What a week.

It started with the usual bustle of trying to finish up last minute work for holidays, food shopping, preparing for my brother to come home for a few days, and general mayhem.

By Tuesday, Stew was home and I stayed up past midnight to finish work for the week so we could spend some time together. On Wednesday, I was baking away, chatting with my family, and completely oblivious to what was coming next: a three page letter that told me of my acceptance to Houghton College and the offer of a substantial scholarship, plus an invitation to interview for their honors program in the spring.

Wow.

I wasn’t expecting to hear back from any of the schools until the end of December. I already had plans of how I would literally live at the end of my driveway, camped out in anticipation of the daily mail delivery. As if all of this wasn’t enough, I also was able to check my latest SAT scores and found that I had upped my score by about 100 points. It was my day, I guess.

Thanksgiving was a nice, quiet affair this year. Being next to useless in the kitchen, my contribution to the meal was a green bean casserole and the donation of an apron to my mother. Hey, every little bit helps, right? Instead of cooking, I cleaned up from time to time and finished the fifth HP book. Really, the day turned out ideally for me: food, family and books.

Friday was, as it is every year, the day that we went to get our Christmas tree. The wind was bitter, so we picked our tree in record time—anything to get out of that cold, which is saying a lot coming from a northern girl who would rather it be below zero than above ninety. As the snow came down, the decorations went up yesterday, making our little country home feel cozier than ever, with wreaths on every window and a glowing woodstove to warm us.

Let’s hope that this week is just as fantastic.

If You Can't Beat 'em...

I know that the web is all abuzz about a grave stone that’s being used as a tourist attraction due to the deceased’s name being Harry Potter, and sure, that doesn’t look good for the series right at this moment, but I’m going to blog about it anyway. Many of you know (or have realized) that I read quite a bit. I mean, my intended major is English with a focus of literature, after all. I’ve been pushing myself through a lot of weighty material lately (think Huxley and such), and I recently came to the realization that I needed a reading vacation—not from books, but just from the heavy stuff. I had made a couple of deals a while back that I would eventually get around to read the Harry Potter series, and now seemed like a good time to get that rather cumbersome monkey off my back—there are seven books, after all, and I don’t particularly like monkeys to begin with. As an added bonus, I decided to read them with a future career as an acquisitions editor in mind: what made these books different from your average teen-directed trash lit? What has made it last and become hugely popular? With this in mind, I set off on my HP journey.

The first step: conquering my pride. It’s not like I had anything against the books, but really—they’re housed the children’s room of my library. Right in front of the librarians’ desk. I’m the sort of person who usually arrives at their desk with a hearty stack of biographies, histories, folklore and even the occasional gardening book—not something that’s been carefully placed on eye level for humans exactly one-half my height. (That last bit wasn’t a joke. The shelves in the kiddie section are actually below my waist. What am I, the Jolly Green Giantess?) However, just over a week ago, I conquered this demon and strode confidently in, whispering a quiet ‘thank you’ when realizing that the room was empty. Vanity: saved.

Naively, I only grabbed the first book. Well, that was done before I turned out my light that night. I was hooked! It was well written, smart, humorous and compelling. True, the characters felt young to me, but looking from an analytical standpoint, the book was solid on all accounts. Hurrying back to the library, I grabbed the next two. Two days later, both had been stacked by my door, waiting to be returned to their short shelves. I just finished the fourth book last night, and I’m eagerly awaiting a trip to the library tomorrow to go pick up the last books. After all, a new challenge has been issued: I’m to be reading the final book by the time that college break starts next week. At this rate, it’ll take me longer to get through all of the films than the books!

I’m getting sidetracked. Basically, if you’ve been holding out on reading these books for any reason up until now, I would suggest that you give it a rest and try them. I know that there’s a lot floating about that the books are of a satanic bent, but I certainly don’t see much of a difference between Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings as far as magic is concerned. They both consist of the ever-present forces of Good and Evil, showing the battle between the two as a struggle in which the champions of Good will triumph in the end. If you were to ask me, I would say that it’s a noble inspiration—and since you’re reading my blog, who cares if you actually asked me or not, right? Go indulge in some sinfully easy reading.

The Fire

Well blogging world, it’s been a while. I’ve decided to come back to blogging, at least for a time, right hear on Ruby’s Serendipity. I’m basically too lazy to start up a new blog, and I’ve decided that I really like having semi-anonymity for blogging. I mean, when I really think about it, I don’t actually want everyone that I personally know to read this. If I did, I would have plastered links to this across social networking sites long ago, shamelessly promoting my mental regurgitation, because let’s face it: I’m not going to edit and reedit anything that goes on here, and I really don’t want to put any raw material in front of all the English and lit teachers that I know (not to mention colleges considering my applications).

Anyway, let’s start catching up on life. College is probably a good place to start, since it takes up about 60% of my waking conscious. I’m in a couple of classes out at the community college here, which is…fine. I wouldn’t want to spend more than a couple of part-time semesters out here, but it isn’t too bad. I’ve sent in applications to the three schools I finally narrowed down after three years of intense searching and many campus visits, but I won’t find out about acceptance until March. I’m pretty sure I’ll lose weight from the stress of waiting. Oh right, summer—I skipped half of that, didn’t I? Well, it was pretty great. I got my license, and realized that freedom (minus the price of gas) really is all it’s cracked up to be. That must be a first. I spent two weeks down in Tennessee at a world view training seminar, Summit, and made some amazing new friends—not to mention gaining a crazy travel epic (it’s too long to just be a story…because I like to make it sound extremely dramatic) when flying down with a friend of mine. I laughed, I cried, I learned a lot, let my brain atrophy several hours a night to make up for it, I made new friends while realizing who my true friends were, and I hope that, through it all, I grew. I think I did, at least.

Growth, as I’m sure you all know, can be painful. In fact, I’m not sure that I’ve experienced any that wasn’t. Sometimes, as I sit back, rubbing my eyes that are smarting after endless hours spent researching at the computer, I wish that I could just skip this portion of my life—I just want to get on to where I’m in college, or where I graduate, or where I have a job, or just anywhere but where I am. I have to remind myself that our lives are refined by the trials set before us, and we must not only weather them, but learn from them. As Thoreau said, “As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.” Here’s to eternity, everyone!

I haven’t been writing. I think there’s been too much to say…and so it was better to leave it unsaid. Maybe?

Maybe not. Maybe I should have been continuing my therapy blogging. Anyway, I’m back now—at least for a while.

Let’s see…where did I leave off?

…Nope, nothing but reviews and tiptoeing around reality. Well, as a start, I think it’s time for me to move to a new blog; I need a fresh start that doesn’t come with just changing the background and font color. I need a new direction for my writing. AND a new background and font color. I’ll let you know when I’ve sorted it out. It’ll probably be something that I make public to friends—something that I never intentionally did with Ruby’s Serendipity. My life has become more serious, so I think my blogged should at least be focused…as much as anything I write can be. We’ll see how it goes—I might keep this one up on the side, just to rid myself of random thoughts rather than spamming my hopefully-deep and thoughtful writing on the new site.

I’ll let you know.

A Thought-Provoking Film

Fear not, readers--I'm not dead, I haven't been abducted and I don't plan on just using the blog for movies. Honestly--I have a few dozen book posts planned that I simply haven't worked my way around to. However, I only just finished watching Creation, and I feel the intense need to tell everyone and anyone that it is one of Those movies, a movie that is so worth watching and discussing that you simply can't miss it. For those of you unaware of this film, it is the tale of Darwin as he struggled with the should-I-shouldn't-I question of publishing his theory of Evolution. Darwin and his wife, Emma, are played by Paul Bettany and his actual wife, Jennifer Connelly.

Being a young earth creationist myself, I do not agree with the most famous aspect of Darwin's theory, that all creatures--including man--came from more basic life structures Evolving into something more complex. I do, however, embrace parts of his work, such as micro evolution, the change within a species. Do I believe that Darwin "killed" God? Certainly not. I think something that so many Christians fail to notice is that though they disagree with portions of his work, Darwin brought so much valuable scientific study to the proverbial table. Perhaps that was the reason that I became so excited when I first heard of the film. I've been taught to look at as many sides as possible of a subject, and in the case of creation versus evolution, you most certainly should learn about both sides. Obviously the movie is not fact, but I highly encourage you not only to push through the enormously depressing film (depressing because of its depiction of Darwin's inner turmoil over his theory and the death of his daughter, Annie--I admit to crying about every three minutes through the second half) but to watch the extras. There are fascinating discussions from scientists coming from many different world views.

A Must-See

Yes, I went to see Knight and Day without great expectations. I figured that I would have a laugh or two; I figured it would be loaded with "questionable content," making the fact that my dad ended up going with me extremely awkward; I figured the featured parts for the preview would be the best. Let me admit without shame that I figured wrong, to sound thoroughly American. This movie is fantastic. It didn't take itself seriously (I mean, that's sort of obvious, as it IS a comedy, but this is in the extreme), it made fun of itself quite a bit, as well as the genre in general. Goodness, I can't gush enough about it! I've been feeling rather down about movies in general lately. I mean, How to Train your Dragon was fab, Toy Story III wasn't shabby, but other than that, I've been pretty bummed about the quality of what has been coming out of Hollywood of late. It's been trashy, boring and generic. Enough of trashing it, though. Just watch Knight and Day. I'm almost positive that you'll love it and walk out planning to persuade friends to see it so you can go again immediately. I had a quote to finish it up with, but I decided that it just wasn't satisfying without being there. Oh well. Watch the movie, come back, and see if you could figure out my favorite!

