I'm sure several of these movies were released prior to 2008, but of all the movies I watched this year, these were my ten favorites. I wanted to do a six list, but couldn't stand leaving off the last four.
1. THE NUMBER 23: Original, intriguing story. Perfectly suspenseful. If Jim Carrey was born to do comedy, then I'm glad he stuck around to do drama (The Truman Show or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, anyone?).
2. THANK YOU FOR SMOKING: Being a non-smoker, I mistakenly believed I'd be severely disinterested in this film. Instead I was delighted by a creative and intelligent satirical comedy. And I don't know if anyone else noticed, but throughout the entire movie, not a single person was shown actually smoking (except on a TV screen showing a black & white movie). I found their creative ways to exclude the visual in a film full of smokers very interesting.
3. THE HOLIDAY: The best way to describe this movie: ADORABLE. Every protagonist as cute as the next, each moment more tender than the one before it, while remarkably circumventing the gag factor. Clever. Fun. Charming.
4. THE DEPARTED: This sat around in our DVR for months before we finally decided to watch it. LOVED IT far more than expected, even with the brutal Scorsese ending. Kept thinking about it for days...the ultimate sign of a very good movie.
5. SWEENEY TODD: Grotesquely gut-wrenching. Passionately heart-wrenching. Perfectly cast, performed, and artistically designed. This ain't no Rogers & Hammerstein musical. Sondheim, Burton, and Depp form a magical trio.
6. WAITRESS: More spiritually profound than expected. Very witty, honest, and an overall delight from start to finish!
7. 3:10 TO YUMA: Western flicks, not usually my favorite. It took me about 20 minutes to get connected with the plot, but from then on it was awesome. However, it was a shame to have Christian Bale looking so horrid for 2 hours.
8. AUGUST RUSH: I thoroughly enjoyed this film, in spite of the child's strange raspy intonation throughout. The acoustic guitar pieces were incredible, and both love stories enchanting.
9. THE FOUNTAIN: Poignantly mind-blowing. Asks those questions in life that can't be answered. A uniquely inventive story told through breathtaking visual imagery.
10. JUNO: I really enjoyed this story because it seemed gritty and real, despite a few instances of contrived comedic dialogue. I still thought it was funny and found myself identifying in a strange way with the central character. And I just learned that Juno was directed by the same man (Jason Reitman) who wrote and directed Thank You for Smoking. Coincidence? I think not.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Six worst movies of 2008
Most of these movies were probably released prior to 2008, but of the movies I watched this year, these were the six worst (without considering any that I couldn't even bear to finish, such as Conversations with Other Women and Monster-in-Law).
1. GOOD LUCK CHUCK: I am continually amazed at the kind of CRAP that passes for a movie. 'How can we take a bunch of footage of a guy having nasty sex and turn it into a full-length feature film?' Who needs a plot or decent acting skill when you have Jessica Alba's face and body on the screen?
2. LUCKY YOU: What was bad: the story, dialogue, acting, direction, and editing. What was good: for about 25 minutes near the end they departed entirely from the horrible sub-plots and focused on an intense poker tournament so I felt more like we were watching ESPN than the awful movie.
3. NEXT: Very interesting concept, with plot holes big enough to drive a semi-truck through. Disappointing.
4. LICENSE TO WED: One of an overpopulated movie genre that is painfully frustrating to watch. Characters involved in situations no one would put up with in real life and which have a very simple solution that the protagonists inexplicably cannot figure out.
5. CRANK: This could have been labeled Speed 3; this time his body is the bus. For action-movie lovers, you might not be able to beat 90 minutes of a guy forced to keep his adrenaline pumping, but the relentless intensity lost its appeal without a good storyline to ground it.
6. THE INVASION: Really, really bad. If the cheesy zombie-movie plot weren't enough, the filmmakers over-exerted themselves in trying to emphasize a political/existential point about the human race. Also, instead of letting the audience react to the story as it unfolds, they kept using lame dialogue and camera angles to reiterate the obvious.
