I finally saw Juno and now I am filled with opinions. I have a tendency to watch movies long after their release date and then must share my stunning insight, even though no one wants to hear my Titanic theory that Rose and Jack could have totally fit on that board together. I don’t think Jack was saying “Never let go,” I really think he meant, “Move over, you ho,” but couldn’t say it because he had been in the icy water for so long.
Now Juno! I could have done without all the opening slang. Juno just seemed way too cool for me. I’m so glad I was never a teen mother because it would have been awful. There would be no hamburger phone or Angela Chase flannel garb. There wouldn’t have been the hyper-indie soundtrack. If my teenage pregnancy were a movie, it would have been produced by the same reality misers who put together Cheaters. No money would have been spent on the actual filming, most of it would go to pay whoever makes up the dry humorless double entendres. If I had been pregnant at 16, there would have been crazy, hormonal outbursts and teary regrets for making out while Peter Cetera and Crystal Bernard (Yes, the same one from WINGS!) sang “Forever Tonight” in the background.
But I really liked the movie once I got over the slang dropping and relief that I was never a teen mom and therefore not eternally bound to my high school boyfriends, especially the one who asked for his Magic the Gathering cards back. (But then again, what better lesson to teach our hypothetical child than how to throw down a Fireblast card to deal 6 damage with 2 lightning bolts!)
My favorite detail of the movie was the Toyota Previa. I drove the same model in high school and it was a sweeeet ride. Only mine was a gold color and I called it the brown dildo because it would shake if you drove it faster than 70 mph. My mom taught me how to drive in that van, which explains why I suffer from road neuroses, a condition brought on by a 56-year-old woman shrieking into her teenage daughter’s ear, “STAY ON YOUR SIDE! DON’T BEEP AT THAT GUY! WHO IS HE? DON’T USE THIS CAR TO GET PREGNANT! SANTA-MARIA-JESUS-JOSE!”
Ahhh, good times.
The best memory in that van was the night after our junior year Thanksgiving presentation. Instead of hosting an actual prom, our crazy baptist administration decided that since prom leads to “promiscuity” (which is untrue, Peter Cetera leads to promiscuity), we would have a banquet and performance in which every class presented a song and dance. But since it was as close to a prom as our school would allow, we still gussied up in glittery dresses and coiffed hair. After it was over, I drove my six classmates (I graduated out with a class of SEVEN) to a lookout point so we could take pictures.
We piled into the van and I tried to drive away, but the behemoth had sunk into the wet grass and we were stuck. My sweet friends got out and PUSHED MY VAN while in their dresses and hair and rich girl perfume. And after several tries of pressing the gas pedal and tires slinging mud on my friends, we were finally free. The girls weren’t upset with me at all, I bet they were just glad I hadn’t shifted into reverse.
And going back to babymaking and Juno, I’m glad I was pregnant in this decade and not 1974, where your postpartum depression is not at all valid after the trauma of childbirth, but merely a minor symptom of having dark hair.