A Post of Shame

I think my swelling is going down! At least, I think I deserve to have it go down, considering the fact that I fell asleep holding the ice pack to my face last night. Or maybe the left side swelled more to make the right side look more proportionate...hm...I'll get back to you on that. Anyway, I'm still feeling too ADD to read (a first, pretty much), so I've been camped out with my laptop and TV yet again. To be honest, I might miss all of this terrible drama tomorrow when I go back to work. Ick. Oh! I did make myself pick out one movie today that I wouldn't be ashamed to mention, so I found The Diary of Anne Frank (the 2009 version) on my dear Netflix. It was actually pretty accurate, if I'm recalling the diary correctly. Check it out if you ever get your wisdom teeth out. The acting is good, although...you sort of don't need a big budget for settings, so I guess that isn't much of a stretch. Okay, I'm losing focus, so I'd better go find my ice pack.

A Day in the Life of a Invalid

I think I've watched enough day-time television between yesterday afternoon and today to fry my brain. Junior year? Wasted. I'm pretty sure that whatever I retained is now gone, lost in an abyss of sappy romance and corny jokes. At least I haven't sunk to the level of cartoons yet. Other than ruining my poor brain, I've had a breakthrough in my recovery: I actually managed to eat something other than broth without pulling at my stitches. Yay! I feel like I have some real food in my stomach. Sure, it was just a mush of melted cheese and re-fried beans, but it tasted like heaven. Basically my life consists of bad TV, broth, mush, pills and medicinal-tasting rinse that I can't spit out (apparently if you spit or drink through a straw OR get food stuck in the wounds that the oral surgeon inflicted, you get this nasty thing called dry socket that will kill for about a week).

Excuse me, I've been neglecting "What I Like About You" and "Everybody Loves Raymond."

I'm Alive...I Guess

Well, the teeth are out. The experience wasn't too bad. I had expected to be incredibly nervous all day, but I actually ended up sleeping in the car on the way. It was raining when I got there, so the misery of the day was pretty much a novel's take on misery. Instead of walking into a warm and inviting waiting room, it was pretty much an ice box in muted color palates. A peppy assistant took me back and kept assuring me that I would be fine, which made me assume that I already looked like death warmed over since I wasn't nervous. Great. After all of my stats were taken, they started me on the gas--that terrible, terrible gas. I'm normally aware of my surroundings even with my eyes closed, but this took away all sense of even the placement of my limbs. Everything I heard and said felt like a memory--I wasn't registering it as the present. Pretty strange. After that, I realized I could still open my eyes, the surgeon came in, and...um, I guess I fell asleep. Oh yeah, and I was so much bigger than the nurse, she had another girl come over to help me to the recovery closet-sized room. Yes, thanks for letting me know you're afraid of me crushing you.

Anyway, I need to go fetch my ice packs for a fresh twenty minutes. Ta.

New Beginnings

So my laptop died yesterday...in a big way. Apparently the motherboard is fried. This means that everything I didn't backup is lost (unless I feel like paying the Geek Squad a square one hundred bucks to retrieve some/all of it). This means that, yes, I have a completely fresh start! I'm typing this from my sleek little Toshiba--an early birth day present--and I must say that it is only about a thousand times faster than my dinosaur of an HP. Ah, the age of technology is good to us! Anyway, setting this little beauty up is probably a good distraction from the fact that my wisdom teeth are coming out tomorrow (and that I actually even have to drag myself out of bed early AGAIN--two days in a row--in order to make my vampire appointment). The trials of youth are so dramatic.

Update

I know, I’ve been silent once again. This post is really just to mention two things (I know, will I ever get down to just one?): the first is that this bad driver has actually become a competent one…with a license! Yup, and only one point off, too. Did I mention that my parallel parking was exquisitely performed? I didn’t? How forgetful of me.

Okay, the last thing: the season finale of Glee literally brought tears to my eyes. Honestly, there aren’t many songs or movies (or, in this case, shows) that can do that to me, but as an extremely critical music lover, I can assure you that the music and the heart of this episode was beyond words. Kudos to the writers and performers. Oh, and JOSH GROBAN for making an appearance—um, win. Check out the collection of Journey songs that they put together (I hope that I’ve told you all that I’m a Journey fan in the past so you won’t think I just jumped on board!

…I lied again. I want you to check out Karen Elson’s (you know, the model with THE perfect hair color [see above], married to Jack White?) debut album, The Ghost Who Walks. I read about it a couple of weeks ago after she and her husband had a gorgeous glossy spread in Vogue magazine and was intrigued, and after listening to several songs, I’m hooked. What about you?

Alright, I’m finished. No, really. This is the end.

Three Questions and Mr. Gaiman

I was recently told by a friend/coworker (“German” of the previous post) that there are three questions that you should always ask someone when you first meet them. This subject came up when we were discussing the newest addition to our crew at work, a sweet girl who shall hence forth be called Britta (which reminds me of both Community and water…which have nothing to do with the girl). Anyway, German hadn’t met Britta yet, so he poses this question:

“Would I like her?”

Now, I knew he didn’t mean in a would-I-date-her sense, but instead in a would-I-feel-the-need-to-harass-her sense. I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. I told him so.

“Well, did you ask her The Questions?”

Being puzzled by this, I took the bait.

“What questions would those be?”

“Whenever you meet someone, you need to ask them three questions: Are you straight? Pirate or Ninja? Are you Jewish?”

Needless to say, I wasn’t impressed. Just as needless to express, I let him know he was being an idiot. (As for the Jewish question, I still haven’t figured out why he’s harassing Jewish people at the moment…he doesn’t even know any Jewish people, nor is he aware of ever having met one. Classy, German—classy.) Anyway, this all made him realize that he had never asked me the all-important pirate or ninja question (yes, I’m being sarcastic), so he asks:

“Ruby! Pirate or ninja!”
“Whoa, I need some qualifiers: are we talking Dr. McNinja or Batman ninjas? Somali or ye-olden day’s pirates?”

He then explained this whole cultural phenomenon of which I have been as near to oblivious as possible. Apparently (for those of you as behind as myself), a pirate takes what they want while a ninja takes what they need. When it was put to me that way, I instantly claimed a pirate’s heritage. Yes, I would drive a car that takes an exorbitant amount of gas if I had oodles of money and desired it. Ahoy.

On to Neil Gaiman, one of my new favorite writers for easy reading. You may or may not be aware of a Paramount film from 2007 entitled “Stardust,” based on a novel of the same name by Gaiman. I wasn’t aware of it when it first came out, but it really had quite the impressive cast: Michele Pfeiffer, Claire Danes, Rupert Everett, Peter O’Toole, Ben Barnes, Sienna Miller, Robert De Niro and even Ian McKellen played parts in the film. I was instantly captivated by the film’s dark sense of humor and foreboding use of magic. It certainly isn’t for everyone—I think it’s one of those pieces that you either love dearly or hate with a passion. Anyway, after seeing a review of the novel Stardust on a blog, I renewed my interest in actually reading the novel itself. This set me on a half-hearted quest to my library, where all that I kept uncovering was some trashy mystery novel. However, I finally had success this past Tuesday when I was able to recall Gaiman’s name, and thus I located a little trove of his novels buried in the bowels of a dusty recess in the Adult Fiction section in the basement. Ah-ha! I quickly pulled out a tall, illustrated copy of my target, Stardust, but then paused to examine his other titles present—and I’m still happy that I did. “Neverwhere” stood out to me, for some reason, as being just the right book to sink my teeth into for a little dessert reading. My instinct couldn’t have been more correct. Neil Gaiman, your gruesome depictions, your thrilling magic, your utterly human characters—they all have made me fall in love with your style. “Neverwhere” was violent and at times chilling—verging on madness, as well—but I’ve always savored stories like that, I suppose. I like the idea of goblin-esque creatures, of a new breed of vampire (called “Velvets”—these sassy creatures predate Twilight, and their style of sucking the life out of people is so much classier than Myers), of great hunters to kill beasts of mythical proportions—it’s the stuff of legends. As a disclaimer to those of you who might consider picking it up: I really, really tend to like morbid books. I relish dystopian novels, I bask in Agatha Christie’s ingenious murder novels, I…really get a kick out of creepy books, okay? (Oh, and if you’re averse to reading any strong language, this isn’t the book for you—it does come up a few times.) I haven’t actually finished Stardust, so I’m holding back my judgment on it; all I can say is that it is definitely one the most creative and original fairy stories I’ve ever encountered.

In short, do NOT ask The Three Questions of anyone, and check out Neil Gaiman...if you dare.

