Hello. I hated this movie.

I watched an old movie last night - an “old” movie, not an OLD movie. This movie came out in 1997, not 1957.

I was looking for something light-hearted and easy and thought a Julia Roberts movie might be just the thing I needed. This movie gets good reviews. Wikipedia announces that it’s the “best romantic comedy of all time.” Yes, it’s true: I watched “My Best Friend’s Wedding.”

Well, I hate to disagree with Wikipedia (Ronald Bass, the screenwriter, probably also wrote that entry), but this movie sucks. What a miserable piece of shit the character of Julianne Potter is. She’s a spoiled food critic (see what I did there?) who doesn’t like public displays of affection or saying “I love you” to other people, but who agreed to marry some guy she had an excellent month with when they were like, 19, and to whom she pledged to marry if neither of them met anyone else less annoying by the time they were 28.

As if I”m supposed to believe that a person as unlikeable as “Jules” Potter would give a rat’s ass if she wasn’t married by 28. This is a character destined to die alone, and that would be just fine with me.

The guy, also a writer, though his subject is Sports, calls her out of the blue one day while she’s having dinner with her “best friend,” a guy named George who is actually also her editor. How convenient! An editor, by the way, might also be considered to be a “writer.” There are too many writers in this story and by “too many” I mean, Ronald Bass. By the way, I put “best friend” in quotes up there because it’s hard to see what benefit this guy gets from being friends with her. She’s shrill, annoying, demanding, and kind of a pain in the ass. She has that amazing Julia Roberts smile, but he’s gay and not, I don’t think, interested in her gorgeous-ness.

(Rupert Everett plays one of these guys, and Dermot Mulroney plays the other. I could not tell you who is who. Jules has a type, and it’s dark-haired white guys.)

So her sportswriter ex-boyfriend calls her (his name is Michael), leaves a message (which she listens to at dinner by whipping out a phone the size of a can of Aquanet, complete with its own little antenna), and says he has to talk to her about something important. Instead of focusing her attention on George, the guy in front of her, she tells him the story about the one great month, the fact that she dumped him, and the pledge. They agree that the only reason Michael is getting in touch with her is that she’s about to turn 28.

George is mostly a great character, but what a couple of self-centered assholes. Is it not possible that Michael wants to tell her something amazing, like, he got a job working with Aaron Sorkin on Sports Night, or he’s moving to France?

Jules goes home to her incredibly ugly bedroom (she has bedside tables that are just round tables with long tablecloths on them) and calls this dude back. I won’t keep you in suspense: he tells her he’s getting married.

The one funny thing in the movie happens during this call, and I won’t spoil it for you.

Needless to say, news of Michael’s impending wedding (it’s in 4 days) sets Jules off and she takes off, leaving for Chicago and the wedding the next day. She’s already plotting to ruin the lives of a woman she’s never met and a man she claims she’s in love with (nothing says true love like seducing a guy just to stop him from marrying someone else). George gives her good advice to tell Michael she’s in love with him (I don’t think George fully appreciates how stupid Jules really is), but she ignores it.

Michael’s bride-to-be is played by Cameron Diaz, who must’ve been like 18 years old when this movie was made. She looks young, and her complexion is… not good. They did her makeup in such a way that it appears that her chin is darker than her forehead. Someone must’ve decided that fashion model Cameron Diaz could not look as good as or better than Julia Roberts, because they put her in these prissy little outfits with strands of pearls and hair barrettes. The shade of blond chosen for her hair is definitely “dishwater.” It’s perplexing how bad they make her look. Her name is Kim, but everyone calls her “Kimmy,” perhaps to drive home the idea that she’s an infant who has decided to drop out of college (she’s studying to be an architect. Of course she is) so that she can travel around with Michael while he’s covering what sounds like the worst sports teams in the world. Kimmy is a shitty driver but a decent person, who just wants to be friends with Michael’s old friend, Jules. Michael has, of course, talked up Jules so much that Kimmy is intimidated, but Kimmy isn’t as dumb as whoever did her makeup thinks she looks.

Jules sets off in motion a truly shitty plan for winning over Michael, and it involves impersonating Kimmy’s dad by writing an email that she considers not sending at the last minute… look, I’m not going to recap this whole crappy movie, because I hated it. One reviewer of this movie (a normal human being like me, not a movie critic, but someone who liked the movie) said that it was practically a musical because of all the songs in it, but I also hated this aspect of the movie, which I guess is surprising, because I like musicals. But all the Burt Bacharach songs were used as if to create a good feeling, or a sense of nostalgia, or something. I think in 1997 that shit was just trendy - it felt like I was being manipulated into thinking this was a better movie than it is.

One thing I did learn from Wikipedia is that Cameron Diaz has retired from acting. I was sorry to hear that. Her character in this movie is probably the most likable person onscreen, and she did a good job in this role even if they managed to make her look incredibly bad in it. I hope that’s not the reason she retired.

Score: F

I'm still here.

Hey, guess what? I’m alive.

You know what? Stuff has happened. That’s fine: you know what year it is, what the problems in the world are, what’s going on, and I’m not qualified or really at all prepared to write about any of it.

