A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes...In Which Case, What The Hell?

If you've been friends with me long enough for me to tell you about my bizarre dreams, then you know my dreams are rather intricate. Whenever I tell someone about a dream I just had, that someone usually says something like, "Wow...you remember a lot more about your dreams than I do," or, "Wow...what a vivid imagination, Steff."

I'm always somewhat surprised when I hear these reactions. For whatever reason, I have managed to maintain a "Doesn't Everybody?" sort of outlook when it comes to my freaky memory and my freaky nocturnal adventures. (My dear friend, Kaley, is an exception. Her dreams tend to be as strange as mine. Thank God.)

All of my dreams, while utterly fantastic, tend to feature realistic elements of my personality that only arise at the most inconvenient moments. For example, a few years ago I had a dream I had a chance to score with an irresistible young British man, and as he was leading me up some stairs to his bedchamber I realized that beneath my party dress I was wearing Enormous Granny Panties. No, ladies, I don’t mean “Granny Panties” as in your typical full-ass underwear -- these things went up way above my hips. My actual hips, that is, as opposed to the area where those Godforsaken low-rise jeans cling. Now, I don’t wear Enormous Granny Panties everyday. No. Not quite EVERY day...but wearing them under a “Beyonce, can you handle this?” kind of dress is definitely something I would do. I would assume that my dress would stay on, and, therefore, I may as well wear comfy undergarments.

You may have read about the time I got Jack Nicholson a bit excited when I gave him a hug. (http://thegraduate-steffic.blogspot.com/2010/08/slightly-more-sane-still-fcking-crazy.html) You may also have read about the time Dustin Hoffman visited me in my sleep and offered me his Jedi guidance. (http://thegraduate-steffic.blogspot.com/2010/07/my-spirit-animal-is-dustin-hoffman.html) Both dreams had realistic elements -- Jack was coming over to watch a Laker game with my dad, and I met Dustin because I was disgusted by the glucose-free pomegranate martini that was being offered at the bar where my friends were chillin’. Well, last night I had another dream involving a celebrity, and, I have to say, I find it both hilarious and somewhat frustrating that even in my dreams I’m a total paranoid dork.

All right. So last summer I got into the habit of falling asleep to the movie Tropic Thunder. Since then, there have been many films in my What Do I Fall Asleep To Tonight? rotation, including:

1.) Taxi Driver (Always asleep before, “You talkin’ to me?”)
2.) The Deer Hunter (Always asleep before, “MAO!”)
3.) Raging Bull (Always asleep before, “You fuck my wife?”)
4.) A Streetcar Named Desire (Always asleep before, “STELLA!!!”)
5.) Last Tango in Paris (Always asleep before, “Go get the butter.”)

Lately, my bedtime story of choice has been True Romance (1993), starring Christian Slater and Patricia Arquette, written by Quentin Tarantino and directed by Tony Scott. (No, I do not believe this movie would have been better if Tarantino had directed it. I believe this movie would have been longer if Tarantino had directed it. I love Tarantino. The End.) According to imdb.com, the plot synopsis is as follows: “Clarence marries hooker Alabama, steals cocaine from her pimp, and tries to sell it in Hollywood, while the owners of the coke try to reclaim it.” While I agree that yes, that is pretty much the plot, I have to say this movie is also -- surprise surprise -- a love story. Don’t forget, the movie is called True Romance, and truthfully, I consider it one of the most romantic movies I’ve ever seen. I guess that makes me a bit screwy by society’s bullshit Nights In Rodanthe standards, but hey -- FUCK society’s bullshit Nights In Rodanthe standards.

The movie begins with Mr. Slater at a bar talking about Elvis Presley in Jailhouse Rock. He says, ”In Jailhouse Rock he was everything rockabilly's about. I mean, he is rockabilly. Mean, surly, nasty, rude. In that movie he couldn't give a fuck about nothing except rockin' and rollin', living fast, dying young and leaving a good-looking corpse.” He says this in close-up, and when the camera pulls back, we see that he’s, well, not really talking to anyone, or at least not to anyone who’s actually listening. There’s a woman sitting to his left, puffing away at a cigarette, looking somewhat intrigued, somewhat bored. Indifferent, really. Mr. Slater works up the gonads to ask her out:

Clarence Worley: How 'bout you go to the movies with me tonight?
Lucy: What are we gonna see?
Clarence Worley: A Sonny Chiba triple feature. The Streetfighter, Return of the Streetfighter, and Sister of the Streetfighter.
Lucy: Who's Sonny Chiba?
Clarence Worley: (somewhat taken aback) Who is Sonny Chiba? He is... he is bar none, the greatest actor working in martial arts movies today.
Lucy: (genuinely confused, unless she’s really just as bad of an actress as I think she is) You wanna take me to a kung fu movie?
Clarence Worley: (bashful) Three kung fu movies.

