| pack | vi | (fill a room with people) | entasser vtr ⇒ | ||
| The concert hall was so packed that you couldn't even see the band. | |||||
| *Ils ont entassé les prisonniers dans les wagons. | |||||
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Sometimes I seriously wonder about WordReference.com
Monday, June 23, 2008
She thought she wanted a ring with diamonds but she really wanted a diamond ring
I'll say it: I'm a fool for shallow movies. Something about watching female protagonists who, say, would commit a violent crime for a pair of Manolo Blahniks gives me a strange sort of hope.
In the past week I have seen the Sex and the City movie and "Priceless," starring Audrey Tatou. Tatou plays Irène, a glorified hooker, a trophy girlfriend whose prizes come with a price tag.
The unexpected result of these two moviegoing experiences has been that I feel more comfortable than ever in my own skin. Women are meant to idolize the likes of Carrie Bradshaw. And why not? There are about a million dollars worth of couture between our worlds. Hey, any woman would be envious!
Strangely, I'm not going to preach about looks not mattering. They do. Call me superficial (I call myself "aesthetically concerned"), but I have a society-induced overly critical eye when it comes to my appearance.
The good news is that the only standards I force myself to live up to are my own. The bad news is that my standards are set at unrealistic levels.
I can't say for certain why Carrie Bradshaw makes me feel wonderful. I think that when I spend a movie with characters like Carrie and Irène, I don't see the unattainable aspects of their appearances (like $525 gorgeous Blahniks), but our similarities. My hair is a lot like Carrie's. I have zits, and she has a mole. (At least mine go away.) I'm probably as thin as she is.
It's an obvious point to make, but please allow me because trust me, it's a big one by my book: Sarah Jessica Parker doesn't have much on me. I might even have one or two on her.
At the end of the day, we're much alike. Except I sleep in underwear and a tee without a long strand of pearls. Sorry, Carrie.
I also disagree with critics of Sex and the City who write it off as being irrelevant to real life. No one knows where Carrie Bradshaw's money comes from (and it seems to be an endless stream), but at least she spends it on clothes and not Botox (which she abhors). For how much she's willing to drop on a pair of shoes, she is an extremely real woman, whose mascara runs and who sometimes puts on too much makeup by accident, whose hair is frizzy and whose fingers are fat and masculine. She doesn't have perfect skin, and she looks awful when she cries.
So lay off my Sex and the City. Give me 40-something, unairbrushed, old-maid-stood-up-at-her-own-wedding Carrie and her realistic love woes any day.
And as for the shoes--a girl can dream, right?
In the past week I have seen the Sex and the City movie and "Priceless," starring Audrey Tatou. Tatou plays Irène, a glorified hooker, a trophy girlfriend whose prizes come with a price tag.
The unexpected result of these two moviegoing experiences has been that I feel more comfortable than ever in my own skin. Women are meant to idolize the likes of Carrie Bradshaw. And why not? There are about a million dollars worth of couture between our worlds. Hey, any woman would be envious!
Strangely, I'm not going to preach about looks not mattering. They do. Call me superficial (I call myself "aesthetically concerned"), but I have a society-induced overly critical eye when it comes to my appearance.
The good news is that the only standards I force myself to live up to are my own. The bad news is that my standards are set at unrealistic levels.
I can't say for certain why Carrie Bradshaw makes me feel wonderful. I think that when I spend a movie with characters like Carrie and Irène, I don't see the unattainable aspects of their appearances (like $525 gorgeous Blahniks), but our similarities. My hair is a lot like Carrie's. I have zits, and she has a mole. (At least mine go away.) I'm probably as thin as she is.
It's an obvious point to make, but please allow me because trust me, it's a big one by my book: Sarah Jessica Parker doesn't have much on me. I might even have one or two on her.
At the end of the day, we're much alike. Except I sleep in underwear and a tee without a long strand of pearls. Sorry, Carrie.
I also disagree with critics of Sex and the City who write it off as being irrelevant to real life. No one knows where Carrie Bradshaw's money comes from (and it seems to be an endless stream), but at least she spends it on clothes and not Botox (which she abhors). For how much she's willing to drop on a pair of shoes, she is an extremely real woman, whose mascara runs and who sometimes puts on too much makeup by accident, whose hair is frizzy and whose fingers are fat and masculine. She doesn't have perfect skin, and she looks awful when she cries.
So lay off my Sex and the City. Give me 40-something, unairbrushed, old-maid-stood-up-at-her-own-wedding Carrie and her realistic love woes any day.
And as for the shoes--a girl can dream, right?
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
They Told Her She Looked Different SInce They'd Seen Her Last
Somehow I always pull in to town listening to the "Here We Go," the first track on Dispatch's Bang Bang. There's no significance to that song, really. It just sounds good with the windows down. I always come into Yellow Springs with my windows down, no matter the temperature. I also always drive south on OH-68 until its intersection with Limestone Street, even if I'm ultimately headed in the opposite direction.
You tell me.
You tell me.
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