Thursday, May 27, 2010

1 Year Ago Today

So, it's May 27th, and a lot of fabulous things happened on this day. My Aunt Barbara was born today (it really should be a national holiday), as was my Freshman & Junior year college roommate, Frances. In addition, one of my best friends, J-Stan, celebrates her two-year work anniversary today! (you go, J-Stan!). And last but not least, it's been one whole year since I've started dating this studly son-of-a-gun:

A future so bright, he needs shades.
Happy 1-year Anniversary, Sean!

We're celebrating this mini-milestone with a trip to Memphis for Memorial Day weekend!! He's pumped since he's never been, and he'll get to meet some (but not all) of my BFF's from Rhodes. He also has a little target on his back thanks to this little game of Bros Icing Bros. I'm assuming he'll return on Monday night with a strong sense of Memphis culture, as well as Type II Diabetes. Stay tuned.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The Happy Book

So I tweeted about a week ago that I was going to make a book devoted entirely to things that: make me happy/I like/are way out of my price range at the given moment/you get the idea. So basically I created my "Happy Book." Here is just a little peek:

Before you roll your eyes and accuse me of being a material girl, living in a material world, I have to say that the book is not entirely "things." (Don't get me wrong; there's enough Pottery Barn in here to supply its own warehouse, but there is some substance as well, I swear). Any news articles, interesting editorials, etc. have also made their way in here. I would put pictures of family and friends in here, but c'mon...we all know where all of THOSE go! (But in case you didn't know, in one of my 9,387 frames.) But anywho, there's an amazing article that was in this month's GQ:

 Yes, GQ. They have interesting articles, and 9 times out of 10 there's a hunk on the cover. I suggest you invest.

This issue featured a man in China who actually stands on the bridge over the Yangtze River and pulls those who are trying to fling themselves off of it back from the brink of death. I am probably the only jackass who has cried whilst reading GQ, but it was such a moving story that if you get the chance to read it, do it. I tried to find a copy online to put on the blog, but unfortunately, it was not available. sad.

Usually with magazines like Glamour or Cosmo, I just kind of glaze over most of the articles, but every once and awhile, they'll have a little blurb on some random page that will catch my eye, I'll read it, and little lightbulb will go off in my head.

That's not me, but it looks like she just had an "aha" moment too.

Hiding on the side of one of these magazines was a little blurb simply titled "Missing You."  I could describe it, but I'll just let you read it for yourself:

Sorry it's a little ghetto, but I had to scan it.

Kind of makes you think, doesn't it? Hopefully I can find some more little nuggets like this. I know this little trick to improve my mood really worked...hence why it was placed in my Happy Book. On days if/when I'm feeling down, I'm hoping I'll be able to just peruse this book and it will help lift my spirits, and I'll feel a little more like this, sans Prozac:


Saturday, May 22, 2010

Publix: Where Shopping is a Pleasure. right?

You would think you'd find the more bizarre people in local dive bars, tourist traps, maybe even loitering outside of liquor stores. But, you'd be wrong. At least if you live in south Florida. In that case, all you have to do is go grocery shopping.

I call BS.

Don't get me wrong, the people who work at Publix are always really friendly and helpful; it's the creepy people you find there on random Wednesday afternoons that you have to look out for. 


I could probably describe numerous awkward encounters I've had at Publix, I feel like it's a daily occurrence. If you go to the Tallahassee Publix right near our apartment, it's ALL college students, and so Christina and I lovingly call it Club Pub. If you go to the one right around the corner from my house, however, you get the buses from the retirement community, Century Village. The name of the community says it all: I'm convinced that that's how long the people who exit said bus have been on this planet.

"Why yes Milton, I DID find the laxatives!"

They're fine to shop's really only a problem when this same group of ancient Magellans are trying to navigate their way around the Publix parking lot, when the same bus that brought them there is (still) waiting for them RIGHT OUTSIDE THE STORE. Again, funny to watch, but not an issue until I'm trying to drive out of the shopping center and I have to dodge them like pot holes. But, I digress.

