How many cells do you think are in your body right now, invisible to the naked eye?
Cells that perform so many different kinds of jobs: preventing illness from invading the body, providing energy, making up the muscles and organs that pump blood, sort oxygen, and remove toxins. How do these cells get there? According to the instructions spelled out in your DNA, they replicate themselves over and over again, so many times that it is believed that your body is completely renewed every seven years or so. And all of these extraordinary processes take place without us even being able to directly observe them, much less control them.

And thank heavens! If you had to personally take the reins for every one of these minuscule-but-mammothly-crucial tasks, you would never be able to sleep, let alone accomplish the more intricate mundanities such as driving a car or peeling an orange. Simply looking at a picture of a cat on the Internet would require brain-eye coordination that would be practically impossible if you were responsible for every synaptic burst or twitch-muscle movement.

So the question to ask yourself is this: what other life functions are you attempting to micro-manage these days that would honestly do better if you’d just give them the chance to run themselves? Your dinner cooking on the stove? Other people’s perceptions of you and/or the world? Your kids’ daily activities? The flowers in the garden? What practices do you clutch to try to control things that are (possibly best left) out of your control?

You might not be willing or able to give these micro-management mechanisms up at the moment. The thought of setting them down may fill you with a sense of unease or dread, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to use your energy however you think is best. But I encourage you to acknowledge them to yourself, notice them whenever they arrive, even if you don’t opt to change a thing.

And if you’re feeling brave, refrain from using them for one day. Give your inner-manager a day off – s/he’s certainly earned one after all these years of hard work! I really think you’ll be astounded at the amount of room you find you suddenly have in your life, and the wonderful things you can let in once that space becomes available.


Thanks For Riding With Us.

“So speaking of politics,” he segued not-quite-smoothly, “What about you?”

I groaned and rolled my eyes. “What about me?”

It’s important to take note that I am not usually that girl, have never readily been that girl: the Eye Roller. The Groaner. The one who lets her genuine opinion be known. I have mostly been that girl’s diometrically opposite twin sister: The Smiler. The Silent Nodder. The one who veils her genuine opinion, in fear of offending someone or accidentally damaging her precious dignity.

But where had that gotten me, really? Down the long-and-winding road called Divorce Drive, disillusioned and lonesome each time I discovered that yet another guy had fallen in love with me under false pretenses: satisfied with my smiling and nodding, he just didn’t know what to do with me once I became comfortable enough to show my personality, or my ideas – or my politics.

I really liked this guy. I decided that this time would be different. No matter how uncomfortable it made me at first, I was going to make every effort to put myself out there. I said what I was thinking (mostly). I relaxed, let the walls retract. Against all of my instincts, I sighed and resigned myself to talk politics. I realized that it was important to him.

What I didn’t realize was how important it was to me.

Our views on social methods were opposing in certain places, though our intentions seemed fairly well-aligned. I was articulate and he was surprisingly well-informed for his age. Could we have found a way around our fundamental differences in order to make a relationship work? Probably, for a little while. But what I realized during the dissolution of my marriage was that sometimes doing so can be the equivalent of putting a band-aid on a heart attack.

In this more recent circumstance, I realized that the fact that this guy and I had fairly different political views reflected – pretty clearly – the fact that he and I had grown up under ENTIRELY different circumstances. As wonderful as he was, and as thoroughly as I adored him, he had absolutely zero context for my life. And I have none for his. He grew up sheltered, in a beautiful-yet-isolating rural Maryland community. I grew up fast in a suburb towards the end of the NJTransit line into New York City. He’s quiet, intellectual and idealistic. I’m vivacious, intuitive and rough around the edges. As much as the politics discussion made me anxious, who’s to say it isn’t better to find out on the front end that things probably aren’t going to work out in the long run? Because even if I had given more diplomatic answers, been a little more dignified and suppressed the audible groan, all it would have won me was a few extra moments, prolonging the inevitable.

