Prisoner of the Martians

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 13:02:29 -0500

In honor of Academy Awards week, the question came up, “What’s your favorite movie?” By “favorite,” I’m assuming the definition found in Downey’s Third Revised International Dictionary: a Frankly Alarming and Vexatious Opportunity to Realize I’m Tacky beyond Explanation.

And the winner is: Mars Attacks!

A regrettable and embarrassing choice. Smarter people than me have already pointed out that Mars Attacks! is not so much a parody of a bad movie, as it is—a bad movie. But my copy is worn out at the spot where the dove of peace gets blown out of the sky. This is the essence of my Mars Attacks! experience. In other—better—spoofs, I am distracted by witty dialog, clever plot and inspiring acting. No danger of that here. Jack Nicholson and a truckload of other heavyweights were wasted in this movie, so I skip right to the good parts. Martians blowing up the Taj Mahal. Skewering the president. Martians in their underwear, reading Playboy.

I fein disgust at the sight of Sarah Jessica Parker’s head attached to the body of her pooch. But isn’t that what I’ve secretly wanted for all the snotty girls with great clothes, who were mean to me in high school?

I’m not proud of myself. I don’t want to like Mars Attacks! I would prefer to go on record extolling the genius of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, or Citizen Kane. But I’m as much a captive of the Martians as Pierce Brosnan was. It makes me feel like a kid again, building a house with Lincoln Logs, just so I can knock it down.

The best (or maybe worst) part of Mars Attacks! is the after-effect. For days after watching it, I announce my entry into every room in the house with, “Ack. Ack ack. We come in peace.”

Gucci Syndrome

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 12:02:39 -0500

Like Newton’s apple, my favorite handbag fell off the closet shelf and hit me on the head. Sir Isaac discovered gravity. I discovered the Gucci Syndrome. I’m always a little tense, because what I’ve got doesn’t measure up to what I want.

I had wanted a yellow purse. At first it was a passing thought to which I paid little attention. But left alone in the caverns of my psyche, it fed on itself, until it erupted into full-blown obsession. I would be a better person, if I owned a yellow purse.

I stalked department stores, in search of this transformative handbag. And I found yellow purses. Tote bags, wallets, clutches. But they weren’t perfect. It had to be a shoulder bag. I found shoulder bags in shades of mustard, lemon and gold. They weren’t right either. It had to be daffodil. In fact, I found a yellow purse, twenty-five times. But each discovery propelled me further into the search. I wanted a different yellow purse.
The quest gave purpose to my life. I alone understood its significance. I couldn’t share the journey with girlfriends, because they would taint it with their own ideas about the perfect yellow purse.

The pursuit lasted for a year. And then while visiting my younger, hipper California sister, I let down my guard. “You know,” I said, “I’ve been wanting a yellow purse.”

“Really? I’ve got one you can have and it’s brand new.” She went to her closet and pulled out a box. The cutest little yellow bag. Daffodil. A designer purse – Gucci. A free purse. A bag better bag than my imagination had created. My sister had ended my quest, by giving me the perfect yellow purse.

The Gucci collected compliments immediately. The young women who checked me out at Price Chopper stopped their work to admire it. They pointed to my purse and squealed, “Oh-mi-god. I love your purse.” My status had grown.

I sent my sister a singing card to thank her for the gift. She called right away to thank me for the card. I gushed over her generosity. The magic Gucci bag had improved my relationship, as well as my image. I was a better person. I was happy.

Until a microscopic worn spot appeared on the little daffodil purse. I decided to save it for special occasions. Now I needed another yellow bag to carry so that the Gucci would last forever.

During the after-Christmas sales, I haunted the accessories departments in Kohl’s and Macy’s. At home, I googled yellow handbag, and spent two hours online staring at tiny photos—every day—for three weeks. I stumbled out of bed and went straight to the laptop. Prices had plummeted since the economy tanked, and while others checked stock tickers and 401K balances, I was glued to the falling prices on yellow handbags.

After three hours on the first day of the fourth week of the internet search, my mouth dry and crusty, sleep still in my eyes, I dragged myself to the closet to get dressed. And when my little purse fell off the shelf, and hit me on the head, I discovered the Gucci Syndrome.

I’ve already got the perfect yellow bag. But I’m tense, because I want—I will always want—a different yellow bag.

If you ask me, I’ll tell you that I 've got a perfect life. And yet, a thousand times a day, I want to tweak it—just a bit.
When I had an hour’s commute to my job, I wanted to work closer to home. When I worked fifteen minutes away, I still complained. Now I work at home, in a chair two steps away from the bed. But on a winter morning, I dread walking over to that chair. I don’t even want to stick my big toe out of the covers. I’m a little tense.

I have the perfect commute. But I want a different commute.

A trip to the refrigerator on any summer day becomes a source of aggravation. In a search for something cold to drink, I push aside the orange juice, cranberry juice and bottled water. I want diet 7-Up. And I’m a little tense.

I’ve got something cold to drink. But I want a different something cold to drink.

I keep telling myself that I’m going to age gracefully. All I want is a healthy body. Then I can’t button last year’s jeans. And I’m tense.

You see, I’ve got a healthy body. I want a different healthy body.

Since the Gucci hit me on the head, I have ventured off on fewer quests for perfection. Those journeys are like internet searches—windows opening onto other better windows, until I’ve forgotten what I’m looking for.

I’m less tense. I hum On the Road Again, as I commute from the bed to the chair. I buy bigger jeans. And I will carry my little yellow bag until it falls apart.

Dawn Downey's Open Salon Blog

Prisoner of the Martians

Gucci Syndrome