Either The Oscar movies are getting better or my brain is breaking.

 

The Oscars, the one and only awards show I watch with any sort of full interest, is airing in a couple of weeks which means that, in spite of my protestations to the contrary, I'm scrambling to see all ten of the Best Picture nominees.  Last week, I wrote reviews for the 5 best known pictures of the group.  Today, I want to talk about my brain.

I'm pretty sure my brain is breaking.

Either that, or the movies Oscar is nominating are getting better, less stupid, more coherent, more worthy of views.

Emilia Perez was the first surprise. I can't stop talking about how great a story and how great the writing is on this film.  

But I thought that was the last surprise because the remaining five movies looked wildly stupid and I'm not about to spend time and money going to theaters to see a movie I'm 98% sure I'm going to hate. I'd rather do that in the privacy of my own home.

But, yesterday, I broke my vow (The one I made after BUYING "Nomadland" from Amazon) that I was NOT going to buy or rent any of these films.  I rented "The Substance" from Amazon and watched it.  Bob and Brian had been mocking this film on their show all week and since I had the afternoon off I figured I'd give it a look.

Six buck and two hours later I was agog, aghast, and everything else.

I not only didn't hate it, I liked it, I was entertained by it, I GOT IT!

"The Substance" starring Demi Moore, opens as a commentary on society's value of women over the age of 50.  Set in Hollywood in what I believe is the 80's or early 90's (based on the clothes and the omnipresent mauve carpeting in Moore's apartment, although they do have cell phones, so take that for what you want). Moore is Elizabeth Sparkles, and aging actress who's starred in her own jazzercise show for decades. On her 50th birthday her boss (Played wildly by a clearly deranged Dennis Quaid) fires her and begins the search to find someone younger, hotter, newer.

In the immortal words of "How I Met Your Mother's" Barney Stinson, "New is Always Better."

Elizabeth Sparkles is in a car accident on her way home from work.  In the ER she meets a fairly weird male nurse who slips her a card for "The Substance."  She follows this weird rabbit hole, taking the substance which creates a younger alter-ego.  Each one lives 7 days and then switches, NO EXCEPTIONS.

Pretty cool, right?

The new girl let's call her Sue, because that's her name in the movie, auditions and gets the job as the star of a new jazzercise show.  She works and lives 7 days, then switches and Sparkles lives for 7 days. In the meantime, the one lives the other lies comatose in the bathroom, living off of some premeasured goo through in IV.

Still with me?

Almost predictably, Sue's life spins upward, with talk show appearances, screaming fans, all of it.  Sparkles' life is a complete downward spiral sinking into the world of TV watching and late-night binge eating.  The Sue starts to take extra time: at first a few hours, then a day or two.  What can that hurt, right?

While the ending of this film does devolve into some kind of over-the-top 1950's era space horror, the message is clear:  Women of a certain age are not valued in this country.  Not for employers, not for the younger generation, not for themselves. There's a scene where Sparkles is getting ready for a date with a man her own age, someone who thinks she's the prettiest girl anywhere.  The scene is heartbreaking for me, a woman in that age group, to watch this beautiful, glamorous star doubt herself to the point of violence.  

This is not going to be everyone's cup of coffee, I know. There's a ridiculous amount of nudity, although it's hardly there for titillation, more a sterile, medical, comparative look at women's bodies as they age.  The language isn't terrible, just turn off the sound when Dennis Quaid shows up.  There is a ton of blood and gore, I'm not going to lie. I had to cover my eyes a couple times.  That said, I thoroughly enjoyed this weird picture.

Demi Moore should absolutely be the front runner for Best Actress. Unlike when she did "Striptease" (And everyone said she was so brave) she really shows courage here, allowing her body to be used and abused by the Substance and by Sue.  I haven't seen her do emotional work like this since "St. Elmo's Fire" and I'm very excited to see a 62-year-old woman look as awesome as she does and then be confident enough in herself to allow the film to twist her into something unrecognizable.  

It's doubtful "The Substance" will win best picture.  I won't be shocked if it does, but it's unlikely.  There are too many other films that are just better and more accessible.  But it's worth the six bucks for a rental on Amazon Prime.

You be the judge.  Is it a good movie is my brain really broken?

In our defense, it was 4:45 in the morning...

