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Posts Tagged ‘Oprah’

This week’s What I think May Be True But I’m Really Not That Sure Because I Am But One Woman was inspired by the family who sat behind my daughter and me today at Ramona and Beezus.  To preface, I get very excited when a G-rated movie hits the theaters.  Very excited.  The reason for my excitement is two-fold.  1.  I am a complete nut job when it comes to keeping inappropriate media away from the eyes and ears of my child and G-rated movies are supposedly free of inappropriate content.  (I say supposedly due to the fact that I have been personally offended by some aspect of every single G-rated movie that I have ever seen – ie: Ratatouille made Schindler’s List seem cheery in comparison – but my inexplicable prudishness is a story for another time.)  2.  The popcorn.  Question: How often do you get the chance to consume upwards of 30 grams of butter-like saturated fat and a week’s worth of sodium, all in the name of family-friendly entertainment?  Answer: Not often enough.

But let’s stay on point here: Because I do not watch the news I am able to occasionally forget the fact that the whole world is poor right now.  This blissful ignorance, coupled with the fact that I have seen exactly two other movies since the recession began, left me with the antiquated image of Opening Days Past.  And when I say past, I’m talking Reagan-era past.  Remember the days of packed movie houses, free-flowing New Coke, and Mel Gibson having nothing more to be ashamed of than his sometimes-permed mullet?  Yeah, me too. But this is not what greeted our arrival at the 2:20 showing of Ramona and Beezus this afternoon.  Instead, we arrived to plenty of front-row parking, one person in front of us in line to buy tickets and a plethora of teenagers in black polyester suits, pretending to be happy to serve us.  A tumbleweed or two may have rolled by as we made our way to Theater 10.  Once inside, we found that the entire theater was literally empty.  We sat in the 5th row, on the edge, and started eating our $8 popcorn.  Before long, a few more families came in and settled into their seats, mostly in the very back of the theater.  As the lights went down and the previews began, I heard some late arrivals making their way through the door.  A woman and her three children entered loudly, blindly feeling around at the walls, and then proceeded to shuffle into the seats directly behind us.  I thought that they would surely move once their eyes adjusted to the dark but I was wrong.  Dead wrong.  Instead, the pack of four (Is it possible that the children themselves were wearing Giorgio Beverly Hills?) began chatting, munching their individual servings of popcorn, sipping their huge sodas and tearing into their crinkly bags and boxes of candy.  First of all, were these people billionaires?  Have you seen how expensive refreshments are at the movie theater these days?!  Secondly, are you effing kidding me here?  With at least 200 other available seating options, you are sitting directly behind another family?  Since my annoyed glances didn’t do the trick, I grabbed my popcorn, my kid, and my kid’s smuggled-in water bottle and moved up a few rows for the remainder of the movie.  The movie was very cute (despite its egregious use of the word “stupid”) and my neck is starting to recover from the strain of staring up at the screen from the second row for 90 minutes.

So, here is this week’s What I Think May Be True But I’m Really Not That Sure Because I Am But One Woman:  There are two kinds of people in this world.  There are the kind of people who enjoy their personal space and then there are the kind of people who will sit right behind you at the movie theater.  I would sooner watch a movie through the little window in the swinging door than sit behind other people in a virtually empty theater.  Was this family insane?  Were they trying to steal my purse?  Were they trying to steal my child?  Whatever their issue was, I know that I will do my part to keep my children from growing up to be Personal Space Invaders.  Between Swine Flu, Pinworm (my newest phobia) and the plague of children who may or may not be doused in Giorgio Beverly Hills, couldn’t we all just use a little breathing room?

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photo: Cliff Watts (from O’s website)

While reading the July issue of Oprah’s magazine yesterday, two things occurred to me:

1)  The Photoshopper who made her bunions disappear in the cover shot should win an award of some sort.  Alternately: If said bunions  actually are gone, her podiatrist should win an award of some sort.

2)  Oprah’s monthly What I Know For Sure feature is ridiculously arrogant.  Who does she think she is anyway?  She may be worth a cool $2.4 billion but that doesn’t make her omniscient.  Or is it omnipotent?  I can never remember…  Either way, I think it takes some pretty big cajones to claim, in writing no less, that you know something, anything, for sure.