I won six extra years with my ex-husband. We had some wonderful times.

But six years is a lot of days of smiling and nodding. A lot of hours locked in silence. Countless minutes spent hiding (smothering) my light under a bushel, when I could have been enjoying the simplicity of being myself. When I could have known the joy of being loved for myself.

It took me six years to reach the end of the line.

Talking politics still gives me agita, but let’s face it:

Politics are important.


I was going through my typical pre-shower ritual: the sorts of weird, little, idiosyncratic actions I always remember to do before a shower, but forget about as soon as I step in. While reaching over to put my folded towel on the radiator, I noticed a moth sitting on the edge of the still-dry bathtub. I decided not to disturb the moth, as he wasn’t hurting me, and I thought that he would stay dry sitting where he was.

I forgot to account for ricochet, the radius of water splashing off my body. Somewhere between shampooing my hair and washing my face, I looked down and saw that the moth had fallen down into a puddle of water on the bathtub floor, and was thrashing about wildly. In my haste to rescue it, I clumsily grabbed its wing: the precious powder immediately disintigrating and washing down the drain. To my horror, I realized that the moth was still alive, and drowning. What do I do now? If I don’t scoop this moth out of the water, it will surely drown. If I do scoop it up, it will still die, as its wings are now dysfunctional and it is drenched. Ultimately, I opted for the latter of these choices, reasoning that at least this choice seemed like the less horrifying and violent one.

It made me surprisingly sad to realize that if I had just taken the time to make the moth uncomfortable in the first place, it would still be alive and dry, if a little disgruntled. By enabling the moth’s immediate comfort, I had changed us both forever.

Sometimes I do this with people, too.

– ♠ –

I looked down to see that the moth was no longer there. In the time it had taken me to come to this epiphany, the moth was already gone. Instead of worrying about it, I had learned something from it. I felt a little better, like the moth’s demise had not been in vain. It was something of a Lepidopteran Ascension.

Sometimes you learn the most about yourself when you are by yourself.

– ♣

I had to scoop the moth’s tattered corpse off of the shower curtain – where it had stuck – with a square of TP and dispose of the remains. Since I hate touching the wet shower curtain and also hate the sensation of warm, soaking-wet toilet paper on my bare skin, this was not a relishable task, but I felt I owed it both to the moth and to my roommate to pursue it to its end.

Sometimes to give respect and dignity to someone you care about, you must face an unpleasant task.

– ♦

I had been worrying about facing a potential rejection from a guy I’d been seeing for about a month; I had just sent him a very truthful email, asking for the bald-faced truth in return while knowing that the reply might be, “I don’t want to see you anymore.” I was beginning to feel regret about sending it, fearing that it would make him uncomfortable. I realized that sometimes people, like the moth, need to be pushed out of their comfort zones, even if only temporarily, in order to avoid major disaster down the road. It was good that I had sent the message, even if the reply was one that would make me uncomfortable. By attempting to stay in my comfort zone, I might have spent more hours, days, or weeks, agonizing over whether or not he liked me as much as I liked him. Even if he rejected me, at least I could take the hit and move on, rather than linger on, worrying about it endlessly.

And should this worst-case scenario come to pass, it was likely due in large part to the Universe telling me that this was not a good time to pursue a romantic venture, and that I would likely learn invaluable information about myself in the absence of a partner.

Sometimes I do my best work alone.

– ♥

Letting go of people, places, and things (including memories) that you have loved is always painful and frightening. Sometimes, though, it’s the most important thing you can do for them, and for yourself.

A few years ago my parents sold my childhood home. It was time for them to move on, for multiple reasons. My head accepted this reality, but my heart had no way of understanding the process of letting go of ‘Home’. On my last visit there I catalogued and documented the house, taking mental and literal snapshots, caressing the little overlooked places and whispering to the walls. Don’t forget me, I begged the house. Don’t forget me, the house echoed back. Finally it was time to say goodbye, to grow up and move on. It was time to let someone else love the house and call it ‘home’.