Two days ago, I was pushing an abnormally hefty cart, and it was one of those carts where one of the wheels blatantly just doesn't move. So I was ineptly trying to lift the cart around a turn into the coffee aisle, actually sweating at this point, when this 30-something man in a preppy-looking outfit stopped and looked at me for what felt like 10 minutes. Then, he dropped this incredible nugget of knowledge and, might I say, informative wisdom from his lips:

"Heavy cart there, eh?"

Heavy cart? Noooo silly, it's not HEAVY! I just like to lift my shopping carts around the corners like a spaz to confuse my fellow shoppers!

I would have just considered this your run-of-the-mill-thank-you-Captain-Obvious comment if he hadn't creepily, full-on winked after he said it. Was there a sexual innuendo that I was missing here? Was "cart" a euphamism for something else? More importantly, was he going to help me with my cart since I was clearly struggling? Either way, I felt awkward, so I quickly pushed/lifted/carried/ran into small children with/ my heavy cart to the check-out line like Sisyphus pushing his rock up the mountain.

Unfortunately, my new friend was RIGHT behind me in this check-out line.

And I don't mean figuratively, I mean literally, RIGHT behind me. Breathing down my neck and at least 3 inches within my personal space bubble.

"Shopping really is a pleasure, eh?"

I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, (or maybe it was just his awful hot breath that was just simply making them move). But it took the woman in front of me (clearly one of the Century Village candidates) about 4 hours to give the cashier exact change, and finally move her cart forward. While the lyrics to "Don't Stand So Close to Me" reverberated in my head, I had to keep shifting my weight, pretend to look at magazines, check my watch, look for any and all EXIT signs in case of emergency, etc. And still, the close-breather did. not. move. If anything, I'm convinced he got closer, until the woman in front of me finally moved. I purchased my items and BOLTED out of Publix. Well, not really bolted, but methodically lifted and pushed my cart as fast as I could until I got to my car.

This is just a cautionary tale: if you think your personal space is invaded in a bar, or even a club, you haven't seen anything until you've shopped at Club Pub.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Spring cleaning....eating? Nope, let's stick with cleaning.

Sorry for the lack of posts, but we're still in the process of trying to renovate the house! Part of this process is tearing every drawing and/or doodle my mom has saved since I was 4 years old from her hands, and forcing it into the garbage getting rid of all of the clutter. I don't know if any of you have ever seen the show "Absolutely Fabulous" (it might still be on BBC in syndication), but it was absolutely hysterical, and I have almost every episode (on VHS). 

Edina & Patsy

It's basically about two middle-aged British women who do nothing but drink their way through their 40's; (their years in their 40's...not to be confused with actual 40 oz malt beverages). Anyways, there's an episode where Edina - one of the two drunken protagonists, wants to clean the house, and she keeps squawking that she needs "clean surfaces! cleeeeeeeeeean surfaces!!" For some reason I still think it's one of the funniest episodes in all of the seasons of the show, and still  find it challenging not to pee in my pants whenever I watch it.

I guess this was a bit of a tangent, but the take-home messages here are a) you need to watch the show if you haven't, and b) this phrase has also been a running joke for a long time between Lisa and I, namely whenever we need to clean the house. (We say it with full-on, awful, British accents, usually multiple times...the whole nine yards. Yes, we're THAT cool in the Bellocchio household.)

With the whole "clean surfaces" mantra in mind, after my little sleep-aid kicked in last night, I felt it necessary to eat everything non-perishable inside of clean out our fridge and organize it. There was no resin to step in this time, so I was free to prance around the kitchen without consequence. I did actually clean out the fridge, but that was not not until I did some snacking. (duh). Much to the dismay of my poor mother, its turns out that the fruit of her loins has become some strange hybrid of a daughter, with the cleaning tendencies of an OCD maid and the appetite of a truck driver.

I wish there was a before and after picture of my handiwork, but I guess there was a significant difference. Lisa was so impressed with my work on the fridge that she left another one of her infamous notes for me this morning! I really should start saving these.

oh I don't know, Lisa! Whose refrigerator is it!? Hopefully not ours, because there's no longer any food in it!! (excluding the delicious Ensure on the right ::gag:: and excessively large vat of yogurt on the left).

