The Virtues Of The English

 I've never liked January. All of the excitement of the holidays is over and there's really nothing to look forward to...until this year. January 2012 is when Downton Abbey is scheduled to return to PBS. And I couldn't be happier. I have delighted in every episode despite the fact that the HMA doesn't care for PBS and I have to watch most shows at 6am before work. Who cares? I'd stay up past my bedtime to watch this stuff! Two new 20 second trailers have popped up online. And last week there was a full length Season 3 trailer that leaked online that revealed even more secrets of the upcoming season. (Watch this before it gets taken down!) Read all about the upcoming season in Glamour.com! Will Matthew and Mary marry? Will Bates and his wife ever be together again? And what about Edith? All will soon be revealed.

Just A Little Reminder

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 NBC's Olympic coverage from London has left a lot to be desired, but you can't fault them for providing a big stage all of the entertaining personalities that have gone on to fame and fortune from that one little island. Eric Idle is one of the best. Feel free to sing-a-long!

Less Than 90 Days...

 ..from now, I'm getting hitched. It's all going down in the northwoods of Michigan. It's my favorite little corner of the world. And this is the history of it. At one point, there's a little postcard of an old car heading down a dirt road with a large white house in the background. That was my grandma's house. I have many fond memories of summers in that house.

We All Need A Helping Paw Now And Then

It's just one of those days. When everything just seems a little off and you just can't make it come out right. In the immortal words of Bill Withers...we all just need somebody to lean on... 

The Monkey

For three months I've been dealing with a personal problem that has felt like a monkey on my back. Make that a 500 lb. gorilla doing Zumba aerobics on my back. I haven't felt like myself in too many days to count. Finally, with very little fanfare, my problem was brought to an end this week and I feel like a new person. Goodbye, gorilla! I hope you go back to the jungle, or the very nice zoo where you used to live and have a very nice life. I would prefer it if you never came and visited me again.

It's hard to describe how much better I feel. When I think about how to put it into words, my mind keeps wandering back to some of my favorite visual images. The best way to describe it is that I feel like I can dance like Fred Astaire. And I am certain my feet would behave just like his if only I could dance. Not that the fact that I can't dance has ever prevented me from dancing -- it's just that in my mind's eye when I'm very very happy -- I dance just as well as Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.

I love their movies. I've watched the scene of them dancing to "Cheek to Cheek" in Top Hat so many times, I think I've got all their choreography memorized.  It's so romantic and she looked so beautiful in that feathery dress. And then there's the tap dance number from Barkeleys of Broadway. Man, he could dance -- but boy, could she keep up with him.  Go, Ginger! Way to rock it, sister! But for me, the one scene of Fred Astaire dancing that I could watch over and over a million times back- to-back is from Daddy Long Legs with Leslie Caron. 

She's at a college dance in a red satin dress. All the other girls are in pastel colors, of course. And a bunch of young college hunks are hanging around the dance floor in dapper white dinner jackets when "old man" Fred Astaire strolls in wearing a black tux and a red rose on his lapel. Like he would need a dark jacket to stand out in a crowd -- just standing there you can tell he has better rhythm than anyone else. But I digress... then a singing group starts the "Slue Foot." And the fun begins. 

Leslie Caron glides across the dance floor with her startlingly handsome partner. She looks like she's having fun. But then Fred Astaire, who's been standing on the sidelines, gets pushed onto the dance floor by some rambunctious tomfoolery and ends up sheepishly cutting in on Leslie Caron's date -- which is all for the best because while not as handsome as her date, he is a much better dancer -- plus he's wearing the red rose that matches her dress. Her date really should've known. Fred stumbles around on the dance floor a little bit, but he can't hide his natural grace. And finally, Leslie Caron and Fred Astaire engage in what I can only describe in words as" happy dancing," as her date glowers on the sidelines. 

Ah…you'll have to watch it for yourself to see what I mean. It's heavenly. Absolutely pure bliss…and that's what I'm feeling right now.

"You put the old posterior out, and you manipulate it about. Then you holler, 'Slue foot'!"

Slue foot!