About nine months ago, my husband and I discussed separation and divorce for the first time. It was time for us to move on, for multiple reasons. My head accepted this reality, but my heart knew, exactly, the extremity of this undertaking. It understood the process of letting go of Him, and how much it would hurt, how much it would cost. On our last night together I catalogued and documented Him, caressing the little overlooked places and trying to memorize his eyes. Don’t forget me, I begged. Silence echoed back. Finally it was time to say goodbye, to grow up and move on. It was time to let someone else love Him and call Him ‘home’.

(11 DEC 2013)

There are certain things that are ruined for you when you are a science enthusiast. What, exactly, gets ruined for you varies according to your area of study/fascination, and I suppose also according to your pre-existing neuroses. Some things that occasionally get ruined for me are movie/TV plots.

Sometimes it hurts to watch because there is something about the plot that is clearly, intentionally nonsensical, but is so obviously not-thought-through that it eats at my brain, making me feel absurdly alarmed and/or disturbed. Usually this happens when Hollywood is trying to pass off something horrific as silly and whimsical.

Exhibit A: pregnant men.
You guys.
This is some dark shit.

Do you know, when I was a little girl playing in the playhouse in Mrs. Davidman’s kindergarten classroom, I thought women carried babies in their stomachs. I mean, that’s pretty much what it looks like from the outside, and that’s what my child’s brain assumed was happening. In middle school, on that day in health class* where they separated the boys from the girls, I learned all about the real get-down: babies are carried in a woman’s uterus, not her stomach. This is an aspect of anatomy that only female human beings possess.

Let me reiterate that: Men – that is, male human beings – do not possess uteri**.

So, what that means, is that these fictitious men are assumedly carrying unborn children in their actual stomachs. No. No no no no NO. I have two major, major problems with this scenario:

As the fetus grew, this man’s stomach would become more and more distended. Have you ever held a stomach, like at a butcher shop or for a lab dissection? I have, so I’m here to tell you that stomach tissue really wasn’t built to accommodate a growing organism that reaches an average length of 35.6-50.8 cm (14-20 inches). You know what happens when your stomach bursts? “What happens is your stomach ruptures and billions of bacteria flood the surrounding area inside your body, creating a giant systemic infection that usually kills you within hours.”i Or you could die of asphyxia due to a “grossly distended stomach having protruded so far up and out of its customary terrain that the lungs [are] terminally compromised.”ii

And let’s not forget the primary function of the human stomach: using muscular contractions and enzymatic processes to break your food down into nutrients your body can use to stay alive. How much food, realistically, do you think this pregnant guy is able to cram into this abominable abdominal doom-chamber? NOT DAMN MUCH, I assure you. Let’s say the average newborn baby is 7.5 lbs. This converts to approximately 3-3.5 liters. The human stomach can accommodate this volume, but it’s about three times the typical expansion level.iii This is JUST BABY, NO FOOD. The average North American male human needs to intake about 3,000 calories each day. (TL/DR: A pregnant man would die of extreme bloating or starve to death.)

Oh, and speaking of digestion, remember those enzymatic processes I mentioned earlier? Yeah, that’s where your stomach releases chemicals to break down your food into nutrient-mush. Chemicals like hydrochloric acid. If you’re like, “So what?” go fucking Google some images of skin burned by hydrochloric acid. Now picture a fetus that has been awash in the stuff for nine months. This is where nightmares come from. Also EC Comics.

Also, there’s the whole lack of vagina thing. So if the stomach hasn’t ruptured, a surgeon is going to have to open that bad boy up and remove this Hell-larva, and Pregnant Man and his loved ones had better hope he doesn’t go septic, or get MRSA, or meet any of a whole host of other catastrophic deaths that could occur in this scenario.