Instead, let’s go all the way back… to this past Saturday.

I slept in a little - I think I got up around 10:30. Yay to my husband for enabling this. Once I was up, I got dressed and decided to take a walk.

I’ve been bad about walking, lately. I’ve gained a few pounds (this started before quarantine so we can’t blame it all on that), and I’ve noticed some huffing and puffing (non-COVID related), and my activity, on most levels, is at an all-time low… so I took a walk. It was no big deal: my usual 2 miles, a nice slow-paced walk around the neighborhood.

When I got home, Patrick had to go out, so I decided to clean the new bathroom. I’ve cleaned it since the construction, but not like this. I scrubbed the tile, mopped the floor, wiped the dust from the windowsill, cleaned the toilet, took all the stuff off the counter and cleaned the stuff and the counter. I took the little drain thing out of the sink and cleaned inside there. Yeah: it was gross. I rearranged the stuff, and ordered replacement stuff, and when I was done, I made myself a late lunch, which I ate on the couch while watching a kind of stupid but oddly satisfying show called “The Great Flower Fight.”

When I was done eating my lunch, I checked on my kid, who was happily Facetiming with his friends and killing people in Roblox, so I went into the bedroom and decided to take a nap.

This is when things get funky.

I was lying there, reading some shit on my phone. It is entirely possible that I was looking for photos from Princess Beatrice’s secret wedding. What? She wore her grandmother the Queen’s hand-me-down gown (and ruined it with her millennial, twee updates. Those sleeves were a huge mistake. And I much preferred the original hemline). Other than the dress, she looked lovely - her hair and her bouquet were so pretty, and her husband [who I keep reading is a bit of a rake] looked very handsome; they both seemed happy). But while I was lying there, assessing their wedding outfits, I got a little message on my Apple Watch.

It was one of those heart rate alerts, where it tells you that it noticed you’ve been inactive for a least 10 minutes, but your heart rate is high. In my case, it was 153.

I have a naturally low heart rate. Everyone knows about it at my doctor’s office, I’m sure it’s in my chart; no one ever panics about it unless it’s a different nurse than usual and a particularly low day: then they will make me sit there for a while to make sure I’m not going to pass out. I never have. My doctor knows about it and he doesn’t worry about it, so neither do I.

So when I got this alert, which I’ve never seen before, or even knew about, I kind of freaked out. I sat there, staring at my watch for a while. I felt my heart, or what I thought was my heart, beating away in a new, awkward way.

Have you ever noticed that when you focus on your heart involuntarily beating, you suddenly realize that it could stop at any second?

I had read somewhere about someone doing this breathing thing to calm down where they would breathe in for 4 seconds, hold it for 4 seconds, and exhale for 4 seconds. I thought, OK, I’ll do that. Let’s see if I calm down.

I didn’t calm down. Instead, I started panicking, more. Jules was in his room, chatting with his friends, watching Pokemon, killing people in Roblox.

I was in the back bedroom, about to die.

Even though my historical health history includes this dynamic low blood pressure thingy, I do have relatives - close, personal, relatives - with heart problems. I do, maybe, have some anxiety issues. And Patrick wasn’t home. I thought, should I call the neighbor to let her know that Jules was alone in the house, I was having some sort of medical emergency… and what? Worry HER, and Jules, and everyone? Should I call 9-1-1? “Hello, my watch just told me I had an unusually high BPM thing? You know, the heart rate monitor thing Apple does? Yeah is that normal?”

What kind of an idiot do you think I am? Well, some kind, sure, but not THAT kind.

So I texted my big brother and my big sister, and I said, all nonchalantly,

“Hey have either of you ever had your Apple watch alert you about your heart rate?” Like, wow, did you know this thing even CAN DO that?

We texted back and forth about this for a while, and I kept my attitude light (I think), and they calmed me down a little, and unbeknownst to them, I cried a little (seriously, anxiety or panic, or whatever), and as the afternoon went on my numbers went down little by little, and I started thinking more logically.

Patrick texted me that he was on his way home. He’d been doing some family stuff that was a bit heavy and I felt bad writing it but I said, “Could you come right home? I don’t feel good.” So he did.

When he got home, I told him everything I’ve written here, and as we were talking about it, I started to wonder if this had anything to do with all the burping I’ve been doing? The nine trips to the bathroom I’ve made today? The way I walked and drank a little water, but then cleaned and didn’t eat anything all day except a cookie until 3 p.m. when I had a huge tuna sandwich with half an avocado, some Doritos, and a diet Coke?

Seriously, Irene? DORITOS.

Suddenly I realized that it was probably some knuckleheaded choices I had made, garden variety indigestion, combined with my anxiety (and maybe, a teeny tiny bit of depression and stupid Dark Thoughts about Death) and an average of only about 500 steps per day, and suddenly it made a little more sense.

Since then I’ve taken at least 1 walk a day (today I took two, and finally hit 10,000 steps for the first time in months), I’ve been drinking a lot more water, and I did a moment of not-meditation but just breathing. I also spent one of my breaks watching Pokemon with Jules and chilling out instead of working straight through.