Another One of Those Days

Do you ever have those days when you simply cannot remember which day of the week it is? Please say yes. I have them all of the time. This weekend has been horrible. On Friday, someone asked me a question about if I had been in church or not the past Sunday; I got what I’m sure was a strange thinking/horror stricken look on my face as I asked, “wait, what was Sunday?” I really had no idea it was Friday. Today I’m on track, though, since we’re on a fresh schedule sheet for the week. (You know it’s summer when you start to keep track of time via your job.) This was probably at least partially due to the fact that my grandmother was living in my room over the weekend, meaning that I was sleeping on a couch. This wouldn’t bother me except that this couch is in a room right off the kitchen which doesn’t have a door, so on top of sleeping on a lumpy couch, I had to fight my brother to stop watching TV so I could go to bed, bat the cat away from my head at four in the morning, and then be woken up in five minute increments from six until I finally dragged myself off the couch by my noisy brother and father banging every possible cupboard and opening squeaky doors. I also don’t do well when I can’t have some peaceful solitude every day, which became impossible. By this morning, I was so frazzled that I felt like bursting into tears, but instead had to hop out of my car to go into work. Luckily, I have a hilarious boss, friends for coworkers, and some quiet intervals with just me and the dishes.

Work, as I predicted, is once again full of drama, but I think the only safe bit to post came up today. I was in the dining room (along with a coworker that I will refer to as The German, even though he isn’t German) when a man came in with a young woman who looked like she might be his daughter or some such relation. This is normal—nothing to think twice about German starts to take their order, but doesn’t seem to hear what the man asked for. Rather than write “the man” for this whole story, I’ll call him “Psycho”—you might understand this in a minute. Anyway, German didn’t hear, so he asks “what?” Sure, he could have said “pardon” or “excuse me, I didn’t quite get that,” but there wasn’t anything off about his tone; he simply didn’t hear. Psycho speaks a bit louder:

“I want a black raspberry, medium, on a plate.”

German and I were sort of in shock at that last part. I mean, we get some insanely bizarre requests all of the time, but never before have we heard of someone ordering their ice cream on a plate. I could understand it if were for a dog, but it wasn’t. German, still confused over this boggling order, asks him what he said. Again. This time Psycho basically shouted it at him, with hand motions. With a likely bewildered look on my face, I swept out of the dining room to carry out his order, all the while thinking something along the lines of “what a psycho jerk.”

Okay, that might not seem like a weird order to those of you have never had a job like this, but let me assure you, it’s weird. That along with the snapping at German has earned him the title of “Ice-Cream-On-A-Plate Nazi.” Or something like that.

Slouch your way to Embarrassment

If you’re interested in fashion related posts, go HERE and read the next paragraph. If not, go ahead and read/look at my distraction of the day.

Okay, you’re reading this, so I assume you’re ready for some textile talk and girly gushing. These Dries Van Noten looks that Hannah-Rose of Capture the Castle (named after one of my very favorite novels) posted are catching my fancy. It’s actually an idea I was toying with just the other day: slouchy, ultra-comfy sweaters paired with something ultra-fem like a cute skirt. I love the outside looks, though the centered two may be a bit too bold for me to ever pull off. How do you feel of the slouchy meets girly look?

DISTRACTIONS!

Hm…for a distraction, maybe I’ll have to admit something embarrassing…Okay, I’ve one: I’m actually sort of enjoying watching Avatar with my brother now (no, not the movie. I have some seriously harsh words for the movie on how terribly idiotic I found it; I’m talking about the TV show that I listed a few posts back as being a failed attempt at familial bonding). Yup. It’s sad. The jokes are incredibly juvenile, but the concept of elemental control was the subject of three novels that I adored years ago (“and still do, in my heart” as Hyacinth of “Wives and Daughters” would say), so that’s a plus, and they have some feisty chicks that make it almost worth my time. (Really. May = pretty awesome emo fighting girl. Stewart hates her, I adore her. Toph = blind earth bender with an attitude—making her, of course, fabulous. Katara may have the coolest powers, but she’s an idiot. The circus girl who I can’t remember the name of = nearly as cool as the others, but apparently she wasn’t important enough to get her name into the Wiki article that just let me know that all of the protagonists/antagonists are under 17. Considering the animation, this show just became even more sad. Oh yeah, May is still the best.)

Okay, I’m thoroughly embarrassed, and I hope that you were thoroughly distracted.

Wherefore art though, Summer?!

I had a “day off” today (I know, I haven’t even been working that long, and it’s also in quotation marks because I had a class to attend and French to practice and a stupid economics course [new torture that my mother has devised for my summer “holidays”] to read through), but was stuck home until about three-ish. The big last-minute plan was to head out to Wal-Mart to do some much needed grocery shopping. Our Wal-Mart has recently become a Super Wal-Mart, but I can’t see anything super about it. They never have anything in stock, all of their food seems to be past its sell-by date, and once again they DIDN’T HAVE VOGUE. (If you’re confused about the “again,” go HERE.) Oh yeah, and they’re always behind on the issues of magazines that they DO carry. Fail, Wal-Mart.

Anyway, after Wally World let me down, I ran over to Sally’s to peruse their gleaming rows of nail-lacquer and hair products in awe. Yup, I just like to look. While my mother purchased some awful powdered wax substance, I picked out a new round brush and a pinky-peach nail color (because I never can come out of there empty handed). I somehow managed to wheedle Mumzie into clothes shopping, but because of limited time, it ended up being handbag/hat/sunglasses shopping before I even made it to the much needed shorts. Oh well. Another day, I suppose. I did snag a floppy hat and retro shades, though, not to mention spotting a fabulous red purse that I just might have to make mine (TH, of course—I always fall in love with his bags at first sight). Yeah, basically I was in need of another shopping binge. It’s better than an ice cream binge, okay? (Not that an ice cream binge was possible today.)

My floppy hat is telling me that I really need to go spend some time on the river. My common sense is telling me that I might want the water to inch its way up a few degrees. Summer, when will you come to us in earnest?

Well, I’m officially back to work now. I’m sure some interesting and overly dramatic stories will pop up over the next few weeks that I can share with you all (after carefully changing names, of course), but I don’t have the time or the focus to start today. Why am I distracted?

-I’ve had innumerable songs stuck in my head for the past five days. Most of them are from musicals that I’m overly familiar with—I keep finding myself humming “I Love a Cop” and “Matchmaker.” This isn’t conducive to extreme focus.

-I’ve regained contact with the outside world now that my AP tests are over and done with. This means that I’m now expected to be available 24/7 for contact, apparently. This means that if I don’t check my phone at regular intervals, someone is probably upset with me.

-Robin Hood is out, and I still haven’t seen it. (Yes, this distracts me.)

-My brother is around again. That statement stands on its own, but I’ll give those of you who don’t know him a little hint about just why this might distract me: as many songs as I have stuck in my head, he has at least triple…and he likes to sing. Loudly. Outside my door, maybe even at six in the morning.

-I’m running on less sleep. Read the above statement.

-As of yesterday, I’m once again steeped in caffeine and sugar…for a job—an edible job.

-Acting peppy (or as peppy as I get) in front of customers takes a lot out of me. Especially the French Canadians. I have some harsh words for them as soon as I’m
finished with this job.

Yep, basically this is stealing all of my will power to keep doing anything except wash dishes or complain about customers. This means that blog posts will/would end up being even more pessimistic, random and pointless than ever—kind of like this one.

Hobbies and Ambition

Her needlework both plain and ornamental was excellent, and she might have put a sewing machine to shame. ~James Edward Austen-Leigh, about Jane Austen


If Jane Austen could do it…maybe I can’t. Still, it means it’s worth a try!


Hobbies are something of a necessity for my mother and I. Growing up with a mother who sewed, quilted, smocked and embroidered innumerable things when I was young, I naturally picked up a few things here and there. Eventually—when I was about eleven or twelve—a quilting buddy of my mother’s gave me her outdated (but exquisite) Husqvarna machine. For those of you who don’t know (and that would probably be most of you, since most weren’t raised by sewing fanatics), Husqvarna machines are some of the best on the market and have been. In its day, my machine was the top of line for automatic embroidery machines (which I believe have a more technical name than that in reality). It has a few quirks that took me some time to learn about, like how you have to hold the tails of the thread when you first start, and then watch the speed because it’s jumpy for the first thirty seconds, but I love quirks—in machines and people alike. A good machine deserves a name; mine is Margaret. We’ve made clothes, pillows, quilts and numerous unnecessary little items together that filled many an afternoon during drafty winter weather. I’m ashamed to say that Margaret is collecting a rather thick coating of dust at present.

Besides learning to use a sewing machine, my mother made sure to teach me handwork like needlepoint and embroidery. I was a bit of a dunce when it came to smocking during my first attempts (which, to be fair to myself, where when I was probably about ten), and lacking patience and focus, I gave it up. As for needlepoint, I finally decided that it was boring, and it drove me crazy that all of my yarn was constantly getting tangled up. I haven’t picked up needlepoint in years. Embroidery is something that I use from time to time, but I’m not terribly talented, though this could be because I—once again—lacked enough patience to learn any terrifically complex and beautiful stitches. As for plain hand sewing, I took to that like wildfire. I love Margaret dearly, but there’s something that I find incredibly relaxing about a simple stitch bringing two pieces of fabric into one. (It’s also much better for sewing very tiny sleeves—something I encountered when I started working a wardrobe for my cloth doll that I bought in Williamsburg around seven years ago. As to those dresses, most of them are unfinished because I hated hemming things.)