1. GOOD LUCK CHUCK: I am continually amazed at the kind of CRAP that passes for a movie. 'How can we take a bunch of footage of a guy having nasty sex and turn it into a full-length feature film?' Who needs a plot or decent acting skill when you have Jessica Alba's face and body on the screen?
2. LUCKY YOU: What was bad: the story, dialogue, acting, direction, and editing. What was good: for about 25 minutes near the end they departed entirely from the horrible sub-plots and focused on an intense poker tournament so I felt more like we were watching ESPN than the awful movie.
3. NEXT: Very interesting concept, with plot holes big enough to drive a semi-truck through. Disappointing.
4. LICENSE TO WED: One of an overpopulated movie genre that is painfully frustrating to watch. Characters involved in situations no one would put up with in real life and which have a very simple solution that the protagonists inexplicably cannot figure out.
5. CRANK: This could have been labeled Speed 3; this time his body is the bus. For action-movie lovers, you might not be able to beat 90 minutes of a guy forced to keep his adrenaline pumping, but the relentless intensity lost its appeal without a good storyline to ground it.
6. THE INVASION: Really, really bad. If the cheesy zombie-movie plot weren't enough, the filmmakers over-exerted themselves in trying to emphasize a political/existential point about the human race. Also, instead of letting the audience react to the story as it unfolds, they kept using lame dialogue and camera angles to reiterate the obvious.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Stocking stuffers
The idea of a Christmas stocking bulging with valuable, yearned-for items is foreign to me. Throughout December, I see advertisements with an eye-catching starburst containing the words "Great Stocking Stuffer!" for products such as CDs, electric razors, iPods, Wii games, and diamond earrings. This leads me to believe that to much of the world, the determining characteristic of a gift suitable for stocking stuffage is its diminuitive size: if it's small enough to fit in the stocking, it's a stocking stuffer. And a stocking isn't really "stuffed" unless it is filled with multiple items, which by my calculations means that many people spend hundreds of dollars just filling stockings. I am sure that is more than my parents budgeted for each child's entire Christmas bounty.
I've always been of the opinion that every gift should receive the attention and appreciation it deserves. Our family always opened gifts one by one, taking turns, and it is one of my favorite Christmas memories. I loved making signs with each family member's name, and taping them to various seats around the family room before we could divvy up the gifts. Not one box was unwrapped until everyone was sitting in his or her assigned place beside a pile of presents. I enjoyed watching my family members open their gifts almost as much as opening my own. Anticipation is half the fun, after all, so why rush the process? And why put expensive, desirable gifts into a stocking when they could be carefully unwrapped for all to admire?
As a child, our stockings typically contained only three items:
1) An assortment of Christmas goodies. I specifically remember little chocolate-covered marshmallow Santas for some reason.
2) An orange. We were taught that the orange symbolized gratitude for our blessings, because during the Great Depression (or perhaps a war -?-) it was very difficult to acquire a fresh orange, especially during the winter, and so it would have been a very special treat at Christmas.
3) A scroll tied with ribbon. This piece of paper contained a poem, whose rhyming lines provided clues to the whereabouts of our "stocking gift," which was usually the most awesome, or at least too-large-to-wrap, surprise gift. My dad apparently stayed up late typing these poems after we went to bed on Christmas Eve, and reading them was sort of the culmination of our Christmas experience.
As a child, and even now to a lesser degree, I would experience a few moments of melancholy after all the gifts from under the tree were unwrapped, realizing that suddenly Christmas was over. But then I would quickly rejoice upon remembering that our stockings still hung over the fireplace. Not because they were filled with another slew of tiny, meaningless presents, but because there would be an exciting treasure hunt to find that last gift--possibly the one I've been asking for since Halloween!
My new little family tends to keep Holiday spending to a bare minimum. I have only actually stuffed our stockings twice now. Last year my motivation in doing so was mostly to provide the experience for our Japanese exchange student, since my daughter was too young to understand. Filling our stockings remains merely an afterthought as Christmas approaches.
