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.)

The Office (I mention it enough in this post that it might as well be the title)

It’s been a great weekend filled with The Office, friends, movies and musicals. I started out my Friday night with a marathon of The Office. Oh. Yes. I watched about half of the fifth season in one night—and I even worked in an hour of Project Runway. As unexciting as that might sound, it was blissful after a full and long week. Plus, I really love Dwight and Pam…so any time I watch the show, I’m pretty happy.

Saturday consisted of waking up with yet another episode of The Office (other people binge on food or alcohol; I binge on movies and TV shows), and then headed into town to pick up my glasses and go see The Bounty Hunter with a friend. I really did try to write something about the film, but finally came to the conclusion that it’s just very forgettable. Funny at times, but forgettable. (Um…Okay, the reason that I couldn’t write anything was because I’ve forgotten most of it.)

Next on the agenda was going to the local high school’s production of Beauty and the Beast. Three friends were staring in it, and all of them were at their best. Having played the part of a hermit for the past two school years (I’m extremely convincing, if I do say so myself), school plays are times when I see tons of people for the first time in months. Last night was no exception. I had a lot of those I-didn’t-even-recognize-you moments (which signals that I SO need to get out more), a few encounters with former coworkers questioning me about if I’m working at the same place again this summer (pleasenopleasenopleaseno), and one conversation on libertarianism versus conservatism with a friend who I haven’t seen since…August, I guess (I’m really not THAT much of a hermit. He moved away. Not my fault). Basically, lots of happy reunions and catching up and realizing that people with good eyesight can actually see the faces of people on stage. (Who knew? Apparently I’ve been missing a lot without glasses. )

To start off my partial spring break (none of my classes have the same break; one of them doesn’t even give me a break), I…watched the last of season five of The Office* (Hm…I sound sad and lonely in this post), had about three different conversations with my brother (he always starts chatting with me right before he comes home on break), and dwarfed the entire church population when I opted to wear pumps rather than my usual flats (despite the fact that I was wearing black and white—absolutely no color on my person—my mother dubbed me The Jolly Green Giant. As if the lack of green wasn’t enough, it was eight in the morning. I wasn’t jolly).

*I would like to endorse this season. It was satisfyingly humorous, random, and Dwight-filled.

Serendipity of the day: Late-night cake breaks and The Office. (Anything goes with The Office...as long as it doesn't pose a choking hazard.)

Spectacles, Bibles, That Polish Guy and Journey

It’s true: I now need glasses. In a year I went from 20/20 with a slight astigmatism in one eye to having it in both eyes and actually having a trouble with some distance vision (like when I try to read print on the TV from across the room and pull the over-40 move of having to get up to see). Still, I’m not totally downcast since I really like glasses. I went in hoping to find a pair of Cary Grant-esque specs, but they didn’t look so fab on, so I traded in for a twist off of the style. That’s right: I’ll be wearing glasses that are commonly referred to as “geek glasses.” Cary Grant, I tell you! Cary Grant rocked those glasses. (I did try to find a picture, but all that comes up are his horrid round ones—not the look I’m going for.)

On my little trip in to torture my eyes with bursts of air and bright lights, I also dropped by my not-so-friendly Borders to pick up “The Poisonwood Bible” by Barbara Kingsolver. As I was once again behind the wheel, I’ve only had a quick peek at it (while my mother was in Staples, not while driving. Stop looking like that. I was stopped, okay? In park. Lights off. The whole shebang.). The first sentence alone is pretty thrilling: “Imagine a ruin so strange it must never have happened.” Is it sad that I’m hooked in one sentence? Um…I’m going to take it for a good thing, since I have a deadline to finish this one by.

By “That Polish Guy,” of course I’m referring to Joseph Conrad. There are many things I’d rather be doing than sitting around analyzing Heart of Darkness, so instead, I’ll talk about…a movie! Surprise, I know. I was watching “The Proposal” last night, and it was freaking me out from time to time. It isn’t that I don’t like the movie; it’s actually quite entertaining (except for when The Office’s “Oscar” was doing exotic dancing—that was just disturbing). The creepy part (other than the Oscar thing) is that my brother happens to look a lot like Ryan Reynolds. No, really—he does. They even share some mannerisms. This is potentially awkward when I’m watching movies where Reynolds plays the endearing character who every girl is supposed to be slightly in love with by the end of the film. Well, that and the fact that if he’s Ryan Reynolds, our boss is Sandra Bullock. Not cool. And with that mental image in mind (ew), I’ll get on to my last subject for the day.