 

 WARNING:  Today's blog includes a video that may contain salty language. Also, there might be  just a little touch of sacrilege.  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

A second blog on the same weekend? Well, sure. Extra long weekend means, extra weird stuff happening at the Bradley manse.  Or, in the case, in the Mighty Cube on the way to the airport.

Hubby's annual trip to the mountains begins today. Many of you know that means last night was the "Don't stress your mother out" speech to Peaches and Skippy.  (Honestly, after last week, I'm REALLY hoping we all just take a lot of naps and eat ice cream for the next two weeks. Or something like that.)  Anyway the kick off to his trip out west is the airport drop off.  Since his flight left at 6-something-AM, we had to be on the road to the airport in the middle of the night. 

Seriously.  I really miss the days of getting to the airport at the last minute and just running onto the plane. 

Okay, that never happened in my real life, or probably anyone else's, but this whole having to get to the airport ages before takeoff, it's just...annoying.

Fortunately, the coffee is generally hot and almost always fresh at Casa Bradley.  And, since it's 2021 and a holiday weekend, the local radio station was playing a massive "party block" of songs, all of which were upbeat, and familiar, and fun.

That's when Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl came on the radio.

I'll admit it, I enjoy that song. And while it was playing, I got to thinking...out loud..."Where is THIS generation's cheerleader song?"

I mean, come on. My generation had "Mickey."  Remember "Mickey?"

And Peaches' generation had the much saltier, slightly less innocent, "Hollaback Girl." 

But where is the cheerleader song today?  

To which, Hubby said, "There probably is one.  They just don't play it on the radio stations we listen to."

True. I listen to the local ROCK station in the mornings, you know, for Bob and Brian. On Saturdays, when I'm not at the farmers' market, I listen to the call in request show on 88nine radio Milwaukee (For reasons that have nothing to do with today's blog). On the way to church on Sundays, we tune in to K-Love (Contemporary Christian Hits, for those of you not familiar.)  And that's it for me for radio.

"Yes," says I.  "They wouldn't have a cheerleading song on K-Love. I mean, what would that even sound like?"

And then my brain, my sleepy, coffee-soaked brain, started working the way it does sometimes and I started singing, not with the radio, no, with the tune to "Micky."  And this is what came out of my mouth...

"Oh Jesus, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind! Hey Jesus, hey hey Jesus!"

In case anyone out there is pondering this, Hubby suggested the video could also be just like "Micky." Just put a big "J" on the cheerleaders' sweaters, and you're good to go.

So there's that. 

5 for Friday! I already knew this...I didn't need any reminders!

Good morning!

Sometimes, just about the time you think you know all the life lessons you're going to need to know, life decides you need a refresher course in the basics of human ridiculousness.  Such was the case recently when I went to the doctor's office to have my itchy ears looked at.  (For those of you not in the know, the inside of my ears have itched for about 3 years now.  Also, my left ear has been clogged in and ringing since March. There. You're caught up.)  Anyway, everything below happened on one day, all within roughly a 60 minute period of time.

5)  Not everyone is funny.

The key to humor is timing, everyone knows this. I'm also going to say that PLACE is a pretty big deal.  For example, a joke about J.S. Bach being the rock star of the Lutheran church is HILARIOUS in a church basement full of Lutherans.  It's way less funny at literally any other live music venue.

Which brings me to the COVID screener at the clinic where most of my doctors are located.

Sigh.

First of all, my clinic has two sides: the regular medical side and the cancer side.  (I go to both, not because I have cancer, but because I see the hematologist for my iron issues.)  The screeners on the cancer side are always very nice, very helpful, and appropriately chatty.

And then there's the guy on the regular medical side.

I'm not sure where they got this guy, but Clint Eastwood's character from "Gran Torino" wouldn't be far off.    Total super grumpy old guy.

Generally he just barks at you to lift your bangs so he can take your temp. Then he sticks your dated sticker on your boob (nope, he doesn't need you to do it, he's got it0 and then he points and grunts at the check in kiosks.  Super helpful and customer servicy.  

But on the day in question, he must have decided to be a little more people friendly. I was holding a manila envelop (we'll get to that in a minute) and he said, "Lift your bangs.  Whatcha got there?"

I said, "I'm dropping off a package for my doctor."

"Oh," he says, "I didn't realize they were BUYING drugs in here now."

4)  ALWAYS ask the fluffy girl.  She knows.