The lack of fanfare surrounding our stockings has inadvertently started a family tradition of our own. I still include the traditionally orange. It comes out of the drawer in the fridge to hang in the toe overnight, then is returned home to the fridge following its moment of glory.
But I also wander around our house on Christmas Eve collecting appropriate items to stuff in our stockings. That's right: things we already own. I have an assortment of cheap little Christmas toys leftover from goodie bags I made for our employees' children one Christmas, so everyone gets a kazoo or a tiny yo-yo with a Santa sticker on it, or a nifty spinning top. Last year, all those dumb little toys went back into the bag with the others, so I was able to give Madelyn some of the same things in her stocking this year. I don't think she even noticed.
I also include some yummy treats. Last year Madelyn got a baggie full of goldfish crackers, and this year a package of yogurt-covered blueberries. She couldn't eat them though, since she'd already brushed her teeth, so back into the Costco box in the cupboard they went. I gave Gary one of the candy bars that he had bought for himself last week, and a package of Simpsons fruit snacks that have been sitting on a table in my office since the movie was released in July 2007, both of which also went directly back onto the candy shelf.
So currently, the stocking extravaganza is more for the expectation of tradition than practical gifts. One day, when we have more disposable income, I wouldn't mind upgrading our stocking experience from "what-do-we-have-lying-around" to providing a few useful or fun, but inexpensive, items that my family members would actually like. Maybe one day I'll even get creative and reintroduce the stocking poems in our family. But I don't think we'll ever be the family with a GPS or platinum bracelet overflowing from our stockings. I love wrapping presents way too much for that!
What are your fun Stocking traditions?
I've always been of the opinion that every gift should receive the attention and appreciation it deserves. Our family always opened gifts one by one, taking turns, and it is one of my favorite Christmas memories. I loved making signs with each family member's name, and taping them to various seats around the family room before we could divvy up the gifts. Not one box was unwrapped until everyone was sitting in his or her assigned place beside a pile of presents. I enjoyed watching my family members open their gifts almost as much as opening my own. Anticipation is half the fun, after all, so why rush the process? And why put expensive, desirable gifts into a stocking when they could be carefully unwrapped for all to admire?
As a child, our stockings typically contained only three items:
1) An assortment of Christmas goodies. I specifically remember little chocolate-covered marshmallow Santas for some reason.
2) An orange. We were taught that the orange symbolized gratitude for our blessings, because during the Great Depression (or perhaps a war -?-) it was very difficult to acquire a fresh orange, especially during the winter, and so it would have been a very special treat at Christmas.
3) A scroll tied with ribbon. This piece of paper contained a poem, whose rhyming lines provided clues to the whereabouts of our "stocking gift," which was usually the most awesome, or at least too-large-to-wrap, surprise gift. My dad apparently stayed up late typing these poems after we went to bed on Christmas Eve, and reading them was sort of the culmination of our Christmas experience.
As a child, and even now to a lesser degree, I would experience a few moments of melancholy after all the gifts from under the tree were unwrapped, realizing that suddenly Christmas was over. But then I would quickly rejoice upon remembering that our stockings still hung over the fireplace. Not because they were filled with another slew of tiny, meaningless presents, but because there would be an exciting treasure hunt to find that last gift--possibly the one I've been asking for since Halloween!
My new little family tends to keep Holiday spending to a bare minimum. I have only actually stuffed our stockings twice now. Last year my motivation in doing so was mostly to provide the experience for our Japanese exchange student, since my daughter was too young to understand. Filling our stockings remains merely an afterthought as Christmas approaches.
The lack of fanfare surrounding our stockings has inadvertently started a family tradition of our own. I still include the traditionally orange. It comes out of the drawer in the fridge to hang in the toe overnight, then is returned home to the fridge following its moment of glory.