She turns him down, of course. Mr. Slater looks a bit bummed for a second, but he gets over the rejection and goes to the movies by himself.

Yes, I identify with this scene. Yes, I often find myself babbling about movies that nobody gives a shit about (which, in my opinion, is everyone else's own damn fault). I moved back to Agoura fucking Hills on July 13th because there was going to be a showing of The Godfather at the Regency Theater on the 14th that I could not possibly miss. Some of the best dates I ever had with dudes were centered around either seeing movies in a theater or watching movies at my humble abode. I’m a movie freak. It’s true. Therefore, when Mr. Slater meets Miss Arquette at the Sonny Chiba triple feature and sparks fly, I swoon.

Finding true love via cinema is one thing, but let me tell you, the first time I ever saw the scene where Mr. Slater comes home and tells Miss Arquette that he’s just killed her pimp and she says, “I think what you did was so romantic,” I was thinking the same exact thing. And the scene where they make love in the phone booth? HELLO.



As far as Mr. Slater goes, he’s all right by me. I know he ran in to some trouble involving drugs, but hey, that’s par for the course in Hollywood. I consider it a huge injustice that Charlie Sheen gets to film an indefinite amount of episodes of 2 1/2 Men while poor Mr. Slater is lucky if he gets a guest role on Curb Your Enthusiasm. Mr. Slater is way hotter, I’m not gonna lie. Maybe it’s all in the Jack Nicholson impression, but truly, I don’t care. I’d watch kung-fu movies with him any day.

All right. So I’m a weirdo who thinks True Romance and Last Tango in Paris are two of the most romantic movies out there. Moving on, now, to what this has to do with anything at all.

Last night, as I have for several nights now, I fell asleep while watching True Romance. I dreamt that I was in a large room with three king-sized beds. I was in the room with Mr. Slater, and yes, I’m talkin’ 1990’s Mr. Slater. We were kissing. It was raining outside. It was hot. We made our way to one of the beds. We, uh, mounted the bed. Mr. Slater said, “This is the bed where I lost my virginity.” Weird, eh? I said, “Cool.” We continued kissing, although I could tell Mr. Slater wanted to take things to the next level. Goddammit, even Dream Steff can’t handle that stuff smoothly. Mr. Slater tried to remove some clothing, and, ya know, I asked him what he was doing. He straight up told me what was on his mind, as if I hadn’t already figured it out.

Sigmund Freud said that dreams are wishes. Explain, therefore, why my response to Mr. Slater’s advances was, “When was the last time you got checked for STD’s?”

Talk about the Blue Balls Heard Round The World. Mr. Slater looked at me like I was insane. He said, “Well, how ‘bout we just do it now, I’ll get tested tomorrow, and I’ll let you know what the results are.” I said “No.” It wasn’t “the right time.” Then, in true Steff Callas Dream fashion, Mr. Slater said, “Well, can I at least see your cute little dub?” Dub. My “dub.” My “DUB.” MY DUB. Dream Steff did NOT show Mr. Slater her “dub,” for Dream Steff is a lady.

Umm, yeah. I’ve now shared that with the internet, or BLOGGED, if you prefer. I'm not ashamed. I'm not embarrassed. I'm just...confused. Again.

L'Amour.

It physically pains me to know that I'll never get to sleep with Marlon Brando. I've lusted after many unattainable celebrities in my life, but Brando isn't just any unattainable celebrity -- he's Brando. And he's dead.

The most painful aspect of my predicament is that I know he would have taken me to his bed if I had been around to make advances. He was a self-proclaimed sex addict -- if you made him an offer, he wouldn't refuse. Of course, he'd only allow a woman to stay for two, maybe three nights in a row before he asked her to leave so he could "be alone," IE: call another broad. This sort of bargain does not typically appeal to me, but a fling with Brando would be anything but typical. In fact, those two or three days would be the best damn days ever, especially if they took place before Brando reached 200+ pounds. We'd stay in bed eating ice-cream and popping Valium. He'd entertain me by playing his bongo drums or reciting Shakespeare. We'd hang out with Tim, his pet ocelot who knew how to use the toilet. We'd sing old songs at the top of our lungs. We'd dance. We'd talk about global issues and about how corporate fat cats were destroying the environment. We’d make love. We'd eat more ice- cream.