The manila envelop in question was my forms for my health insurance that my idiot general practice doc (more on him in a minute) needs to fill out so I can same some buckage on my insurance rates.  Last year my IGP (Idiot General Practictioner) FORGOT to send in the forms. So this year I was getting them done a head of the deadline AND I was going to pick them up and send them myself.  Which is what I wrote in big, black letters on the envelop.

I approached the desk and since the fluffy girl seemed be on the phone, I went to the not fluffy girl.  "Two questions," says I.  "First, is this the check in desk for Dr. XXX?" (I was seeing a new guy, for my ears.)

"No," says the not so fluffy girl, "His office is directly above this desk."

"Great," says I.  "Second question, can you please get this to Dr. IGP?  The instructions are on the envelop and his nurse will know what it's for."

NSF (Not So Fluffy)  took the envelop and then looked at me with fear, genuine fear, in her eyes.  "ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..."

Now, come on.  It's not like NSF was young. She was definitely in my age class or above. It's not like she'd never been handed an envelop before!

Meanwhile, Fluffy was off the phone and looked over her shoulder, "Oh wow, you are early with that!" she cheered.

"You know what this is?"  NSF held the envelop with the very tips of her fingers, as if it contained some kind of weaponized chemical or something.

"Yes, it's for her insurance company."  Fluffy responded.

"What do I do with it?"  NSF is still holding the thing like  it's toxic.

Clearly Fluffy was having a long day with NSF.  "Give it to me," she said in that exhausted voice we fluffy girls know too well. It's the voice we have when we've spent a long time being the smartest person in the room and get zero credit for it because everyone thinks if you're fluffy you're stupid.  (I worked for a guy who told me every day that I'd be more intelligent if I lost 50 pounds.)

Anyway, the envelop was in Fluffy's hands and she was going to get the job done.  Confident, I moved on to the next thing.

OF COURSE NOT!

3) My General Practitioner is kind of an idiot.

You know how you get those punch cards for free meals at crappy sandwich places and when you get all the dots punched you get a free crappy sandwich?  And it's not like you WANT more sandwiches from the place because they are crappy...but it's free, so you know, why not?

Yeah, well, that's kind of the reason I keep going to my Idiot General Practitioner.  (IGP)  He's not a good doctor. I've been seeing him for more than 15 years now.  He's about 90% useless and I really only see him for my annual physical and bloodwork.   Then I see specialists for literally everything else.

Case in point, this ear problem:  I've been telling IGP that my ears have itched for a long time now.  And he looks in my ears and says, "They're clean, you're fine."  

Well, in May I was sick to death of my left ear ringing and being plugged, plus it also hurt like crazy.  So I got in to see him because, you know, that's what you do when you think you have an ear infection.

He looked in my left ear and said, and I quote, "I can't tell if the ear's infected. The ear drum looks like something smeared peanut butter on it and then threw sprinkles on it."

Okay...

Now, and I'm just spitballing here, a good doctor might, oh I don't know, CLEAN THE EAR and take another look. Not this guy. Nope, instead, he looked at my right ear, which he deemed, "VERY WAXY" (and didn't clean it) and he prescribed antibiotics and some super expensive ear drops.

Infection dealt with. But the left was still clogged and ringing and both ears still itched.  

This is the same guy who lost my insurance forms and I wound up not saving any money on insurance premiums last year.    Why do I keep going to him?  

Well, it's like that free sandwich. I mean, I never have to wait to get in to see him.  I call and I can get in the same day.  Plus, his blood pressure machine gives me the lowest numbers of any in the building.  I'm stupid to give that up, right?

2) The grossness of your medical issue is directly related to the hotness of the medical professional. 

Ladies, we know this is true.  And it gets more true the older we get.  If something gross is coming out of you, or if your medical complaint is particularly icky, the medical person in charge is going to be wildly, and I mean "Grey's Anatomy" attractive.  (You know, back when Grey's still had attractive people on it...sigh.) 

Back when I was young and a little eyeliner was all I needed to look good, my doctors weren't all that good looking, at least, not that I noticed. But once I had kids (the ultimate in gooey weird stuff coming out of you...not the babies, the other stuff they never tell you about until it's too late) I started noticing this phenomenon.  

My GYN:  used to be an old guy, and before that a little Jewish guy who was adorable but not super hot.  Now?  REALLY beautiful woman.  

