The Secret of the Bitter Crone

Last night I was at home on the Internet, (as one is prone to do when one doesn’t own a television), and it came to my attention that there is a new Nancy Drew movie about to be released. I don’t know why I didn’t know this, probably because I’m not a 12 year old girl, I guess. Now, I am mega Nancy Drew fan. I hesitate to add “mega” there because it this day in age it seems like you can’t be a fan of anything unless you subscribe to fanzines and frequent message boards and are willing to travel to places like the Denver Convention Center and pay $35 to dress up in costume, etc… But, I loved the Nancy Drew mysteries when I was a girl. I collected the classic hardcover editions and could not abide any Hardy Boys mash up or modern treatment they tried to give the girl sleuth.

So, when I heard there was a movie coming out last night, the first thing I did was go to YouTube and search for the trailer (obvies).




So I watched the video clip, and within about 15 seconds, I was scandalized. By the time one of the characters pulled out a Sidekick to send a text message, I thought I was going to throw up. Ned Nickerson was a skinny, mopey spikey haired kid and there was nary a sign of Bess and George. By the time the trailer finished, I was shaking my fist at the screen, close to tears wondering which one of my friends I could call to share my outrage with and thinking, “Damn you popular culture! Damn you and your self-perpetuating youth obsessed culture, disregard for the classics and relentless pursuit of tween marketing dollars!” I mean, I’ve got to have more purchasing power than a 13-year old, right?

Then I realized that the reason summer blockbusters are marketed to 7^th graders with unsteady babysitting jobs Is because kids are supposed to want to buy Nancy Drew ring tones and iPod cozies and matching friend journals with tiny brass locks with their disposable income and that I am supposed to be saving for the down payment on a house, because it turns out, I am really old. Then I gave up and went to bed.

Signs you are getting old. And lame.

Thought that kept me awake last night:

So if I had just made it one more year with Die Bank, my Employer contribution to my 401(k) would have been vested. But would it have been worth it? Damn, I love my hot little 401(k). Don't worry, baby. Momma's gonna roll you over real soon.