grrgoyl | Entries tagged with sweeney todd

Don't glare at me like that. I didn't tear your family apart

At last, it is mine. A bit later than I would have liked. Tery gets irritated when I shop for myself a week before my birthday and/or Christmas. So this time I vowed to be good, no matter how much it hurt. She had assured me she wouldn't wait until my actual birthday (Apr 8) to give me this present. However, she also wasn't terribly keen on going out at the stroke of midnight to get it as soon as it was on sale, as I would have done (even if the tables were turned and it was her birthday). She used the excuse that she had to go into work a bit earlier in the morning or else she would, but I know damn well she was up watching Big Brother anyway.

Part of me hoped it was all a bluff, that she'd sneak out after I fell asleep and leave it at the foot of my bed as a surprise (which is what I would have done), but no. Then I hoped she would leave early, pretend to go to work, then pop over to the store and back to surprise me (something else I would have done, failing Plan A), but no. My point is, she had ample opportunity, but instead made me wait until she got home from work (late), when she of course wanted to watch baseball. At least she's going out tonight so I can have the TV.

I have the DVD propped up staring at me while I work, kind of like a carrot on a stick. It's full of juicy extras, all of which seem to be trying very hard to ignore the fact that Rickman is even in the movie. "Depp! Burton! Depp and Burton! Burton and Depp! And Bonham-Carter!" *sigh* My man will never get the recognition he deserves.

DreamWorks isn't the only company guilty of this. I was excited to see a small article in this week's "Entertainment Weekly" about the long-standing affair between Burton and Depp -- that is until the author started heaping lavish praise on Johnny's singing, even comparing him to David Bowie, then had the nerve to add, "Rickman can't sing a lick." No, Alyson Hanigan can't sing a lick (BtVS, "Once More with Feeling"). Cameron Diaz REALLY can't sing a lick (A Life Less Ordinary -- her singing actually causes physical pain). Alan can at least carry a tune without murdering it, and I sent in a letter to them pointing this out. Tery rolled her eyes at my passion. "You're the only one who feels that way." She really likes to imagine I'm the only one who cares about Alan. This is what gives her joy in life (that and baseball).

Anyway, tonight is all about the Sweeney, so Do Not Disturb.

~*~

Another chapter in the People are Asshats book: I left the house once yesterday to get some milk from the gas station across the street. The place was pretty busy around 5:30 pm, people coming home from work and whatnot. As I pulled in, this joker in an SUV (yeah, surprise!) started pulling away from the pump. The angle wasn't quite right, however, and if one of us didn't stop moving we were going to hit. As I was the one entering the lot and already in motion, as opposed to just starting from a parked position, I felt I had the right of way and kept on my course accordingly. He FINALLY gave in, but not without him and his passenger making lots of violent, where'd-you-learn-to-drive gestures in my direction. Maybe they were just testy after dropping $50 into their tank, but I half expected them to follow me inside to really start something.

This is why I can't stand leaving the house -- because every time I do I step into this Bizarro World where the rules of the road as I learned them have been replaced with some kind of Mad Maxian society where the asshole with the biggest axles must be deferred to.

~*~

Our mystery Christmas neighbors have reappeared. Tery had a confirmed sighting of them on their porch. Which isn't to say the unit has been restored to a post-holiday condition. The lights and wreath still hang, and it might be my imagination but I'm sure I can still see the silhouette of a tree in the window behind the blinds. No, they were outside to clean up all the doggie mess from their Rottweiler. Remember, this is one of the complaints leveled against Tracey and her "balcony-trained" mutts. I don't understand why people think it's acceptable to just let dogs do their thing on the balcony, especially if you live anywhere higher than the ground floor. Nasty. And if you can't be bothered to walk your dog properly, maybe you should consider not getting one. Radical thinking, I know.

Speaking of neighbors, The Alcoholic has finally bought a house and is moving. From the day she told me she was closing it was practically a matter of hours before the moving van showed up and she was gone. She REALLY couldn't wait to get out of here (into a "nice neighborhood" she smugly informed me. She hasn't lived many places if she doesn't think this is a nice neighborhood, meth labs notwithstanding). She told me her unit was bought by a nice woman, fresh out of a messy divorce and just as desperate to move, also a vet assistant. Which I thought would be really cool to have as a neighbor before Tery pointed out the chances of her having a dog that will spend all summer barking at our cats on the balcony. We shall see. Stay tuned.

