John Hughes Movie Marathon

Owing to a hectic day at work followed by a farewell happy hour for our intern, I didn't find out about John Hughes until I got home last night, and I spent the next few hours realizing just how much of an impact his movies had on my teen years.

When I was younger, people often told me I looked like Molly Ringwald, who was already one of my favorite stars. As a result, I spent even more hours watching her and wishing I really did look like her. For an uncoordinated, brace-faced, bespectacled teenager, the fact that people thought I bore any resemblance to a movie star was like a ray of light in my otherwise awkward existence.

Pretty in Pink has always been my favorite John Hughes movie. Duckie Dale was the boy I hoped was coming to sweep me off my feet. Everything about him was perfect - he had his own style, he didn't care what other people thought, he was funny and cute, and most importantly, he was unendingly loyal to Andie, Ringwald's character in the movie.

The wrongness of the fact that she ended up with Blane at the end of the movie is another post for another day.

John Hughes' movies transported me. I never got tired of watching them, because each one gave me a different way of looking at things. Sixteen Candles gave me hope that, no matter how improbably, there was a Jake Ryan out there for me. The Breakfast Club made me realize that, no matter how different we all were, we were all fighting our own battles.

John Hughes hasn't been a part of Hollywood for some time now, but his movies still resonate. I came home today and watched Pretty in Pink, feeling so grateful that there was a John Hughes, who let me know that I wasn't the only awkward teenager out there trying to figure out how life was supposed to work. It's still nice to know that there was someone out there who understood. He's certainly gone too soon, but the outpouring I've seen so far just proves that the legacy he left won't just fade away.

Blog Resurrection and My New Resolve

I have this blog just sitting here waiting for me, and a lot has happened since the last time I had anything to say. New job, new apartment, even a new cat has been added to the mix.

Yet somehow, whenever I sit down to write, I feel like I have nothing to say. I mean, does anyone really want to hear about how hard it is for me to get up off the sofa and do things? How we’ve been in the new apartment for over three months and I still haven’t finished unpacking the bedroom? How I lost 40 pounds only to lose my motivation and start gaining it back?

And then I realized something. It doesn’t matter if anyone wants to hear it, because no one is reading this blog anyway.

So here I am.

We’re closing in our Disney trip – just over 3 months to go. We started planning this trip as soon as we got home from the last one in September of 2008. That was also when A and I started Weight Watchers together. We both dropped about 35 pounds in short order, and we decided that we would run the Expedition Everest Challenge on our next trip.

So it’s frustrating just how far off the wagon I’ve fallen since then. I was doing pretty well up until our move. Losing consistently, watching my food, trying to be conscious of why I was eating instead of just stuffing my face every time the urge overcame me. Then we moved, and although our new place is a hundred times better than the old one (dishwasher! washer/dryer! driveway!) we also moved away from the gym that I had gotten accustomed to.

It was easy from that point to skip Weight Watchers meetings and keep telling myself that it was okay, because I’d get back to it eventually. But really, it’s not okay, and I know that.

It’s time. New resolve.

I’ve done some jogging on and off recently, but I don’t have a routine like I used to. Last week we went and joined the Y. We have a book that lays out a three month training program for running a 5K, so I know that we can pull it off, but I have to start now. My husband is definitely in better shape than I am, so he’ll be able to get back up to speed faster.

The biggest thing for me – and part of the reason I so desperately need to get back into a routine – is that I don’t want to feel like I’m dying while walking around Disney. The photos from our last Disney trip were a serious wakeup call. I was the heaviest I’ve ever been. I was really uncomfortable walking around, and I got winded really easily, and I barely fit in the airplane seat.

And honestly? I LOOKED uncomfortable and winded. And sweaty. And I realized then, and still know now, that I really need to take care of myself, and that I’m not happy being this weight. I need to do something.

So tonight I’ll go and start training again. And I’m hopping back on the food wagon. And I’ll just have to take it from there.

