I have never been to the University of Michigan. I don’t know anyone – with the exception of the daughter (whom I have never met) of a friend I rarely see – who attended the University of Michigan. I’ve never even been to the state of Michigan. So why am I so attached to my old, blue University of Michigan sweatshirt?
It started in 1967. That summer I went looking at colleges. No, I didn’t go to Michigan or even consider it. But we did take a family trip to Massachusetts, where I looked at several colleges, including the University of Massachusetts. I bought the requisite sweatshirt, put in an application – and was rejected. Apparently, I bore no grudge, because I wore that UMass sweatshirt until – and beyond when – it was threadbare, sleeping in it for years. It was comfy and I felt cozy wearing it. Finally, deterioration set in, and I cycled in a different sweatshirt – my New York Yankee sweatshirt– for nocturnal duty. My BFF had bought that one for me and I loved it. Loved it so much, in fact, that I asked for another one – same brand, please – as an eventual replacement when the armholes ripped, the collar portion frayed and it was impossible to wash without risk of complete deterioration in the washing machine. I didn’t care about the affiliation. Hence the arrival of the University of Michigan sweatshirt.
That’s right, in 40+ years, I have nursed three – count ‘em, three – sweatshirts through countless washes in many washing machines as I have slept in them (the shirts, not the washing machines). First they see the light of day, but eventually they are turned into nighttime apparel, you see. I like a loyal garment, one that has stuck with me through thick and thin – and I’ve been both, believe me. (Let me clarify for those of you wondering that I do, in fact, wear other garments to bed. The sweatshirts are my favorites for late fall and winter only, since they are too hot to wear when the temperature is high. Now, don’t you feel better knowing that?)
You shouldn’t make fun of me. You undoubtedly have worn something that caused your significant other to roll his/her eyes and perhaps even say, “You’re not wearing THAT again, are you?” I know many people who have old, old clothing in their closets, clothing that the Salvation Army would reject. Maybe they just wear these items and don’t talk about them (and I can kind of see why). My favorite sister had an old bathrobe that was so thin and ratty that my mother and I kidnapped it one day and threw it out. She eventually got over it – or at least I think so.
I have been to J.C. Penney’s, where it was purchased, to try to find a shirt similar to the University of Michigan shirt, but to no avail. I got a new blue University of Massachusetts sweatshirt as a gift from a friend a few years ago, but it is not the same. I’ve worn it, but never to bed. I’m trying to keep life in the old University of Michigan model, treating it gingerly, taking it off gently, never pulling the area around the neck. I put it only briefly in the dryer, trying to preserve its structural integrity.
So what will I do when this one wears out?
A few years ago, friend Carol B. gave me a sweater/sweatshirt unlike anything already in my closet. It is gray, with a Henley style neck, and it says “Jersey Girl” on the front. It is thick and soft, and it looks more sweater than sweatshirt, but it isn’t itchy inside. Already, I consider it my comfort item, donning it for daytime wear at the first sign of frost and feeling all warm and cozy in it. After wearing it during the day, I might just sleep in it that night. I think it is safe to deem it the replacement shirt, as Jersey Girl eventually takes over the role of Michigan in my nighttime wardrobe. (I liked the shirt so much that Carol bought me a second one, this time in a teal color. But the fabric wasn’t the same and, though I wear it during the day, I don’t see it assuming a place in my nighttime attire.)
But when Jersey Girl wears out? Well, judging by the longevity of my sweatshirts, I might be all worn out myself by then.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
It's a Doozy - February, 2010
I once heard the renowned scientific researcher Dr. Paul Janssen say, “If a cold goes untreated, it lasts for two weeks. If you take medication, it will be gone in 14 days.”
I’m right there with you, Dr. J.
I am in the throes of what another esteemed medical expert, the late, great Sylvia Gordon, would have categorized officially as “a doozy.” She used to say, “When you get a cold, it is a doozy,” and she was right. There would be tissues all over the place, running nose, tearing eyes, sneezing, coughing, wheezing – and a yen for a Bumble Bee Tuna Fish sandwich that only she could satisfy. Where’s that Dugan man with the white bread?