...and massive amounts of condiments...and I know for a fact that that lonely hummus container with the red lid hiding next to the pudding is definitely empty. oops.

Unfortunately, I can't account for what was actually eaten, and what was thrown away because of expiration dates. However, if my next post is written by way of hospital room bed, you'll know that I got some wires crossed last night and probably ate some canned artichoke hearts, circa 2006.

In the coming weeks I've been informed that we're going to be pressure cleaning the back patio and doing some touch-up painting. The last time I painted was during the summer of 2008, when I helped Emj paint her brother's room in Cape Cod a nice, clean, white color. I also neglected to wear a hat--(apparently one of the first rules of painting, who knew?) and for the rest of the summer I looked like Rogue's mentally challenged relative, and I don't have enough fingers or toes to count the number of people who asked me if I was "going gray a little early."

Clearly I am nowhere as attractive as Anna Paquin, nor did my "streak of white" look as purposefully placed as hers. But the amount that plopped onto my head wasn't far off. Either way, what I am trying to convey here is that these coming weeks of renovating should be interesting. I'll keep you posted.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Driving Miss Daisy

I like to think that I am an evenly-tempered individual, and you really have to do something heinous for me to hold a grudge. However, all of this rationality is completely tossed aside once I get behind the wheel. Yes, I have the absolute WORST case of road rage I have yet seen surpassed.

However, in an ironic twist of fate, I have been told (multiple times) that I really don't possess the superior driving skills to warrant such road rage. Actually, the words used typically are: "Wow, Court, you're a pretty bad driver" or " could have gone like 7 cars ago, what are you waiting for?" or "You have another 4 miles before the exit, why are you getting over NOW?" or my personal favorite: "How have you not gotten a ticket yet? this isn't f*cking NASCAR!"

Yes, yes it is.

Either way, I like to consider myself a polite and poised individual, but God help you if you're over 80, turn out of your retirement development and cut me off while I'm doing 60, only to creep around your turn at 10 mph. And really, that's all south Florida is. Don't even get me started on Tallahassee, where they don't understand what that little stick poking out of their driving wheel is for. It's a turning signal, you half-wits. I digress.

I worked at 50+ community for a little while after I graduated college, so there were some over 60's who were pretty cool, but I'm pretty sure many of them wanted to nail me with their golf balls when I drove in thumping Lil' Wayne at 7 AM, just when they were about to tee off.

"If I double-bogey this hole I'm blaming that damn Jetta, and not the interference of my awesome hat."

It's just so happens that whenever Nichole calls to check on me in my travels from Tally to West Palm Beach (such a good friend), she ALWAYS catches me right when I'm screaming obscenities at the driver in front of me. Usually it's some college chick, talking on her cell phone/eating a sandwich/doing her nails/performing surgery all at the same time, with some incredibly witty vanity plate that says something to the effect of "2cute4U", going 55 in the left lane in front of me. She more than likely has a Beamer or an Audi with Greek sorority letters on the back, (not that I stereotype or anything....)
Anyways, every conversation begins "Coco, (that's what she's called me as long as I can remember), we've talked about this. Stop screaming and relax. Don't give them the finger. no, No, NO NO NO don't call her that!"

I had come to terms with my road rage, until the other day when I hit an all-time low. I was cruising down one of the streets in my neighborhood, when I came up behind a Buick LeSabre that clearly was driving itself. The little old woman driving it was either utilizing a periscope to see over the wheel, or this was some government project gone horribly awry. Either way, I was trying to make it to I-95 before rush hour traffic, and Driving Miss Daisy was not helping the situation.

So I give her two polite beeps...
I give another beep...
Not even phased! She actually speeds up (imagine that) so I can't pass her.
Finally I just lay on my horn...and little Miss Dale Earnhardt lays on hers right back!!

So she wants a duel, huh? Two can play this game. I roll down my window and give her the finger (classy), and swerve around her, passing her on the right.


...only then I look over to the passenger seat. Sitting there is her poor husband, looking at me. frowning. sadly. with an oxygen tank he is breathing from attached to his face.

