Dec. 28th, 2016

offbalance: (amalthea by antheia)
Nearly titled this entry "Girls Just wanna have lunch," as every time I try to consume food in the office, suddenly everyone everywhere (be it near or far) MUST TALK TO ME IMMEDIATELY.   I think they forget sometimes that I'm an actual human with biological needs, and not some magical being who grants wishes.

Trying to decide if I want to see <i>Moana</i> or <i>Arrival</i> more if [livejournal.com profile] j_bkl and I head to the movies on Friday.  I guess it will be dependent on mood and where we are when we head to see it.

*********

There has been entirely too much death in 2016 to begin with, but the last week alone has been kick after kick.  People close to me have lost loved ones very suddenly in the last few days.  And of course, I lost a bona-fide icon yesterday.

I never got to meet Carrie Fisher in person.  My wish was that she'd hear me say something really snarky, turn to  me and say something  to the effect of, "Oh, you're MEAN. Let's be friends!"  There was so much to admire about her.

First, there was Leia.  Wee, tiny me was exposed to Star Wars and saw this incredibly beautiful woman who would beat the everliving crap out of you if you were in her way, sass you if you underestimated her, and do whatever she needed to do to save you if she loved you and you loved her.  My mother carefully curated much of the tv/film I was exposed to without seeming to - and I usually found myself in front of strong (and occasionally smart-mouthed) depictions of women, like Leia, Uhura, Wonder Woman, Laverne & Shirley, Murphy Brown - the list goes on.  But Leia forever warped my vision of what a princess was.  Yes, she could be a pretty girl in a pretty dress, but she was also going to be the one with a blaster who was going to take charge and save the day if needed be.  She didn't need anyone to rescue her, thanks.  In fact, if you were lucky, she'd rescue you.  That left a dent.

Then, as I got older, I started seeing Carrie pop up in other favorite films, like <i>When Harry Met Sally</i> and <i>Drop Dead Fred</i> and countless others.  Then, I found out she was an author.  (Yes, I know I need to read Postcards from the Edge.  I own it.  I keep picking it up and meaning to). I adored <i>Wishful Drinking</i>.  Word of her prowess as a script doctor also filtered back to me.  But it wasn't just her accomplishments I came to admire - it was the way she refused to be ashamed of her failings.  Or even think of them as such.  She'd probably shrug and say it's all part of the package.  Addiction? Mental illness? Whatever, buddy - you must be this tall to ride.  She would never, ever be ashamed.  And that's what I admired the MOST about her.  She seemed to go through life without any embarrassment about who she was.

She died bathed in moonlight, strangled by her own bra - but we were the ones left heartbroken.

This fucking year, man.  I swear.  

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