romaine with croutons, Parmesan and E. Coli sprinkled on top. I ask you: do those two salads sound alike? Go ahead--say them out loud: ASIAN CHICKEN SALAD. CAESAR SALAD. No they do not, but they must have to our waitress. (I should have known something was amiss when she served our food and left immediately without saying "Enjoy!")

While some may say romaine has gotten the all-clear, as recently as yesterday the CDC warned the public "to remain cautious about eating romaine lettuce," which in my book means don't go near the stuff. Thus I rejected the platter of poison. After some time, while my considerate husband picked at his own lunch so as not to finish his before I even started mine, the desired salad that would not kill me arrived.

I know this is all petty stuff and "first-world problems" and an example of White Privilege and blah, blah, blah, but since I consider any meal I eat before boarding a flight to possibly be my last meal, I'd like it to at least be something I want. Is that too much to ask?

A Novel Vacation

Sometimes you just need to get away. Real life can be so unpleasant, especially these days with the commenting hordes on the Internet ruining everything. For example, on Facebook this morning a news story reported details of yesterday's  stately funeral service for president George H. W. Bush, held at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. It was a sober and somber affair, lightened by a few funny stories from his friends and family. One eulogist was his son, former president George W. Bush, who delivered a terrific tribute to his dad. But the trolls on Facebook tore into him, bringing out the hackneyed slings and arrows used on him years ago. So it's come to this: A grieving (Republican) son is a target for some ignorant (Democrat) citizen's decades-old ire.

Average people -- and I do mean average-- have become cruel to the max, plain and simple. Thus, the aforementioned escape. The following novels have transported me to another world, saving me much despair over this one, no matter how many times I have read them. Pick one up and go for it; it's so much more relaxing than scrolling through the Internet.

 The Sweet Hereafter (Russell Banks)

Mildred Pierce (James M. Cain)

Mrs. Bridge (Evan S. Connell)

Mr. Bridge (Evan S. Connell)

The Hours (Michael Cunningham)

White Noise (Don DeLillo)

An American Tragedy (Theodore Dreiser)

Being There (Jerzy Kosinski)

Into Thin Air (Jon Krakauer)

Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer (Steven Millhauser)

Too Late the Phalarope (Alan Paton)

Maus (Art Spiegelmann)

Ethan Frome (Edith Wharton)

The Bonfire of the Vanities (Tom Wolfe)

Job-Hunting in Maine

In an ongoing effort to "give back" to the community, not to mention get out of the house once in awhile lest I forget how to conduct myself in the presence of others, I have once again scheduled a meeting with an organization that is looking for volunteers.  This one seems right up my alley, as they want people who can teach youngsters ages 6 to 18 how to write. Let's face it, I can write, and I do have years of teaching experience. SO WHAT COULD GO WRONG?  Just a few possibilities follow, based on my past experiences as an interviewee in the great state of Maine. (Parenthesis indicate the actual organization where the thing really happened.)

1. I will get to the appointment on time but nobody will be there and the place will be locked up tight. (Portland Magazine)

2. I will get to the appointment on time, be kept waiting for half an hour, get pissed off and leave before I ever see anyone. (Estabrook's Garden Center)

3. I will arrive on time and find that the interviewer is not ready for me and asks me to wait. I will then be ushered into a hallway where there is no chair for me to sit on. The interviewer's 6-year-old granddaughter will remain for the duration of the interview and complain that she is bored. (Wilbur's Chocolates)

4. I will be interviewed with a group of seven other people by two women simultaneously and asked to "role play" a variety of scenarios, like being trapped on a desert island with the other people, causing me to sigh audibly, roll my eyes and not get the job. (L.L. Bean Retail Store) 

5. I will be asked to do something demeaning and unnecessary, as when I was ordered to push a candy cart around and around the pediatric wing of a hospital, stopping to offer a variety of fun-sized candies to the doctors and nurses, for three hours. (Barbara Bush Children's Hospital, Maine Medical Center)

6. I will be asked to do something annoying and stupid, like when I walked around a hospital knocking on the doors of sick people and asking if they liked the food. (Mid-Coast Hospital, Brunswick) 

7. The interviewer will take one look at me and decide I am just too old to be of any use. (Brunswick Food Pantry) 

8. The interviewer will take one look at me and decide I am just too Jewish to have around. (Casco Bay YMCA, Freeport)

Finger's crossed that today will work out better!

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Today I had a frank discussion with a friend about something rarely talked about in polite, or even impolite, society: The total and complete lack of libido in women past a certain age. For those who don't speak Latin, that means they don't want to have sex -- anytime, anywhere, and with anyone. I was delighted to learn that I'm not the only one suffering from this humiliating affliction that our culture considers a deal-killer when it comes to being an attractive or desirable person. The only possible fix is to take estrogen in tablets, cream or injections, but since that can give you breast and/or cervical cancer, it's not very popular. Quick, what would you choose: Orgasms and cancer or no orgasms and no cancer?