I find it interesting that despite being considered one of the greatest actors of all time (if not The Greatest, until Meryl Streep kicks the bucket), Brando is only associated with a handful of classic films. Because this is my blog, I am going to go ahead and say that those films are (a) The Godfather, (b) On The Waterfront, and (c) A Streetcar Named Desire.

Only three films? Well, yeah, actually. Now, I’m not saying that these are the only films in which Brando is brilliant, because he’s brilliant in everything. I’ve simply listed his most iconic films. For example, just because his role in Mutiny on the Bounty isn’t as famous as his role in The Godfather, that does not mean it was not an astounding performance. Apocalypse Now, anyone? I first saw that movie in my film appreciation class in 12th grade. We watched it on a huge projector screen in a very dark room. George W. Bush had been re-elected six months earlier, and the terror (rather, “The Horror,”) of the Iraq War rarely left my mind. After watching this scene, it took me several minutes before I could formulate sentences:

Furthermore, Brando wasn’t exactly Lawrence Olivier when it came to performing Shakespeare, but did you see Julius Caesar? Not only was Brando a huge Hollywood star at that point, he was a Hollywood hottie. Ya think the hottest hottie in Hollywood today could play Mark Antony? Leo’s great, but remember his Romeo? Brad’s hunky, but remember his Achilles? Robert Downey Jr would just be Tony Stark in a toga; Johnny Depp would insist on painting himself blue.

And have you seen THIS? This is, as young kids say today, full of win.

I’m not rambling. This is all very important.

All right. So even if you haven’t seen The Godfather, hearing the movie title most likely inspires you to think of a puffy old dude holding a cat. You may even be able to do a botched Don Corleone impression.

Haven’t seen On the Waterfront? You really should. At any rate, you’ve still heard someone say, “I coulda been a contender” (pronounced con-ten-deh).

No Streetcar? No problem. Does, “STELLAAAAAAA!!!” ring any bells?

“Steff, what are your favorite Brando films?” Gee. My favorites? I’d have to say The Godfather (funny accent), On the Waterfront (“contendeh”), A Streetcar Named Desire (“STELLA!”), and one more film which, in my personal opinion, is one of the best films of the 1970’s (and if it’s one of the best of the 1970’s, it’s one of the best ever made), Last Tango in Paris. What image does that movie usually conjure in a person’s mind? The scene that Last Tango is infamous for may be only half as well known as the “I coulda been a contender” monologue, but to the people who have seen the film, the words “Go get the butter” are quite significant.

Before I proceed, I have to say that while I LOVE this film, and while I believe that it is a work of art and not pornography, I must clarify that I would never show Last Tango to anyone who hasn’t seen worse. For example, while browsing through a Barnes and Noble with my Yia-yia (Greek grandma) last month, I picked up a copy of Last Tango on DVD so I could examine the price. My Yia-yia spent the next several minutes trying to convince me that we should watch it together. I let her know that that was not going to happen. “Is it too risqué?” she asked, grinning deviously. “It’s beyond risqué,” I said. My Yia-yia didn’t grow up during a time when you could type “tits” in to Google and get 45,600,000 results in 0.19 seconds. (Examine that sentence for a moment.) She has definitely not “seen worse.” I would also never show Last Tango to someone who wasn’t at least somewhat of a film enthusiast, or to someone who had zero interest in acting. If a person were to name Transformers, Eat, Pray, Love, or Talladega Nights as his or her favorite movie, the next words out of my mouth would not be, “Then you have to see Last Tango.” While I, Stephanie Callas, may possess the ability to watch the infamous Butter Scene and only focus on how great Brando’s dialogue is, I absolutely understand how other people could find the scene repulsive and upsetting. That being said, I am about to tell you why I, personally, think Last Tango is one of the most romantic films I have ever seen. If my writing inspires you to go out and find a copy of the film, that’s great. If you do a little research on your own and determine that you’d rather skip it, that’s fine, too. I get it.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, allow me to be frank: the romantic movies of today totally suck. They suck, and they’re all the same. There’s a formula out there that’s been used so many times that I don’t even have to see these Goddamn movies to know exactly what happens in them: there’s a young woman who is on her cell phone all the time who meets a young man who likes beer and boobs and they bicker until they finally kiss at the one hour mark and then the girl goes to visit him the next day and he’s being whipped with a dead fish by a beautiful blonde woman but he can “explain everything” but the young woman runs away crying and then in the last ten minutes the young man charters a plane and jumps out of it and lands on the young woman’s roof and his parachute says “I LOVE YOU” and he sings “The Way You Look Tonight” with the Count Basie Orchestra in the background and all is right with the fucking world.

Did I miss anything?