Equally as frightening, if not more so: who are these executives in Hollywood who know so little about the human reproductive and digestive systems, respectively? I have heard the explanation of the human reproductive process more than five times, and I wasn’t even actively pursuing that information at those times! Or, do they just assume the stupid human populace won’t notice?

People aren’t that stupid, right?


– ♠ –

And I seriously can’t watch Jurassic Park. I know, just…just don’t. Stop. For both our sakes.

– ♣ –

It happens with TV, too. I love the hell out of crime/forensics shows, but I get really worked up over the lack of fact-checking at the most basic level. (FYI, production teams: no one is going to mistake a thermos full of liquid nitrogen for a thermos of hot chocolate. Why? Because one averages a temperature of 172.5oF and the other averages a temperature of -333oFvi. Oh, and because liquid nitrogen boils into gas at room temperature, yielding about seven times more gas than liquid. That means a sealed thermos would explode from the built-up pressure SO SOME UNSUSPECTING GUY PROBABLY AIN’T TAKING A SWIG FROM IT. And if he does, his mouth and esophagus would quickly become so damaged that he sure-as-shit is not going to continue drinking.)

Science: she is a harsh mistress, but I love her.

Something else that ruins things is grammar. I have trouble reading inappriopriate usage of: plural subject-> is or singluar subject ->are, mismatched past/present tenses within a phrase or sentence, singular subject ->plural possessive, but obviously that’s a whole different grievance list.

*I had to sit through in-depth presentations about menstruation in 4th, 6th, and 9th grades. Finally, when I graduated high school, I thought I was safe. The subject was addressed in three of my college courses. I’ve seen it mentioned in several pop-culture documentaries from TLC, et al. It seems like society is just THROWING information about where babies come from at you.

**Yes, that is the plural form. I looked it up because I am, as previously mentioned, neurotic.

I’m laughing that maniacal laughter right now that only happens when you accidentally think about something that REALLY upsets you. You have no idea how much this hurts.

In the USA the average male weight is approx. 195 lbs.iv and the average adult height is about 5’10”v.

iCreative Loafing Charlotte. (2005, November). Fatal Digestion: How to eat yourself to death. Retrieved from

iiRoach, Mary. (1999, December) Unhappy meal: How to eat yourself to death. Retrieved from

iiiSherwood, Lauralee (1997). Human physiology: from cells to systems. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Pub. Co.  0-314-09245-5. OCLC 35270048ISBN

iv “Anthropometric Reference Data for Children and Adults: United States, 2003–2006” (PDF). Retrieved 2012-10-25.

v McDowell, Margaret A. et al. (October 22, 2008). “Anthropometric Reference Data for Children and Adults: United States, 2003–2006”. National Health Statistics Reports10.

vi Calculations of average temperatures based on:
Freezing & boiling points of nitrogen
Brown, F. & Diller, K.R.
Burns. (2008, August). Calculating the optimum temperature for serving hot beverages. (Abstract). Retrieved from

To piggy-back on that last post, I’m often asked what it’s like to be a professor on the campus where I was once a student. My answer is true and unwavering: it’s weird how not weird it is. Which is hard to explain, but I’ll try:

Yes, the campus has grown a lot in the years between then and now, and a lot has changed. Linthicum hall is standing, moldy and empty, and a HUGE, shiny Liberal Arts Building has taken its place. Lida Lee Tall no longer exists. The Center for the Arts has been pretty updated, too, but I was here when those changes were officially called “Done” so that’s kind of different. Oh, and there are all these new dorms for people to live in where I used to have to park my car as a Freshman. They are also huge and shiny (and probably pretty liberal, too, I would guess).

And I guess that would be weird, if I had moved away for seven years and came back to campus and thought, “Wow! When did all of this happen?! What campus is this?!” But I knew Lida Lee Tall was going. And after that, it was really only a matter of time before Linthicum met the same fate; there were already predictions at the time of my graduation that it would be obsolete/reconstructed ‘soon.’ So yes, while it’s a little weird that there aren’t people smoking cigarettes near the main entrance to Linthicum Hall, and weirder still that I can’t just walk around in there if I want to, it’s not really a shock. And the new dorms? I moved off-campus my sophomore year, what do I really care about new dorms? My freshman dorm is still standing (for now).

