Lately, I’ve been watching quite a few foreign films.

Ugh. I know.

It’s not like I’m trying to become one of those people — one of those people who only watches them so I can make obscure references during intellectual conversations at my literary club. Honest.

I’d seen some of the obvious ones from the past — Amelie (French, and an absolute favorite), Lola Rennt (German, aka. “Run Lola Run”), and Das Boot (German, interesting counterpart to the American “U-571” and told from the “enemy” point of view). But my experience didn’t venture far beyond those which I was forced to watch in school (the German ones) or by close friends (the French).

In fact, I pretty much thought that Hollywood was the center of the movie universe and that other countries didn’t really bother making films worth watching because why, pray tell, would an actor bother to act anywhere else?

But then I accidentally streamed a French film on Netflix.

See, I have this terrible weakness for horrible romantic comedies — especially when my husband’s deployed because I don’t have to explain my reasoning (umm… because I have ovaries instead of testicles?) for wanting to watch them. The online Netflix streaming is set up so that it analyzes shows and movies you’ve already watched and then makes suggestions of films it “thinks” you might like based off of those. The hilarious fact is that before Justin left it was all sci-fi and crime dramas and geek shows, but I’ve successfully managed to (mostly) transition it to rom-coms and whiny indie flicks. He will be SO pleased. Also, I think I might be completely confounding Netflix’s computer brain algorithm thingies because it’ll suggest movies like “Runaway Bride” (which I didn’t like) alongside shows like “Sons of Anarchy” (which I probably would kind of like), and so just when it thinks it has me all figured out, I’m all, HA, Netflix! I’ve foiled you again!

And you know you’re kind of lonely when you spend your free time trying to confuse inanimate objects.

Anyway.

I was in the mood for a good old-fashioned rom-com, and Netflix suggested this one called Heartbreaker. The title was in English. The description was in English. I didn’t look at the actors’ names, so there were no obvious signs pointing to the fact that this was actually a subtitled French film. In fact, it didn’t even actually occur to me that I was reading subtitles until a good 10 minutes in, and by then I was already hooked.

The most interesting part about watching it was realizing the subtle differences in humor and beauty. The leading actress, to me, seemed a little homely and a lot emaciated with her Madonna-esque gap tooth and bony frame, and I didn’t find the leading actor, with his hairy, bumbling scruff attractive in the slightest.

That is, until I continued watching. I became genuinely interested in their characters, and realized that it worked. These cultural differences were only surficial — the heart and the humor was still there, and now, in retrospect, I know I wouldn’t have cast them any differently. It was lighthearted, funny, and a new twist on the typical “opposites attract” story. It was kind of like the Will Smith movie “Hitch,” only instead of bringing couples together, Alex’s job was to break people up by seducing women and making them realize they deserved more than the douchebags they were currently dating. Not a bad gig, huh?

My mom says she hates watching foreign films because while she’s reading the subtitles, she feels like she’s missing out on some of the visual effects of the movie.

Well of course. But really. It’s just a little reading. My grandmother goes every day — every day — without her sense of smell and therefore, without her sense of taste. But that doesn’t stop her from eating, does it? And that doesn’t stop her from cooking delicious food. Just like deafness, I’d imagine, wouldn’t stop someone who’s hearing impaired from enjoying a good movie.

So. If you haven’t before and want to give a foreign flick a chance, go for it. Start with Amelie and learn the story of the traveling gnome.

If you want something deeper but still funny, try Patrik 1.5, a Dutch film about a gay couple struggling to adopt a child. They think they’re getting a 1 1/2-year-old, but instead end up with a 15-year-old homophobic, troubled teen. It’s funny and touching and heartbreaking and embraces stereotypes while slapping them down and shows that maybe — just maybe — a nontraditional family isn’t as scary as we might think.

If you want a little more epic, watch Bride Flight, another Dutch flick that takes place just after World War II. It’s forbidden love. It’s unrequited romance. It’s impossible choices and frustratingly lovable characters and the most adorable leading actor in the history of ever.

And if you want sad. If you want oh, so incredibly Holocaust sad but without the in-your-face death camp stuff of Schindler’s List, watch Sarah’s Key. But. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

These movies might change you.

They might change your perception of other cultures and how they perceive humor. How they perceive sadness. How they perceive beauty and action and romance.

They might make you realize that we’re not all so different, out there in the world.

And a foreign language, while scary when you’re lost in a train station and can’t find the bathroom, can also sound soothing, interesting, and a little bit seductive when experienced from the safety of your living room sofa.

I’ve written about this before.

One of the hardest things, it seems, is going into work when you’ve already quit.

You’d think you’d be this giant ball of happiness — that every time something went wrong, you’d breathe a self-satisfied sigh of relief that soon, sweet soon, this would no longer be your burden to bear. The place would turn into this technicolor dreamworld with rainbows and butterflies and men with ties and button-down shirts would break into song every time you head to the lavatory.