I’m tired of female protagonists who are all supposed to be tight-assed workaholics who only learn how to enjoy life after meeting happy-go-lucky Matthew McConaughey. I’m tired of male love interests who have no redeeming qualities whatsoever until they start to show tenderness during some bullshit Now-They’re-In-Love-Montage. I’m tired of flawless hair and supernatural abs. I’m tired of bleached teeth and fake tans. I’m tired of bad soundtracks. I’m even tired of happy endings. Thankfully, Last Tango features none of these things.

The movie is about 20 year old Jeanne, a beautiful Parisienne, who has a passionate love affair with Paul, an American ex-patriot whose wife has just committed suicide. Paul and Jeanne promise each other that their affair will remain completely anonymous -- they won’t even tell each other their names. This arrangement works out fine in the beginning, but soon their feelings for each other grow strong. As Jeanne falls in love with Paul, she yearns to tell him more and more about herself, as well as learn more about him. At the same time, Paul’s behavior spirals out of control as he struggles not only to make sense of his love for Jeanne, but also to cope with his wife’s suicide. There are many ups and downs as Jeanne realizes she is in love with a man who does not want to know her at all. Meanwhile, Paul makes every attempt to push Jeanne away, but what he really wants is to be close to her. (Raise your hand if you’ve experienced THAT.) The sadness is believable, the frustration is palpable, the sex is truthful, and the pillow talk is hauntingly familiar. The last ten minutes of the movie, while not at all happy, are absolutely beautiful. Mind-blowingly beautiful.

The sex is “truthful,” eh?

Jeanne and Paul’s first sexual encounter takes place while the two of them are looking at an apartment for rent. After an unremarkable conversation (“So, do you like the apartment?” “I don’t know. Are you going to rent it?” and so on), Paul shuts the door, walks over to Jeanne, throws her hat across the room, takes her in his arms, and lovingly carries her to the...wall. They make love like maniacs. Paul doesn’t bother removing any of Jeanne’s clothes -- he simply rips the crotch of her tights. He remains fully clothed as well -- his long, camel-colored coat hides everything. Jeanne wraps her legs around Paul’s waist, and they make love standing up. This first encounter, while romantically fantastic (a chance meeting with a stranger you proceed to screw against a wall of an apartment in PARIS), is actually quite realistic. While Maria Schneider, the actress who plays Jeanne, is rather petite in the film, Brando has a difficult time physically supporting her in this particular position. (Stanley Kowalski may have been able to maneuver this scene with a bit more sensual flair, but Last Tango Brando was 48 years old at the time.) As Paul makes love to Jeanne, he hunches forward, struggling to hold her upright. This doesn’t ruin everything, however, because there is still a fair amount of gasping and moaning. The sounds Paul and Jeanne make, however, aren’t the sensationalized screams of pleasure typically featured on Boardwalk Empire -- they’re the sounds two people make when they are trying their best to keep the noise level down. They eventually fall to the floor, and after they climax, Jeanne breaks free from Paul and rolls to the other side of the room. They each lie on the floor gasping for air, neither of them aware of each other’s presence. There is no cuddling, not even nods of recognition -- just two people trying to regain their composure before going about their day.

Paul moves in to the apartment, and he and Jeanne continue their affair when Jeanne arrives at his door to return the key she initially borrowed from the concierge. Paul then establishes the ground rules for their relationship: “I don’t want to know your name. You don’t have a name, and I don’t have a name either [. . .] I don’t want to know where you live or where you come from, I want to know nothing, nothing, nothing!” For whatever reason, rather than run back to her boyfriend (yes, her boyfriend, Tom, a filmmaker), Jeanne chooses to commit to the anonymous affair. Of course, Jeanne does not know that Paul’s desire to remain so distant from her stems from his newfound isolation brought on by his wife’s death. He has to control something. However, the next time Paul and Jeanne make love, they begin to establish a sense of intimacy:

Some people may think this scene is just weird, but I think that while it is unusual, it is also very sweet. No, Paul and Jeanne are not lying side by side gazing into each other's eyes spouting out “Goo-goo gah-gah” bullshit. Instead, they’re acting silly. They’re daring to appear unattractive. They’re being themselves. They may not know each other’s names, but they do know that, for some reason, they are comfortable.