Really, the key element of why it’s not weird is this: I’ve changed, too. Towson University and I, we’ve both grown up. You can see traces of who we were in 2003 or 2007, but ultimately we are new animals, different from what we were then. Sometimes I can almost recall what it felt like to walk around here as a student, but it’s more with a passive interest than with active nostalgia. By and large, students are still walking the same exact paths between buildings that I tread so many times, eating in the same eateries and loudly having what should be intimate conversations with their friends. Students are still students, and the University is still their home. I’m not a student, and I’m not doing those things anymore. It would be pretty grotesque if I did. But I still feel comfortable here, in fact probably much more comfortable than I did pre-graduation.

Ultimately, I think it’s because I’m much more comfortable in my self.

I often have occasion to reflect on the strange ability to live many different lives in the span of one lifetime. It is mostly true that past lives are not revisited: I will never again be an elementary school field day participant, secretary of the student council, or a member of the MHS marching band. And believe me, that is more than okay. I’m finally approaching a place in my life where I am feeling satisfied with who I am and blessed with the things I have. I’m worrying less about who I want to be and embracing who I am. This is a good thing.

However, there is one aspect of my life that I didn’t realize I had really been missing until I returned to it: theater.

In the fall, I participated in a performance that included a collection of short plays about life in the modern age. The two one-acts I performed in were written by a dear friend of mine, and it was uncanny how fluidly I slipped into the different roles. There wasn’t any feeling of, “Huh. Now, how did I do this before? Oh, right, I remember it goes kind of like this…” Not like the first time I rode a bike after ten years. It was just like blinking your eyes: something you don’t ever think about doing, but that feels good on some primitive level whenever you do it. It wasn’t until my friend took me aside and said, “I just wanted you to know, you’re a really stand-out character in this piece,” that I realized, “Oh yeah! I’ve been acting!” And it wasn’t until the show was over and I read this review that I realized, “Hey…I was acting and doing a good job at it!!”

So, at the advice of one of my fellow cast members, I decided to audition for one of Baltimore’s long-running summer stock programs, Cockpit in Court. I was nervous. I hadn’t done any musical theater in a decade. I hadn’t danced in just as long. My memories of the community theater auditions if my youth were daunting: growing up outside of Manhattan, the community theater scene in my area had a pretty self-righteous air about it. You’d wait, sitting in line in a cramped and narrow hallway for several hours, making nervous small-talk and listening to someone obnoxiously sing, “Ease On Down the Road” every time the line moved, as though it was the most brilliant and original joke ever made. Your auditioners sat on a raised dais, towered above you, and gave you stony looks. They said nothing. If you were called back for a role, you were silently handed a colored piece of paper with your audition time on it. If not, you were brusquely escorted from the room to take the long walk of shame back down that cramped hallway, pairs of anxious eyes darting to your empty hands as soon as you emerged.

Broadway auditions are a little better, though you are cautioned when you go in not to make eye contact with the directors. But they thank you for coming, and generally seem interested in your existence.

So, you know, I was feeling a little intimidated about this thing. I practiced constantly for a few weeks, diligently observing daily dance and vocal exercises, and I got to the audition site a half-hour early so I could spend as little time in that awful long line as possible. I gave myself pep-talks, telling myself that I was invested in a worth-while career now, and that I have a happy home and a husband who loves me and it’s really okay if these people reject me. Really. It is. I mean, my high school was really small, anyway, so when I got all those big parts in plays it was in part because of the small talent pool, and I really shouldn’t be expecting anything.