It started last week with a very sore throat, which I tried to medicate with hot tea, spiced hot chocolate and plenty of orange juice. Dr. Mom, otherwise referred to as my sister, assured me it would be a full-fledged cold by the next day. I hate to admit it, but she was right. (Of course, she also correctly diagnosed my plantar fasciitis AND recommended I get a second opinion – from her foot doctor.) By yesterday the cold was full-blown, and so was my nose after sneezing at least 50 times. I have already dipped into the back-up boxes of tissues (I am as prepared as a Girl Scout) and have taken inventory of the medicine cabinet as I ingest Corricidin, Contact, ColdEeze (pills and lozenges), nasal spray and Mucinex – though, I promise, not all at once.
This is the kind of cold that makes people feel bad for you – and avoid you. One of the big advantages of retirement is that I don‘t have to decide whether to take my snotty body to work and risk feeling worse and infecting everyone else. I can stay home and blow, sniff, cough and make disgusting noises to my heart’s content.
Once I was at a big meeting, where I was new to the group. I knew I was in trouble when I blew my nose and sneezed throughout the 90-minute ride to the meeting site (luckily, I was driving alone and had strategically placed a garbage bag on the gear shift for easy discarding of the tissues I was using in mass quantity). Though I sounded nasal, I tried not to speak (and you can only imagine how torturous that must have been for me) or blow my nose. When the session ended, I retreated to my room and proceeded to blow my nose for 30 minutes straight. I could feel it in my toes. (My mother would have inquired, "Do you have a factory going up there?") When I emerged to go to the dinner, it looked like I had either gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson or had just lost the love of my life. In either case, people really tried to avoid me, and I couldn’t blame them. I do, however, blame the lack of oxygen getting to my brain that day for a lot of things that have happened since.
Last night I was enjoying some drug-induced sleep when I was awakened by some strange noise. Oh, that’s just me, wheezing, I realized. I blew, coughed, changed positions – and stayed awake for the next two hours, just trying to breathe. I am not yet ready to see the doctor, since I have, in the past, gone too soon, when the bronchial tubes weren’t quite filled up enough to call it bronchitis. Yet by the next day, the cough coming from my body seemed to emanate from the ground floor. I am hoping to stay in the head cold range and miss the bronchitis or pneumonia that can result, and I promise to call the doctor if anything seems to be getting worse. I am going to the gynecologist tomorrow, but I don’t think that will help.
I’m trying to fend off the worst of the symptoms by maintaining an orange diet. I am consuming tea, butternut squash soup, orange juice and oranges. I may emerge from this bout looking like I went to the tanning salon.
Meanwhile, I am fully stocked with drugs, tissues, food, movies and TV shows to watch. And, as I could have predicted, I am having a great hair day!
Don't worry, because I should be fine in another two weeks – or 14 days, at worst.
I’m right there with you, Dr. J.
I am in the throes of what another esteemed medical expert, the late, great Sylvia Gordon, would have categorized officially as “a doozy.” She used to say, “When you get a cold, it is a doozy,” and she was right. There would be tissues all over the place, running nose, tearing eyes, sneezing, coughing, wheezing – and a yen for a Bumble Bee Tuna Fish sandwich that only she could satisfy. Where’s that Dugan man with the white bread?
It started last week with a very sore throat, which I tried to medicate with hot tea, spiced hot chocolate and plenty of orange juice. Dr. Mom, otherwise referred to as my sister, assured me it would be a full-fledged cold by the next day. I hate to admit it, but she was right. (Of course, she also correctly diagnosed my plantar fasciitis AND recommended I get a second opinion – from her foot doctor.) By yesterday the cold was full-blown, and so was my nose after sneezing at least 50 times. I have already dipped into the back-up boxes of tissues (I am as prepared as a Girl Scout) and have taken inventory of the medicine cabinet as I ingest Corricidin, Contact, ColdEeze (pills and lozenges), nasal spray and Mucinex – though, I promise, not all at once.