Morality/common decency/SANITY: 1
Courtney: 0
Ever since I've reflected on my "duel" with this little old lady I've been trying to curb my road rage. So far, the only thing that's worked is listening to my Glee soundtrack in my car when I'm driving in my neighborhood. Only Finn's "I'll Stand By You" and Mercedes' Dreamgirls renditions seem to mellow me out.
I am clearly Rachel in this scene, after morally hitting rock-bottom, flipping the bird to a little old man on oxygen support. Thank goodness for Finn's vocals.

So, if anyone else has some "remedies" for road rage....please send them my way before I drag-race another AARP candidate. 

Monday, May 10, 2010

Don't Step on this ode to Nichole

She's my best friend: and she asked for it, so she got it. This is a long one, so if you're bored at work, get ready. This post will be entirely dedicated to Nichole Roche (and it's not pronounced like you'd think from the title, it's a soft "C")
...however, when asked in the 4th grade how to say her last name correctly, she would quickly reply with a response that would prompt you to believe she was the descendent of some pastry, or famous chocolate: "for your information, it's pronounced roh-SHAY." She would even insert an accent above the "e" when she wrote her name. (She has since now ceased this habit).
Clearly, our parents both decided we should go through the dreaded "straight-across-the-forehead bang stage" simultaneously, maybe to soften the ridicule. I still don't know why they did this to us. And I still don't know why she's squinting so forcefully.

Anyways, if you don't personally know Nichole (a) it's your loss, but (b) there are some pretty funny memories I have of this girl. So let me start with a disclaimer here: Although many of the little anecdotes will ensue laughter at the expense of Nichole, she is my oldest friend (BFF for 20 years...sandbox love doesn't die, people.) And I can say with all honesty that she is the most genuine, honest, loyal, down to earth person/friend/human being that I have ever known in my entire 24 years on this planet. If you were stranded on a highway in the middle of nowhere, Nichole would be the one that would willingingly drag her ass out of bed at any hour to come get you, and probably swing by Wendy's on the way home to get you food. With that having been said, meet Nichole:

Nichole...thugging it out with Bogey

As far back as I can remember, besides golf, soccer, basketball, basically every single sport she has ever tried (and excelled in), Nichole's other main hobby in life was to find different ways to slowly torture and/or annoy me.

Exhibit A: She would play the "not touching game," where she would position herself on the arm of my chair, with her fingers waving in front of my face like tiny chinese torture devices...but I could do nothing because, as mentioned before, she was "not touching me." This would go on for what seemed like hours.

Exhibit B: When this did not sufficiently annoy me, she would physically slap me upside the head with the force of an Andy Roddick tennis serve, wait for a reaction (ANY reaction), smile the widest, most angelic grin you've ever seen, and with a hint of demonic playfulness in her high-pitched voice, claim: "What? I didn't do anything. WHAT?"

As you can see from this next photo, this "game"  permeated into other aspects of our childhood, and unfortunately the "slaps" were not restricted to the use of hands alone:

Here she is, literally caught in the act, winding up to smack me with her racquet. (and no, it's not a coincidence, she did hit me; I remember because I cried like a pansy for the better part of an hour--and it wasn't because I was dressed like that).

I'll tell you later (maybe) about how she's developed into an amazing woman (as I was writing this she called to tell me she finished her last exam and her first year of law school! WOO!) But first, my favorite memory of Nichole in childhood was this:

One fateful day we both frolicked in the ocean at the Breakers, only to soon realize that we were plagued with the WORST case of sea lice known to man. Our family's remedy was to just douse ourselves in calamine lotion and not scratch. However, Nichole had other remedies...

Nichole used to live down the street from me, so I decided that as a rational 8 year old, we should suffer together in an environment with tons of Disney movies. Well, imagine my surprise when I entered the Roche household, and all I could hear was Nichole's SCREAMING. I couldn't understand where it came from, then all of a sudden, the image before me was much like Christian Bale, flying through the air as Batman at the speed of light with that winged cape;

....Only this batman was ass-naked, covered in bug bites and calamine lotion, and was running through the hall with a towel behind her screaming at the top of her lungs. My remedy was calamine lotion (and to remain fully clothed); my best friend found that "cool air whooshing over her body" worked best for her. To each his own. That image will forever be burned in my head.