Now, in addition to my unnatural interest in Oprah’s bunions, net worth and singing voice, I think it’s fair to say that I’m mildly obsessed with her in general.  While I may roll my eyes while I’m watching her show, I have also learned from her magazine that eye-rolling is one of the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”  That is to say, my seemingly innocent eye-rolling could be dooming our relationship to an unstoppable and cataclysmic end.  Frankly, I’m not willing to see that happen.  I feel that O and I need each other but that she just doesn’t know it yet.  In order to show her that I really do care, I’m starting a feature right here on this little blog that will serve as a nod to The Big O.  I’m calling it, What I Think May Be True But I’m Really Not That Sure Because I Am But One Woman.  It’s called humility.  Look it up, Oprah.

Today, this is what I think may be true but I’m really not that sure because I am but one woman:  One should never wear anything purchased at Old Navy without underwear.  If you, my dear reader, have shopped Old Navy, well then you know what I mean.  If you have not, let this serve as a warning.  Old Navy clothing can, and often will, spontaneously self-destruct while you are wearing them.  Seams will break apart, hems will fall and long-sleeved shirts will choose to become muscle shirts.  I do not know why but I feel that it may be an elaborate plot on the part of the United States government to drive discount shoppers underground.  I haven’t fully developed this theory but believe me, I will.

By the bye, I’m also looking into whether or not Anthropologie is working in conjunction with The Old Navy Seam-Ripping Collective to eradicate any and all women who have breasts.  I’ll keep you updated.  You can count on me.

I’m hoping to make this into a weekly feature but I will make you no promises.  Why, you ask?  Well, because I am but one woman.  

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50971_f520Dear Oprah,

My memory is like a steel trap (I actually feel this may be a personality disorder but let’s try to stay on point here…).  You did something in the Fall of 1998 that you regret.  You wish that you could take it back but you can’t.  Lord knows I’ve been standing in those size 10s myself, Oprah.  But here’s what separates you and me (besides your $800 million net worth, your love of Gayle and your bizarre bunions): You live your life on camera.  Millions of people heard what I heard and you can’t hide it forever.  Somewhere, someday it will resurface.  What was your transgression?  What did you do that was so heinous that you clearly have all of your minions working around the clock to insure that the evidence stays buried?  You made the unthinkable decision to record your own theme song.  It was called “Run On”.  It was awful.  It was hideous.  It made me laugh, cry, pee in my pants just a little bit and throw up in my mouth just a littler bit, all while falling out of my chair.  How did this happen, Oprah?  Couldn’t anybody stop you?  Dr. Phil?  Steadman?  Bob Greene?  The Chicago PD?  Yes, it was horrific: an aural assault and battery.  But the thing is, I would really like to find a recording of it (preferably a Youtube but I’m trying to be reasonable here).  And it seems I’m not the only one.  We’re coming after you, Oprah.  So you can “run on… see what the day may bring” but we’re coming for you.

All the best,

Mary

P.S.- I enter your “Live Your Best Life Sweepstakes” every single day online.  Fingers crossed that I win!!!

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354451_f520I know a few people who are quite into The Law of Attraction.  They set goals, set aside time in the day to focus their energy on these goals and create “vision boards” in hopes of making said goals a reality.  In and of itself, this sounds like a splendid plan.  Really, what’s the harm in trying to attract some positivity into your life?  Well, I’m glad you asked.  Throughout time, throughout all cultures, throughout all traditions there is one common thread that ties us together as human beings: The Golden Rule.  In essence, “Don’t be a dickhead.  If you are a dickhead, say you’re sorry and try not to be a dickhead in the future.”  The Golden Rule is really sort of awesome and I challenge anybody to come up with a good argument against it.   There has never been a need to devote books, movies, cruises, websites, speaking tours, Oprah episodes, web seminars, or “vision boards” to The Golden Rule and one can observe it free of charge, without ever having to see a man in colored contact lenses and a Nehru jacket.  One disturbing interesting thing that I’ve noticed about the Law of Attraction fans that I’ve observed is that they seem to be the people in life who, when faced with personal defeat, ask themselves, “Why me?” and when faced with another person’s triumphs, ask themselves, “Why not me?”.  To these people, I would like to say (possibly while beating them brutally playfully with their “vision boards”), “Put down the book.  Throw out the movie.  There is no “secret”.  As it all turns out, life is not fair.  The chances of you meeting the man of your dreams or being offered that big promotion at work decrease just a bit more the longer you sit in your bedroom with the shades drawn, dreaming about it.  (However, if a strange man does enter your bedroom and ask you on a date, call the police…)  In short, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.  Dickhead.”

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