This is the kind of cold that makes people feel bad for you – and avoid you. One of the big advantages of retirement is that I don‘t have to decide whether to take my snotty body to work and risk feeling worse and infecting everyone else. I can stay home and blow, sniff, cough and make disgusting noises to my heart’s content.
Once I was at a big meeting, where I was new to the group. I knew I was in trouble when I blew my nose and sneezed throughout the 90-minute ride to the meeting site (luckily, I was driving alone and had strategically placed a garbage bag on the gear shift for easy discarding of the tissues I was using in mass quantity). Though I sounded nasal, I tried not to speak (and you can only imagine how torturous that must have been for me) or blow my nose. When the session ended, I retreated to my room and proceeded to blow my nose for 30 minutes straight. I could feel it in my toes. (My mother would have inquired, "Do you have a factory going up there?") When I emerged to go to the dinner, it looked like I had either gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson or had just lost the love of my life. In either case, people really tried to avoid me, and I couldn’t blame them. I do, however, blame the lack of oxygen getting to my brain that day for a lot of things that have happened since.
Last night I was enjoying some drug-induced sleep when I was awakened by some strange noise. Oh, that’s just me, wheezing, I realized. I blew, coughed, changed positions – and stayed awake for the next two hours, just trying to breathe. I am not yet ready to see the doctor, since I have, in the past, gone too soon, when the bronchial tubes weren’t quite filled up enough to call it bronchitis. Yet by the next day, the cough coming from my body seemed to emanate from the ground floor. I am hoping to stay in the head cold range and miss the bronchitis or pneumonia that can result, and I promise to call the doctor if anything seems to be getting worse. I am going to the gynecologist tomorrow, but I don’t think that will help.
I’m trying to fend off the worst of the symptoms by maintaining an orange diet. I am consuming tea, butternut squash soup, orange juice and oranges. I may emerge from this bout looking like I went to the tanning salon.
Meanwhile, I am fully stocked with drugs, tissues, food, movies and TV shows to watch. And, as I could have predicted, I am having a great hair day!
Don't worry, because I should be fine in another two weeks – or 14 days, at worst.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
I Hate Winter - February 2010
I gaze out the window upon a blanket of white, the trees laden with fresh, clean snow, as I am ensconced safely in the house and I think:
I HATE WINTER.
I really can’t see any advantage to the cold, dreary days of winter, days when we are virtually trapped in the house, hunkered down and fortifying ourselves as if we were hibernating bears. I am grateful that I don’t have to torture myself with the decision of whether to go to work and that I don’t have to deal with snow days or delayed openings, with school buses and idiot drivers, with roads that normally seem flat but which in winter reveal their true incline is enough to make my car struggle to climb them. But regardless of the fact I deal with winter less than the average bear, I still hate winter.
I don’t ski, so the amount of snowfall is meaningless to me (as is the wind-chill factor; let’s face it, if it is that cold, I am NOT leaving the house). The idea of encasing my body in a tight-as-a-sausage-casing ski suit is as unappealing to me as hurtling down a mountain on thin pieces of fiberglass while my face or any portion of my body is exposed to frigid air and possible fractures. Snow means cold to me and ice, and ice means someone will fall and break something. I only hope it is not me.
Sure, the snow might look pretty, but with my street and driveway unplowed, I can’t get out to get any pictures anyway. The other day we had the perfect snow. The trees were covered and begging to be photographed, yet the street was down to blacktop, which is always my goal when it snows. Yet I knew that by the time I returned from aqua aerobics, the snow would have disappeared, no longer offering up a photo opportunity, and I was right. Maybe this snow, an amount significant enough to last for a few days, will be the one I capture with my camera. But not if I have to go tramping though the snow to take a picture. My face all red and my nose running from the cold is NOT my best look.