But those were the days when we were young and stupid...right? That was then, this is now:


This was at Halloween Horror Nights in 2008. It ended up being very chilly at night, and we knew when we entered Islands of Adventure at around 3 that we probably shouldn't go on any "wet" rides. At least, that's what the normal theme parkers did---even the stereotypical Asian tourists with the huge cameras and Disney ponchos didn't go on the flume/wet rides. But wait! who is that poor soul on the Popeye Barge ride....?

Yes. That is Nichole. all by herself. on the water ride. Call her silly, but we'll just call it a testament to her dedication to riding EVERY ride in Islands of Adventure since there were no lines.
I guess what you can say about Nichole is that she's a gal who sticks to her guns. Even against adversity. And even when you are, in fact, agreeing with her, and YOU, even, are actually sticking to HER guns, as well. Enter New Years 2008:
At Slainte, the pub she worked at/frequented while we were both in between college and grad school/law school.

Let me set the stage for you: It's New Years, Nichole, Lizzy and Jimmy (Nichole's parents) and I have set up shop at Slainte "Slahn-chuh" (which is "Cheers!" in Gaelic, for those who are uncultured) ...For the record, whenever Nichole pronounced the name of this pub I thought she was saying "Cilantro," so up until we actually entered the pub I assumed it was some kind of Spanish restaurant that specialized in dishes that featured cilantro.

Anywho, Nichole knows all of the bartenders so we continue to receive free drinks/shots/jagerbombs...etc. Somehow, at some point, Lizzy tells Nichole that she's leaving, I'm assuming it's around 1:30 (Lizzy can party). This brief conversation gets taken WAY out of proportion, which leaves Nichole bawling in my arms outside of Slainte at 2 AM repeating:

"I'm not f*cking  going home, Court! I'm not, I'm just not!"
Concerned, I try to calm her down "It's cool Nik, we'll just go to another bar"
Rationally, her response was: "NO! ffff*ck you Court, I'mm NOT goingg home"Again, I try to reason with Mrs. Captain Morgan: "I know, we're not going home, let's go to a different bar, really its going to be okay"
This conversation repeats itself for a good five minutes, with a couple 4-letter words I decided best to leave out.

At this point, there has been a creepy older man who has been trying to strike my fancy for the better part of the evening, and in an even creepier turn of events, this pervy middle-aged school teacher "shining white knight" decides to pull up in his Jetta and offer us a ride to the bar. Nichole, instantly taking him up on his offer, (since this is not creepy AT ALL), literally swan dives into his backseat and demands he take us to Cucina in Palm Beach. (Slainte is in Lake Worth, Cucina is about 20 min away on the the creepy math here, people). I can't let her get in alone, so I hop into the peterass wagon and we head to Cucina.
I know this wasn't the smartest thing either of us have ever done, but we're both still here so let's not dwell on my poor judgment. Luckily I was a little inebriated, because I have no idea what we talked about for 20 minutes in transit, but apparently he deemed Nichole "a real pain in the ass." (how rude.)

...In the end, we made it to Cucina, and then to Bradley's. and then back to Nichole's at around 6 AM. An eventful and successful New Years'.

It has become a common habit of my buddy for life to weep when she gets a little saucy, and I've come to embrace the messages left on my voicemail at 3 am, usually from the floor of bar bathroom from the bottom of her heart. Maybe she needs advice, or just a distraction from vomiting. Either way it makes me happy I'm on her mind.

I could go on for pages and pages about this girl. But if you take one look in my house, you will notice that Lisa actually loves Nichole more than she loves me. No really, there are more pictures of Nichole in some rooms than myself (which is hard to believe if you know my mother). Nichole has always had my back, and to prove this statement she has literally threatened every boyfriend I've had in one way or another (even the 225 wide receiver from Kent). For all intents and purposes, she is more like my sistah from another mistah than a best friend, because I think it's more meaningful that way.
"Rufus, Brint, and Meekus were like brothers to me. And when I say brother, I don't mean, like, an actual brother, but I mean it like the way black people use it. Which is more meaningful I think." Zoolander anyone? (Movie Mondays for you...oops. there it is.)