When an Acura meets an Acura

This is what happens when an Acura MDX (big ole SUV) hits an Acura Integra (lil ole me). Passers by yelled many lovely things at the guy who hit me as we held up rush hour traffic on the Harlem River Drive.  I just hoped we had made the traffic report on 1010WINS.

Thankfully it was stop and go traffic and we were barely moving. Otherwise, he might have plowed right over me.  

It took almost an hour to get everything straightened out. Initially the cop pulled up, told us to get off at the next exit, and then disappeared. After standing on a street somewhere for about 15 minutes, I had to call 911 again. The dispatcher was REALLY pissed that I was calling again, and insisted that the officer had already responded. I responded that I would not still be standing there waiting for an officer if that were the case. Another cop pulled off the highway, turned right in front of us (we were both waving to him) pulled a u-turn and drove away. FINALLY a cop arrived, and it turned out to be the cop who had initially disappeared.  He had been escorting a car up to the George Washington Bridge and couldn't stop.  He told us that he called the precinct to send backup. I would guess that backup was the cop who drove straight by us, because he eventually came back, turned on his siren to try to get me to move, realized that cop #1 was taking our information, turned his siren off and drove away.

But the officer and the guy who hit me were both nice. No one was hurt, and he was insured, so it could certainly be worse.  Although my car might disagree on that point.

Call the ASPCA

I'm an abusive pet owner without meaning to be.  Lando, the stray we adopted about six weeks ago, is permanently attached to me.  And sometimes I forget that he's there, especially when he's lurking silently by my feet.  

I keep accidently stepping on him and shoving him as I walk away.  Which clearly doesn't phase him, as he continues to follow me everywhere, including the bathroom, where he stands on the sink while I go about my routine.  Even though it doesn't bother him, I feel terrible about it.  

I keep telling myself to be more careful and more aware, but let's face it.  I'm not what one would call graceful.  I can barely keep myself upright, much less be aware of the cat lurking by my feet.  Then again, he's been letting me do this for weeks.  Maybe he's a kitty masochist and he secretly enjoys it.  I think I'll go with that for now.

The best bit...

We're locked in a rodent-related battle with our landlord, so A took crime scene photos of the mouse corpse. At the time, it seemed so logical, but now it makes me giggle.

They're not as cute as Mickey

Before I got married, I lived with my dad, in the house where I grew up.  I had Leo for about two and a half years while living there.  And in that time, Leo proved his worth to my somewhat cat-skeptical father by ridding the house of mice. 

I know it sounds gross, and you probably think that we live in filth, but it's just not so.  The house sits next to a large wooded area, and when it gets cold, the mice come into the house because it's warm.  The fact that there's food everywhere doesn't hurt either.  My father despises mice.  And to put this in context, I've watched the man squash palm-sized spiders with his bare hand.  He fears very few things, but he cannot stand mice.  

I adopted Leo from the shelter at animal control.  My now husband had adopted a cat there about seven months earlier.  I, a self-proclaimed dog person, couldn't understand the appeal.   But that cat, Linus, grew on me, and eventually I went for one of my own.  Leo is Linus's brother.  They were found hiding together in a bush.  Seven months after A brought home Linus, Leo leapt up on a cat condo at the shelter, batted at my hand, and I took him home.  

Leo is, per my father, "a big cat."  And this is true.  He's also a giant mush, and asthmatic to boot.  And once he got accustomed to his new living quarters, he started spending a lot of time stalking the living and dining rooms.  That's when the tiny little corpses started to pile up. 

The first time he caught a mouse, I didn't even realize what had happened.  He's a spoiled cat, and I've given him a million mouse toys.  So when he started playing with what I thought was one of those toys, I called my sister in to witness the cuteness.  Only when the "toy" hit the floor did i start realizing that something was wrong.  And that's when I started yelling, "REAL MOUSE!  REAL MOUSE!"  

It was the first of many.  All of this leading to now.  We've lived in the same apartment for three years.  On many occasions, my landlord has asked if we've seen any mice.  I've confidently replied, "If there were mice, we'd know."  

This morning, I awoke to find Leo guarding what I'm sure he hopes is the first of many.