Dreaming Big

I finally saw Shame a few nights ago. It was an interesting evening, one that involved me having to figure out how to fix an Internet connection and update an Apple TV because my friend relies so heavily on her fiancé, who that evening was out of town. I also had to calm her down during the pretty long tremor we felt on the West Side, a moment I am very proud of. (Experience.)

Somewhere in the middle of that was Shame, which frankly, I was expecting to enjoy more. I just couldn’t connect with the story or any of the characters. Simply put, it’s a story of a broken soul who cannot escape himself. He also happens to have a sister, who is also a broken soul and is in desperate need of his care and attention.

Shame was probably one of the most depressing movies I’ve seen in years. And I really hate depressing movies. Being able to observe the life of someone who just cannot be rid of such a large component of themselves is terrifying. And I guess that’s what I had my biggest issues with. The fact that I never want to be in the position where I have no control.

Despite my feelings—or perhaps even because of it—the movie was really a great one. Fassbender was honestly robbed of that nomination. There wasn’t a second of his performance where I did not believe him and did not feel his pain. Mulligan I was a little disappointed by; she is talented, but at times seemed too over the top. Though it was an extremely interesting movie with great performances, I don’t think I could watch this again anytime soon.

My cousin got married over the weekend, and my father flew up from El Salvador to go to the wedding. He spent the week at my grandmother’s, and I went to pick him up, leaving at around 11:30 to head down to San Diego. Two hours into the trip—one in which I was driving—I hear him cursing up a storm because he realized he left his suit at my grandmother’s. We had to turn around, meet up with my grandmother in Glendale (an hour away), and then race back down to SD. The wedding started at 5:30; we walked into our hotel room at 5. Needless to say, we missed the ceremony.

Given that I do not have a Blackberry and my dad does not have a US number, we mostly email each other when we need something immediately. This doesn’t work all that well for him since I never check my email. But right before his cigar break, he asked me to take him another drink outside in a few minutes. “I’m serious, Steph. I’m almost out.” He was serious.

So ten minutes later I walk to the bar, order him a drink, start talking to my uncle, and realize the wedding toasts are about to start. Once the toasts were done twenty minutes later, I notice my dad has returned to our table and looks like he’s about to pass out. “Where were you? I almost died out there.” I was busy. I check my phone and see that he had sent me a lovely email.

Subject: My vodka-sprite?

I’m starting to get the shakes.

To top the whole evening off, we stayed at the wedding till about 1 am even though we had to head back to LAX at 3 am so he could catch his 7:30 flight back home. As he was packing up, I heard him say “fuck” multiple times. What’s wrong? “I really did a shitty job at planning for this thing.” No shit.

I wanted to shoot myself. “Too fucking happy.”

What I was supposed to do:

• Shower
• Get nails done
• Buy shoes
• Figure out how the hell to get my UPS package
• Pack (yet again)
• Drive to Ventura

What I’ll actually do:

• Go back to sleep
• Shower…eventually
• Retouch my nails myself
• Settle for whatever pair of shoes I find in my closet
• Forget about the UPS package
• Do a half-assed job at packing
• Force myself to drive to Ventura an hour later than planned