Nik, you know I could go on for hours about you, but unfortunately, I think after page 10 people might stop reading. but here is your dedication, and I love you. And here is the final picture to prove it:

Nichole = EPIC, in so many ways. I'm proud to be your friend.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010


First off, Happy Cinco de Mayo everyone! Unfortunately, this post will have absolutely nothing to do with Cinco de Mayo, I probably won't address the holiday until tomorrow after I've celebrated properly. After massive amounts of tequila the last thing I'll want to do tonight is blog....well actually, maybe I will, but for your sake, I won't.  BUT, if you want a killer margarita for tonight, check out my friend J-Stan's Blog for a really good recipe. Ben makes amazing margs.

^This feisty brunette is obviously me, in my sombrero.....just kidding, Teletubbies don't wear sombreros.

Secondly, my BFF 4 Life, Nichole, verbally accosted me via blackberry for not addressing her in my blog kindly asked that I include her in my blog. She was spouting smoke from her ears and gritting her teeth a little upset that she hadn't been mentioned yet. I told her today's post was going to be about her, but unfortunately, I lied. Nik, if you're reading this, you know great masterpieces take time. And quite frankly, you have your law finals this week so you shouldn't be reading this!!! SO GO STUDY! You will have an entire post that will basically be a dedication to your existence, I swear. love you. mean it.

Ok, so now on to what I'm actually going to talk about. If you know me, then you know that I have a SICK obsession with frames. Whenever I go to Target, Homegoods, BB&B, both Nichole and Christina have physically had to remove me from the frame section. Afterwards, I go through a moment of withdrawal, and I find myself lost and wandering aimlessly in the bedding or diningware section, sad and strung out like a crackhead waiting for a hit. It's an addiction, it really is.


I can say that I'm about 95% positive that if you're my friend, and you've received a gift from me in the last 4 years, I'm sorry to say that it was probably some kind of picture frame. With some kind of black and white picture in it. With a quote (probably written in white) that has some reference to the deeper meanings of life, examples:

1. "If we get a little crazy, just blame it on the alcohol"
2. “Get up and dance, get up and smile, get up and drink to the days that are gone in the shortest while.”
3. "you are not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on" -Joe Lewis

....see a recurring theme here?

THEN...there are the two most deadly combinations for any frame addict. it's like the Oxycontin of capturing photos. First: the collage. A way for an ADD person like myself to include not one, but possibly THIRTY pictures into one, fabulous frame. If I'm feeling feisty I might even throw a quote around the border. If you receive one of these from me, (a) be happy that I have so many pictures of us together, but  (b) also understand it's because I couldn't rationally, (although I'd probably love to) give you thirty separate frames. My cousin Ashley made me one of the two of us, I tweaked it a little bit but now it's hanging next to my bed:

For the record, Ash is just as bad as me...we have so many collages it's disgusting.

My second deadliest combination is the surprisingly popular Nautically-themed frame. I will have to get to my nautically-themed ANYTHING addiction at a later date. But for some reason, if I find a nautically-themed picture frame, it's comparable to that scene in Tropic Thunder where Jeff Portnoy, (Jack Black) the recovering heroin addict, stumbles upon a mountain of the purest form of heroin in an opium den. It's like hitting the motherload!! While in the store, I'll find myself getting anxious if I think someone might swoop in and grab it before I do.

So if there's one left, I'll be DAMNED if anyone is going to take it from me.

On a not so drug-themed tangent, they really are just the cutest frames. Observe:

See? poor Sean has a long road ahead of him, he's already gotten two frames from me. It took every inch of self-restraint that I had NOT to give him a Nautically-themed one, since he already has a bunch. So this one's sitting next to my bed.