I tried a few hobbies of my own, such as felting. This came about after I received the Felt Wee Folk book, by Salley Mavor. Honestly, there are dozens of these fairies all about the house. Because I was making these miniature dolls (constructed out of pipe cleaners, embroidery floss, a wooden bead, felt and wool) at such a vivacious pace, my mother decided to encourage it and bought me large quantities of the delicious wool it takes to form the body and hair. This brought about my attempts at felting, which was a new passion for a while. After pricking my hands about five hundred times with those long, barbed needles, I put them aside and went searching for a new hobby.

As long as I can remember, my grandmother has always had a bit of knitting on her person somewhere. She would carry a half-finished sock or scarf in her purse with needles sticking out of it at odd angles, or she would have on a sweater that she had finished the month before. It just always been a part of her in my eyes. I loved the gentle clicking of her aluminum needles as she speedily created yards of fabric, the creations that miraculously appear at the tips of these magical sticks that she could control. I wanted to learn. I wanted to knit. She taught me the basics when I was six or seven, but wasn’t a patient teacher, so knitting was passed over in my repertoire of old-fashioned accomplishments (along with most useful ones like baking or cooking). I returned to it when I was about eleven—with a new teacher—and discovered that I have a natural knack for tension. Yes! For once I didn’t have to struggle with every aspect of a new hobby! (Honestly, my mother’s friend who tried to teach a few of us girls to embroider on a more serious level basically gave up on two of us. Out of three. I was one of the ones she gave up on, by the way. These things do not come naturally to some of us!)

Anyway, this all came up because I’ve started working on a scarf that I started last fall again. It’s my first bit of Fair Isle knitting, so it’s exciting, easy and gratifying. The only problem is that it has me feeling ambitious—I found a pattern for an Aran sweater and started to pick out what color to knit it. WHAT?! I don’t even know how to do a cable, let alone sleeves (which is a problem, since I actually have all of a sweater knit but stopped two years ago because the sleeves scared me)! If I ever start in on it, I’ll be sure to not let you know so that you won’t be wondering why it took so long five years from now.

The innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care...
~William Shakespeare

Updating Jane

I was going to write about hobbies and handwork today, but when I was watching “Mansfield Park” (while knitting), I decided to put off my hobby post in order to attempt to flesh out how this film version (Miramax) can completely renovate Jane Austen’s novel and yet keep it…Austeny, if you know what I mean. In several ways, I actually prefer this movie version to the book, but before you go sending me hate mail for my inconsistencies, I’ll get into the “why” of the matter.
The movie is described as a “fun and sexy comedy,” but I hate that description. Yes, for those of us who adore satire and irony, this is a witty and humorous film, but I think that if you sat down half of the population of America, they wouldn’t get the depth behind the humor. This is where we reach my first point on why, while forsaking much of Austen’s own design, the director has a film that feels like a legitimate Austen novel: she analyzes the relationships of her characters. Everything is worked out, it’s complete, it feels real. The reality of Austen’s characters has always been something that I’ve appreciated, and it’s the same with this movie.

The character changes in this movie would have to be the main reason that I prefer it in many ways to the book. I’ve been on many a rampage about how Edmund is a milquetoast and Fanny is a pushover, making them the worst of Austen’s heroes and heroines. In contrast, Henry Crawford was a fantastic character that I actually wanted to get the girl, however unworthy she may be. Austen knew that the bad-boy aura is captivating, but she also realized that there has to be a bit of reform to make them really accessible. Anne Shirley said it perfectly when she described her perfect man as having the capability to be wicked, but holding it back. Henry is that when he sets his eye—and loses his heart—to Fanny. Yes, I wanted a Fanny/Henry union. I also wanted Edmund to be thrown from a cliff a few times. In the movie, they redeemed Edmund! Sure, he’s still the same almost loveable milquetoast of a hero, but he has a bit more spine. When we reach the scene where he takes on Mary Crawford for speaking gleefully of his brother’s possible demise, he actually is quite masculine (something that, for one scene at least, his frightfully pink lips can’t take away). Because they build their romantic relationship up in scenes like the parting, the carriage ride and the post-affair, we can believe that they really have always loved each other. It also furthers the impression that he is pursuing Mary because it is what his father wants, something that begins soon after Sir Bertram returns from Antigua. (So that you aren’t confused, Sir B is advising Edmund that he could do a lot worse than marry “her”; Edmund thinks he is talking about Fanny [so we know where his heart is to start], but Sir B sets him straight and says that he’s talking about Mary.) Oh, and Fanny becomes a symbol for feminism, basically. She’s one sassy girl who, while obedient and generally demure, isn’t going to go against her own conscience for anything or anyone. Basically, three of the most important characters are just better.

I could go into how the film added some pointless elements of racism that redeemed Tom, but I’m not going to. They’re very deep and symbolic, I’m sure, but I’ve had enough of writing about issues like this for one year between my European history and literature courses—forgive me. Basically, there were new important elements. I wouldn’t say that these were useful additions to the story—just some clutter, really.

I’m going to loop back to Fanny again. I think the reason that this movie really feels like Austen is *drum roll* that the movie’s Fanny IS JANE, essentially. Her little asides throughout the film are, in many cases, things that Jane wrote when she was young, such as the “run made as often as you choose” bit—straight out of Lady Susan, the oft forgotten first (short) novel that Jane wrote. I think that the purpose was to give a heroine that modern viewers would connect with, and POOF! They realized that Jane herself must have been one sassy lady to write about all of the hot topics that she did. Thus was born this new Fanny, who I refer to as Phanny (because I can be extremely corny as the day goes on, yes, I do refer to her by a mix-up of her name and “phoenix”).

Ta-da! That’s why I love this film maybe more than the book it’s based on. This is a first, people! It’s also almost difficult for me to admit. Yup, that’s all of why I love the film. Pretty much.

So sue me; yes, I artfully concealed the fact that Jonny Lee Miller played Edmund. I was very upfront about how weird I feel about his strangely pink lips AND said he played a milquetoast. (Oh, and yes—I do love that word. A lot.)

Two-Year-Old Dog Syndrome and the Sky is Falling

As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve had absolutely no direction in my writing for some time now. My posts have jumped around from subject to subject, and they are generally longer than even I would even want to read myself—and it’s even about me. You’ve also probably noticed that I whine. A lot. About everything. This is why my most commonly used tag is “general griping.” I had to make said tag when I realized that I actually had a couple of posts that didn’t fall under the same moaners-not-so-anonymous category. As to the first problem…this probably isn’t going to change. What you read is what is whooshing around my little brain, and organization isn’t my forte by any stretch of the imagination. For the second, I really do intend to at least attempt to pull myself out of this slump of extreme pessimism that has engulfed three fourths of my life. (As I side note, I may hold the record for having been the youngest self-declared pessimist. I’m sure that no one keeps track of things like that, so it’s probably a pretty safe bet.)

My only other note is that any creativity I have is being channeled into some little short story/poetic pieces that I like to write a start to but will never ever finish plotting and what to title this blog post, since—once again—it’s a mash up…and so is the title. I think I need more distracting photos…

"Blue Moon"--one of my favorite songs of all time--was playing at work this morning, pretty much making my day. Here's lookin' at you, Kid!


For some reason, this reminds me of Dean Martin's "Mambo Italiano"



Then I came home and put on Jack Johnson's album "In Between Dreams," which is brilliant.

Goodbye, Blissful Boredom

I’m officially ruined. I can’t enjoy being totally lazy anymore! I feel like a schmuck even though I cleaned, did my family’s laundry and studied; watching television in the middle of the day just makes me feel like a piece of dirt. (The worst part is that I just had it on while I was eating. I wasn’t even watching stupid Disney shows, I swear! Just a little “What Not to Wear” so that I could yell at Stacy because her advice can be so…awful. [No, I don’t yell at Clinton. Ever.] It even made me eat faster just so I could get away from the annoying woman they were “helping.”) I just wanted one day, conscience! ONE DAY! On the agenda for tomorrow: work for three hours, then go in my greasy, smelly clothes to a consultation with an oral surgeon to see about getting my wisdom teeth out (mm, this summer just keeps looking better and better), and THEN I get to go have a music lesson! At night! When I haven’t practiced since Saturday! Doesn’t that sound great?! (Not only have I not practiced since Saturday, but I also haven’t gone over what I just know my teacher is going to make me play in…a really long time. No, I’m not going to practice now. No, my conscience can’t make me feel any worse.)

Because I knew when I set out to write this post that it was going to be oddly normal (meaning disjointed and pointless), I decided to distract you with photos. Aren’t I clever?

Hey, look who it is!



Check out the marvelous mustache:



Failed attempt at trying to find something in common with my brother #219:

Dear Blog,

I’ve neglected you. I’m sorry! Really, I didn’t intend to, but all of these scary AP tests were flying my way, and I wasn’t feeling prepared. So I left you. You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise. In future, I promise to post my inconsequential nothings at least a few times a week (or as my summer boss allows time for).