So imagine my surprise when there was no long line. These people are freaking organizational geniuses. You get a ticket with your name and theater vitals on it (height, eye color, vocal range, etc.) and when you finished an audition for one show, you handed your ticket back in and were sent on the next audition within 20 minutes, usually less time than that! And, oh my Lord, the directors smiled at you! And introduced themselves and shook your hand! And when your audition was done, they asked you about yourself and thanked you (genuinely) for coming! It was surreal. And it felt awesome.

And the biggest change was inside of me: since this audition wasn’t any kind of stepping stone, I was genuinely excited at the prospect just of getting an ensemble role in something. And OH MAN was that liberating! I was having so much damn fun! I was singing and dancing and acting and just living it up. And all of these people around me were so worked up about this thing that they were gossiping and sniping and “talking shop” and I was blissfully outside of it all. I didn’t care if whatshisname’s interpretation of Pippin was “so obviously derived from so-and-so’s performance” or whatever. I didn’t care that the girl next to me studied dialects with Carl Weathers or Tony Danza or whomever.

And guess. What. I got cast in not one, but two of the shows, BOTH musicals. One of the directors said, “We’re just delighted to have you.” And yup, the roles are “Ensemble” and “Featured dancer” and you know what? That RULES. Something that I used to dread is now something that I am freaking ecstatic about. Have I sold out? Maybe. But the price I got is my own happiness. And I’ll sacrifice notoriety for bliss any day.

This weekend I’ll also be performing in a reading of a new play, “Oraculous,” written by my friend Annelise Montone. I love this play. Like, a lot. a whole lot. And once again, I was surprised when she told me, “Amy, your performance is freaking me out. It’s so good.” You know what? It looks good because it feels good. I had thought that performing was something I had outgrown: something I had to give up as part of becoming an adult.

I couldn’t be more glad to be proven wrong.

Dear Jolene,

I started knitting one year and two months ago. It has been amazing. Mandy and Katie, good friends of mine, had been trying to convince me to knit for years, and I resisted them, insisting, “I sew.” Then I was on bedrest for a while, and Mandy moved to TN and Katie needed a new knitting friend, so I decided what with all my extra time I would give it a whirl. My first yarn (Lamb’s Pride worsted weight in “Prarie Fire”) became a ribbed scarf for my Oma, and the yarn came from Clover Hill.

This is not why I love you.

My next projects included a matching hat and gloves (Mission Falls 1824 in aster and…periwinkle? Some blue) and green-and-white headband and wrist-warmers (also Mission Falls) and my Cloverhill experiences were always cheerful. The one time I veered away into Jo-Ann’s Wool-Ease section made me appreciate you all the more.

Still, not why I love you.

Even the mind-blowingly awesome savings at the Super Bowl sales are not why I love you.

See, recently Katie loaned me The Yarn Harlot’s Secret Life of a Knitter. (By recently I mean at least four months ago. I just got around to reading it. I know you won’t judge. Right?) I have since become addicted to YH’s blog, and have been becoming more and more infatuated with Fleece Artist yarns. I went to their website, hoping for online retail. No dice. Rien, as the French-Canadians would say! But lo, I could select a state. I selected Maryland, waiting to see how much of a friggin’ hike I was going to have to make to *just maybe* get my hands on some of this yarn.

I honest-to-goodness gasped, out loud (think about it: when is the last time you can remember gasping about something?) and got all fluttery when I saw: Clover HIll Yarn Shop, 75 Mellor Ave., Catonsville.

And this, THIS is why I love you. You have just made my day in a very big way.

Payday is Friday. I expect I’ll be seeing you (or at least the metaphorical “you” that is the shop) sometime this weekend.


p.s.  Please don’t tell my Super Bowl yarn about this email. What it doesn’t know won’t hurt it.

I am admittedly cynical when it comes to local forecasters.
I don’t mean the dapper young gentlemen in shiny suits and ties, or the usually-pregnant ladies on your local news broadcast.
I’m talkin’ about the multitudes of coworkers, customers, and friends that can’t stop talking about the “snowstorm” that’s coming this weekend.