~*~

Lastly, this is what Cadbury has reduced me to by not selling their irresistible Creme Eggs year-round:

Every day is Easter now

This, my friends, is a box I salvaged from the 50% off cart. I plan to freeze them to tide me over until next Easter. I chose my checkout line carefully, trying to find a big, fat clerk who wouldn't judge me. Unfortunately, the woman I selected naturally went on break literally just as I got to the head of the line, being replaced by a petite teenager who probably weighed about 75 pounds soaking wet. She was just happy I had counted the eggs while waiting in line rather than making her do it. Hey, I'm an ex-inventory specialist. I still got the skillz.

Current Mood: excited

Here's an update on Baby and his crazy mom, which I had really hoped wouldn't be necessary once the cat was laid to rest. She called me back last night around 8:00. I let it go to voicemail, and good thing. "Hi Elaine, this is Ellen. My cat is Baby, you took care of him this past weekend" she began, as if I need clarification of which crazy pet owner is calling me today. From there she became progressively weepier and more irrational, saying she was wracked with guilt because she had bought something called a "scat mat" designed to deliver a small electric shock to keep pets off the furniture. She was convinced this fried Baby's kidneys. I don't know anything about the medical consequences of shocking your pet, I just couldn't get past the fact that her beloved cat, her Baby who she swaddles and cuddles and treats exactly like "her baby," wasn't allowed on the sofa. As my sister said, Baby didn't die of kidney disease, he died of mixed messages.

I feel bad ignoring the woman in her pain, but I'm really not trained as a grief counselor. I think not answering the call was the best thing I could do for both of us, as I really wouldn't know what to say to make her feel any better. It's one thing if we had a longstanding relationship -- there are a lot of elderly clients who have been bringing their pets to the hospital for years and Tery has an established relationship with. She even sometimes picks up the pet for appointments because the owner isn't mobile enough. But I don't know this woman from Adam. If she wants some kind of reassurance that she didn't kill her cat, I really think that's a discussion for a doctor and not a weekend worker who sweeps kennels and occasionally gives injections. I'll gladly sign the condolence card, but these phone calls on my days off have got to stop.

Hopefully I'm done.

~*~

Tery's Christmas balcony display is complete (unless she comes home tonight with more stuff, which is entirely possible). You know that house on the block that sets their front yard ablaze every year with lights? The one that makes you slow down in utter disbelief? In our neighborhood, that house is OURS.

Victory for the home team!!

Prettier but blurrier without flash. Giddy Giddy really didn't have that much to do with it.

She's insane. Note the large disco ball thing smack in the center of the ceiling, the coup de grace in my opinion. She's especially fond of the huge bulbs near the bottom. Our balcony will be burned onto our neighbors' retinas for months to come.

In other Christmas photos, here is Kitten Mitten With Whom I'm Smitten (who, it should be noted, has free run of all our furniture) posing with the tree:

I tried a version with red eye removal, but I think you'll agree she looks ready to tear my throat out at any second:

~*~

Finally, going here will take you to an assortment of clips from Sweeney Todd (many thanks to

kavieshana and

minikitkatgirl!). "Behind the Scenes Footage Part 2" has the much anticipated Alan/Johnny duet. "You Gandered at my Ward" literally gave me shortness of breath (MyFriendDeb's reaction was similar: "I'd gander at his ward in a minute if he'd talk to me like that"). Once I finished hyperventilating I told Tery about them. Her response was "I don't think Alan Rickman is even good-looking, let alone hot." *cries* How cruel the Fates are to me. Her title as a joy-sucking robot still stands.

It was with no small amount of glee that Tery delivered the latest "Entertainment Weekly" to me, due mostly to it having this to say for itself on the cover:

The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

Don't get me wrong, I like Johnny just fine, and I want to see this movie so badly I can taste it. However, my excitement was amped up several notches when I spied this photo inside:

Demon Barber with unsuspecting (but thoroughly delicious) evil Judge Turpin

You'd think that, with a half-page photo of him, the article would at least allude at some point to Alan Rickman. You would be wrong. Plenty about what it's like to work with Tim Burton's lovecat Helena Bonham Carter, and even Sacha Baron "who cares it's only Borat" Cohen, but about my beautiful, beautiful, underrated and underused man, not a peep. Tery told me "not everyone thinks he's as hot as you do." She obviously hasn't read Salon.com's "Sexiest Men Living" picks; he's not the highest ranking, but they have this to say about him: "there's just something about the man that's smart and complicated and tender and a little dangerous that makes your mind start wandering into filthy corners while you're sitting there, innocently trying to watch a "Harry Potter" movie with your kids." Oh yes. This picture of him makes me want to lick his beard stubble.