There are several scenes where we see Jeanne and Paul’s bond grow stronger during their post-coital interactions. Sadly, Paul is not always on board for more emotional intimacy. During one scene, Jeanne tells Paul a good deal about her childhood, blatantly ignoring Paul’s explicit conditions. Surprisingly, Paul does not protest. He only says, “I don’t mind if you tell the truth, but don’t give me the names. I can’t handle that. But go on, tell the truth.” He, too, talks about his childhood (his monologue being one of many moments in the film that make you want to raise a glass to Stella Adler). After Paul realizes that he has broken his own rules, however, he tries to distract Jeanne by asking her a rather unorthodox question: “When did you first come? How old were you?” She answers him, and when she finishes her story, Paul walks away from her without commenting. The camera remains on Jeanne for awhile, but when we see Paul again, he has tears in his eyes. He struggles to breath. His chin trembles. He is overwhelmed. How can he possibly have feelings for this half naked hot young thing? Why did he let her tell him about her past? Why did he listen? Why did he do the same? Walk away. Be very quiet. Cry.

Oh, Brando. How were you always so damn BELIEVABLE? How did you nail it every time? (By the way, there’s a scene where he talks to the body of his dead wife after she’s been all made-up for her wake...it’s astounding. The first lines of his monologue are, “You look ridiculous in that makeup. Like a caricature of a whore.” WHO SAYS THAT? Bravo!)

Jeanne does not know about Paul’s wife’s suicide until the end of the film. Therefore, she has no idea why Paul is acting so, well, so damn weird all the time. Still, she falls in love with him (like ya do), and she keeps coming back for more despite his unpredictable behavior. Every time Paul makes Jeanne cry, I want to cry, too. Every time she goes against her better judgment and ditches her fiancé to visit Paul, I can feel the burden of her desire. She’s stuck on a miserable old bastard who treats her like crap, and she comes back to him again and again. Oddly and refreshingly, despite her sub-par decisions, she doesn’t seem like a moron -- she seems human.

Finally, while this movie is jam-packed with moments that make me sigh with cinephilia, I need to say, once again, that the last ten minutes of this film are too good to miss. I will not describe them here, partly because I do not want to give anything away, but mostly because I don’t think I could do the sequence justice with my words. All I will say is that the first time I watched the film, the last ten minutes -- the only part of the film where Jeanne and Paul venture outside of the apartment together -- took my breath away. I was literally on the edge of my seat, and I wasn’t sure why. I felt nervous, excited, and giddy. I was overwhelmed by how beautiful everything looked. Brando was hilarious and charming. I smiled at everything anyone said, and yet I felt like crying. It’s a perfect depiction of terrible timing. Don’t expect me to explain any further.

Movies that deal with romance need to be more than superficial puff pieces if they’re going to be any damn good. I don’t want to sit there thinking, “This woman is an idiot” or “This man isn’t worth a damn.” I want to think, “This poor woman is trapped” or, “I wish this man would get it together!” To me, Last Tango is one of the most romantic movies out there. Does Last Tango scream “FOREIGN FILM”? Yes. Is Last Tango a bit retro-looking? Yes. (All of Schneider’s outfits are kick ass, and her bush is epic.) Is some of the dialogue a bit too, “Hey, look at me”? Yes. Is Last Tango absolutely gorgeous? Does it make me want to cry for the past? Does it make me want to fall in love? Yes, yes, and yes. This film dares to show us its characters' flaws. This film dares to suggest that sex isn’t always cinematic. This film dares to explore what happens in that moment when a person realizes that what he feels in his heart has changed from lust to love, and he knows he’s completely fucked...

It’s a Hell of a flick.

Bon nuit, mes amis. Bon nuit, Brando. You’re still the greatest leading man we’ve ever known. Je t’aime.

A "Breather," So To Speak

I don’t know how I passed eighth grade math. I guess it was because my teacher, Mrs. Baril, saw that I was a bright kid who deserved to graduate middle school and move on like all the other kids. Honestly though, I think I bombed (as in FAILED) most of the math tests that I took during my second semester in that class. Fractions were annoying enough, but good God, memorizing the number of ounces in a pint and how many pints in a gallon and how many ounces in one-third cup...forget it. One night while struggling to do my nightly math assignment, I said to myself, "Ya know, I have never purposely not done my homework. I think I'll give it a try." Alas, and yet, much to my advantage, the assignment wasn't collected. Thus, my teacher went along thinking that I was a hard working student who had absolutely pitiful test taking skills. She gave me a "B" out of pity.

Yes. I admitted to the internet that I can't do fractions for shit. I'm not ashamed. I think it's kind of interesting that a moment of adolescent defiance has now evolved in to a legitimate deficiency. As we all know, however, life is often ass backwards, and today, my mathematical shortcomings helped transform what could have been an upsetting experience in to a damn good one.

Today my grandmother turned ninety-four years-old. That's rather impressive as it is, but when I consider the amount of death bed scenes she has had in the past four years, I have to wonder how the Hell she's still alive. It sure ain't because she's astoundingly healthy -- she's just been in survival mode since the Great Depression. She believes in things like never telling your husband how much money you have in your savings account and hiding the rest of your cash either under your mattress or pinned inside your bra. Ya know. Practical things.