But. The reality of the situation is that everything that bothered you before, now bothers you more. Much more. Tasks that turned your stomach pre-quittal become that much more grotesque when handed to you post-quittal. Your mind says, Why are you doing this? You’ve already quit. Just leave. You don’t need to stick it out another 2 weeks.

Suddenly, there’s all this pressure to finish projects. And new project ideas seem to appear from nowhere — projects that somehow, oh wonder of wonders, only you are qualified to handle. And it’s really really important they get finished before you leave, but oh, could you also do your regular tasks as well, because I’d like to put off learning them as long as possible, and really — it’s no big deal for you to stay another week, is it, because it’s not like you’re starting another real job…

Of course, I’ve never actually heard any of these things spoken out loud.

But I know the thoughts are there.

And really, it’s not so bad to feel needed. And it’s not so bad to feel like you’re making a contribution.

The problem arises when you start to feel used. Abused. And a little bit manipulated.

So the countdown begins to preserve my good cheer towards those who’ve employed me.

Quitting, it turns out, is how I maintain decent professional relationships.

And during that awkward time between quitting and actually leaving, I distract myself by making a plan.

I’m constructing a website to highlight my services, which, as much as I’d like them to say, “I travel the world and photograph and write about stuff,” will more likely say, “Give me money and I’ll take your picture. Or a picture of a house. Or your food. Or whatever you want me to photograph as long as it’s legal.”

And I almost hate to admit it because it seems that every would-be full-time blogger these days turns over to photography as a “back up” career, like it’s just something that any old hobbyist can pick up and turn into a business, and I would like to be the first to come out and tell you that is absolutely correct.

Of course, there’s much more to it than picking up a DSLR, sticking her in “auto” mode, and handing over some prints. And I fully intend to learn more ins-and-outs of people posing, lighting, and post processing, all while attempting to re-vamp this blog and scratch out some sort of writing existence.

I can make this happen.

I will make this happen.

Not just for me, but for you. Because I feel like you have my back. Like this is important to you, too. Like you quit your job right along next to me and now I need to make this happen for the both of us.

And the good news, too, is that I won’t be scribbling out a post half-dressed for work while guzzling down a coffee and applying for mascara.

We’re going to start going for quality here, people.

Well.

Let’s be honest.

It will still be drivel.

But un-rushed drivel. Languishing drivel. Drivel with heart.

So bear with me, friends.

I have a lot to say.

This morning, it rains.

So rather than take the mutts for our morning walk or get any kind of physical exercise whatsoever, I’m making crepes and lamenting the fact that last night I reached a hideous low in my state of Justinless pitiability.

I was going to get the photos ready for a post about San Antonio, and since I’m hardly organized enough to already have those photos labeled and filed on my iMac, I dug a memory card from my camera bag, sent a wish out to the Universe that the photos I wanted were on it, and stuck it, rather unceremoniously, into the computer’s CD drive.

I stuck my memory card into the CD DRIVE.

Not the memory card slot which, due to a lazy design flaw on Apple’s part in my humble little opinion, is located directly beneath the CD drive on the side of the monitor.

And humble, I am, because I didn’t even look.  I just felt it go in, much further than normal, and peeked around the side to see the top of the card was flush with the side of the monitor.

Sonofabitch.

I stuck a piece of paper inside in order to entice it out, but turns out I should’ve tried flowers or chocolates or seductive letters because the damn thing slipped all the way inside, past the rubbery dust blocker thingies, and I heard it clink to rest inside the drive.

Now normally, this is where husbands come in.  I don’t know if you know this, guys, but us women, we use you.  Like, a lot.  Like, even if there’s something we’re perfectly capable of doing but would rather have you do it in case it gets messed up so we can have someone to blame other than ourselves, we ask you to give it a whirl.  Plus, when you do fix it, it makes you feel all manly and powerful and needed and then we’ve done our good deed for the day by letting you do your good deed for the day.

Win-win.

But last night, I couldn’t exactly call Justin’s superiors in Afghanistan and ask if they’d send him home real quick because I did something dumb with my computer.  In fact I can’t exactly call Justin at all — ever — and this tends to pose a problem when I need advice on fixing the dog’s electric fence or why the subwoofer’s buzzing or how to get an effing memory card out of an effing CD drive because apparently, I effing suck at effing EVERYTHING.

So you see, this is where the inevitable self-pity came into play.  I knew that frustrated tears were well on their way, and I should probably pour another glass of wine because the pity party’s not a party without any wine, and I can’t believe I just got home from Raleigh like 2 hours ago, which is an hour away and happens to be the location of the closest Apple store, and who knows how long it will be before I can get back there and get this fixed?

Spiral.

But.

I have a trick for when this starts to happen.

You’re going to love me for this, really.

Go to YouTube (assuming lack of internet connection isn’t your problem), and run a search for “Stuck in a Moment” by U2.

Then, listen.