I’ve lived in Baltimore for six years now, and I’ve pretty consistently observed that when everyone and their Hon-mom is talking about impending wintry doom, you will see a cough of flurries and still have to go to work and/or school the next day. Needless to say, this past week I’ve been “psssh”-ing and rolling my eyes a good bit. “Suure, it’s going to be a blizzard! Yeah, we’re going to get a REAL dumping of snow!”

Color me shocked.

Now I suppose I should backtrack a little: just because I don’t really ever believe the snow-hype, that doesn’t mean I don’t long for crazy snow party. The nine-year-old in me has fingers and toes crossed and is silently praying and pleading with all manner of deities for some AWESOME SNOW. This is why, on Friday night, pretty much every hour (on the hour) I asked Aaron, “Do you think it’s snowing yet??” Around ten o’clock he said, “Nope not yet. Wait…yeah a car just went by and I saw some flurries in the headlights!”

Hmmm. Flurries. But the excitement was mounting, nonetheless.

A little while later we looked out of our bedroom window: there was a goodly dusting on the roof and the cars. We went to sleep, and the madness started.

The roof below our window is probably about a foot down, maybe a little less. By the time we woke up, the snow was creeping its way up, almost level to the window ledge. No signs of stopping. We ate some danish we had procured the night before and Internetted, as is fitting for any Saturday morn. I napped a little while longer. The snow was level with the window ledge. I knitted, and snow surpassed the window ledge.

At this point, our neighbor Mr. Bill gets out his snow blower. I should point out that the snow had not relented at this point AT ALL. It’s nearing noon. This made me giggle: in childhood our backyard met up with that of an older couple, and my bedroom window had a pretty good view of their backyard and driveway. The man always wore a hat and smoked cigars. He also always attempted to shovel his driveway long before the snow stopped falling. I used to joke to my parents that he should just stand there, letting the flakes fall on the shovel. Although Mr. Bill’s strange habits were reminiscent of this childhood memory, he had something my previous neighbor did not: firepower. This snowblower is a diesel beast, coming to take no prisoners. About twenty minutes after clearing a respectable path in his driveway, you could not tell where Mr. Bill’s snowblowing had occurred.  This snow was serious.

By the time the snow finally stopped (around 9 pm), the drift outside our window reached about two feet above the ledge at its apex. Our cars are barely visible. The plows driving down the street are trembling and making little dog-whiny sounds, while tucking the exhaust pipe between the back tires.

It’s time to get down to business, people: time to eat some danish, eggs, and bacon and then build a hippo in the snow. Happy Snow Day!

Tonight’s showing?  That Sinking Feeling: “Four bored and unemployed teens living in rainy Glasgow attempt to liven up their lives and make a lot of money after one of them plans a series of heists involving stainless steel sinks, dressing up as girls, and a stop-motion potion.”  And don’t forget the bellbottoms and awkwardly grown-out shag haircuts!!

My favorite thing about this film? The disclaimer in the beginning: This film takes place in the fictional city of Glasgow. Any resemblance to the actual city of Glasgow is completely coincidental. Yeah, except that this was OBVIOUSLY filmed in the actual city of Glasgow. I don’t think that actually qualifies the similarities as “coincidence.”

And no, I don’t know what a stop-motion potion is. I do know that the principals in this movie do a lot of shady dealings with elementary school students. I also know that this movie would be a lot (and I mean a LOT) more entertaining if the soundtrack was comprised of the 70’s punk these kids might have actually listened to rather than the awful, smooth-jazz quality electric piano/bass combo that is swarthily accompanying these scene changes. It’s like they just ripped stock music from Moonlighting, perhaps a whole three measures, and eeked it in wherever there was an awkward silence. Also, although these kids are speaking English, their lips are plainly not lining up with the words they’re saying. At this point I’m just praying for an over-sized monstrosity to come put this depressing fictional-non-fictional town out of its misery.

I love the This network so, so much.

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