Journey. I’ve been having an obsession with their “Faithfully” today. I looped it on iTunes so that it played over and over again for hours today. I’m serious. I really did listen to it all day. This is probably sad, but hey, now I know the lyrics by heart. Maybe I should get out more…

Serendipity of the day: cats and polar fleece. (Fuzzy heater + heat trapper-inner = serendipity.)

Cliché Days

It’s a cliché sort of day out there. What does that mean? You know how it seems that nearly every Gothic novel starts with misty weather, clouds, chilly temperatures and lots of dampness on the air? Well, that’s what I have here. I was out the door by ten this morning to make my way to a violin and cello lesson, and then verbally grappled with my teacher for a bit (apparently I’m to call her if I have to miss a pointless Saturday rehearsal in future). She then looked at me like I was an idiot (and when my teacher gives you “the look,” you will never feel smaller) when she heard that I couldn’t locate the exact copy of a concerto that I’m supposed to be playing for NYSSMA this year (another thing she made me do with The Look).

I then gripped the wheel as I combated the rain, other ditsy drivers and my mother turning down the speed on my wipers despite my numerous protestations, only to have to dash into the Wal-Mart from half way across the parking lot because half the lot is for handicapped people. Really, Wal-Mart? It’s New York! If they’re handicapped, they wouldn’t be in a state where there’s snow on the ground for more than seven months. Think! I think it’s important to note that entering a Wal-Mart when hungry is a very bad idea. I should know. Unfortunately, the row of cookies is placed against any form of strategy between the pet supplies and the grocery section. Blast those store managers. Delicious morsels of chocolate and cookie dough winked at me from their precarious positions high on the shelf—eye level. I caved. After my episode of weakness, I experienced endless frustration when I found that Wal-Mart now doesn’t even have Vogue (they ditched Harper’s Bazaar a while back, it would seem). Another moment to express my disgust: really, Wal-Mart? REALLY? Elle just isn’t a good enough substitute.

After a few more wet stops, I was on my way home. My mother finally stopped messing around with my wipers, so the driving wasn’t bad…other than the fact that ever since it had its breaks fixed it pulls to the left, and that little episode where my mom pointed something out on the side of the road and all of the sudden I realized that I was drifting into the left lane. Yeah, so other than that, it was fine. (I promise I’m getting better at this whole driving thing—just don’t hold your breath for the parallel parking bit.)

Once home, as if the no-Vogue bit wasn’t enough, a favored fashion blogger had written her daily due on Miley Cyrus. It was an oh-no-you-di’int moment. As much as I didn’t hate her Oscars garb (certainly not fashion forward, but certainly fashion aware—I’ve seen the style on the runway quite a bit for the S/S collections), she just isn’t what I would consider a fashion icon. The slashed leggings? Consistent graphic Ts? I wouldn’t suggest molding your style on this person. (What I would suggest is that she hire someone who has some taste to have around.) I know, I know—harsh. She has been turning around her style of late. Maybe I’m just still miffed about her shallow comment I read last week in which she stated that her costar (and new love interest) connect because they’re just deeper than most people. Oh really? Hm…could have fooled me.

Now that I’m done reforming Wal-Mart and tearing a famous person apart, I need my cup of tea and a fuzzy blanket in order to settle down to read a few dozen primary source documents. (Apparently I’m bad at keeping the clichés at bay, or even attempting to avoid them.) In the words of one of those Chinese* men on the Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego? video game, “Staaaay warm!”
Serendipity of the day: Scout Finch and Jo March. (I just have a feeling that they would be friends.)