But I also wander around our house on Christmas Eve collecting appropriate items to stuff in our stockings. That's right: things we already own. I have an assortment of cheap little Christmas toys leftover from goodie bags I made for our employees' children one Christmas, so everyone gets a kazoo or a tiny yo-yo with a Santa sticker on it, or a nifty spinning top. Last year, all those dumb little toys went back into the bag with the others, so I was able to give Madelyn some of the same things in her stocking this year. I don't think she even noticed.
I also include some yummy treats. Last year Madelyn got a baggie full of goldfish crackers, and this year a package of yogurt-covered blueberries. She couldn't eat them though, since she'd already brushed her teeth, so back into the Costco box in the cupboard they went. I gave Gary one of the candy bars that he had bought for himself last week, and a package of Simpsons fruit snacks that have been sitting on a table in my office since the movie was released in July 2007, both of which also went directly back onto the candy shelf.
So currently, the stocking extravaganza is more for the expectation of tradition than practical gifts. One day, when we have more disposable income, I wouldn't mind upgrading our stocking experience from "what-do-we-have-lying-around" to providing a few useful or fun, but inexpensive, items that my family members would actually like. Maybe one day I'll even get creative and reintroduce the stocking poems in our family. But I don't think we'll ever be the family with a GPS or platinum bracelet overflowing from our stockings. I love wrapping presents way too much for that!
What are your fun Stocking traditions?
Friday, December 26, 2008
Flashback Friday: Tent Indignities, Part II: The birds and the bees
Continuing a three-part series, the second installment of Tent Indignities begins where we left off last week: nine tweenaged cousins huddled around a battery-operated lantern inside a cavernous surplus tent stifling our laughter with pillows while whispering tawdry tales.
A topic made taboo is one guaranteed to surface in any situation where curious teens are left to talk among themselves. And for a bunch of religious kids trained in abstinence, what do you suppose is the most fascinating, scandalous topic? The Wedding Night.
In my recollection of teenage social structure, one's demonstrated knowledge about sex (whether real or feigned) could directly impact his or her popularity and reputation. At age 9 or 10, I didn't know much, so tended to listen more than talk in situations like these. If it wouldn't have affected my coolness quotient inversely, I probably would have liked a spiral notebook and a pencil to scribble enlightening morsels as quickly as my older cousins could spin them. Where had these cousins acquired their education? Parts from the public school system, parts from older (also chaste) brothers, and probably parts from many hushed exchanges like this one in the tent. Hearsay, rumor, anecdotal gossip--all the makings of good sex education, right?
While the reality of a honeymoon lingered in the very distant future, our clumsy conversation about "doing it" proceeded. A conversation no doubt riddled with speculation. Sprinkled with legend. Suddenly one of my cousins said to her older sister, "I don't think our parents did it on their Honeymoon, because you weren't born until [a date that was mathematically several greater than nine months following their parents' wedding date].
Ah, innocence exposed. I may not have known much about sex at the time, but I am positive I understood that adults join together in intimacy more often than babies are made. What may have been a humiliating experience for my beloved cousin might also have been a great lesson for us all in why it's best to remain obtuse when the subject at hand is not one of your own expertise. Although figuring the mathematical query of wedding vs. birth dates foreshadowed this cousin's future area of expertise: she recently received a Master's Degree in Math Education.
Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion of Tent Indignities next Friday!
A topic made taboo is one guaranteed to surface in any situation where curious teens are left to talk among themselves. And for a bunch of religious kids trained in abstinence, what do you suppose is the most fascinating, scandalous topic? The Wedding Night.
In my recollection of teenage social structure, one's demonstrated knowledge about sex (whether real or feigned) could directly impact his or her popularity and reputation. At age 9 or 10, I didn't know much, so tended to listen more than talk in situations like these. If it wouldn't have affected my coolness quotient inversely, I probably would have liked a spiral notebook and a pencil to scribble enlightening morsels as quickly as my older cousins could spin them. Where had these cousins acquired their education? Parts from the public school system, parts from older (also chaste) brothers, and probably parts from many hushed exchanges like this one in the tent. Hearsay, rumor, anecdotal gossip--all the makings of good sex education, right?
