Triple Feature Weekend.

For four years I went to school literally - literally - next (well, okay, not literally, but it was pretty damn close) to a ski resort. I only went there once to go snow tubing one night my freshman year, although I always wanted to go skiing. On Friday, when the opportunity arose for a day-trip to Wisconsin to ski, I was really excited. And then, immediately, I started to picture myself not in ski gear but covered in snow after falling down a mountain. Would I be able to get on the lift? Would I be able to keep my feet straight in those skis? What the hell would I wear to go skiing? The romantic (?) idea of skiing were suddenly replaced with images of myself. Dead. On a mountain. Awkwardly clutching two ski poles with my frost-bitten hands. Also, the stories my parents always told about their one skiing trip, which involved plowing down an old lady ("I was yelling and screaming for the bitch to get out of my way!") and hemorrhoids ("I woke up the next morning in bed and said, "What the hell is that?").

I chickened out, although I may have said I would go skiing at a later date so I would have enough time to prepare myself.

Instead of skiing, I watched some memorable movies: The Family Stone, To Sir, with Love, and The Devil Wears Prada.

I came home on Saturday afternoon to find Nicole watching The Family Stone. It was relatively close to the beginning, so I sat down to watch it with her. My first reaction was: "Oh, great. Dermot Mulroney is in this. This is going to be so awkwardly depressing." (I've discovered recently that every romantic comedy featuring Dermot Mulroney is really sad and makes me feel ill at ease. See The Wedding Date and Must Love Dogs. His only stand-out movie is My Best Friend's Wedding, which, while depressing, is actually entertaining and doesn't make me want to hang myself.) My hypothesis certainly applies to The Family Stone. Craig T. Nelson is in it, whose presence in a movie post-Poltergeist II is strange, but now that he's so old (read: over fifty (sorry, Dad)), I could only think about how rough Coach is looking these days. Then there's Sarah Jessica Parker, whose pulled-up hair didn't do much for her face, which was at maximum horsiness. Luke Wilson was bloated, Rachel McAdams was mousy, and Claire Danes showed up with Vicki Vale hair and did what she did best: the bitch stole someone else's man. And then there were the other siblings (the ones played by unknown actors): there was another sister who was knocked up and already had a preteen and whose workaholic husband was not in the picture, and the deaf, gay son who was about to adopt a child with his African-American partner (can't we think of any more obstacles for dear Thad?). I had to throw in the towel during the love scene in which Craig T. Nelson fondles Diane Keaton's character's mastectomy scar.

I watched To Sir, with Love because my friend Meredith recommended it to me when I decided I wanted to be Mod. I was kind of weary of it, simply because it was one of those inspirational teacher movies, and since I was pretty sure Sidney Poitier didn't smoke crack like the protagonist in my favorite inspirational (sort of) teacher movie, I wasn't expecting to enjoy it as much as I did. While it is a little dated (and oddly so, since there's some miscegenational teacher-student infatuation, which I can only assume did not cause an uproar because, as my grandmother might say, Sidney Poitier is one of the Good Ones), it was still entertaining. I especially enjoyed this bitchin' photographic montage of Poitier and Co. as they walked around The Museum of Natural History, as well as Poitier's speeches about how the girls should avoid being so sluttish so their men will treat them nicer. It's such a positive message.

I'd also avoided The Devil Wears Prada because it was based on a popular chicklit novel, but then Meryl Streep had to go and star in it. One Meryl Streep, however, cancels out Anne Hathaway, one Stanley Tucci, and at least two members of the supporting cast, and since guys who write entire books about Wrigleyville could enjoy it, I figured it I might, as well. And yeah, the story is kind of trite and predictable, and Anne Hathaway's voice sounds similar to a dying cat, and her friend who is all "I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE ANYMORE!" was in Rent, which made me digress in my head WHILE WATCHING A MOVIE (I have a problem, obvs.) and remember how much I hated, hated, hated that movie, but it was enjoyable.

As much as I'd like to come up with some conclusion, I can't, simply because I'm at work when I should be at home reflecting the life and accomplishments Martin Luther King, Jr. (orrr sleeping), and I just spent over an hour writing this. If half of the office is taking today off, I'm not going to feel guilty for blogging about Netflix rentals.