Smack a Twilighter Day

I hope you all had a wonderful weekend, and are better equipped to take on the week ahead than I am. After two days of movies, chocolate, long conversations, excursions to questionable local diners and opting for flats rather than four-inch pumps to make my petite friend feel less miniature, I’m exhausted and completely out of ideas for the horrible poem I’m supposed to be writing for class. Instead of trying to work up some motivation, I’ll write a confusing post in which I won’t be able to remain on the same subject for more than a few minutes.

Subject one:

Movies. I watched “Dan in Real Life” and “A Knight’s Tale” in quick succession while waiting out the rain Saturday. I fall in love with Sondre Lerche all over again every time I watch “Dan.” Is the soundtrack brilliant, or is it brilliant? Same goes for “A Knight’s Tale,” although only the situation is original. Who would expect such a soundtrack in a movie of knights, maidens and Paul Betta—I mean, Chaucer? (You caught me—the biggest plus of that film would have to be the perfection of having Rufus Sewell, Paul Bettany and Heath Ledger all on the same screen.)

Subject two:

Weather. ARH! After a week of warm weather and sunshine, it snowed yesterday. SNOWED! I’m in denial. I tried to go out without a coat today, but I was freezing. Blast this confused weather. Why can it never make up its mind in March? Why, New York? Why?!

Subject Three:

Facebook groups. I’m not a big fan (no pun intended until I realized that it was a pun) of these in many cases, or of events or pages. If one is particularly witty or a friend starts it, I’ll join or “fan” it, or pretend to attend. Yesterday my day was made by an event on there: Smack a Twilighter Day. I am so attending this. In fact, I’ve decided to smack them with my copy of “How to read Novels like a Professor.” It seems appropriate.

Serendipity of the day: Calvin and Hobbes. (Shush. I know I didn’t come up with it!)

P.S.—Attend the event.

Ruby's List of Serendipity

Considering my title, I thought it was a wise decision to devote a post to a list of serendipities. It’s pretty self-explanatory. Of course, my title serendipity is of tea and books—the ultimate—but here are a few others:

Books and movies. They just go hand in hand, kind of like…

Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. The only modern duo that I like nearly as much would have to be…

Sondre Lerche and Regina Spektor. It was meant to be.
Chocolate and chips. Sweet and salty—can’t get much more serendipitous than that.

Paul Bettany and Russell Crowe. (But really, what isn’t amazing when paired with either of them?)

Jazz and Folk. Don’t ask me how, but this is how I like my music: confused between the two.

Swing rhythms and Bach. It works.

Red and teal. This is my new favored color combination for the coming summer.

Rain and reading. Another meant-to-be relationship.


This is going to be an ongoing list. With each future post, I’ll attempt to include a new serendipity. What’s your serendipity?

Dear John (I’d rather be practicing saving a submerged drowning victim with a spinal injury)

And that save nearly drowns me every time.

Two posts in one day! I impress myself! (Okay, so maybe I tried to post the last one yesterday and it didn’t go through. Just imagine that I wrote more than two thousand words for you all today alone.)

As promised in my last post, “Dear John” is about to get its very own installment. I would like to start by clarifying that I only went to see this movie to be a good friend. (Note to self: check what movies are playing before you let your friend choose what movie you’ll go to.) The pick? Yes, Dear John. Possibly the worst part of it was that she had already watched the film a few days before and loved it so much that she ended up seeing it in theatres again…and again. That’s right, three times. (I’ve always been confused by our friendship, but hey, if it’s lasted this long…I guess “Dear John” shouldn’t kill it.)

I know what you’re thinking—The Notebook wasn’t all that bad, and this is by the same author, right? So it can’t be much worse, right?

Wrong.

Oh, how wrong. For one hour and forty-eight minutes I sat scrunched down as far as possible into my seat, a look of horror paste across my face when I wasn’t exchanged looks of disdain and disbelief with another friend. There I was, sitting between a girl who adores the movie and girl who wasn’t thrilled by it (but watched with rapt interest anyway, for the sake of Channing Tatum), feeling nearly two hours of my drain away.