I know to be prepared, so the day before the predicted snow I trooped off to pick up a few supplies at the supermarket in town where the crazy people don’t go. Why is it that when snow is in the forecast, people storm ShopRite and strip it of every gallon of milk, loaf of bread, carton of eggs and even 24-packs of water? Are these people planning to be snowbound until June? I’ll admit that I did buy some extra orange juice for my sore throat and some toilet paper (my sister, skeptical of my purchase, asked with just a tinge of sarcasm, “Were you down to your last 12 rolls?”), but I really went to get the ingredients to make soup. What better way to fortify myself for a day of watching out the window as the plows go down my street and driveway than to have a nice hot bowl of soup, I ask.
Recently I was in the Washington, DC, area where I watched the news the night before a predicted storm. You would have thought from the amount of coverage – breaking news and a special logo to brand the storm – that this “snow event” was about to be deemed “the storm of the century.” Reporters interviewed the plow operators and the emergency personnel, all of whom confidently declared, “We are ready,” as pictures of piles of salt and sand standing by calmed the worried public. Personally, I think TV uses the same picture of salt and sand and trucks standing by every year. How could we tell last year’s pile of salt and sand from this year’s pile? Anyway, so the emergency staff was ready and raring to go. Only the next day, as I trudged through the unplowed snow on the interstate to get to the basketball game I had come to the area to see, not a plow or salt spreader had graced the highway. Where were all of these people who had assured me they were ready? On the way home, as I battled the elements again, I saw several of them, parked under an overpass so as to avoid the slick conditions they were supposed to alleviate. Ready? For what, a TV interview? Because they sure weren’t out there removing snow.
I hate driving in snow. My Mercedes doesn’t like it either, as she reminds me by skidding to a halt at every stop sign or red light. So I take the convertible out instead, which strikes me as a bit ludicrous since I am hardly about to put down the top when the temperature is below freezing. Not only do I have to worry about stopping my own car, I have to worry about the idiot drivers who make no concessions to the conditions and barrel down the streets and highways without leaving an appropriate distance (is a half a block enough?) between their front end and my rear end. Yes, snow is a pain in the butt in every possible sense.
Eventually the snow will melt, leaving the streets slushy and the roads messy and the cars in front of me spitting crud onto my windshield. We will all drive around in filthy cars with limited vision through our streaked windshields and only the car wash will rejoice in the aftermath of the “snow event” for a few days.
Personally, I can’t wait until I see the plywood come off the windows of the ice cream place on Hamilton Street. Though I lived within five miles of that place or passed it on my way home for about 30 years, I think I actually stopped there for ice cream only twice in my life. I say forget about that stupid groundhog. The sure sign that winter is over is when the plywood comes off the windows and the “OPEN” sign is lit at the ice cream place. Not that I eat ice cream until Memorial Day (my personal rule is no ice cream in the winter, no soup in the summer), but I know that winter is over when ice cream becomes more news than ice. When that happens, can spring be far behind?
Until then, let me reiterate: I hate winter.
I HATE WINTER.
I really can’t see any advantage to the cold, dreary days of winter, days when we are virtually trapped in the house, hunkered down and fortifying ourselves as if we were hibernating bears. I am grateful that I don’t have to torture myself with the decision of whether to go to work and that I don’t have to deal with snow days or delayed openings, with school buses and idiot drivers, with roads that normally seem flat but which in winter reveal their true incline is enough to make my car struggle to climb them. But regardless of the fact I deal with winter less than the average bear, I still hate winter.
I don’t ski, so the amount of snowfall is meaningless to me (as is the wind-chill factor; let’s face it, if it is that cold, I am NOT leaving the house). The idea of encasing my body in a tight-as-a-sausage-casing ski suit is as unappealing to me as hurtling down a mountain on thin pieces of fiberglass while my face or any portion of my body is exposed to frigid air and possible fractures. Snow means cold to me and ice, and ice means someone will fall and break something. I only hope it is not me.
Sure, the snow might look pretty, but with my street and driveway unplowed, I can’t get out to get any pictures anyway. The other day we had the perfect snow. The trees were covered and begging to be photographed, yet the street was down to blacktop, which is always my goal when it snows. Yet I knew that by the time I returned from aqua aerobics, the snow would have disappeared, no longer offering up a photo opportunity, and I was right. Maybe this snow, an amount significant enough to last for a few days, will be the one I capture with my camera. But not if I have to go tramping though the snow to take a picture. My face all red and my nose running from the cold is NOT my best look.