My poor mother has been taking care of her ailing mother for four years now. There have been countless trips to the doctor for numerous ailments (back pain, skin cancer, LEUKEMIA), late night emergency visits prompted by desperate phone calls, botched MRI's, terrifying hallucinations involving dead babies and a demon named Carlos (it's nothing to laugh about, but...), and thousands of other upsetting daily occurrences. Grandma can no longer walk, she can barely hear, and she can't really keep up in a conversation. Interestingly enough, she can still cut people down with great precision. Unfortunately, this means that my mother, on top of all the other things she's had to deal with for the last several years, has also had to endure a staggering amount of criticism. Throughout the mad saga that these last four years have been, my mother has somehow managed to survive with her sanity in tact. Sane as she may be, however, my mother would rather not have to throw my grandmother birthday parties every year when September 29th arrives.

Mom has been to several of these birthday parties, and based on what I've seen in pictures, I assume that the parties in the past have been somewhat depressing. The guest list consists of whoever in my family is willing to go (IE: mom), Riza, grandma's live-in caretaker, and Diane and Roxanne, my grandmother's hospice care nurses. Previously I could never make it to these birthday parties because I was in Santa Cruz, but since I'm back in Agoura I decided to support my mom and accompany her to the festivities. When I told her I would be joining her, she said, "Well in that case, ya know what I think would be fun? If we brought Lemon Drops for all the girls."

Now, my mom is not a big drinker. She doesn't drink wine because it gives her Rosacea, and when it comes to beer she's happy with having a Coronita (that's the seven ounce bottle of Corona) when we invite people over for a barbeque. Otherwise, she only touches booze when she's on vacation or when she's out to dinner on a sweltering hot summer night. What does she order? Rum and Coke "with mostly Coke," or a friggin' Lemon Drop Martini. Proposing that we make Lemon Drops at grandma's ninety-fourth birthday was her way of telling me, "I really need a Goddamn drink." It was my assignment to find a Lemon Drop recipe, get the necessary ingredients, and assemble the drinks when we got to grandma's condo.

When we showed up, my grandma was sitting in her chair watching television. I hugged her and wished her happy birthday. She asked me if I had a job yet. Typically I try to paint a rosy picture for her when she asks me this question, but today I just said, "Nope." As usual, she told me that I should go work for my father so that one day I can "take over the business." My father is a CPA. You really can't just inherit that title. I would have to go study business. I would have to do MATH. I said, "Grandma, I can't just have dad's business. I would have to go to school for that." "Well, you can go to school at night. Ya may as well. Ya gotta do somethin'." I said, "I can do whatever I want." Now, I did not say that to be bratty. I said it because it's one of her favorite phrases. My grandma may have missed out on the feminist movement, but she has always believed in women taking over the world and showing everyone what's what. If she had organized a regime to help carry out this plan, the world would be a very different place. Did I mention she believes she can kill people with her mind?

I was essentially telling her that I can do "anything I want" because I'm a strong, modern woman who has the world at her fingertips. I thought I would receive a nod of approval. Instead, this ninety-four year-old woman who can't walk, can barely hear, and struggles to speak smirked at me and said, "Oh yeah? Which is what?" I looked at her, and she snickered as if to say, "Gotcha there." I said, "Don't look so damn pleased with yourself."

Some may find it shocking that I said that to my grandmother. The truth is, I can say “whatever I want” to her. Sure, she may not hear me, but I know damn well that she loves when people go toe-to-toe with her, mainly because she loves having the last word. I have seen on more than one occasion that I have inherited my grandmother's appreciation for such things. The difference is that I, Stephanie Callas, have learned to reserve my caustic comments for people who really deserve them, like men, for instance. Also, I know where to draw the line, while Grandma has no idea what "the line" is. The fact that she has maintained her ability (and her love) to remind people who's boss when she can barely leave her bed is just plain eerie. I was there to celebrate her birthday with her, for God's sake. Rather than get too upset, because, truth be told, I'm used to such moments, I decided to be pro-active. It was time for the Lemon Drops.