I’ll admit it: I watch some pretty stupid/corny/idiotic movies, and I like them. I redeem myself by liking films like Ocean’s Twelve and Master and Commander, but I do it. I, too had a phase where I thought that “She’s the Man” was a great chick flick. In a rare, tell-all moment, I’m about to reveal to you an almost secret in this area: …IWATCHDISNEYSHOWSSOMETIMESLIKESONNYWITHACHANCE. *ahem*

Basically, I sympathize with stupid movies and TV shows. This movie, however, was just…past anything forgivable. (I really hope that none of you like it, because my blog is too young to annoy people in large doses at this point.) Is it just me, or is Amanda Seyfried a terrible actress? I’m not even going to start on Channing Tatum.

Okay, yes, yes I am going to start on Tatum. He is horrible. He’s a horrible actor that gets type casted for a reason—he cannot act. I’ve been dragged to a lot of stupid movies over the years. This has been more frequent since my brother got his license, so I’ve seen shows like Avatar (twice. He made me watch it TWICE.), G.I. Joe (if it’s possible, this was a bigger waste of time than D.J.), and the latest Terminator film (sorry, but Christian Bale and Bryce Dallas Howard didn’t get enough screen time to justify that film). I’ve watched a lot of crap, but I think I’m more willing to forgive guy crap than girl crap. Guys go to the movies to see explosions (you have a guy? Ask him to watch Terminator with you. It’s basically all explosions, and he’ll think that you are the best girlfriend ever. I suggest you discreetly bring a book along, but that’s your call). Girls go for…well, I’m not sure what most girls go for. Apparently Channing Tatum; whatever floats your boat. (Personally, there are only a few actors who have my loyalty like that; if Paul Bettany has been in a film, I can probably tell you quite a bit about it if I haven’t watched it myself. I’ll follow Russell Crowe because his acting knocks my socks off. I’ve loved Colin Firth’s work since Pride and Prejudice. I sat through Brother’s Grimm, one of the weirdest films I’ve ever watched, for Heath Ledger. I do understand this motivation.) (A note about the note: yes, I also will search films for Rommola Garai, Bryce Howard, Cate Blanchet, and Meryl Streep. Sometimes it really is about the acting, okay!?) All this to ask, how did Tatum ever get into acting? Did hell freeze over? I need to know!

(Spoiler alert! Ha, I make myself laugh some times. This movie is already spoiled!)
I’ll give the film this: it did have a plot twist. I mean, who would have thought that Savannah would end up with guy who played the father figure after her and John’s first “date”? Not me. (This brought on one of those disbelieving looks.) I mean, he’s pretty old, and he’s friends with her parents. Creepy much? I don’t usually discriminate against age, but when age means that the guy has a kid and cancer, I’m discriminating—big time. Pity marriage? You’re kidding, right? Unfortunately, no. Who wants a marriage where your spouse is just waiting for you to die? *chirping crickets* Yeah, I thought so. BUT HEY, of course, just like in The Notebook, despite all odds, Savannah and John meet up again, and they’re just as in love as ever (you, “as ever” meaning for the solid two weeks they knew each other). I was begging to choke on popcorn by the end of the film, which ends with them meeting at a café after Savannah’s husband is dead and she’s weighed down by his child. Nice.

The only good that came out this movie was that it gave me material to write the real “Dear John” letters back and forth with my semi-sensible friend (the one who was there to, ick, support Tatum—hence only semi-sensible). These are pretty morbid, so I won’t share any right now, but I have to say that they were inspired. Other than the letters, the film has given us a few new quotes: if anyone does something as simple as throwing out garbage, we quip in unison “wow, you threw out garbage! That’s impressive!”. We also like to chase down random guys and stare at them while we calmly announce “I want to meet your dad. NOW.” (Okay, so maybe we don’t do that, but we’ve considered it.)

So…thanks, “Dear John.” I guess. (Because I’m all Bella like that.)