While the reality of a honeymoon lingered in the very distant future, our clumsy conversation about "doing it" proceeded. A conversation no doubt riddled with speculation. Sprinkled with legend. Suddenly one of my cousins said to her older sister, "I don't think our parents did it on their Honeymoon, because you weren't born until [a date that was mathematically several greater than nine months following their parents' wedding date].
Ah, innocence exposed. I may not have known much about sex at the time, but I am positive I understood that adults join together in intimacy more often than babies are made. What may have been a humiliating experience for my beloved cousin might also have been a great lesson for us all in why it's best to remain obtuse when the subject at hand is not one of your own expertise. Although figuring the mathematical query of wedding vs. birth dates foreshadowed this cousin's future area of expertise: she recently received a Master's Degree in Math Education.
Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion of Tent Indignities next Friday!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
All you can eat, and then some
It's Christmas Eve. If there is a better way to celebrate than All-You-Can-Eat, I don't want to know about it. My little family braved the slippery roads (conditions are the worst yet on day 10 of Winter Blast 2008, as the snow is melting into slushy ruts) and journeyed to Izzy's for dinner. It's "pizza, plus a whole lot more," you know!
For generally being regarded as a food snob, I've gained an unexpected affinity for Izzy's. Gary illuminated for me the unique, buttery crunch of their signature thick pizza crust. The salad bar is extensive and fresh. They even have a few dinner entrees which surpass the usual quality of buffet fare. And the buffet concept suits the dining style of a toddler perfectly: "a bite and half of 17 different items, please."
Our Christmas Eve dinner was stupendous. The menu was just fine, I mean it is only a buffet after all, not fine dining. What made this meal so enjoyable was Madelyn's 100% agreeable temperament from beginning to end. She ate and ate and ate, she talked and laughed, she didn't squirm out of her seat or throw a fit when we took something away, she wiped her mouth with her napkin, she wiped her ducky's mouth with her napkin. Are you getting the feel for our Christmas Eve miracle?
Even during the drive home Madelyn was either quiet or cheerful. Being stuck in her carseat often makes Madelyn cranky, and it was nearing her bedtime. About a mile away from home, she started talking up a storm in the backseat. I turned around to visit with her, just in time to see her stick her finger down her throat, gag, then giggle with delight. I think it's common for younger babies to get a kick out of discovering their gag reflex, which Madelyn did a long time ago.
I said, "Madelyn, don't do that, it's icky," then turned back around. I heard her gag again, followed by satisfied laughter. I just shook my head and muttered, "Bulimic baby."
You've probably figured out where this is going. If you're feeling a little slow tonight, I'll give you a hint: my washing machine is full of carseat straps and buckles as we speak.
We arrived home, and when I opened the back door to get Madelyn out of her seat, she lifted her arm and said, "Wet." She didn't have her cup of water to spill, so puzzled, I felt where she was pointing and--wet, indeed. Wet and chunky. At that moment I caught a whiff of regurgitated Izzy's and almost made my own contribution to the mess.
Madelyn has only thrown up one other time, and it was last Christmas day. A bunch of people in my family got very very sick, but Madelyn just puked once and was fine. On both occasions her vomit has smelled rather sweet, which I think is odd. Is it a baby digestive thing? This time, of course, she was not sick at all. She was just purging after the buffet binge.
After picking off a few spaghetti noodles, I stripped Madelyn and put her straight into the bathtub. I was dismayed to find that removing the carseat cover is either impossible or, more likely, very complicated and arduous. Thankfully, the worst of the mess was on the straps, which I was able to unthread and throw in the washer. I just hope I can remember how it all goes back together. Because, you know, I trust my child's life to those 82 inches of nylon.
I'm all about family traditions. But I don't think Christmas Vomit should be one we all go sticking our fingers down our throats to preserve.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Winter wonderland
For the vast majority of my 28+ years of life I have resided in the greater Portland area. Snowfall is a relatively rare occurence here, and when the flakes do appear, they often immediately melt onto the wet pavement. The idea of a white Christmas is generally confined to song, since I can only recall two (one was actually last year, but the snowfall probably measured three eighths of an inch).