Sincerely,
Ruby


Now that that’s out of the way, it’s good to be back! “Finals” are over as of this afternoon (which was an easy two hours of psychology questions and essays [easy meaning two hours feels short after spending near four on a European history exam]). Maybe I should catch you up on my life…

…Or maybe not. Really the only things it’s consisted of are intense study sessions and tests. And those are too boring to speak of. The only funny part of it all was when I overheard a couple of students talking to our proctor today about “Death of a Salesman”…which I actually almost really liked. Anyway, they didn’t like it:

“…And I spent the whole time reading it like, ‘why doesn’t Willy die already? We all KNOW he’s going to die!’ He was so mean. Arg! I hate that *book!”

Being the negative person you know me to be, I had a hard time not laughing. Or smiling. Or lecturing them on the symbolic depth of it all. However, I made life a bit easier for my social self by keeping my mouth shut.

So…what else to mention? Well, I had my NYSSMA competition, but since I spent all of that time studying, I really didn’t practice. Nor did I care. In fact, my teacher made me do it. So I…might have actually messed up a scale (a SCALE!) because I only started to get nervous when I went to play my second scale (a Db), so I didn’t even think about fingering…or key signature…or anything else. Yup. I messed up a scale for the first time ever at a competition. On the bright side, I totally rocked my sight reading (also for the first time ever), and the adjudicator only took off one point (for dynamics, which I thought was pretty cruddy of her). Even though I didn’t care about the year’s competition, I’m too prideful to post my score. I’m used to getting 98s and 99s (and I actually used to be upset with a 98), so it feels weird to publicize anything less than that. So let’s just say that it wasn’t a 99. Or a 98. On the bright side, it was above a 90 (and no, not a 91—I’m not that bad, even without practice). On the really really bright side, that was my LAST NYSSMA EVER! YAY!

The only other thing that I spent any time on would have to be reading. After studying at night, I’m too wound up to sleep, so I read. Then I get too wound up by the book, so I keep reading…past midnight. Past one. Past two. Occasionally past four. Anyway, I’ll mention a few books that I’ve sunk my teeth into.

The Bean Trees. This is by Barbara Kingsolver (who I’ve mentioned before, but I’m too lazy to look back through past posts to link to it), the author of “The Poisonwood Bible”—one of my favorite books. This one was actually recommended to me by an admissions councilor at Houghton College during an off topic interview. I enjoyed the book, but I couldn’t relate. Somehow I felt closer to the wilderness of the Congo than the desert of Arizona. Call me crazy, but arid heat is alien to me. Anywho, I would still recommend this book to y’all.

Sophie’s World. (This is not to be confused with “Sophie’s Choice,” a very different book.) I’m in the middle of this book right now, but I’m still going to tell you to find a copy. It’s basically like a philosophy textbook…that collided with a novel! Yeah! That makes me super excited, if you couldn’t tell. I’m learning and having fun and completely stumped by the mystery of the story. It’s good. Read it.

And Then There Were None. *WARNING* This is only for those of you who liked to feel shivers running down your spine at three in the morning when you can’t put down a book because you HAVE to know who the murderer is! It’s creepy! And disturbing! And delicious! Agatha Christie was a genius, and I’m pretty sure that she was one freaky lady, too. No normal person could be quiet so ingenious about sneaky murders. This one isn’t affiliated with either her Miss Marple series or her Inspector Hercule Poirot series. It’s actually more gruesome than either, so don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. While on the subject of Marple and Poirot, my impression is that Poirot deals with more cold blooded murders, while Marple is into the emotionally driven ones. This means that, ultimately, Marple is more chilling than Poirot. I must be twisted since I adore either (though I do prefer Poirot and his splendid mustache).

There were others, but those were the three that were actually coming out in cohesive sentences, so we’ll stick with them for now. I’m racking my brain for anything else that I might unburden on you tonight…

Oh! Well, as for more inconsequential nothings, my brother is officially home for summer holidays and I start work on Thursday (lucky little me, eh?).

…And that’s all! Until tomorrow, dear blog!



*Yes, they called it a book. Um, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never read a book with scenes and acts.

The Fabric of my Life and Russell the Magnificent

You’ve seen the cotton commercials, right? Of course you have. Everyone’s watched them! They get some musical artist to sing a little song about how cotton is “the fabric of [their] life.” Now, to me, saying that something makes up the fabric of your life sounds deep. For instance, if I were to describe the fabric of my life, I would say that it was made up of music and books, of family and friends, of deep discussions and laughter. Apparently I’m not literal enough to write commercials. And honestly, do you only wear cotton? I see a lot of acrylics and polyester going on out there. Personally, I’d love to say that wool was the fabric of my life. It isn’t true, but I love it. Ooh! Or maybe linen! I like to iron things, so that would be perfect, minus the starch. I mean, when I see ‘cotton,’ I think baggy shirts or stiff summer dresses—I’m not thinking “oh my gosh, that just makes my LIFE!” Someone should be fired.

Okay, my ADD moment is over; on to the most important subject of the week: commercials are out advertising the new Robin Hood! Starring Russell Crowe and Cate Blanchett! I’m more excited than I have been in about three years! (My mind is screaming like an eleven-year-old, hence the egregious amount of exclamation points.) Cotton may make some people’s lives, but Russell C and Cate B make mine. Honestly, I think Cate Blanchett has to be one of the most breathtaking women alive, not to mention inconceivably talented. I’m pretty sure that I’ve mentioned my regard for Russell Crowe before, so I’ll cut it out…until after the film actually comes out. Really, though—I was bouncing up and down like a kid on Christmas Eve—it was intense. I’ve been waiting quasi-patiently for more news to come out about the film, and then, to my intense delight, a preview came on during Project Runway. It was like the angels were singing. I would have screamed, but my mother was asleep, so I decided to be considerate. The preview played AGAIN last night, and the effect was pretty much the same. MAY 14th, PEOPLE! BE THERE! If you claim to love good film, it isn’t an option. I mean, Robin Hood was sort of a big thing to me during childhood. I wasn’t exactly a model of femininity, so I always had men for role models. Robin Hood was one of them. Last year, I renewed the novelty by watching all three seasons of BBC’s series, titled (originally) “Robin Hood.” I should probably spend more time writing about this series (considering the amount of time I spent watching it over Christmas break), but I’ll just tell you that it’s corny, sweet, and stars the attractive-in-a-rough-way Jonas Armstrong (and you can download it instantly on Netflix; YAY!). Don’t blame me if you don’t like it; I can’t explain why I like it. Let’s put it this way: I actually sat down to watch an entire episode because I realized that Richard Armitage plays a central role. I was hooked. Back to Robin Hood. Basically, I don’t think this is going to be your childhood Robin. Crowe always seems to play some pretty gritty characters, so look for depth and oh-so-much action! Excuse me while I go make myself a count-down calendar decorated with little pictures of the evolution of the character.

I Don’t Usually Do This…

But something has to be said. I try to keep up with the Project Runway season, and this year I’ve watched most of the later episodes (there’s really no point in watching early on, except to see the winners develop). Last night, as I’m sure some of you know, was the season finale. I was happy with the three designers that ended up at fashion week—they were all defined, talented, and excellent craftsmen. That being said, I was more impressed with Seth Aaron’s and Mila’s collections than Emilio’s, who I thought would blow me away. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve been a big fan of Seth Aaron the whole time, not Emilio; I just see the judges loving Emilio. If you haven’t watched it and want suspense, a) get offline, and b) don’t read this post.

I was a committed fan of Seth Aaron after the design-your-own-print competition when he made the most fabulous jacket/tie set that I adored. When I saw the designs in progress for fashion week, I instantly loved them (I have a secret inner side of me that has always wanted to pull off a punk-chic look), but…they weren’t going to win the competition. Yay! I agreed with Tim! I love Tim! When his collection came down the runway, I was actually giddy. I loved every piece, even that strange purple dress. I wanted to wear it all! Even the yellow coat, and I CANNOT wear yellow. The red dress was AMAZING. It helps that I already adore 40s fashion, so it was just sort of the collection for me.

Mila also appealed to me because of her retro looks, the sleek lines, and, of course, her signature: black and white. I wish she had thrown more color in over the season, but I think she had a strong run of it. I think I gained the most respect for her after the hardware challenge. Her collection was great—very Mila—but it definitely needed color. I’m pretty sure she only had two pieces that weren’t totally black and white. That being said, I could again see myself wearing many of the pieces. They were runway worthy, and yet you could see the typical fashion lover wearing them comfortably.

Emilio, oh, how annoying you’ve been. I couldn’t wish him off the show because his talent deserved to be on, but at the same time, the man drove me crazy. Never have a watched a more entitled contestant unfold. Still, his dresses were fantastic all the way through, and I honestly thought that he had the entire competition in the bag—apparently he did, too. When I saw his collection, though…I wasn’t a fan. There were a few pieces that I really did love, but overall, it was the exact interpretation of the 90s. I hate the 90s look. The collection had great flow until they hit that last dress; what was it doing there? It completely didn’t fit. Also, why was Raven there? Or Nigel Barker? Isn’t he on another show? *nods head*

Basically, I sat through the judging scenes repeating “Seth-Aaron-Seth-Aaron-Seth-Aaron” over, and over, and over again. If I hadn’t been a total fan of his before (which I was), this one collection would have sold me. (The other thing I did sitting through the judging was think, "did they have a seizure when they chose Faith Hill to be the guest judge? Why would they EVER choose her?! I thought she was going to give the competition to Emilio. Luckily, she was just a decoy for the real judging process. HA, Faith Hill! HA!) You can imagine my delight when he WON! YES! Honestly, of the three, he’s the only one that I could see liking as a person, either. That was a plus. NO, it is his talent alone that won him that not-so-important-but-dramatic-competition! Go Seth Aaron!