At the very least, I'm hoping this movie will lend some cachet to the Cruella de Vil skunk stripe again, so I can be the height of fashion.

~*~

My employer is offering a 2-week production bonus that includes a drawing for the grand prize of a 42" Phillips Flat Panel TV and a second prize of a 160GB iPod. I suppose the iPod would be nice, but man, I would LOVE that TV. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it so badly I could cry. Badly enough that if I don't win it, I might seriously consider buying one (probably smaller) for Christmas. We've been staring at this 27" Sony for about 15 years now, and have been told by a salesman that these old tube TVs last forever -- which was good news before I got it into my head that I would really like a newer, bigger model. It's hard to justify that kind of expense to replace something that isn't broken, but I'm trying.

Dear God, if I win that 42" TV, I swear I'll NEVER complain about my job again. Ever! -- oh, and I'll start believing in you again. -love, Elaine

Current Mood: sick
Current Music: You're so wonderfully wonderfully wonderfully wonderfully pretty

This morning Tery woke me up to tell me we had been broken into last night.

I would have greatly appreciated it if she had differentiated between "we" our own home and "we" the hospital, which is actually what she meant.

Evidently someone had climbed over the fence in the exercise yard (admittedly not hard to do), taken a ladder out of the outside shed (that I didn't even know was in there) and used a special tool to loosen the casement of one of the office windows sufficiently to pull it open and crawl in. All of this while the overnight woman was down in the laundry room.

Investigators are befuddled. The loot gained from this daring B & E was only a computer monitor and keyboard, barely worth $50 in a pawn shop. The perp left behind his crowbar and a pair of sunglasses. Wild theories abound, but I think my sister might have been onto something when she suspected the overnight woman herself, planning to retire by selling her spoils.

I'm a little freaked out. No, I wasn't there, but I could have been. Speculation about people casing the joint for weeks from surrounding buildings or treetops doesn't make me feel much better. The overnight woman is evidently unfazed (another reason to suspect her), but I'll never forget the one night I was convinced I heard someone walking around upstairs and I spent 10 minutes staring up the stairwell, in a cold sweat and utterly unable to breathe the entire time.

Tery is heightening security, though nothing will be done before my shift this weekend. She's having security cameras installed (which will effectively put an end to my stint of working topless). There's also talk of getting a Rottweiler to live in the exercise yard year-round. I said great, but who's going to protect me from the Rottweiler?

I'll be honest. Even though I'm not directly affected by this crime (this time), I'm still using it as an excuse to quit. Tery agrees; she doesn't want to have to worry about me either. But again, nothing can be done before this weekend, and if I don't go in then she'll have to, and I can't have THAT riding on my conscience.

~*~

Unrelated, I'm not one for posting baby pics, but this demanded it. This is Michael J., Tery's (and mine) newest nephew, son of her sis Michelle.

Okay, so his eyes are the wrong color. But the ears are dead on! And I think the mouth too.

~*~

However, I'm totally one for fangirl squeeing, and so I'm including the trailer for Alan Rickman's new movie, Snow Cake.

Alan plays a drifter who befriends Sigourney Weaver, a high functioning autistic. He also meets and has sex with next door neighbor Carrie-Anne Moss. And while it looks like another one of those "people with mental illness make the most profound statements about the world because they see things so much more clearly than us" movies, who cares because he has sex with Carrie-Anne Moss. Alan never gets to have sex with anyone, and I for one would not miss it for the world.

Furthermore, in this interview on a Canadian talk show, he mentioned being in Tim Burton's new movie, Sweeney Todd, singing a duet with Johnny Depp, no less. Oh yeah, baby.

Current Mood: ecstatic
Current Music: How could I have burned paradise? How could I - you were never mine