apparently I have huge calves.

I'm kind of distressed. (Note the distressed and slightly disgruntled face below.)


It's fall. And that means it's boot weather. Cool, awesome. I like boots. It's boot season. Amazing. I'm going to go out and buy some boots.

Right?

WRONG.

My stupid calves are cock-blocking my boot wearing abilities. And, believe you me, I can wear boots. Oh, I wear them good. When they fit.

And they aren't.

First, let me tell you a little bit about myself: I walk. I'm a walker. I enjoy walking. For example, last night I walked from Carlton and Church all the way home, which is at Brock and College. Google Maps is now telling me that it was a 4.7KM (or about 3mi) walk. I did it in about 45 minutes.

Yes, see, I like walking. I listen to music and think about how awesome I am. And I'm so awesome I use up that whole 45 minutes. Heck, I even took an extra lap around my block to ensure optimal awesome-thinking time.

Well, now that we've established that I'm awesome... I mean, that I love to walk, let me tell you the one drawback:

My calves. They are huge. Huge. I never really thought so, but I've noticed lately that they definitely bulge and have a lot of definition. And apparently they don't fit into boots.

I just want a nice pair of freakin' knee high, zip-up boots. Maybe even thigh high (woah, dream big). But for now, I'm stuck with ankle boots and a pair of almost-at-my-calves boots.

I'm learning now, from a very intelligent friend, that I could take a pair of boots I really love to a cobbler and have them add a panel and enlarge the shaft of the boot. Wicked. That will definitely work for a pair of rad leather boots.

But what about the red Hunter Wellies I tried to buy today? I'm from England, dammit. I want my Wellies and I want them red and I want them now.


Sigh.

I guess I just wasn't meant to wear Wellies. Or maybe I'm not meant to walk anywhere. But, if I didn't walk anywhere outside (resulting in smaller calves), then I wouldn't have as great a need for Wellies.

Oh. Snap.

[Note: Yes, I know about the Huntress style of Hunters, aka the ones for people with big calves; I guess Huntresses have fat calves, eh. Who knew. But even those are too snug. Damn. I guess I surpass 'Huntress' calf status.]

i could eat you up i love you so

I'm obsessed.







But with good reason. As Where The Wild Things Are is definitely one of the greatest movies of my entire life. And I haven't even lived that long. Woah, eh. Woah.

My friend, Jessie, was kind enough to make that hat for me. And I've been wearing it around everywhere. Because I'm a wild thing. Dur.

The movie blew me away. I wrote about it on my Facebook and posted that below.

Even the soundtrack is perfect. Because, really, Karen O can do no wrong. I've been listening to it non-stop since it came out.

I love Rumpus



and Heads Up



and the single, All Is Love




I want to give Spike Jonze a big hug. And take Max Records home with me and make him my adoptive little brother.

Wild Things:

I wasn’t a huge fan of the book like some kids were. I can't even recall actually reading it. But I remember it. A little boy in a wolf costume goes to bed without dinner and travels to a magical land where he becomes king of the wild things. Truth be told, I was far more interested in princess with pretty dresses when I was little.

But when I saw the first movie stills, I was excited. When I saw the first poster, I was even more excited. And when the first trailer found it’s way onto the internet, my breath caught in my throat and my eyes teared and I knew that Where The Wild Things are was going to be one of those movies that haunts your soul.

And when I saw it last week, I held my breath and fidgeted, waiting for the trailers to finish. I’m all about trailers, but this time, this time I just wanted the movie to start. I was nervous and excited and anxious.

Within two minutes, I was absolutely in love with the film. Within ten minutes, I was crying. And by the end, I was mesmerized.

What was it like? It was angry and confusing and happy and adventurous and dark and hilarious and lonely and bitter and heart aching and heart warming. It was childhood.

I was reading Pink Is The New Blog and Trent complained about the film, claiming the wild things were whiny and 'emo' and too depressing.

I think he missed the point.

The wild things are everything Max is living, all of his experiences and relationships and feelings and thoughts. The good and the bad. He misses his Dad, feels betrayed by his mom, wants a relationship with his older sister. He loves to build forts and going on adventures and just wants to belong. He’s lonely and angry and hurt.

He wants people to listen to him. He wants friends. He wants family. He wants everything to be fun and for everyone to get along. He wants to be a grown up. He wants to be a king. Because then it’s all better, right?

I think a lot of adults today underestimate the depth and intensity of a child’s emotions. No, it isn’t fucking easy. No, it’s not just fun and games. And whether we're lucky enough to trek through childhood without the ache of a divorce or the loss of a family member, there’s still a whole barrage of emotions and experiences and lessons that knock us off our feet.

Max thinks if he’s king of the wild things, everything will be better. He wants to be in charge of them. He promises that they will be shielded from sadness. He wants to make them happy.

Is that what being an adult is about? Figuring out how to control the wild things? How to get them to co-exist in peace? Or is it having the wisdom to know that you just have to let them be? Or is not having any at all?

I don’t really know, myself. I’m barely an adult and my own wild things threaten to consume me at times. But I wake up every morning. I smile. I laugh. I rage. I cry. I run around Queen Street in a hat with ears on it. And when I'm happy, I'm happy. And when I'm sad, I'm sad. I don’t think you could even figure out your wild things in one night, anyhow. Not even with a swimming pool with a trampoline in the bottom or a raccoon named Richard.

And I guess that’s why the critics complain about the lack of resolution in this film. But that isn’t the point for Max. No, he’s just a nine-year-old boy. And at the end of the night, after his adventure, he’s realizes the one truth that matters more than anything else, more than being a king or taming the wild things or figuring life out: he misses his mom.

So he goes home, hugs his mom, has dinner, and that’s that.