What special breed of lunatic sets her alarm clock for 4 o’clock, on a Sunday, so she can do laundry, blog and scan / read The New York Times while her husband (Hubby), daughter (Wee Lass) and extremely overweight Maine Coon cats (Thunder + Lightning) are fast asleep in their beddy-byes upstairs?
This special breed of lunatic (Momover Lady), who is about to head out on a whopper of a press trip to Costa Rica.
I’ve never been anywhere near Costa Rica, but I hear that it’s pretty schizophrenic, vibe-wise.
Apparently there’s a wild and woolly side, and a schmancy side.
Happily – oh so very happily – I’m headed to the schmancy side. Not that I can’t totally do wild and woolly; I’m a super-proud Oklahoman, after all. As an idiot child, I even used to ride horses bareback after school with my fellow idiot-child pals.
And on the subject of concussions, I will now segue, clumsily, to a movie Hubby and I saw yesterday on our weekly date: Out of the Furnace.
My, my, what a grim little piece of cinematic history. As I sat there literally covering my eyes for a big chunk of it, Hubby chuckled and whispered, “This was your pick, remember?”
Of course it was my pick; Christian Bale is my all-time fave actor on the planet. And I’m also mildly obsessed with Casey Affleck, especially after reading that recent profile in the NYT mag. According to that piece, Casey, itty bitty, skinny-mini baby brother of Ben, has a tendency to throw monkey wrenches in his upward career trajectory. Having done that several times myself, I can relate…
But because this blog traffics mainly in Mindless Superficiality and not Deep Issues like throwing monkey wrenches into upward career trajectories, I will now, finally, get to the topic du jour:
In Out of the Furnace, Christian and Casey play brothers named, respectively, Russell and Rodney. Big bro Russell is a welder, itty bitty skinny-mini baby bro Rodney is a U.S. soldier who bounces back and forth between tours in Iraq. And when isn’t deployed, he tries to earn extra dough by engaging in truly gruesome bare-knuckle for-hire fighting with hill-billy tweakers from the remote mountains of New Jersey.
Sidebar: New Jersey has mountains? Who knew.
I won’t spoil the plot except to say this: Christian Bale is bee-yoo-ti-ful in this movie. He’s emotionally beautiful, which is awesome. But he’s physically beautiful, which is even more awesome.
While Hubby and I both thought Casey Affleck’s blinding white, perfectly straight, rich-boy-from-Boston teeth undercut his credibility as a deeply troubled bad-ass, we thought Christian Bale nailed it, looks-wise.
“He’s still pretty skinny, though not like he was in The Fighter,” Hubby noted.
“Hmmm,” I said, faux-casually, “I think he looked pretty brawny. And his skin is amazing.”
(FYI, I believe in treading carefully when discussing the physicality of the Christian Bales and Brad Pitts of this world. And luckily, Hubby returns that favor. Almost never do I have to suffer through his waxing philosophical on Angelina Jolie’s pillowy lips…)
Where am I going with all this? Nowhere, really, except to Costa Rica at 9 am.
But I will say this, which I’ve said before on this very blog: Boy movie stars make me want to do pushups.
Brad Pitt puffing a ciggy, ripped to smithereens, in the movie poster for Fight Club? I’ve never been more motivated to hit the gym by a single image in my life.
Raw, craggy, dangerous – with zero bodyfat Brad Pitt = inspiring.
Emotionally and physically beautiful – with flawless skin Christian Bale = even more inspiring.