Remember my Frankenboot era? My physical therapist was HOT!  

The guy who dealt with my sinus infection...I don't remember his name, but when I called to make a follow up appointment all I said was, "He was good looking," and the nurse knew EXACTLY which doctor I was talking about.

My car accident in 2012 when I went to urgent care covered in Slimfast?  HOT DOCTOR.

Which brings me to my ears on the day in question.  In walks this...guy.  his picture online looked NOTHING like the tall, dark, and yummy standing in front of me. Like a cross between George Clooney and Noah Wylie from "ER."

Oh yeah, I want this guy digging around in my weird ear.

But, he's an ENT and that's what he gets paid to do. So...I explained my problem and how I had an infection, probably, back in May (this new appointment was in August). 

Hot ENT says, "Did you IGP clean out the ear?"

Apparently, IGP is the only person on the planet who didn't think he had to.

So Hot ENT looked in my ear.  "Well," says he, "You have a giant wad of wax pressing against your eardrum."

He stuck a tiny vaccuum cleaner in my ear and 15 semi uncomfortable seconds later, I could HEAR AGAIN.  (Bummer, no more excuse to NOT go to choir practice! LOL)  

I figured, hey, I'm here, let's run the itchy ear thing by him.

"No," says he. "That's not normal." he looked in my right ear and said, "Your ears are very waxy. It actually looks like you have eczema in there."

Eczema. In my ears.  This is like getting a yeast infection in my arm pits. Which I've also done.  (And yes, the dermatologist was good looking.)

So, he prescribed some oily drops, and told me to stay away from Q-tips because I was pretty much just angering the eczema.  Like Guru Saj angering Ross' koondis.

1)  The gas station is not a pick up joint.

Freshly able to hear, I left the clinic and went to my local Kwik Trip to fill my Mighty Cube's tank.  sounds like a simple task, free and clear of any weirdness, right?

Would it be #1?

so I'm standing there in that tiny space between the Cube and the gas pump, listening to Kwik Trip TV and generally enjoying the lack of ringing and clogged sound in my head.  And then...

"Libertarian?"

This grimy guy, you know the look, like he hasn't showered in anything other than dirt and motor oil in the last three weeks, comes up behind me in that tiny space between the car and the gas pump. Basically I'm hemmed in.  And he's in my face.

"What?"

"Libertarian? Do you listen to Chris Spangle? He's really good."

Oh right. I have a bumper sticker on my car that says, "Libertarian."  I joined the party a couple years ago when, sick of the two party system, I did the one political thing I've ever done in my life, and sent the Libertarians ten bucks.  All I'm going to say is that I'm sure there are really normal people out there who believe in personal freedoms and smaller government like I do...but I haven't met them. The Libertarians I meet tend to be a little more...creepy dirty guy-ish. Like it's some kind of endangered freedom to NOT bathe.

Anyway, this dude has me trapped between the gas pump and the car and oh yeah there's a whiff of BO about him.  He backs up and move around to the front of the Cube to continue the conversation.  "Yeah, Chris Spangle, he's great, you should listen to him."

"Yeah, okay, I'll check that out."  I mean, I'm a Midwesterner. We chat when chatted to.  (Kind of what got me into some trouble on a Greyhound bus when I was 16, but that's another story.)  

"Yeah, I think you'd enjoy that.  Oh and do you listen to WVCY?"

(I do not.  I listen to Bob and Brian weekday mornings and 88 Nine Radio Milwaukee on Saturday mornings because the call in show is the BEST of terrible radio and it's fun.)

"Yeah, WVCY, you'd really like their Sunday morning shows.  You should listen to it sometime. I never miss it."

It occurred to me at this moment that this was not a lonely guy simply chatting up someone while waiting for his car to fill.  (First of all, he didn't have a car.)  Nope, this guy was...trying to pick me up?  At the gas station?

I mean, again, I'm a Midwestern girl. So, manners.  But honestly, I'm conflicted. I mean, I haven't been hit on in a VERY long time.  (Being 50+ and plus sized and also married tends to cut down on that sort of thing. LOL)  So, you know, that was something. But still...greasy guy at the gas station, and he opens by pointing out the political bumper sticker on the car?   (I have other far more interesting bumper stickers on the mighty cube.)

So let this be a lesson to you guys out there: Grocery store, yes. Gas station, no. (But I really feel like I shouldn't have to say this.)