If you were to watch any local news this past week (I don't--although special "storm coverage" has pre-empted regularly scheduled programming of Simpsons reruns. Lame!), you might hear intensely uttered phrases such as "Storm of the Century!" and "Winter Blast 2008!" possibly accompanied by thrilling theme music. Unusual weather brings out the best of local news, don't you think?
For no other reason than your viewing pleasure, some interesting photos I have taken over the past several days:
view from our back deck on the first day of snow
rain chain frozen solid with animal tracks in morning snow
amazing icicle formation
husband's afternoon snow angel perfectly covered in a new coat of white (even his little head imprint remains)
the snow level has reached the chair seats (huskies love it, but can the deck hold out?)
maybe the deck will last, but can a K-mart patio set withstand the pressure?
"Winter greetings" with the initial dusting of snow on 12/14
"Let it Snow?" about 18 inches later on 12/23.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Flashback Friday: Tent Indignities, Part I: Hooked on Phonics
Presenting the first installment of a three-part Flashback Friday Series: Tent Indignities. Three stories which all occurred within the same tent at the same campsite, but not necessarily during the same camping trip. I have endured my share of humiliation this week, so these embarrassing stories feature some other characters in my life: beloved cousins.
I have a large, but close, extended family. My maternal grandparents' Christmas card for 2008 boasts a photo of 108 tiny stockings hanging from the mantle, representing themselves, each child, grandchild, spouse, and great-grandchild in the family. I love having a lot of cousins, and while the progression of life and distance have separated many of us from much more than a Christmas-card relationship, I retain fond and hilarious memories of growing up within this big, funny family. The majority of our clan is predisposed to a very sarcastic sense of humor, with an added affinity for fart and toilet comedy. And not just the kids.
For several summers as a pre-teen, most of the family convened for a week-long camping/boating trip at Prineville Reservoir. It seemed that my uncle had some connection there because we always got this particular row of campsites that was boat dock-adjacent and primarily consisted of well-shaded grassy areas (unusual in the Central Oregon desert). Prineville is one of these "camping" resorts with flushing toilets, warm showers, and a convenience store. But it doesn't have a pool, golf course, or day spa, so can still accurately be considered a form of camping. Really, if there is a campfire with s'mores, it's still camping.
After a full day of death-defying tubing behind Uncles Steve and Don's boats, punctuated with breaks for card-playing in the shade to recharge, all of the cousins in my general age group would retire to the same giant tent. I believe it was one of those army surplus tents: a green canvas structure tall enough to stand in and comfortably sleep 12.
I was part of a threesome of girl cousins the same age, we each had an older sister, plus a few cousins from other families comprised nine of us within a 4-year age span. The only two males in this unit are brothers, a few years older than me. Upon arriving at the campground one summer, a novel word began to spring from these boys' lips. Pronounced ree-nob, it was used as a direct insult, in sentences such as, "Shut up, renob!" or "You're such a renob."
Such playful name-calling was a common form of kidding around in my family, so the rest of us girl cousins laughed, while intermittently harassing them for an explanation. They led us on all day without giving in, most likely turning the curious label on those who badgered them about it.
After dark, the tween tent was the place to be. In spite of our parents' best efforts to get us to shut up and go to sleep, we continued telling jokes and being stupid for as long as we could physically remain awake. The primary challenge was to stifle laughter into suppressed snickers without spitting all over everyone. Failure to do so would certainly lead to hysterics muffled by pillows. And that would just invite a flashlight-toting adult to come rapping on the canvas.
Some mighty good s'mores must have loosened the boys up, because one of the older girls finally convinced them to give away the origins of their secret word.
"Just spell it backwards" the older brother said, with an arrogant roll of his eyes.
