The ballad of the one movie

When I was about 3 years old, maybe a little younger, I was taken to see a movie. I remember a bunch of us going, some of my brothers and at least my sister, and a family friend chaperoning us all neighborhood kids to see a Peanuts movie. (Why was it in theaters? I have no idea.) I can't remember which one it was, to be honest, but a quick search through IMDB.com, might provide a clue: I was born in 1978, and Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown (And don't come back!) came out in 1980, so it's quite likely that's the one we went to see.

The thing is, I hated it. Well, no, I was absolutely terrified of the whole experience. The theater itself was packed so we would all have to sit separately (I mean, that Charlie Brown is pure box office gold, right?)

I threw the other of all tantrums, but at least from my recollection, what I felt was utter panic at the flickering lights flashing in front of me. I was never afraid of the dark, or of going out, or ofmoving pictures, not even of crowds, but that day, I felt a fear so clear I remember it to this day. They had to take me outside to wait by the concession stand while the movie played inside. It's one of my earliest, clearer memories. Movies used to scare me. Which ultimately proved ironic, given the fact that I ultimately went to film school. But I digress.

I don't know how, or when, but not much later I developed a fascination with watching movies, and I have two very clear moviegoing experiences from before I turned 5: Watching Superman 2, at a friend's birthday party, and then, like a flash of lightning wrapped up in a burrito of earthquakes, Return of the Jedi, when it came out in 1983. (Dude, i'm old.... but I was 5!) It definitely turned me into a lifelong geek and a Star Wars fanatic, that somewhat faded a bit over the years, but it still holds a special place in my heart.

I grew up a movie aficionado, and if something were to catch my eye, I would develop a fascination with its minutiae that would border on the autistic. From the cinematographer to the best boy, I would love knowing as many details as possible, I watched Behind the Scenes and Interviews and read biographies and trade magazines, since this was before the internet, of course. (Did I mention I'm old? Momma is younger, gladly, even if still in my same age range.) Anyway, I attended film schol, where I majored in screenplay writing, and got involved in creative things and  used to watch and obsess and analyze about five or six movies a day! Then I met Momma. Which was a big deal.

That little kid who loved movies and wanted to grow up and tell stories, had another dream, to escape the clutches of stunting shyness, be normal, and have a family. Meeting Momma, and the ten years we've spent together, have given me the chance to do just that. While we dated, movies were a big part of our experience, something that would happen almost every time we saw each other. Movies are a fundamental part of dating, aren't they?

Thing is, that part has dwindled over the years, specially now that the kid is a toddler that demands 24 hour showings of Alvin & the Chipmunks 3. Once she goes to bed, we watch our shows, or read, or study (we're both taking online college courses) or talk or eat in peace, and whenever possible, both by time and our bodies, we watch a movie. A full movie, from start to finish can be a real chore if you are a parent. But here's the thing... I don't mind.

You know all those things you worry about losing when you become a parent? Your hobbies, your interests, your money, your sense of self? How they tell you that your life as you knew it is over? It does, it absolutely does. And I don't care one bit. As long as that tiny bundle of manic anger and unbridled joy is in this world, I can live, quite happily, with watching a movie with Momma only once every sunday. (Yesterday it was "Warm Bodies", which we loved.)

I am sure, that when this life ends, the movies in my head will all have been shot at home.

-Poppa

Our own movie diva.

The Doctor is in. Spoilers! ( see what I did there)

I am going to take this important day to talk about one of the important things in my life. I've talked about Papa, Momma, Baby (Toddler) and now I am going to talk about....Doctor Who (insert impressive music here. If you are a Whovian, insert intro music).

I am fairly recent Whovian. I am actually a converted Whovian. Who did the amazing job? Papa, well it did not take him much for me to become a fan, but it was all him.

Ever since we got Netflix ( before Emilia was born) we've been glued to it discovering and re-discovering new options of TV and movies. Papa also got a new habit, once I say good night, turn the light off and close my eyes he turns to Netflix and watches everything he knows I'll refuse to watch. When he finds something interesting he stops watching and asks me to join him because he thinks it might be something we can share. That was not the case with Doctor Who. 