Still, a lack of libido is not something women like to broadcast. Nobody is going to make a GoFundMe page to raise money for their estrogen-related chemotherapy treatments. Admitting to a lack of sex drive is as unpopular as being a brown-skinned leper in a sea of white missionaries. (Worldwide prevalence of leprosy is reported to be around 5.5 million, with 80% of these cases in India, Indonesia, Myanmar, Brazil and Nigeria.) It might be worse, since married lepers are surely not told by their spouses, "It's all in your mind." 

I assumed my problem was due to my husband being eleven years my junior, but my friend's significant other is a dozen years older than she is, making him exactly my age, so there goes that theory. Here's the solution she shared with me, something tested and re-tested in her home: The Fleshlight, a 100% polyester lifelike vagina discreetly packaged inside what looks like an ordinary household flashlight. I won't describe it further since most of the men and all of the women reading this are probably already Googling it, and a picture is worth a thousand words. Bear in mind, The Fleshlight needs a thorough cleaning after each use and must be replaced annually, or more often depending on how vigorous your man is. 

So that's my yuletide tip for today. At least someone on your gift list will have a Merry Christmas!

Stop Yelling, and Learn to Swim

It's odd that people don't get along better when we're all in the same boat, the boat being Life and certain Death, unrelenting Anxiety that muddles our thinking, and constant Aggression that causes us to lash out at one another even though we're all we've got. Few of us understand, or if we do still we don't try to help, that stress and turmoil in any part of the boat is likely to shake up the whole damn vessel, ultimately dumping everyone overboard.

Right now the SS Humanity is taking on water at an alarming rate and several of the engine rooms are flooded. This is not at all surprising when you consider the people at the helm. I am not one of them; generally I stay off the bridge and hang out below deck. I admit this is cowardly but I simply don't have the  stamina to take responsibility for too many of the other passengers; I pretty much limit my care-taking to my immediate family and a few close friends. And myself, naturally.

The alarming fact is that there is no other boat! This realization causes me great anxiety and is the reason I begin each day by swallowing a mouthful of pills that the ship's doctors hand out freely to anyone with a problem. Most days the pills help, or else it's the oatmeal with walnuts and turmeric -- I always feel better right after that. But so many others onboard are eating badly, sickened from consuming too much sugar, salt and dead animals, it's little wonder there's so much conflict.

But never fear! In case you do fall overboard, remember the popular Buddhist saying: "If you know you're the ocean, you're not afraid of the waves." Still, a few swimming lessons couldn't hurt.

Bad Jokes for A Rainy Day

This particular day is more than half over and I have done nothing that qualifies as special, memorable or fun, unless you count doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle which my husband and I do every weekend and today's was a drag. Boring and stupid, with of course the usual clue about Supreme Court justice Kagan (Answer: ELENA).  Some days are like that. But then you read these books about how you are supposed to make every minute count, and that just makes you feel worse.

My husband says perhaps I could make every minute count by enjoying things that are not traditionally enjoyable, like today's cold, driving winter rain falling on piles of dirty snow with not a hint of sunshine. I find his suggestion sick and twisted. Come on, admit it: It's hard to stay upbeat all the time.

One remedy is to pull out the bad jokes. The ones below come from "A Prairie Home Companion Pretty Good Joke Book," with an introduction by Garrison Keillor written before he was accused of being a sexual predator. It says right on the cover, "Delight your friends and become the envy of your social circle," and who doesn't want that? So go for it.

Why was Cinderella so lousy at baseball?
She ran away from the ball and she had a pumpkin for a coach.

What do you say to a hitchhiker with one leg?
Hop in.

What do you call cheese that doesn't belong to you?
Nacho cheese.

Why are you scratching yourself?
I'm the only one who knows where it itches.

Patient: Doc, I'm suicidal, what should I do?
Doctor: Pay in advance. 

What's the best thing about having a woman for president?
We wouldn't have to pay her as much. 

What do you use to fix a broken tomato?
Tomato paste.

Wife: Honey, pack your bags-- I just won the lottery! 
Husband: Wow! That's great! Should I pack for the ocean, the mountains, or where?
Wife: It doesn't matter -- just get the hell out.

My company put me up in a low-class hotel. I called the concierge and said, "I've got a leak in my sink."
She said, "Go ahead."

Film Review: THREE IDENTICAL STRANGERS

The brothers, happily reunited.

A mind-blowing documentary that will have you questioning everything you think you know about yourself, Three Identical Strangers opens a door into the unwittingly nefarious nature of scientific advancement, complete with evil villains and innocent lambs. It's a true story which makes it even better and, at the same time worse, about identical triplets who were separated not at birth but at six months, and how they accidentally meet one another at the age of 19.

As New York Times critic Manohla Dargis wisely wrote in her review, this is a film that is "best watched knowing as little as possible about its specifics." I agree so will say no more. But I urge you to find it and watch it; it will entertain you and make you smarter. Besides, the film is shot beautifully in truly living color and includes historic footage of New York City in the 1980s, an exciting era before AIDS and terrorists ruined all the fun.