I really, really, really like movies. However, I keep finding myself watching movies about:
1. people who want to get pregnant but can’t, so they have someone else do it!
2. people who don’t want to get pregnant but buddy up with someone who really does!
3. people who thought they couldn’t get pregnant, but do!
4. All of the above, together in one movie!
Which is not to say that I don’t like these movies. I laughed and laughed and vowed to go back to screenwriting after I saw “Knocked Up.” But “Juno” freaked my shit because it was too, too creepily close to home: The characters were named Marc, with a “c,” just like my ex-Marc, and Vanessa, and he was a musician and she wanted to adopt and he was too much of a manchild and couldn’t handle the whole kid thing. And so on, throughout the film. Diablo Cody clearly had been eavesdropping on my life.
The problem with movies in general is this whole happy and/or satisfying ending problem. I’m pretty sure I’m textbook beginning of the movie, but I’m not sure I get to have that ending.
I know! How about a movie where the main character is single and 40licious and, by day, is equal parts thrilled, disappointed and overwhelmed by her socially acceptable job in corporate America, but at night, is home, blogging and eating PinkBerry and rice crackers until she feels like she has to barf? And she realizes that she doesn’t really want a baby after all, and takes all those adoption-agency packets and sweeps them into the mixed-paper recycling? And then, seeking satisfaction, she decides to make a major change. Cut to: She’s on top of a mountain in a misty third-world country where she doesn’t ever need more than a cashmere sweater to keep her warm. Except she’s got her dog with her! And she’s all enlightened! And here’s the kicker — she’s got a cup of PinkBerry with her! How do you like that movie, Tina and Judd? Can you make me one of those? Please?
Memorial Day Weekend last year I had to miss Natalie’s barbecue because a little life was ebbing out of me, in sad tiny blobs. For the third time.
And I’m not sure I can ever again watch another one of those baby movies with a happy ending. Unless it’s mine.