The guests arrived. I went to the kitchen to start makin' the drinks. I finished the first one, poured it in to a glass, and brought it to Diane, my grandmother's hospice care nurse. The recipe calls for six ounces of vodka, four ounces of triple sec, four tablespoons of lemon juice, and two teaspoons of simple syrup to make four servings. Somehow, the contents of the entire martini shaker ended up in Diane's glass. You see, we do not own many martini glasses -- I think we own one -- so my mother brought champagne flutes instead. BIG champagne flutes. At no point while I was assembling this first drink did I think, "I better add x amount of juice to this mix, because a typical martini glass holds four ounces and these champagne flutes hold at least eight ounces and the recipe for four drinks asks for eight ounces of booze and only a few tablespoons of lemon juice." No. I have literally managed to turn off that part of my brain. When I see cookie recipes that yield four dozen cookies, I make all four dozen. Why? I have no idea how to cut the recipe down and still have it all make sense. Why? I didn't pay attention in Mrs. Baril's Goddamn math class.

I brought Diane the drink. I said, "Taste it and let me know how it is. I will not be offended at all if I need to go add more juice." Apparently it was delicious just the way it was. When I made the other four drinks, I managed to make them somewhat less boozey. Don't ask me how I did it -- I'm betting it was divine intervention. Still, they were powerful. There we all were -- Diane, Roxanne, Riza, my mom, and me, sittin' in my grandma's living room drinking atomic Lemon Drop Martinis on Annie's ninety-fourth birthday. It wasn't long before the giggling started. I noticed that Diane, the loudest, was only about a third of the way done with her drink. It was only at that moment that I remembered the recipe was supposed to prepare multiple drinks, and, therefore, Diane had multiple martinis in her glass. I thought, "What the fuck have I done? This wonderful woman, who has done so much for my mother, is going to end up passing out on my grandma's floor." For a second I considered walking over to Diane and kindly telling her what I had done and taking the glass away, but when I noticed how much fun everyone was having, I decided to just hope for the best.

I have to say, I had a great time at my grandma's ninety-fourth birthday party. I hate to say it, but I know that there hasn't been very much laughter in that condo for a long, long time, and frankly, it was nice to hear. It was great to sit in my grandma's living room and know, for a change, that I was having a great time being there. There was no need to fight back tears for my own stupid pride, or to be strong for my mother. In fact, I didn't feel sad at all. More importantly, when I looked at my mother, I wasn't looking at an emotionally and physically exhausted woman who just wished she had the power to take away her mother's pain -- I was looking at a happy person who was having a surprisingly great evening.

Diane didn't end up falling asleep on the floor. I eventually told her that her drink was quite a bit more potent than the average libation, but she had no problem with it. This only made my mom giggle even more.

When it was time to go, everyone gave each other big hugs. We had all had a great time. I'm sure it sounds like we all had so much fun because we were all tanked, but that really wasn't the case. Instead, I think it was because we were all so happy for a day off, so to speak. I'm sure I wasn't the only person at the party who noticed that my grandma's place is not often considered a particularly merry location. This was a nice change of pace.

As my mom and I walked to the car, we both started giggling uncontrollably. My mom said, "I feel like we're the two mischievous ones sneaking away with our booze." That's exactly what we were, but I knew what she meant. When we got home, she thanked me for coming with her to the party. She said I made the party fun. I apologized for being such a total dumb ass and for getting poor Diane tipsy. We laughed, and then mom sighed. She shook her head, and said, “I know, but I’m tellin’ you, those grandma birthday parties can be tough.” I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was beyond grateful that today was exceptional. It really was.

Happy birthday, grandma. Happy Wednesday, mom. God bless you, Mrs. Baril. Cheers.

"How was the movie, Steff?" "FUCK THAT MOVIE."

Talk about a total downer. I want to punch something.

I just came back home from seeing Going The Distance, the "romantic" "comedy" about the trials and tribulations of long distance relationships, starring Drew Barrymore and Justin Long. Awww! It's cute cuz they're DATING IN REAL LIFE! Gag me. Rather, to quote a line Miss Barrymore says more than once in this movie, "Suck my dick."

I love Drew Barrymore. I have loved her since I was in fifth grade. I think she's adorable and talented, and yeah, she was adorable and talented when she made this movie, too. "I'm a Mac" wasn't bad, either. He, too, is adorable and, as far as I can see, somewhat talented as well. The two of them work very well together on screen, and whenever they kissed or laughed or told each other, "I love you," I really did believe them. What I couldn't believe was the fact that all of their friends were such total fucking morons. Justin Long's friends, his only friends, are two Dudes who say really stupid, unfunny shit. They were trying to achieve the "realistic" dialogue portrayed in intelligent films such as Knocked Up, where the ridiculous conversations between Seth Rogen, Jason Seagull (ha), Jonah Hill, and the Other Two Guys were like totally realistic stuff that guys would like totally say! The Dude Dialogue in this movie was painfully forced. The movie could have had "realistic" dialogue and still not involved a superfluous, HACKNEYED, "You suck your own dick?" scene. I don't care how vulgar young men can be -- I don't believe that even a stupid guy would put his arm around an old woman to help her across the street, meanwhile talking to her about his roommates' masturbation techniques. Like OMG! Guys just don't give a FUCK! It's SO TRUE!" To this I say, again, "Suck my Dick."