So I will leave you, friends, with this. I found this website that has the most adorable picture frames, and you can purchase them straight from the site: Elizabeth Lynn Designs has preppy styled frames that I may have to invest in. Especially since almost every frame I own is black. (I like to match).

If you ever stumble upon a poor soul, scratching her neck wildly in the stemware section of your local Bed Bath & Beyond or Homegoods, it's probably me. Be kind to her, because some b*tch has probably just taken the last picture frame with the lighthouse on it.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Movie Mondays: Freddy no longer has a "killer" good time.

Last night, Sean and I went and saw the remake of "A Nightmare on Elm Street." While I was watching it, all I could think of was how much better the original was...and then how sad it was that I had actually seen each and every sequel in the Freddy franchise that started in 1984 BC (Before Courtney). As I watched as the teens were repeatedly slashed on the screen and pondered how I spend most of my time in grad school watching movies in my living room on Friday nights like a common hermit  am a movie buff, I had the epiphany that maybe I should devote my Monday posts to movies I've seen; hence, "Movie Mondays" (really innovative, I know.)

So I know the really creepy premise of the movie is supposed to be Freddy's scarred face and razor sharp hands...but seriously, the eeriest part of the movie is the fact that Freddy is a bonified Peterass.

  "He had to go door to door telling everyone that he was a peterass."
 "What's a peterass??" "Shut the F* up Donnie."

The Big Lebowski? anyone? Bueller? Everyone has to see this movie....and every time I hear that someone hasn't, I die a little inside.

But anyways, Freddy was a pedophile, and that's why he was chased out of town and cooked like a chicken. What's even more creepy is the actor who plays Freddy in this remake, Jackie Earle Haley, won an Oscar for his uuber-creeper portrayal as a sex offender in 2006's "Little Children."

...I'm no actor, but it must really suck when you've been typecast in the role as the "go-to, obviously creepy, child molester guy."

When they get down to the original story, Freddy used to work at a preschool as the maintenance man where he also lived in the basement. Because clearly, all accredited preschools let weird guys who maintain the yard AND suspiciously play with 4-year-old's all day long live in their secluded basement.

Soon enough, the teens start dying in their sleep. Two things about the death of the first girl, Kris: First off, Kris lives in this gorgeous, suburban, 2-story, English Colonial, that could easily be placed on the market for at least $1.2 million, and her single mom (Marge) is...a flight attendant? I have nothing against flight attendants, Lisa was a flight attendant for American Airlines way back when, but does she afford that house? Hmm?

Obviously, our friendly skies are not the only things Marge is flying on top of, if you catch my drift.

It's the little details like this that really bug me; it sounds really shallow, I know...but the rest of the movie was so cliche as a remake, that it was almost too cliche in itself to focus this post on the painfully evident inconsistencies of the original. Remakes are supposed to be bad, it's a given. Anyways, as Kris climbs the stairs to her bedroom after her boyfriend's funeral, she enters her room, and...


Honestly, this part made me jump the highest. Until I saw that she had matching window treatments. *Notice I said "window treatments" and not "curtains"...oh the things you learn from living with an Interior Design major (Christina: +1 point) Either way, that's a lot of pattern for one room. 

But clearly, since both Marge and I share the same taste in what is considered her daughter's Pottery-Barn-inspired deathbed, (literally), this just simply means that Freddy's going to get me when I get back to my apartment in Tallahassee.

On the upside, there were some terrible, tasteless jokes thrown in there that were true to form of the Freddy franchise. As Nancy (played by catatonic, emotionless, Rooney Mara) is chased down her hallway by Freddy, he morphs her floor into a puddle of blood, and as she tries to swim through it he cackles: "How's THAT for a wet dream!?" Of course Giggles McGee sitting next to me got a kick out of that one.

All in all it was a typical remake. What I missed was the sense of humor that Robert Englund had about his character when he played Freddy. Yeah he was the killer, but at least he was witty. But in the end, if the film itself didn't scare the moviegoers in Boca, Sean was armed with his trusty laser pen throughout the whole thing... so if they didn't think Freddy was going to get them, the psycho-sniper who was obviously hiding somewhere in the theater would instead.