(I’m sorry about this brief lapse into enthusiasm. I’ll return to normal by tomorrow.)

Boring Lives: A Call for Change

You’ve probably noticed that the blog looks a little different. Congratulations, Sherlock. My ADD nature has set in again…plus, I was crazy bored today. Honestly, this will probably happen a lot over the life of this blog. I’m one of those people that needs some change every once in a while (read: a lot).* I get bored with my life pretty easily, and I want something to shake it up. Unfortunately, my parents aren’t big on letting me repaint my room every month. Because of this, I choose very neutral colors, and change artwork, curtains, pillows, anything possible, really, just for something fresh. Hey, I spend 88.8% of my life in here, so it has to stay relevant. Instead of doing something harmless like painting, I end up changing my hair.

This phase of hair destruction began about three years ago, when I realized that now was the time to experiment in life. I used to make just subtle changes—fringe here, a little extra layering there; now, it’s started to get a little more…dramatic. I decided in about two weeks that I was going to donate my hair. This was back when my hair was nearly to my butt, and in relatively good condition. Because I’m decent at learning braids and quite the proficient with a bobby-pin, this kept me content and busy, but then it happened: I got bored with life. Off I went to the hairdresser, and off came my hair. Twelve long inches and a bad haircut later, and I probably would have cried if I had realized how ugly it was. Really, I hadn’t recognized yet that my hairdresser was getting to be a quack. Anyway, I worked with this shapeless head of hair for a while, and it started to grow out again. By the time it had grown a little past my shoulder blades, I was bored again, and decided to swallow my deep hatred of bangs (that came from when I was about seven and thought they looked best when parted and swept to either side of the forehead. Photos may follow.). Armed with a magazine and a specific idea of what I wanted, I headed off the salon once again. This result was actually miraculous. I had never realized before that my generous forehead really should be hidden by bangs, and besides, anything that brought me a little closer to Audrey Hepburn was a good thing. I was happy with my hair, the attention that it was bringing me…but not with people telling me things such as, “wow, your hair looks great like this! Don’t change it!” Don’t change my hair? Psh. How boring.

I changed it. I desperately wanted a 20s/30s bob (and I still do), so I went to the salon and asked for a short to mid-length bob. I came out with a lob. A LOB. Really, who hears a girl say “I want a bob” and translates it to “I really really want a lob”? Apparently, my hairdresser does. Needless to say, it looked pretty stupid on me, and I spent the next few months trying to disguise my hair. Since then, I’ve just been letting it grow. Life’s boring, but I need a new hairdresser before I can attempt to actually get a bob again.

Instead of hair, I’ve changed my desktop background, this blog, my homepage, my makeup, my wardrobe, my desk arrangement, diet, and anything else I could think of to shake up my life a bit. I begun to have a shoe-shopping mania that comes on every other week. I have to stop going into TJ Max, because I almost always leave the place with a new purse, now. I’ve begun to search the web for a good rectangular scarf to use for a 40s turban. This is a bad place in my life, it would seem, and soon the shears are sure to rear their ugly head.

Basically, I’m changing the blog to save my sanity. Enjoy.



*My grammar/spell-check spastic system is telling me that “needs” is grammatically incorrect. Apparently it also evaluates literal statements.

Where there's Smoke...

There must a troubled teenager.

My life has become, if possible, even slower lately…well, my social life has—studies are killing off whatever they had left me at the beginning of the year. Anyway, the purpose is to say that I don’t have anything to report. Rather than give an annoying rundown on my day (as I seem to do way too often), I decided that it was time to share one of my favorite little gems of a family story.

It was probably two years ago that my mom decided that it was time to finally worry about me getting involved in unsavory activities. This would probably start at an earlier age in most homes, but as I was pretty much locked in my room either doing school or reading books (and subsequently not exactly friend material for the “rough” kids around), my parents apparently saw no reason to add any more grey to their heads before absolutely necessary. Enter: my summer job.

It should be noted that I wasn’t exactly naïve going into my job; I was (almost) completely aware that my coworkers were no angels and had a propensity to party every night. I also soon found out that they liked to “corrupt” the new kids that they deemed worthy to hang out with them. Now, there are a few things that can make them absolutely hate you as a new kid. A few examples would be a) talking too much b) talking too little c) acting afraid of them in the open and d) not treating them with enough respect as befits their seventeen plus years on the planet. Luckily (in I’m-so-glad-they-didn’t-make-my-life-living-hell sense), they were all relatively okay with me, and, in fact, became more so as time went on. Eventually my bluntest coworker started in with the inevitable questions, with conversations sucha s this one becoming quite common:

“Do you drink?”
“No, ___.”
“Would you drink?”
“As in ‘would I drink right now if given the chance’? No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, to start, I have this thing about not wanting to have a record…”
“So?”
“Wait, you do realize it isn’t legal, right?”

Basically, the waters were being tested to see if I would party with them. They’d even invite me out without specifics on what the evening would hold, but this became a joke quickly after one night when two of the girls called me from a bar and grill.

“Heeeeey! What’chya doin’?”
“A? Why are you calling me at midnite?”
“I’m out with J and we wanted to know what you were doing!”
“I’m reading a book, A.”
“What?! You’re reading? At midnight?” *peals of laughter*
*sigh* “Yes. Yes, I’m reading at midnight.”
“What’chya readin’?”

She then made me give a short synopsis of the book, and then put my other coworker on the line, making for an interesting conversation, since I’m pretty sure that neither of them were exactly sober at that point. To be honest, none of it bothered (or still bothers) me that much. Eventually, it just became the joke of our workplace, and we all understood our place. I was officially the nerd/over-zealous book reader, they were the partiers, and we could coexist comfortably and even amiably at work. Honestly, all of this rambling has been to explain that, yes, my mother was aware that I was now within reach of anything that she considered wrong, illegal, or immoral…about four years after everyone else.

Because I’m so lucky, this means that my mom decided that it was time to start bugging me about my whereabouts all the time. During the school year, she has no worries—as I said, I’m in my room with poor internet connection, so it’s a pretty safe bet that I’m squeaky clean. However, they start to worry more during the summer since I actually see my friends in person and meet new people—away from them. Apparently I must be the type to throw off all caution, because this little scene occurred sometime in August, I believe:

*Mom arrives home from a day of shopping. My dad and brother have been working, so I’ve had the house to myself. After helping her get the bags into the house, I leave her to arrange them in her OCD fashion well I go pretend that laying out in the sun will add color to my near-albino body. After about fifteen minutes pass, Mom walks out to the deck where I am, and, as I get up, hugs me. Tightly. Suddenly, I notice that she’s sniffing my hair. That’s right, sniffing my hair.*

Me: “Um…what do you think you’re doing?”
My mother: “Nothing! I’m just hugging you!”
*doesn’t let me move; continues to sniff hair.*
“Mom, why are you smelling me? I showered, okay? What, do I smell bad?”
*Finally backs off*
“Well, the pantry smelled like cigarettes.”
“So naturally you thought that I must have been smoking cigarettes in the pantry.”
“Well, I thought I should check. It’s a mother’s job.”
“I think the most insulting thing is that you think I’m stupid enough to smoke them in the pantry. Don’t you think that I would have the sense to at least do that somewhere that you would smell it?”

Yes, readers, my mom was convinced that not my father, who used to smoke cigars regularly, not my brother, who would have more access, but little me was the culprit of smoke in the pantry. (Consequently, I went to check the pantry myself. It didn’t smell like smoke—more like dead mouse.)

Have a lovely April day, and remember to be grateful for mothers who aren’t nosy.

Fill in the Blank: Interviews ______

Well, I’m back earlier than expected from my Houghton College visit day! We drove down last night under the guise of dropping my brother off at college, but we all know that the trip was all about me (sort of). My mum and I spent the night at the tiny little inn there, which is actually pretty adorable. (Somehow we ended up with the same room as we had two years ago when Brother first visited the college). Since the dining hall was already closed, we walked down the one real street of the tiny little village to their posh-ish Subway. (Seriously. Cathedral ceiling, picture windows, a spiral staircase—it has it all, as far as Subway goes.) I’ve recently discovered that banana peppers taste like potent pickles, so I was happy with the small dining selection available. After a night of Wives and Daughters and me stuffing my face with crackers because I was ravenous and there wasn’t anything else to eat, I drifted off into some psycho dream land filled with chicken thieves and kitchen knives. Let’s hope those dreams weren’t prophetic. In the morning, my mum woke up feeling nauseous and dizzy, so we went up to the admissions building to plead for an earlier interview. A lovely admissions counselor, Kate, complied, and I had a lovely chat about Barbara Kingsolver, Sense and Sensibilities, and internships at publishing houses in the big city woven into the dread interview. Overall, it was not near as bad as I had expected. (I also received my first Houghton T-shirt. Granted, they give these out like other colleges hand out paper cups of water, but it is still my first—a [sort of] momentous occasion.)

