Titanic Take 2

The film Titanic is being released in 3D for the 100th anniversary of the ship's sinking.

And I have to ask... why? I want to know. I'm not saying it was a bad movie. It was perfectly good, I enjoyed it, and there is the matter of an award or two. It was worth watching for the costumes alone and you can't deny the effects were amazing. Plus half the population are suckers for a love story between a I'm-posh-but-it's-not-my-fault girl and the "wanna go to a real party?" boy.

There were some seriously cheesy lines though. Remember, "Where to, miss?" "To the stars!" and "You jump, I jump, remember?" And that hand sliding down the window was FUNNY.

"Oooh I so dig your hot, sweaty palm.  So slippery..."

Then of course there is Celine Dion and "My Heart Will Go On."  And so will that song.  It goes on.  And on.  And on.  And on. Is it about to finish? No... it still goes on. And on.

But the story of the Titanic is fascinating. It's a combination of historical significance, the insanity of a rigid class system and the superiority of mother nature against the best that can be built.

And let's not forget good old-fashioned morbid curiosity.

I saw it at the cinema when it was first released. When it was over, my friend and I both felt uncomfortable that we had essentially paid good money to watch a re-enactment of the death of over a thousand people.

And that's why the release of a 3D version has me baffled. What, the drownings weren't vivid enough? The sheer terror looked a bit too "flat screen" for some people? Never mind those that didn't see it first time around, that's fair enough, but who would go to see it again in 3D? Would you? I'm curious. It's not as though we read about mass slaughter in the newspaper, and then sit back and try to imagine exactly what it looked like.

Having said that, I don't think the Titanic movie crosses any kind of line. But I've come across something that does. There is a new Titanic activity book for children. It includes, and I am not kidding, a dot-to-dot picture of a man drowning.   I hate to admit it, but I laughed when I heard about this.  It just seems so, well, wrong. Imagine the current atrocities the kiddies of the future can draw with dot-to-dot. It's just a bit ick, isn't it?

Having said all this, I can now think of one excellent reason to watch Titanic in 3D: Billy Zane.

Will you be watching it in 3D?



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Happy

Looking at the search results for this blog, it would seem there is a confidence crisis among those of us in our 30s.

On most days, I can see that people are doing internet searches for things like:

"In my 30s don't know what to do"
"No confidence in my 30s"
"Mid 30s need expert help"
(As well as things like today's "Nude girls in chaps" and "my fanny smells of wee."  Really??  Really???)

I'm not saying that the search results of one blog are enough to make such a big statement. But it is fair to say that there are countless people who are finding their mid 30s lives are not what they were expecting. Relationship problems, loneliness, health issues, financial woes... these take their toll.

I feel a bit bad for anyone who comes to this site looking for answers or depression help. I can tell you about swimsuit shopping and how crap it is. You can read me rejoice at having someone come and clean my house. I will happily make an arse of myself posing like a model. But if it's reassurance, help or advice you are after, I'm not sure there is much I can offer.

I do know that you can decide to be positive, and that makes a difference. That will seem offhand and glib if you are in the throws of real problems. But there is so much to be said for being positive. This includes surrounding yourself with positive people. There is little point in you always looking on the bright side, only to spend quality time with someone who does not.

When we first moved to the UK, I met someone who had also moved here for her husband's work. We confessed to each other that when the opportunity came, neither of us was keen to make such a big move. What she said next blew my socks off. "I don't want to be here, and I make sure my husband knows that every day."

Well, gee. A woman hell-bent on being unhappy, and a husband who I'm certain will be seeking happiness elsewhere. Excellent. On paper we should have become friends since we were in the same situation. But even though I was desperate to make friends having just moved, she was not a good match for me.

When I started writing this, I wasn't expecting to sound like a self-help book so I'm sorry about that. Especially if you actually like self-help books.

Anyway, let's remember how far a bit of positivity can go. If you are going through a rough patch, I hope it is temporary and you see the sun soon.

I'm supporting the Netmums United Kindness Campaign - such a great idea! And no, my part of the vlog was not all dark and husky on purpose. Honest.



Sponsored post.


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Thighs and A Sweaty Yoga Class

So, my husband just caught me reading about Russell Crowe's thighs on the Daily Mail website. I don't know what I was thinking. I really do like Our Russ but I don't go around dreaming of the man's legs. Of course I blamed the blog. "Oh, I was just reading up on something for the blog. Your legs are looking very manly, by the way."

"You should see my thighs!  You should see my thighs!"

This means I now have to write about Russell Crowe's thighs. Excellent. Well, they are big. Apparently he does 100 squats at a time. If I could manage more than ten squats at one time I would want more than just toned thighs to show for it. I'd expect my thighs to have magical, superhero properties; they should propel me through the sky, enable me to see the future and grant three wishes to anyone who doesn't piss me off. Magical thighs. Now there's a thought.

That's really all I have to say about Rusty's thighs. So I will see if I can manage a smooth segue into the topic I was initially aiming to write about: bikram yoga. Here is the transition.... squats, of which Mr Crowe can do many, are about as pleasant as bikram yoga.

Ta-da!