I know to be prepared, so the day before the predicted snow I trooped off to pick up a few supplies at the supermarket in town where the crazy people don’t go. Why is it that when snow is in the forecast, people storm ShopRite and strip it of every gallon of milk, loaf of bread, carton of eggs and even 24-packs of water? Are these people planning to be snowbound until June? I’ll admit that I did buy some extra orange juice for my sore throat and some toilet paper (my sister, skeptical of my purchase, asked with just a tinge of sarcasm, “Were you down to your last 12 rolls?”), but I really went to get the ingredients to make soup. What better way to fortify myself for a day of watching out the window as the plows go down my street and driveway than to have a nice hot bowl of soup, I ask.
Recently I was in the Washington, DC, area where I watched the news the night before a predicted storm. You would have thought from the amount of coverage – breaking news and a special logo to brand the storm – that this “snow event” was about to be deemed “the storm of the century.” Reporters interviewed the plow operators and the emergency personnel, all of whom confidently declared, “We are ready,” as pictures of piles of salt and sand standing by calmed the worried public. Personally, I think TV uses the same picture of salt and sand and trucks standing by every year. How could we tell last year’s pile of salt and sand from this year’s pile? Anyway, so the emergency staff was ready and raring to go. Only the next day, as I trudged through the unplowed snow on the interstate to get to the basketball game I had come to the area to see, not a plow or salt spreader had graced the highway. Where were all of these people who had assured me they were ready? On the way home, as I battled the elements again, I saw several of them, parked under an overpass so as to avoid the slick conditions they were supposed to alleviate. Ready? For what, a TV interview? Because they sure weren’t out there removing snow.
I hate driving in snow. My Mercedes doesn’t like it either, as she reminds me by skidding to a halt at every stop sign or red light. So I take the convertible out instead, which strikes me as a bit ludicrous since I am hardly about to put down the top when the temperature is below freezing. Not only do I have to worry about stopping my own car, I have to worry about the idiot drivers who make no concessions to the conditions and barrel down the streets and highways without leaving an appropriate distance (is a half a block enough?) between their front end and my rear end. Yes, snow is a pain in the butt in every possible sense.
Eventually the snow will melt, leaving the streets slushy and the roads messy and the cars in front of me spitting crud onto my windshield. We will all drive around in filthy cars with limited vision through our streaked windshields and only the car wash will rejoice in the aftermath of the “snow event” for a few days.
Personally, I can’t wait until I see the plywood come off the windows of the ice cream place on Hamilton Street. Though I lived within five miles of that place or passed it on my way home for about 30 years, I think I actually stopped there for ice cream only twice in my life. I say forget about that stupid groundhog. The sure sign that winter is over is when the plywood comes off the windows and the “OPEN” sign is lit at the ice cream place. Not that I eat ice cream until Memorial Day (my personal rule is no ice cream in the winter, no soup in the summer), but I know that winter is over when ice cream becomes more news than ice. When that happens, can spring be far behind?
Until then, let me reiterate: I hate winter.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
2010 Movie List - January
I thought I would keep this list updated monthly this year for those interested in what I am doing in my spare time. And so I wouldn't forget by December what I watched in January, I decided to write a brief review of each movie and rate it on a scale of 1-5 cans of tuna. As a matter of reference, my 5 star movies include "The Graduate," "Shawshank Redemption," "The Godfather," and "Animal House," just for starters. I just love the movies! Here's what I have seen so far this year.