Wedding CAT-astrophe #1

The bridal salon called the other day to tell me that my wedding dress had come in. We made a road trip down to pick it up. Somehow picking up my wedding dress had been transformed from an errand to an event -- and there ended up being two men in the party -- one of whom was the HMA. Fortunately, when you spend such a whopping sum of money on a dress, they give you a bag to put over your dress so your groom can't see it. Good news!

Bad news! There was so much commotion when I tried on the dress in the store that I didn't notice that my dress was shorter than the sample dress I had tried on. Fast forward to the middle of the night, when much like the nun in the story of Madeleine, I knew that something just was not right. I couldn't sleep. I was sure the dress was tea-length.

So the next day, I attempted to try on the dress at home alone. This is difficult. Wedding dresses are not meant for you to get into them on your own. They are made in anticipation of you having an entire harem of women to zip, tuck and button you up. I wrestled my way into it, but I still couldn't tell if it was too short. So I put the other part of the dress and put my bathrobe on over it and I asked the HMA if he would mind coming to look at it. 

As I walked across the hallway upstairs, Roxy was just coming up the stairs. She took one look at the train following me around the house and her little kitty eyes lit up. You could see her thinking, "Eureka! Mom wants to play!" One leap and she landed in the middle of the train, in the middle of my very expensive dress.  And I couldn't reach her -- so there I stood in the middle of the hallway screaming "Roxy! Bad Kitty!" while spinning around in the circle like a one-oared boat trying to grab a cat who seriously thought she couldn't remember when she'd had such a fine time. Finally, I think she took the hint -- or got bored and she jumped off the train and took off on the hunt for some other kind of trouble to get into.

I don't believe Roxy's ride caused any or much damage. I still can't tell if the dress is too short. And the HMA wasn't much help. I can't imagine what the next wedding catastrophe will be -- but I know it's coming…

I'll Have What She's Having

I will miss Nora Ephron. She made my porn. For me, half the fun of going to the movies is to see the set decoration.  I have always wanted to sip a sloe gin fizz in the bar owned by Humphrey Bogart in "Casablanca." I have dreamed about whipping up a vat of spaghetti Bolognese in the kitchen at the ranch owned by Brian Keith in "Parent Trap." If anyone knows where I can get my hands on the bathrobe that Kathryn Hepburn wore in "Adam's Rib", for Heaven's sake, let me know immediately.

Nora Ephron never disappointed me with the window dressing in her films. I have watched "Julie & Julia" more than a dozen times -- not just because I love Meryl Streep, but also because I loved the places she lived and the clothes she wore and the food that she ate -- all that had been lovingly selected for me by Nora Ephron, the writer and filmmaking goddess.

When I went to film school I was often in screenwriting classes where the guys would pitch these elaborate sci-fi stories that I didn't understand but seemed wildly creative -- and at the end of a half hour of pontificating about the wonders of the universe they had invented, they would say, "Oh, and I'm going to give him a love interest." That was the female character in the film -- no attention would be paid to her character development. She would be petite and busty and wear glasses. No doubt she would be in the same class as Denise Richards who played the most unbelievable role of Dr. Christmas Jones, astrophysicist in one of the more horrendous offerings in the James Bond series. Denise Richards, seriously?

The screenplays I attempted to write always started with the female character. It was all about her conflict and her inability to find love. So it was inevitable that I would find my way to the worship of Nora Ephron. She defined romantic comedies for a generation.  And now that she's no longer working -- it seems fitting that the romantic comedy is no longer working at the movies either. 

Will women have to put up with just being a "love interest" in the movies for the next generation? I know everyone loves "Girls" on HBO and the writer is supposed to be the voice of the new female generation.  She shows love as it is in reality -- and it ain't pretty.

But what about the Nora Ephron generation?

We need someone who will tell us stories about romance while also taking us on a fantasy tour of locations that we will never be able to see in person, but will always love from afar because Nora Ephron took me to visit there once. I've never been to Katz's Deli in NYC, but I know I'd love it and the pastrami is probably the best in the world. How do I know? Nora Ephron told me so.

In conclusion, I hope that somewhere out there beneath the star-filled sky, there lurks a female filmmaker who, of course, won't be able to fill Nora Ephron's shoes, but will at least pays homage to her and her style. And please make it happen soon.