I have done yoga off and on since I was 12 years old. That does imply a certain level of ability doesn't it, although sadly that is misleading. But I have been meaning to try bikram yoga for a few years, and when a local practice (yoga place? yoga house? place where they do yoga?) had a cheap introductory offer, I bought a voucher for 10 classes.

If you don't have a clue what I'm on about, bikram yoga is yoga done in a hot and humid room. I've met countless people who swear by it. I love steam rooms and saunas and I love yoga - surely a marriage of the two would be my Next Big Thing? Sign me up!

So I went along. I got there nice and early, so lay myself quietly on the floor. I focused on my breathing - which really is just in and out but for some reason we love to complicate this - while waiting for the class to start. Then I began to feel uncomfortable. And slightly panicked. I wanted to leave. I had been in the room for twenty minutes and the class hadn't even started yet. That was a mistake. If you are about to do a bikram yoga class for the first time, take it from me, only go into the room as the class is about to start. Being in that room any longer than the 90 minutes is as pleasant as doing more than ten squats.

The class started. I tried not to faint and instead concentrated on the actual yoga. But it was so hot and sticky, and with all that audible exhaling I swear everyone's stale breath was making a bee-line straight for me. Blurgh. The men were all topless and their sweat was literally dripping onto the floor, forming growing stinky puddles. There was a woman wearing a strapless string bikini. Ever exercised in a strapless string bikini? String bikinis are not my friend, but should I ever wear one, I shall not be lifting my leg for those around me to get an eyeful of sweaty crotch. Not a good look. Having said that, she had an amazing body so if that's what bikram yoga does then OMG.

Anyway, the class went for 90 minutes and I spent the entire time fighting off a panic attack. I was convinced I was going to pass out or explode. I made it to the end of the class, I'm still here, and for some reason I plan to go back. You see, whenever I tell someone I tried bikram yoga they squeal and go "Isn't the first class horrible!! But make sure you go back!"

I can see its potential so I'll let you know how it goes. In the meantime I am drinking a shitload** of water in preparation.

**A "shitload" is the standard unit of measurement in Australia.



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The Things We Do

Once your children start school, it is expected that you can just whip up a costume at the drop of a hat. Personally, I'd like at least six months' notice. Then I can spend four months complaining about it, one month thinking about it and one month actually trying to make something.

Although my son's first Christmas concert was over a year ago, I haven't forgiven myself for the half-arsed effort he had to wear. Watching the little darlings singing their hearts out on stage, you would think making a star costume would be a cinch. Those children looked very much like stars.

Except for one. My son.

Gee.  Thanks for the great costume Mum.  

He was looking miserable and not at all like a star. He was holding what looked like a paper cutout of a small explosion. The intention, I'll have you know, was to have a large, sparkly cardboard star attached to his front.

I thought it would be easy. I drew a star on some cardboard and started cutting it out. Except it wasn't looking much like a star. So I cut some more. See where I am going with this? Have you ever cut hair, with no idea what you were doing? And did that person's hair end up waaaaaaay shorter than was intended? That's what happened to my star. It was now the size of a large envelope and looked like a cartoon "bang!"

When I picked the star up, the glitter I had pasted onto it all slid off. I stuck some bits of foil on instead. The result was questionable, but this being all very last minute, there was no chance of a re-make. This was it. Nice one Mummy.

So for costume day on Friday, things were going to be different. You'd think that it being Book Week they'd have to dress up as a book character, but no. They had the choice of dressing up as a country or an animal. Predictably, my son would only go as a dinosaur.

So this very uncreative mother with no sewing ability had to fashion a dinosaur costume. Excellent.

Tail first. We rolled up pieces of newspaper and I squished them into an old stocking. I though that was pretty effective, isn't that what they used to wear on Play School? My son thought it was "cool but too swishy." No problem. I threaded a straighened coat-hanger through it. Since this could now take someone's eye out, I stuck a cork on either end of the wire and added more padding. Then I wrapped it up in black garbage bag plastic and voila! A tail! I also made him some horns out of an egg carton and elastic. I was rather pleased with myself. Perhaps I'd be discovered and the next Mr Maker? Or Mrs Maker? (Without the loud waistcoat, obviously.)

"But what about the spikes down my back?"

Ah.

So we drew all over some paper plates and I attached them to a top I had made from a garbage bag. He now had spikes running down his back and tail, with a "Super Dino" sign that he had made stuck on the front.

In my head it was going to be very simple. I wasn't expecting to get everything all tangled up, to cut holes in wrong places and to get glue all through my hair. But at last it was done, and I showed my son.

He looked crushed. "Am I going dressed as a garbage bag?"

"Noooooo!! No no no, let's put it on for the full effect... see, this arm goes... hang on, where does that arm go...? I did put an arm hole somewhere..."

At last he was wearing it and was thrilled. Result!

The big day arrived. In the rush we left his horns at home, his costume was all lopsided and who knows what those paper plates were up to. His was certainly the most... ummm... "homemade" costume there.

He loved it and that was reward enough for me. But then he won Best Costume. Is it normal for a mother to be so excited their son's costume won an award? I was patting myself on the back when I discovered the teachers thought it was fantastic that he made it "entirely by himself." That sums up my costume-making talent - it looks like it was made by a 5 year old.

But I think I can put that star costume behind me now.




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