MOVIE LIST 2010
January
1. It’s Complicated (with Nancy @ Hillsborough) – As my favorite sister always says, “Meryl never disappoints.” Alec Baldwin was great, too. Very funny movie with perfect references for the over-50 crowd. Loved it. 4½ tuna cans
2. The Bridges of Madison County (TV) – It’s my personal Meryl Streep film festival with this classic romance between Italian-accented Meryl and Clint Eastwood. Nothing like a good cry to start the new year. When she has her hand on the door handle of the car, I always think, “Go!” but the ending is always the same. Love this movie. 4½ tuna cans
3. Cinema Paradiso (Ovation TV – too many commercials) – This movie is charming enough to let me enjoy it despite having to read subtitles. The music is soaring and magnificent, the story heart-warming and the whole experience reminds me of going to the Cort Theater as a kid. It makes me think of dear friend Katherine, too. 4½ cans.
4. Four Weddings and a Funeral (TCM) – Hugh Grant at his befuddled, mumbling best, before his act and his unruly hair grew repetitive. 3 tuna cans.
5. Charlie Wilson’s War (HBO) – A preachy political story about an undistinguished Congressman (Tom Hanks), pushed by a rich constituent (Julia Roberts) to secure Congressional dollars to support the Afghan troops against the Soviets in the 1980s. Typical Aaron Sorkin dialogue – too glib and sometimes unintelligible – and too much politics for my taste. 2 tuna cans.
6. While You Were Sleeping (TV) – Why does Sandra Bullock play parts that call for her to feel she is unattractive and undesirable? She is charming in this cute comedy about a woman with a secret crush on a man she doesn’t know but ultimately saves from an oncoming train. Then she proceeds to fall in love with his family, who thinks she is his intended. Cute, fun and Sandra Bullock. 3 cans.
7. Annie Hall (TCM) – Woody Allen and Diane Keaton at their la-di-dah best. Though I know every line from this movie, it still makes me smile. 4½ cans.
8. The Soloist (HBO) – Anything about mental illness is off-putting, and this movie is no exception. More about the character played by Robert Downey Jr. than the actual musician, it is also an indictment of a society where 90,000 people in one city are homeless and helpless. Not really my kind of movie, so it gets just 2½ tuna cans.
9. East of Eden (TCM) – The classic Cain & Abel story with a very young (but surprisingly modern-looking) James Dean is about sibling rivalry and parental approval. Dean is good playing bad, but sometimes he looked like Frank Gorshen playing James Dean. Also starring a very young Julie Harris as a love interest. 3.5 cans.
10. Miracle in the Rain (TCM) – Classic four-hanky tearjerker starring a plain Jane Wyman and exuberant Van Johnson in a boy meets girl, they fall in love and he goes off to war. These things can never end well, unless you are looking for a good cry. First time on TCM and first time I have seen this movie in at least 20 years. 4 cans.
11. The Heiress (TCM) – Truly a classic. Olivia de Haviland transforms from a shy, mousey girl to a strong woman after falling in love with and being deserted by Montgomery Clift. But the real change agent is her unloving father, played by Ralph Richardson. I never get tired of that last scene. 4½ cans.
12. Howard’s End (TV) – My first time seeing this Emma Thompson-Anthony Hopkins tale of two sisters getting their lives entangled with a poor clerk and a rich businessman. Interesting to see them argue, which seems rare for a British movie of that period. Glad she got the house in the end, because that’s what her friend, Vanessa Redgrave, had intended years before. I liked “Remains of the Day” with Thompson and Hopkins much better, but this one gets 3½ cans.
13. My Sister’s Keeper (Blockbuster rental) – Interesting bioethical dilemma about raising a child for her genetic similarities to her fatally ill sister. Cameron Diaz was excellent in a serious role and Abigail Breslin is a wonderful young actress. A bit gut-wrenching to take, but with a thought-provoking premise. 3½ cans.
14. Sunshine Cleaning (Blockbuster Rental) – Two down-on their luck sisters (the normally perky Amy Adams, risking overexposure, and a mainly dour Emily Blunt) start a service cleaning up trauma sites. Alan Arkin is their equally down-on-his-luck father. Grime story? 3½ cans.