There was a moment of silence while we all quickly reversed our Hooked on Phonics techniques, followed by a unison groan of disgust. We acted like they we thought they were such childish boys, but obviously were all clandestinely thrilled to be included in such a devious scandal. The revelation was an ideal segue into a new conversation about sex, a topic as mysterious as any for a group of 9- to 13-year-olds (foreshadowing for next week's story).
About as much time had passed since boy cousin explained the definition of renob as it has taken you to read from there to here. At this point one of the girls my age interrupted the new sex conversation by blurting out in utter bewilderment, "Bonner...what's a bonner?"
Confused silence. Then restrained guffaws as not only her pronunciation error was analyzed, but also her delay in reaching the conclusion. And apparently since no one else had spoken up about it, she thought she was the first to figure it out.
Stay tuned for next week's exciting edition of Tent Indignities!
I have a large, but close, extended family. My maternal grandparents' Christmas card for 2008 boasts a photo of 108 tiny stockings hanging from the mantle, representing themselves, each child, grandchild, spouse, and great-grandchild in the family. I love having a lot of cousins, and while the progression of life and distance have separated many of us from much more than a Christmas-card relationship, I retain fond and hilarious memories of growing up within this big, funny family. The majority of our clan is predisposed to a very sarcastic sense of humor, with an added affinity for fart and toilet comedy. And not just the kids.
For several summers as a pre-teen, most of the family convened for a week-long camping/boating trip at Prineville Reservoir. It seemed that my uncle had some connection there because we always got this particular row of campsites that was boat dock-adjacent and primarily consisted of well-shaded grassy areas (unusual in the Central Oregon desert). Prineville is one of these "camping" resorts with flushing toilets, warm showers, and a convenience store. But it doesn't have a pool, golf course, or day spa, so can still accurately be considered a form of camping. Really, if there is a campfire with s'mores, it's still camping.
After a full day of death-defying tubing behind Uncles Steve and Don's boats, punctuated with breaks for card-playing in the shade to recharge, all of the cousins in my general age group would retire to the same giant tent. I believe it was one of those army surplus tents: a green canvas structure tall enough to stand in and comfortably sleep 12.
I was part of a threesome of girl cousins the same age, we each had an older sister, plus a few cousins from other families comprised nine of us within a 4-year age span. The only two males in this unit are brothers, a few years older than me. Upon arriving at the campground one summer, a novel word began to spring from these boys' lips. Pronounced ree-nob, it was used as a direct insult, in sentences such as, "Shut up, renob!" or "You're such a renob."
Such playful name-calling was a common form of kidding around in my family, so the rest of us girl cousins laughed, while intermittently harassing them for an explanation. They led us on all day without giving in, most likely turning the curious label on those who badgered them about it.
After dark, the tween tent was the place to be. In spite of our parents' best efforts to get us to shut up and go to sleep, we continued telling jokes and being stupid for as long as we could physically remain awake. The primary challenge was to stifle laughter into suppressed snickers without spitting all over everyone. Failure to do so would certainly lead to hysterics muffled by pillows. And that would just invite a flashlight-toting adult to come rapping on the canvas.
Some mighty good s'mores must have loosened the boys up, because one of the older girls finally convinced them to give away the origins of their secret word.
"Just spell it backwards" the older brother said, with an arrogant roll of his eyes.
There was a moment of silence while we all quickly reversed our Hooked on Phonics techniques, followed by a unison groan of disgust. We acted like they we thought they were such childish boys, but obviously were all clandestinely thrilled to be included in such a devious scandal. The revelation was an ideal segue into a new conversation about sex, a topic as mysterious as any for a group of 9- to 13-year-olds (foreshadowing for next week's story).
About as much time had passed since boy cousin explained the definition of renob as it has taken you to read from there to here. At this point one of the girls my age interrupted the new sex conversation by blurting out in utter bewilderment, "Bonner...what's a bonner?"
Confused silence. Then restrained guffaws as not only her pronunciation error was analyzed, but also her delay in reaching the conclusion. And apparently since no one else had spoken up about it, she thought she was the first to figure it out.
Stay tuned for next week's exciting edition of Tent Indignities!
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