My first encounter with The Doctor was not with the Doctor himself, it was with the Daleks. Last November, after I closed my eyes I would hear on my sleep "Exterminate, Exterminate!" I would also get up ask Papa to turn down the volume because those voices were creepy and were giving me bad dreams. All through November I heard weird voices on my sleep and I knew it was him watching Doctor Who. 

On December I had a cold that turned into a horrible cough and that cough stayed with me well into the new year ( I remember that because my neighbour "the slut" complained that I coughed like Shrek (have you heard Shrek cough) and that would keep her up at night, that I should cough in a more ladylike manner). Every night I had horrible cough spells that literally would shake me to my brain and I had to wake up make me some tea with lemon and honey. It was during this nights that I first met The Doctor, 10 to be precisaley. I didn't know at the time but while having tea and calming my cough syrups  I met Madame Pompadour,I witnessed the final goodbye between Rose and 10!  Some other night I witnessed 11 and Amy meeting with Vincent Van Gogh and some other night I saw Amy pregnant in a dream world. I was in front of the TV facing my destiny and my Shreklike coughing did not let me appreciate it. In fact Papa told me "if you are ever going to watch the series with me you better not pay attention" And I didn't.

It was at the beginning of this year when I finally decided that I would give The Doctor a chance. I'm not a Sci-Fi fan, actually, I usually hate it, so I wasn't expecting much from it. I was WRONG!!!!! I am not going to say that in the very minute 9 takes Roses hand and runs away from killing manequins I was hooked. Nope, it took me a little bit more. I was sad at 9's regeneration but I was, much as Rose, confused as what was happening. Thankfully, Netflix allowed me to answer my own questions by reproducing the next episode immediately. 

I was hooked when 10 quoted The Lion King and I was completely addicted by the moment we got to "Satan's Pit" and I heard him scream at the top of his lungs " I BELIEVE IN HER" my eyes filled with tears and I let them pour out because I knew I BELIEVED IN HIM! I found myself THAT invested into this show. Of course it came the moment of Rose dissapearing to Pete's world and my tears came again. After that, along came Martha. I hate her, I really do, She's not Rose. Donna, that's some companion and she gave Rose her place, She is the most important woman in the world. 

But of course, I did not know how deep in my heart was Doctor Who until 10's regeneration. It happened, I knew it was going to happen but still it hurt like nothing else in history of TV has ever hurt. I cried too much, for too long. I found myself at 2 in the morning sobbing incontrollably while Papa gave me tissues. I cried a good half hour after the episode was over. I woke with VERY puffy eyes the next morning. As I type this and I remember " I don't want to go" my eyes fill with tears. Doctor Who had crawled deep into my heart and became a symbol in my believe system. I knew it then when saying goodbye to 10 felt like saying goodbye to a relative.

Along came 11 and with him my rejection. Nope, Matt Smith would never, EVER, be my Doctor (he is not by the way). And suddenly I was crying again, suddenly I was glued to his face every night and suddenly Melody Pond as a baby made me cry and suddenly.....The Ponds were gone and I was once again left in tears in the middle of the night while holding Papas hand and feeling that a part of myself had died. Matt Smith WAS the Doctor ( not mine, 10 is still mine). He was perfect. 

He gave the most beautiful monologue ever created on entertainment history and of course.........I cried. 11 was Amazing.

This November The Doctor is giving the closest thing to a TV induced orgasm. 11 and 10 together. Smith and Tennant on the 50th anniversary. Rose and 10 together again. THANK YOU!!!!

Of course, Moffat can't give joy without taking a few pounds of tears. On June Matt Smith let us all know he is leaving. He won't be 11, the 12th will rise. Me? I was shocked. I was angry, I had barely caught up with the show and they were already taking The Doctor away from me? How dare they? I tried not to dwell on it and tried to ease my pain by re-watching the entire series (from 9 to 11) on Netflix

The feels did not feel strong until today. Today they announced the 12th Doctor. I've decided that Peter Capaldi is OK and I will give him a chance, after all, he IS a Whovian. It wasn't the fact that we know who the next Doctor is what turned on the water faucet in my eyes, it was watching Matt Smith talk about regeneration what did it for me. He said that coming out from regeneration was fun but, he thought, going into regeneration was going to be painful. Well, my friends, that did it, I put my head between my hands and began to sob. I couldn't stop I even asked Papa "What's happening to me?" Because it was right then that I realized I had to say good bye to 11 and my heart pre-broke, it will be completely broken on Christmas this year. 