MOVIE LIST 2010
January
1. It’s Complicated (with Nancy @ Hillsborough) – As my favorite sister always says, “Meryl never disappoints.” Alec Baldwin was great, too. Very funny movie with perfect references for the over-50 crowd. Loved it. 4½ tuna cans
2. The Bridges of Madison County (TV) – It’s my personal Meryl Streep film festival with this classic romance between Italian-accented Meryl and Clint Eastwood. Nothing like a good cry to start the new year. When she has her hand on the door handle of the car, I always think, “Go!” but the ending is always the same. Love this movie. 4½ tuna cans
3. Cinema Paradiso (Ovation TV – too many commercials) – This movie is charming enough to let me enjoy it despite having to read subtitles. The music is soaring and magnificent, the story heart-warming and the whole experience reminds me of going to the Cort Theater as a kid. It makes me think of dear friend Katherine, too. 4½ cans.
4. Four Weddings and a Funeral (TCM) – Hugh Grant at his befuddled, mumbling best, before his act and his unruly hair grew repetitive. 3 tuna cans.
5. Charlie Wilson’s War (HBO) – A preachy political story about an undistinguished Congressman (Tom Hanks), pushed by a rich constituent (Julia Roberts) to secure Congressional dollars to support the Afghan troops against the Soviets in the 1980s. Typical Aaron Sorkin dialogue – too glib and sometimes unintelligible – and too much politics for my taste. 2 tuna cans.
6. While You Were Sleeping (TV) – Why does Sandra Bullock play parts that call for her to feel she is unattractive and undesirable? She is charming in this cute comedy about a woman with a secret crush on a man she doesn’t know but ultimately saves from an oncoming train. Then she proceeds to fall in love with his family, who thinks she is his intended. Cute, fun and Sandra Bullock. 3 cans.
7. Annie Hall (TCM) – Woody Allen and Diane Keaton at their la-di-dah best. Though I know every line from this movie, it still makes me smile. 4½ cans.
8. The Soloist (HBO) – Anything about mental illness is off-putting, and this movie is no exception. More about the character played by Robert Downey Jr. than the actual musician, it is also an indictment of a society where 90,000 people in one city are homeless and helpless. Not really my kind of movie, so it gets just 2½ tuna cans.
9. East of Eden (TCM) – The classic Cain & Abel story with a very young (but surprisingly modern-looking) James Dean is about sibling rivalry and parental approval. Dean is good playing bad, but sometimes he looked like Frank Gorshen playing James Dean. Also starring a very young Julie Harris as a love interest. 3.5 cans.
10. Miracle in the Rain (TCM) – Classic four-hanky tearjerker starring a plain Jane Wyman and exuberant Van Johnson in a boy meets girl, they fall in love and he goes off to war. These things can never end well, unless you are looking for a good cry. First time on TCM and first time I have seen this movie in at least 20 years. 4 cans.
11. The Heiress (TCM) – Truly a classic. Olivia de Haviland transforms from a shy, mousey girl to a strong woman after falling in love with and being deserted by Montgomery Clift. But the real change agent is her unloving father, played by Ralph Richardson. I never get tired of that last scene. 4½ cans.
12. Howard’s End (TV) – My first time seeing this Emma Thompson-Anthony Hopkins tale of two sisters getting their lives entangled with a poor clerk and a rich businessman. Interesting to see them argue, which seems rare for a British movie of that period. Glad she got the house in the end, because that’s what her friend, Vanessa Redgrave, had intended years before. I liked “Remains of the Day” with Thompson and Hopkins much better, but this one gets 3½ cans.
13. My Sister’s Keeper (Blockbuster rental) – Interesting bioethical dilemma about raising a child for her genetic similarities to her fatally ill sister. Cameron Diaz was excellent in a serious role and Abigail Breslin is a wonderful young actress. A bit gut-wrenching to take, but with a thought-provoking premise. 3½ cans.
14. Sunshine Cleaning (Blockbuster Rental) – Two down-on their luck sisters (the normally perky Amy Adams, risking overexposure, and a mainly dour Emily Blunt) start a service cleaning up trauma sites. Alan Arkin is their equally down-on-his-luck father. Grime story? 3½ cans.
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