Meanwhile, Drew Barrymore doesn't seem to have any friends. Well, she does, but we only really meet two of them, and they each get about two minutes of screen time. Instead, we get to hear Drew yack about dry humping and cunnilingus with her sister, played by Christina Applegate. Whatever. The sister character is married to a fat, unhappy guy, and her daughter is possessed by some devil. The two sisters are such different people! It's sooooo interesting! Kill me. Drew! Don't end up like Christina Applegate! Take your time being a party girl and go ahead and date Justin Long from a distance! Be unconventional and HAPPY! Why, God?

I am not the cynical fucking person many people think I am. I did not go to the cinema tonight thinking, "Well THIS is gonna SUCK." In reality, I actually wanted to see this damn movie. As I said before, I like both lead actors, and furthermore, I'm actually really hoping that one of these days there will be a romantic comedy that is actually romantic as well as genuinely comedic. Alas, Going the Distance is just as bad as all the other shitty RomComs that Hollywood manages to churn out year after year. It just stars better people.

What makes a movie funny? I don't know. Definitely not a scene involving an open-door bathroom policy. I also don't prefer Hitler jokes, but hey, I'm just an overly sensitive Santa Cruz liberal who needs to chill the fuck out, right? Gas chambers are hilarious. I'm missin' out on all the yucks. "Suck my dick."

The real question is What makes a movie romantic? Again, definitely not a fucking montage of two people frolicking (yes, FROLICKING) on the beach to The Cure's "Just Like Heaven." I want to care about the characters. I want to really want them to be together. I know I'm supposed to care because I'm just supposed to, but for some reason I didn't really give a shit that Drew and Justin missed each other. They were in a long distance relationship. Those happen, ya know. And they're difficult to maintain. And yeah, there were scenes here and there of Drew and Justin texting each other and missing each others' calls and all that stuff, but at no point did I really feel their frustration. Whenever they would visit each other and desperately make out, I totally believed their passion...but still. This movie was about a long distance relationship. I wanted to see the distance. There were hardly any tears. There was only one argument. There were no nights of waiting by the phone. They seemed completely content to spend Christmas morning Skyping with each other. That ain't right.

I recently re-watched the movie 500 Days of Summer. This movie is never going to end up in my Top 50 Favorite Movies, but damn, I really enjoyed it both times I saw it. Why'd I like this particular Boy Meets Girl flick? Because I felt every single second of Joseph Gordon-Levitt's heartbreak. From the moment Zoeey Deschanel first says that she doesn't want to be in a relationship with him, I am in that guy's corner 100%. You don't even have to have had that exact experience to identify with the character. Everyone has had the experience of having a crush on a person who didn't feel the same way, and it's brutal. Absolutely fucking brutal, and ya wouldn't wish it on your worst enemy. Therefore, the second you see that things are going to end rather horribly for good ol' Joey, you become his best friend.

I wanted that from Going the Distance. I, myself, have been in several long distance relationships, and yes, that is why I saw the damn movie. I assumed that because I have experienced the pain and confusion of wanting to be with somebody who is hundreds of miles away that this movie would tug at my heartstrings in ways that other lame-o RomComs haven't. It did no such thing. Instead of identifying with the characters, I was constantly annoyed. I kept thinking, "What the fuck are you whining about?" Their OH SO IMPOSSIBLE LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIP was a fucking walk in the park. They were perfect for each other from beginning to end. Their ONLY problem was that they lived far away from each other. Neither of them ever questioned if they were doing the right thing by remaining loyal to someone so far away. There was never any mention of, "Hmm. This girl's 31 years old and she goes out and gets completely hammered every single time something goes wrong."

For me, the most painful part about long distance relationships is when you start getting the feeling of, "I've worked so hard and sacrificed to much to be with this person who I don't even get to spend ANY time with, and now I wonder if I've been wasting my damn life." There was none of that in this shitty movie. We know they missed each other because they kept saying, "I miss you." I heard it, but I didn't see it. Definitely didn't see it. Nor did I feel it. I couldn't ignore that there was a ton of bad shit that wasn't happening in their relationship, and, therefore, I was in my own head the entire time thinking about my own failed fucking relationships. I wasn't romanced. I didn't laugh. I got depressed.

That's why I go to the movies. To Escape.

They stay together, by the way. "Suck my dick."