So, that's the story of how I came to love The Doctor, how I found a symbol in my belief system and how in a peculiar way I found something that gave me a connection with Papa in a whole different level. Doctor Who is cool ( see what I did there?) and I think that being a Whovian is Fantastic! (see? Again?)

So, Allon-sy ( wink) and on with the show that I know the regeneration will leave me in tears for hours and I know that 12th won't cover my expectations, at first, but I know that by the 4th episode of series 8 I will be in tears once again thanking the Gods of  the Time Lords for having sent me this amazing piece of pop culture into my life. 

Two spouses and two felines. And a baby. Part Two.

So, to recap: one five month old cat gets spayed (or is it neutered?) on the same day that the not-yet-Momma announced that she was pregnant, and that our tiny and anesthetized cat was going to become a middle child.

With jubilation, trepidation, exaltation and utter panic we announced to the world that we were going to become parents. While there were, as it's always the case, a bunch of concerns that anyone who's ever been married to a pregnant woman or have been a pregnant woman themselves, the world you know slips away from underneath your feet slowly at first and then all of a sudden, knocking you off your feet. When you get back up, the whole room is different, the person standing next to you is different, and you yourself are different. Now picture that with two cats.

Almost straight away, it was if the cats could tell. Tapete in particular acted quite like a cat. He was distant and aloof, looking upset over the whole situation. He peed himself on the bed once and always acted distant. When it was just me, he acted the same as always, wanting to be the center of my attention. Pie, on the other hand, grew closer to Momma, always wanting to be near hear, near the belly, like a hen hatching an enormous egg.

The world at large, we discovered, seemed quite set in their views about old time myths regarding cats and pregnancy. (I don't know if you have noticed, most likely you haven't if you are not a cat person, but there is a quite clear and distinct anti-cat bias in the media. Yes, I'm calling it out. The media has an anti-cat agenda.

Cats are always the tricksters, the conniving ones, if not the outright villians, even when they are the celebrated stars of the show, like Garfield, for instance. Cat-like qualities are always given as adjectives to the sneaky, shifty, untrustworthy and selfish person only out to look for him or herself, when cats, while prone to their pecularities, are loyal, caring, loving companions. I was so perfectly made to be a male cat lady. Oh yes.) One of the villianizing myths around cats is how they are bad for pregnant women and for babies. After researching ans asking, we found out that, if you follow the right precautions, the risks are nonexistent. It came to a point where the third or fourth question out of people's mouths, after "When are you due?" or "what's the baby's name gonna be?" was "So... are you getting rid of the cats?" or its variation "When are you going to get rid of the cats?" And the answers were always the same.

No. Never.

The pregnancy went on as planned, and our bouncing female ball of joy was born in August of 2011. We were cautious at first inhow they approached her, never letting them get too close, even though we had done one of the recommended things, before taking the baby back home, I took the blanket she slept in so they could smell it. Then the baby came home, and they were sure this was the newest ball of fur on the block of a higher stature than theirs. Luckily, there were no behavioral problems, the cats never felt displaced or out of place; there were no bouts of jealousy over our attention, not really. 

What did happen, was that the roles reversed: Pay, who seemed to be the protective, nurturing one, became intensely disinterested in the baby and even dettached from Momma as her person. He used to follow her everywhere, and then just stopped, opting to sit on my lap and sleep on my face instead. Tapete, on the other hand, became a big brother right from the start. He would come running if he heard her crying, sniffing her for wounds and to see if she was alright. If the crying got too intense, he would meow and look at us, like a judgemental parent awaiting you to do something to help the poor  little thing.

Emilia, almost two years old now, has grown withthe idea of animals around her as a normal thing. She spends a lot of time at her grandma's, who own a small poodle that she pets and fights over food with. She has petted dogs, cats, sheep, foals, and many other forms of small livestock.  She's grown healthy and undisturbed by the constant presence of them, and most importantly, she is learning the lesson that there are creatures in our world who don't look or act like her, who are an integral part of the world she inhabits, and that they deserve respect and gratitude. (she likes ham and eggs, after all.)

And it's all because of two entitled and princely felines that live in our home.