Can we talk about crying for a minute? I am a top-notch Olympic crier, but I am also world class ashamed about it.
Like if I am moved to tears watching something in public, I fuh-reeze. I become a crying possum. I just let the tears do their thing until my face is a Seattle windowpane then pull my sweater down over my fists and do a lightning fast face-wipe like "NOT TEARS. Fuck you, YOU'RE crying."
Sometimes I employ interesting tactics. At the end of Up in the Air, I just tucked my face into my knees and rocked myself back and forth to avoid the boys in my living room seeing my splotched and derailed face.
In the movie theatre it's usually easy to be super discreet.
Unless it's a surprise cry which is bullshit and I need to point out two examples as they were completely heinously unfair.
I should have mailed Nicholas Sparks a bouquet of my snot-drenched tissues afterwards. We went for the Gosling, not having read the book. Innocent lambs being led to the surprise Alzheimer's slaughter. The end result was three lady adults sitting shoulder-to-shoulder holding HANDS and openly weeping WHILE LAUGHING because we were so angry we had been so emotionally manipulated.
I was wholly 100% NOT prepared for the heart, mind and soul mutilation that is the first 10 minutes of this movie. The packed theatre, stunned behind our 3D glasses, held our breaths. I lasted about 30 nanoseconds after the scene changed until I unleashed one of those sodden, shaky, "my entire sinus cavity is threatening to discharge into my popcorn" sniff inhales combined with a moan. That instigated an entire theatre sucking back the snot dangling off their noses and a rapid scurry for those rough bullshit napkins that can't handle industrial strength movie butter let alone the green mucus of sadness inflating devastated faces.
So, yeah, I get a little emotional at times.
WELCOME TO MY HUSBAND'S LIFE.
And welcome to my June. I cried a lot this month. My Honda Civic died. I drove it off the lot brand new 15 years ago. That's a long time to own something that is helpful every single day.
But I'll save that story for another day.
Let's pivot and talk about the happy tears and chest swells of a new sensation. That weirdly grounding "I'm old, so very old" whomp to the back of the brain has happened. The 90s are so old we're throwing back to them. So everything I was emotionally attached to as a youth is suddenly back in my face.
A girl was wearing white Guess overalls on the bus today! Daisy prints are abloom! Fermented foods, like the weird murky jugs of apple cider my Mom kept in dark cupboards when I was in high school, are now the answer to every stomach ailment you ever had!
And if I want to watch epic runs of Full House, Scooby Doo, The Smurfs or My Little Pony, Netflix is all "Yes, here you are, friend. You're not old. You just remember the good stuff from the first time 'round." Oh Netflix, you sweet talker. Gimme a smooch.
Actually, I'll do open-mouth lovin' because I believe in reciprocity. Earlier this month, local bloggers, who are part of the #streamteam (the coolest gang of TV obsessed writers who could never beat you in a foot race but kill at pub night trivia) were treated like straight royalty and got to see the first two episodes of Orange is the New Black before they aired. We might have gloated on social media. Just a bit.
Luckily those two first episodes didn't fire the big emotional guns. Oh no, those shots were fired later in the season after every straight girl found themselves attracted to a new character (whoever cast Ruby Rose as Stella deserves 17 raises) and babies were born and religions were discovered and women tried to change but just couldn't.
Then I watched the pilot of Sense8 which is huge and sprawling and ambitious and didn't make me cry but then I haven't gone back to it because sometimes there are TOO MANY things to watch on Netflix and I am a chump and get lured into watching devastating documentaries like Hot Girls Wanted.
Seriously, if my daughter ever did porn.... I just. I just can't. I watched this with my hands balled and my face locked in a perma "FUCK NO" mask. I want to take every young girl answering the ads to go be in amateur porn and bring her home for some potato salad and meatloaf and popsicles and we can all watch My Little Pony because it is safe and warm and nothing bad can happen in a land where moles are called "cutie marks."
June. It was an emotional month. I think I need to mainline some super funny shit right quick. Tell me the very best "laugh until you poop" titles on your Netflix list in the comments please. Laughing is so much better for my face.
As a member of Netflix Canada's #streamteam I will be giving you the straight goods on what I'm watching each month in exchange for a yearly membership. It's a match made in heaven, really.