Ooh, I should also mention that Tommy Hilfiger outlets are the bomb. Yesterday I snapped up an adorable ruffled cardigan (one of my major weaknesses) which was partially cashmere (I won’t mention how much—it really is too small of an amount to really count for much other than to assure everyone that there are traces of cashmere present) for *drum roll* six bucks. Really. It was really nifty too, since I had been drooling over a similar style put out by J. Crew (whose website I’m currently salivating over) only a few months ago. Score! Oh, how I love my outlet malls.

In other news, my grandfather once again sent me a lovely little book…from pre-1920s. Yup, an ancient copy of “Burns: The Poets Day by Day” is now in possession, and I’m loving it. Books used to be not only the art of words, but of craftsmanship; each book was carefully assembled, each portrait carefully set in place, protected by thin sheets of tissue paper. Today’s poem was “Lassie wi’ the Lint-White Locks.” I think the best parts of this book would have to be that the inscription is dated 1921 in Gananoque, Ontario, and that whoever previously owned it penciled in the names of friends and family on their birthdays. I share a birthday with a mysterious Elsie!

Serendipity: Bread and Cheese, making the new Bagel Twists at Dunkin Donuts divine.

Recap

Hm…I’ve been terribly remiss once again. Where to start? Ah, yes: How to Train your Dragon. Honestly, I think that’s going to be the best children’s film of the year, but don’t judge it based on the fact that it is mean t for the kiddies. I went with my brother (a sophomore in college) and a friend (a freshman in college), and we sat in the theatre through the entirety of the credits in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, there would be a bonus scene at the end—you know you love a movie when you’re willing to do that. (I’ll save you the time: there isn’t a bonus scene. Nada. Zip. Zilch.) It was adorable, it was sweet, it was humorous and endearing. The characters had depth and growth, and the dragons were majorly cute. (Yes, even the guys admit to that.)

I’ve been planning to write an entire post on this, but here’s just a quick note: go retro for the spring and summer! The warmer it gets, the better it is to break out the old-Hollywood glam! I’m talking about big shades, red/coral pouts, killer sling backs and peep-toes—and that’s only for day. Glamour is an around the clock deal. Rather than look like a mannequin from your grandmother’s closet, try touches of the look around your outfit, slowly adding more and more pieces. Most importantly: make it your own. Reinvent the look for yourself; don’t be a carbon copy of Marilyn or Audrey.

As for normal life, I’ve been scrambling for two weeks now. My grandma has been having health issues that keep her hopping in and out of the hospital, I had to hop up to my gramp’s place in the Adirondacks for a day this past week, there have been endless errands to run and endless amounts of studying to do. So is life, I suppose (Abatiwaha! Sorry, couldn’t resist. Old choir songs always haunt me like that). The only delicious news is that I found an adorable maxi for a reasonable price at Target a week ago. Sure, I tend to steer away from stores that will have their clothing spread near and far, but for summer dresses, I’m less particular. I feel like winter pieces are here to stay; they’re staples of the wardrobe and should be chosen with care and consideration, never scrimped on. Summer, however, is just to have fun! Clothes wear out faster in the summer, don’t you think? It’s something about how we live a fuller life then. I’m thrilled to try out the length when it warms up again—hopefully my height will help me pull it off!

My Achy Breaky Back has Enemies

What a morning! As my clock poured forth the sounds of a dull news report this morning, I rolled over to hit the snoozer, like every morning. Unlike every other morning, instantly I could tell that something was wrong: my back had done it again. My left shoulder blade was screaming every time I moved, and I couldn’t get comfortable. I figured it would slip into place if I started moving around, so I went to take my shower. Bad idea. I’ve passed out before, so I know the symptoms and how to stop it, which is a good thing since I started to faint just before stepping into the shower. Have you ever noticed how your thoughts are sluggish and ADD when you’re light headed? My thoughts ran something like this: “Ooh, my ears feel hot. What’s that sound? Oh, I think it’s the blood running to my head. Oops, I guess I’m going to miss my violin lesson today…which probably means I won’t be able to go to the movies. Crap. Hm…I feel queasy. I haven’t felt queasy in a long time. How long has it been? I can’t remember. OOH, pretty spots!” Seriously. I go a little loony. I sprawled on the floor for ten minutes before I heard my parents get up and moving, and then ended up falling asleep on a heating pad in bed for a while (the best thing to come out of this). I should probably note that I have issues with doctors. Not with them as people, they’re normal people who I can hate or love like anyone else, but I take serious offence when they’re poking and manhandling me. Today was a manhandling day. I went in to my local GP since he does adjustments as a kind of specialty, so he worked on my back for about twenty minutes. Was that ever awkward. Two vertebrae were obedient, but I still have one that’s being mean to me. Back to the heating pad, I guess.

On a happier note, going to the doctors is how I know that I’ve lost three pounds while still eating half a pan of brownies, cupcakes, frosting, chocolate and white cheddar popcorn as staples of my diet. Yay! I also passed the 5’9 mark, even though I’ve been convinced for a year that my growing days were over.

I can now officially gush about Public Enemies: THAT WAS SO GOOD! Really, I loved it. I’m more enthusiastic than my brother is, and you’d generally think of it as more of a “guys” movie, but that’s just how I am. I could watch Pride and Prejudice back to back with Gladiator and have the time of my life. It was another film that had me ogling the costumes. I’d also like to say once more that Johnny Depp is amazing. Fantastic. Fabulous. Miraculously talented. *gush gush gush* My only complaint was that the style of filming changed twice in the film; it had a low-budget feel at both the night chase in the woods and directly after the death of Dillinger. However, I’m pretty sure it was intended—it just sort of bothered me. Again, you shouldn’t watch if you tend to be squeamish (it is a gangster sort of film, after all), but I highly recommend it.

Twilight, Alice, Bunnies and Enemies

Happy Day-after-Easter, everyone! I know that I was incredibly lazy this weekend, so now I’ll have to catch up on life online. Where to start? I’ll check the box for Friday. Basically, I finished off my work for the week, and then called up a chum to come over for some giggles and face-stuffing. She brought three movies along with her for our entertainment (I think we’ve gone through all of mine by now): The Blind Side, Twilight, and New Moon. I know, I know, you all just gasped. I associate with a Twilighter? It’s true, but in my defense, I’ve tried my utmost to convert her. I also had a devious plan (not really) that I’ll mention later. I had expected The Blind Side to be all weepy and sappy, but I laughed more than anything. Granted, this could have been because when we reached the first football game of the film my dad goes “Oh no, this is where he goes blind, right?!” Let’s just say that it took us a long time to stop laughing after that. Blind SIDE, not blind GUY. Where he picked up that Big Mike goes blind, I’ll never know.

Twilight. Yes, I watched both films. Yes, I talked through the entire thing. Yes, I hated them. YES, I DID film my reactions! My goodness, those films were bad. I would normally apologize to any of you who enjoyed them, but I can’t today. Instead, I’ll ask you a question: what ever do you SEE in them? The dialogue is forced and awkward (“Say something to keep my mind off of them!” “um…well, you should put your seatbelt on.” “HAHAHAHAHA!” WTH IS SO FUNNY?) (…Sorry, that just confuses me. A lot.), the plot is weak and buggy (Alice, what ARE your powers? Couldn’t you tell Bella was alive? Couldn’t you see that she would be in the room with you? Or running to Edward? ARG!), and the characters are brats (paraphrasing: Oh my GOSH! Why did you save me, you big jerk? Why can you run so fast? You shouldn’t be able to DO that! Angst, angst angst!). Needless to say, my commentary is full of raised eyebrows, questions, scoffs and hurling insults. I eventually started to keep a tally of any compliments I made to the film. I could keep it on one hand. (Edward has a snazzy blazer on. He has a cool car, too, but that’s negated by the fact that they’re MOM cars. Um…Jacob looks better with short hair. There. Three.)Oh, and did anyone else notice that the Cullen clan seemed to have a monkey-pet-name fetish? Bella is Edward's Spider monkey (and something else "monkey" too, I think), and then either Alice or Rosalie calls their significant other a monkey as well. Is this a vampire thing? WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?!

On Saturday, I headed to the theatre with a plan to watch Clash of the Titans, but then realized that Alice in Wonderland was still in, so I got a ticket for it instead. Good choice. It was a little like I had been sniffing the Sharpies too long, but the costumes were FANTASTIC. I can’t gush enough about them. In fact, they were pretty much what pushed me into watching the film, since as a child, the book and the old movie versions freaked me out in a big way (which wasn’t helped when I read a few years ago that Carroll was a pedophile). Then there was my affection for Johnny Depp, because he’s such a fabulous actor. I’d love to say the same for Helena, but she just sort of freaks me out, to be honest. Anyway, I really did enjoy the film, despite the extreme sense of the surreal. I suppose that’s really part of its endearing feature. Mia Wasikowska impressed me, as well—she’s on my To-Watch list. Overall, the film was filled with excellent actors who did justice to their roles (never has the Mad Hatter had more depth), wonky settings, and an interesting plot, if not unexpected. This wasn’t your childhood Alice, and I liked it that way.