U2 Stuck in a Moment

And once you do, you will probably cry a little bit.  And then, wonder of wonders, you will smile.  And maybe even laugh.  Because really, with this song, U2 has struck the winning combination of  I-get-it-and-everything-will-be-okay understanding and smack-you-in-the-face-get-over-it-bitch-and-move-on-with-your-life motivation.

Seriously.

So after closing my eyes to “Stuck in a Moment” followed by some internet searching for “how to get a memory card out of an iMac CD drive” and relief that holy crap I’m not the only one, I fashioned a hook tool from folded cardstock and packing tape and, after about 20 minutes of sweet talking and many cardstock prototypes, was able to fish the sucker out.

Source

So.  I never did edit the photos.  Because after all of this, I did crack just a little, U2 or no, and decided that a microwavable peanut butter mug cake and a large glass of milk would do better to cure my woes after a harrowing night of memory card rescue than a bout of actual productivity.

And I was pretty well convinced that composure would not be my primary reaction if I managed to stick the memory card into the right slot and discover that my photos weren’t on it.

I still haven’t had the courage to look.

But, when I do, and if I feel the need to spaz out, “Stuck in a Moment” will be there to bring me back to earth.

Because, really.

I never thought you were a fool
But darling, look at you
You gotta stand up straight, carry your own weight
‘Cause tears are going nowhere, baby

You’ve got to get yourself together
You’ve got stuck in a moment
And now you can’t get out of it

…

You are such a fool
To worry like you do
I know it’s tough and you can never get enough
Of what you don’t really need now, my, oh my

And we don’t.  In the end.  Really need anything.  Just a clear head, some decent music, a little perspective, and the energy to keep on swimming.

Justin has been in Afghanistan for over 3 months now, and I’m ready to admit something.

Here goes.

Ready?

Okay.

There have been times in our marriage when I’ve looked at him and thought, I can’t believe I’m actually married to you.

Like the time he realized he didn’t brew enough coffee after he poured his cup but before he poured mine, so instead of making more coffee to fill my cup, he just ran new water back through the soggy, used coffee grounds and hoped I wouldn’t notice that my cup was filled with light brown water as opposed to actual coffee.

Times like that, my friends, when I thought, I can’t believe I’m actually married to you and not in a totally smitten, pre-honeymoon, post-vows kind of way with a mental tone of adoring and grateful affection, but in a we’ve-been-living-together-for-over-8-years-now-and-you-think-I-won’t-notice-weak-coffee? kind of way with pure, unadulterated, incredulity.

And.

I know it sounds terrible, but there it is.

The “good” thing is, I know I’m just as bad.

(What can I say?  I’m a Libra.)

Like the time he came home after 3 months in Africa to find I’d bought dog beds so our little monsters could sleep with us in our bedroom to keep us safe from intruders and bogeymen and fill the space with protective methane fart gas throughout the night.

Because I always think these things through, you know?

So.

Even though I do these things too, I still usually feel that I’m in the right.  That I know best.  That really, if we would just do everything my way, the world would spin smoothly and double rainbows will fill our home and the sex will always be fantastic and no one will ever — ever — have to sleep in the wet spot.

(Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.)

But now he’s been gone for 3 months.

Three months, apparently, is enough time for me to stop blaming him for every cluttered mess that collects on counters, for almost-empty orange juice bottles in the fridge, for laundry that sits in the dryer for days, and the pulpy, globulated mess that coats my clothes when an errant pocket receipt goes through the wash.

It’s enough time, apparently, to realize that I’m actually fallible.

I mean, I’ve always known I’m capable of making mistakes.  In fact, maybe my blunt, drunken wrist tattoo should read erroneous, because I’ve certainly made more than my fair share.  And I’d be the first to admit it.

But it was always these little things.  These little house things that would get on my nerves make me mutter under my breath as I’d fritter around the house collecting crumpled papers that someone — and certainly not me — was too lazy to throw away, are not always entirely his fault.

And that’s the gift of distance.

They say, you know, that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I know a secret.

The real benefit of absence is clarity.

The way it gives you a chance to look at yourself.

The chance to experience the discomfort that comes with the dawning realization that wait — I’m not perfect?

It’s not a good feeling.

But it’s a helpful feeling.  And a relief, too, to know that he’s not the only one to blame for the messes and the occasional late charge and sometimes erratic online shopping binges.

Wait.  Maybe that last one has always been me.

But my point is that true perspective — not just about a partner but about yourself — is something that most people who’ve been living together for a long time never have the space — or the distance — to experience.

And that’s unfortunate.

Because while I would never recommend that you ship your significant other off to Afghanistan for a quarter of a year or more, a little space can sometimes help.

Not to get away from your partner.  But to get back to yourself.

So now, at least I know.  I remember.  I can overlook the little things when he gets home because while cohabitation definitely creates more messes and chaos, it also provides an extra set of hands to help.

Except the coffee thing.  I can’t overlook that.

But I’m working on it.