Some Kind of Monster

My second favorite music documentary (after Young@Heart) is this one. Larry and I saw it twice, and pretty much giggled and nudged each other all the way through it. It's named after the Metallica album of the same name, and is ostensibly a documentary about how this band puts together an album. The title should really be: Metallica Goes To Group Therapy. 

That's what it's really about. And further, it's about Phil, their nerdy therapist, who charges $40K per month, per month, to sit on a sectional couch with these guys and get them to talk about their feelings. The fact that filmmakers were allowed in the room at all leaves me speechless. But thank God they were there to catch it all. Pretty soon Phil moves in and pretty much decides he's part of the band. And then they fire him. And if you think you need therapy, this is the film that will cure you of that notion forever.

Two years later, and a half dozen lines from this movie are still standby quotes for Larry, including, "My lifestyle determines my death style, man."

The Blue Tarp of Doom

Larry's comment on this was: If we thought this house couldn't get any uglier, we were so wrong.

It started the night before Christmas. We'd had a snow storm and then warmer weather, then more snow, then rain. And that's when the ice dams on our roof made way for rivers of water to come pouring in. We had leaks in every room of the house. Larry emptied the plastic bins of summer clothes we keep under the kids' beds and put them along one wall of the living room. The plop, plopping kept us on edge for two days. And we got to see how we deal with anxiety. Larry turns wite-faced and paces around trying to find new leaks, cursing to himself about how much he hates the house, our careers, this life. 

Me? I bake. 

I must have made 20 dozen cookies during that one day. Gingerbread men and women with icing and sprinkles. Sugar cookies individually decorated. These chocolate cookies with mint icing (that's really an Andes mint melted on top). I made lemon squares. I made biscotti. Two types of biscotti. I'm a little surprised that Larry didn't slap my face to snap me out of it, but he didn't. He was too busy in his own spiral of panic. 

The day after Christmas we called a contractor who drew up the plans we'd asked about for renovating the house. Of course, we can't afford to renovate the house. Still, we're getting the roof done. We'll have to worry about the interior later.  Step one: Tarp the house against new snow and rain damage. So we spent about ten days in the blue tarp lockdown pictured above. 

S's response was to go outside and refuse to come back into the house. She wouldn't come in here. She took her little sled up the hill and rode down over and over again, squealing her delight. No coat. No hat. No gloves. We told her how cold she must be. We begged her to come in. No dice. She just wanted to sled and sled and keep an eye on the guys with the tarp and the hammers and scrap wood. Finally we carried her in. 

I know how she feels.