I think the bunny is pretty self-explanatory. There’s now enough chocolate to kill a herd of cattle in my house, so I’m sure to gain a few by next week since I have zero powers of resistance to the horribly lovely stuff. I spent at least a portion of the day sitting on a blanket under the sun reading “The Handmaid’s Tale,” so the day was pretty fantastic for me. I also watched the majority of “Public Enemies,” and it was quite a ride. Honestly, how can a film go wrong that has Johnny Depp, Christian Bale and Carey Mulligan (even if she doesn’t really have much of a part)? Even if I haven’t watched the end, I think I should be able to highly recommend it to anyone who isn’t squeamish at blood and violence (unlike in Twilight, no one’s head is ripped off at unexpected moments, I promise).

(I just realized that the photos didn't shrink to size like they were supposed to, but since they're off the web, you can click on them to view the whole photo.)

It’s Summe—I mean, Spring!

My current location is stretched out on my porch in cutoffs and a tank. On my porch. Outside. In April. Yes, bipolar New York has done it again! Our weather has shifted, and it’s now a balmy seventy. The birds serenade me and the flies buzz along in a random, scattered tune. It feels so good to feel a breeze on my skin and the sun on my face. This is the life!
My driving escapade of the post was when I had to drive my grandmother’s car to her house. She was, of course, in it with me, but that doesn’t say that I had any guidance or help. I think I inherited my driving “skills” from her. Basically, I was on my own. On a busy day. On some of the most congested roads in the most inconceivable layout you will find in a small city. Wouldn’t you know it, her car was blisteringly hot, too. I was stressed, to say the least, but I made it safe and sound.
Yesterday marked the beginning of my brother’s spring break from college, so in is typical whirlwind fashion, he arrived home last night. While he was chatting with my mother, I made a break for it and ran around outside for a bit, enjoying the sunset and the warmth with my oversized, over-aged puppy of a German shepherd, Whitaker. (I’ll try to post a few pictures as soon as I upload them onto my laptop.) The purpose of this escape was that I was still annoyed by the fact that my brother, a sophomore in college, is still buying himself videogames. I take issue with that. Hence, my flight so that I wouldn’t say too much and end up in a huge fight on his first night home. (I foresee a long week ahead.) I’ll ignore that little issue however, since Brother being home = a personal driver. To do list today: finish up some work, head off to a movie, and don’t end Brother’s life in an epic battle.

Musical Facts

Fact: if you put enough cheese and crush enough crackers into tomato-based soups, they all taste relatively the same.

Fact: listening to Josh Groban’s rendition of Ave Maria always makes me choke up a little, my eyes mist over, and the dreaded nostalgia creep up on me again.

Fact: I think it’s ironic that “Be OK” comes on my playlist right after Ave, but it never fails to surprise/cheer me.

Fact: If someone had been looking in my kitchen windows half an hour age, not only would they have been creepers, but they would have seen me dancing around to “Bottle it up.” With my cat. And a ladle.

Fact: I make very spastic playlists on my iPod.

Logical conclusion: I’ve lost it.

I’ve probably mentioned my bipolar musical taste before, but maybe I should really outline it for you: there is not method to my madness, except that I have absolutely no rap. Ever. I even own two country songs. Two. That’s a big number for a dedicated hater of country. (Wait, Johnny Cash should be exempt of a country label. He’s classic.) Okay, I have one country song.

Random seems to be my favorite word to live by. Rock Lobster was one of my first purchases out of the contemporary Christian genre, to be honest. I only stopped listening to it after I had it playing one day and my aunt and mother started to dance to it. That was a frightening sight, and to stop that situation from ever reoccurring, I ignored the song. (I also realized that no song should be THAT long.)

What are my top 25 most listened to? Um…we won’t cover all of them, since I apparently left my iPod looping a couple songs once, since I really don’t even know them, and yet they top my list. As I said, we’re skipping those. The next few songs are basically all of the songs from The Scarlett Pimpernel musical. I’m pretty sure that was all I listened to for an entire summer a few years ago (I still know just about every verse of every song). I think I’ve just revealed another strange obsession of mine: memorizing entire musicals. It comes naturally when you play in the pit. (It drives me crazy when the actors forget their lines. Trust me, the pit knows EVERYONE’s lines, and we could recite them at any time, any place. They need to learn one set, and they can’t even manage that.)

Next is that classic that tops Ave Maria on the sob list: She’s Always a Woman. I’m a serious sucker for Billy Joel. (Three of his other songs also top my chart.) 100 Years squeaks in just under, but I will never be ashamed of this song. Interspersed are a bunch of Sondre Lerche songs, since they are my musical blood, John Legend, Regina Spektor, and even the second section of an audio recording of “Emma.” I’m pretty sure that the list would be different if I actually listened to my iPod anymore, but now I sit at my laptop all day, so it provides my music. Sorry, iPod, but the ear-buds are painful.

Before I reveal any more strange and slightly embarrassing musical fascinations, I’m signing off for today.

Serendipity of the day: Cheese and _______. (Go ahead and fill in the blank. Unless you say “candle wax,” it’ll pretty much be amazing with cheese.)

Former musical taste: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UDWTLx1Ndns
Developed taste: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=diBwjtqpNMU

More Driving Stories and Gram

I think that after the many insults I’ve hurled at myself about driving skills (or the lack thereof), I should mention that I drove home from a city about two hours away today without out a: dying b: killing someone else or c: scratching any cars, including my own. Success! Actually, my only issue (other than the fact that the wind was like TORNADO-esque to my high-profile vehicle) was the fact that I had been reading a book right before I started to drive. You see, I think about books. A lot. If it’s a good book, I’ll end up talking to myself by accident because I’m trying to figure something out about it. This was me in the car:

*thinking* “Hm…I have no idea where this book will end. Well, they’ll leave the jungle…but what next? What exactly does the parrot symbol—AH!”

The small squeak was out loud, and came after being too distracted to counteract a huge gust of wind that was blowing me around the road. Oops.

While on this little escapade, I had my first encounter with a Hobby Lobby store. This store is like heaven on earth to me. Even though I’m pretty uncreative of late, I like to be around creative people and creative things. They also had a bunch of art that would fit perfectly in my room, which had me running from aisle to aisle like an eight year old distracted by row after row of cheap candy in a dollar store. The whole point of the trip was to pick up some yarn for my Gram so that she can knit me oodles of dorm socks on demand and in the colors I want. She didn’t realize that was why at the time, but I think we made it clear when we got to her house.

You see, originally she had asked us to get her about twenty-five balls of yarn. This would make twenty-five pairs of socks. We weren’t complaining, since honestly, these are the best things since individually-packaged cheese slices. We picked out the yarn and drove to her apartment, there emptying the bags on the floor.

She screamed.

Apparently, she had really meant only ten balls of yarn. Did we think she was going to make all of these into socks?!

Um…Yeah.

So, my mother and I picked out our favorite colors and wrote our names clearly and in bold print for good measure, and then stuffed them into a special bag. (This bag is the one she is to conquer first.) Gram looked at us and whines “this is senior abuse!” My mother prefers to term it as “vision casting.” I prefer to call it “cold feet awareness.”

(Excuse the photo; I only had my cell with me to take it.)

One of Those Days

Bonjour!

It’s a cozy day here in the north. Rain is spitting on and off, clouds are blanketing our skies, and the weather is starting to warm up again. I predict that green fields will be with us again soon! There’s nothing quite as ethereal as looking out at freshly tilled earth and saturated green grass and trees soaked with spring rain. (I’m actually this sappy about every season in turn.)

To complement the weather, I’ve had blues and jazz playing softly in the background all day. My small watermelon candle is making my room smell cozy, and I’ve wrapped myself in polar fleece to complete the effect. Unfortunately, this ends up making me feel nostalgic, so I’m having a melancholy kind of day. I feel like writing lugubrious melody or penning a modern Wuthering Heights. To be honest, this kind of mood always makes me more creative than my uplifting moments. On top of this creative mood, I have a book around for the first time in months that I can’t wait to get back to reading. This is the best feeling in the world to me—the suspense of a new plot, of complex characters, of the unknown. The only thing more appealing than reading in front of a fire right now would be to curl up in a small corner of a library with a trove of new books. Now that’s bliss.

I’ve decided that it’s time I started a new sewing project…or maybe finish one of the old ones. I need to create, so it would only make sense to bolster my wardrobe while doing it. Maybe I’ll summon up the willpower to finally finish the pleats on my old 80s/90s blazer…

If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to go be overly sentimental and sniffle a little about the many people that I’m missing at the moment. (I go back and forth between loving and hating the fact that my best friends are spread out across the country. This is an I-hate-this kind of day.) I may even have to play a brooding rendition of the Moonlight sonata while a single salty tear courses down my cheek. It’s just one of those overly-dramatic sort of days. I feel like Heathcliff should jump out of a bush sometime soon…

Serendipity of the day: Wuthering Heights references and the word “lugubrious.” (I’m sorry, I just really like saying that word, and when I read, I can hear the words in my head. Ergo, I write with it. A lot.)