So, can indigestion make your heart rate go up? I don’t know, man, I read a bunch of stuff while this was happening and after, and I guess so, I mean, I think it can. Did I call the doctor and make an appointment? Well, I tried to do it online but Kaiser isn’t making online appointments for physicals or stuff like that, and I was too busy and feeling too normal today to call in to talk to someone about it (“hi, um, so I want to see my doctor because of this thing with my watch? Yes I KNOW people are dying and you’re putting your life at risk to see patients and my stupid thing is probably just me, freaking out about some technology and my 2nd gen Apple watch….”).

Yeah, you know what? I didn’t feel like having that conversation today. But maybe I will, tomorrow.

Will practice for self-esteem.

I’m at Starbucks to get some extremely last minute projects done (two projects: one started but requires a partner's input, and the other started but in serious rough draft mode), and I'm pissed because they are:

• Out of sparkling mineral water

• Out of chai tea

• Unable to make any "refresher" beverages

So I am drinking an iced coffee.

The good news is, they're also not playing any shitty music. The bad news is I've spent more time writing this than I have on actual schoolwork. Schoolwork that is due tomorrow. TOMORROW.

It is entirely possible that I dig these holes for myself because I know that I almost always crawl out, if not victorious, than at least covered in a small amount of dirt and worms.

I thought about this, seriously, the other day. My dear sweet friend Sarah is getting married later this year, and she has asked me to play something at the wedding. On the flute. On the flute I haven’t played since last August.

That SAME DAY (because I am not stupid) I got my flute out and blew some notes.

It was terrible. Fuzzy. Cracking. Stiff fingers. Bad lip.

But then I got it out the next day (just for fifteen minutes. My friend at work thinks that’s crazy: “What can you accomplish in fifteen minutes!?” The answer, of course, is nothing. However, it’s also not long enough to get discouraged by my shitty tone. See? I know what I’m doing, here.), and then the next day, and then the next. I may have taken a day off. Then I had a flute lesson, and for the first time, was face to face with a tuner. I expected that exercise to be horrible, but it wasn’t. And so I am starting to sound better, losing the the squawking and cracking, my tone is getting smoother (not glassy enough for my taste but that’s OK for now), and my fingers are remembering what it is that they’re supposed to do.

And the thought I had was, what if I let all that time go by because I wasn’t feeling challenged or interested much by music so I had to let it go until it was almost gone (maybe not almost gone, but almost almost gone) so that I could get it back again?

And maybe do something different with it? Maybe I could dirty up my super pretty tone and add some more colors to my sound? I’ve always had trouble with this: given a choice, I would rather sound like ME than sound like whatever the music calls for (i.e., I want you to always know you’re listening to me. But doesn’t that get boring? It DOES, don’t answer). I KNOW it’s boring. I know it’s superficial. I know it’s scary to try something different.

I’d also like to try (whispering) some improvising, or just more fooling around. I need some creativity that isn’t just interpretation. I could do that, maybe?

Anyway, a thought.

But the main point is, I don’t want to suck for my friend’s wedding. I was honored to be asked. So: have gig will practice, which has always been my way.

It has also always been my way when it comes to getting schoolwork done. Which I should probably do, now.

Someone tell me why I have "I Love L.A." in my head right now.

Well, you may be asking yourself (hello, you!) where I’ve been, since October.

Everywhere, and nowhere, my friend.

No, I’m kidding. I don’t know, just doing stuff. Some of it important, most of it not.

But today! Do you know what day it is? Today is the first day of my second semester as a Weekend College student at Mount St. Mary’s University!

I reported to my first class (the first class on the first day of my second semester…) at 10:10 a.m., and was thrilled that out of the 8 people registered for that class, all of them were from last semester (this is a two-semester course, and this is, you guessed it: the second semester) except for one. And one of course, was me. My math may be faulty here. Anyway, I was glad to see these people again, especially glad to see our wonderful professor again, and happy that I remembered all their names. Mine, included.

That class ended at noon, and my next doesn’t start until 2:50, so I’ve had a nice long break. I’m sitting in the back room of the cafeteria (it rained, hard, earlier. It’s sunny outside now, but too chilly for me). I ordered a “light” lunch (a sandwich, a diet coke, and a small bag of Sun Chips. I don’t think I’ve had Sun Chips in ages. Maybe even decades. Aren’t they something you eat on a field trip to the zoo, or something?

I’ve been reading syllabi (yes? Plural for syllabus?) for the two classes I’m taking this semester (okay, also the New York Times and the Wikipedia page for the air crash that occurred in 1986 over the city of Cerritos… it’s one of those topics I revisit sometimes, like circus fires or Philippe Petit or the Crown Jewels), charging my laptop, and texting a friend visiting from Minnesota.

There’s something about this campus that makes me want junkfood. Is it my inner co-ed? I GAINED MY FRESHMAN 15 LAST YEAR.

Anyway, dudes, time to wrap it up. My next class is English 1-B. All I know is we have to memorize a poem for next weekend. Wish me luck. I’m old.