Future Targets (A post in which I complain about everything)

I have a lot of notions about my future. For instance, I’ve always had this feeling that if I ever had children, I wouldn’t be able to avoid twins (this could be the reason that I’ve never been keen on the idea of having any children at all). I’ve always had the idea that I would instantly be a competent and confident driver. Another solidly felt future point was that I would end up with someone who would look like Paul Bettany’s twin. (So maybe that last one was false as far as certainty goes. A girl can dream. Stop laughing. Stranger things may have happened!) Unfortunately, that part about being a good driver instantly is false. Oh, how false they are!
Really. I’m a bad driver. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. Do you know the actual definition of hypnosis? Go look it up. I’m waiting.
Got it? Good. Yeah, well that’s sort of what happens to me when I drive. (I think this may finally prove my mom’s point about my supposed ADD…) I concentrate so hard that I sort of…space out. Yeah…this isn’t ideal. That’s why I was gripping the wheel on my way to Target today. My grandmother is down with bronchitis, so it was my mother’s brilliant idea to take her something that had me driving down the busiest street in fifty miles at dusk. Thanks, Mom. Needless to say, of course this street is positioned so that you’re driving into the setting sun…meaning that you can’t really see the traffic lights. If I had been able to see them, I’m sure that my knuckles would have appeared white. Now, this really would be a breeze for most of you. It might sound impressive that it’s the busiest road, but I’ve mislead you—there aren’t that many roads. Or people. Or…cars. HOWEVER, because my nearest neighbors are Amish, I don’t have much experience with driving on anywhere near crowded streets (those buggies are road hogs, though. Give me some credit).
On to Target.
So they didn’t have flowers, but we ended up standing in the Easter aisle (well, one of them) for about twenty minutes because my mother couldn’t make her mind up first on which stuffed bunny she wanted to get, and then on which of those bunnies had the cutest face and ears. Yeah…maybe I’m the same way, but by this point, I was hungry, demoralized and thinking about the fact that I was going to have to hop back into the driver’s seat. Oh, and then there was the chance encounter with an old friend and his girlfriend (I kept trying to figure out how he got her to date him. No, I’m not being mean—everyone who’s known him for as long as I have asks the SAME QUESTION), and I was a little preoccupied by hating how SOME people have perfects skin. Really. I’m talking like not a flaw, porcelain, perfection. So yes, then there was the jealousy factor.
When I found out that rather than leaving the city, we were going to swing around back into it, I scurried over to the passenger’s door and made my mother drive. I’m sneaky like that. We then headed…to Price Chopper. Oh, how I loathe that store! They changed the layout about four years ago, and I still can’t find my way around half the time. (I have issues with directions; once again, don’t judge me.) After telling my mom five times that she should get the white flowers for Gram, and her trying out every other kind, she picked the white ones (she does this a lot—asks my opinion, ignores my opinion, spends ten minutes of my hunger time, and then goes with my opinion). After grabbing a frozen pizza for whatever hour we finally get home at, we head to the checkout. Now, normally if the girl bagging the food had complemented me by telling me that I should be a model, I might be just flattered, but not tonight. When my blood sugar drops, I meet girls with perfect skin, and stressed, I’m not in the mood for flatterers. I know what you’re thinking, but no, I didn’t lay out all the reasons I couldn’t be a model for her…well, I did in my mind. This leeetle voice in my head was griping about how no one knows anything about bone structure these days. (Feel free! You can scream obscenities at me now. Thinking back on this, I’m sort of doing the same thing to myself. Ooh! Now can I be the lead character in a book with a boyfriend in the army?! Um…I think I’ll devote another post to my feelings on "Dear John".)
I think I can skip over my visit with Gram. I hate to say it, but she’s actually nicer when she’s sick (or on Zoloft, whichever). She liked the bunny, she liked the flowers, and I spent another hour sitting in her apartment trying not to touch anything and tidy things at the same time (which is pointless, since even when she’s sick my grandma manages to keep her apartment spotless). Basically, by the time we got home it was after eight, and I STILL have not had anything to eat.
Um…this story is really anticlimactic. Really. I finally got some food around nine, watched Myth Busters and then spent an hour chatting with people online. Oh, I painted my nails? Yeah, that’s about as exciting as the rest of the day got. So, instead of reflecting on how much of your time I just wasted, be grateful that I just described only a quarter of my day to you—I could have bored you with how many ACT practice tests I had to take or primary source documents I read, but I won’t. Please, go have a more exciting life than me! (And don’t let yourself get hungry—it lowers your metabolism.)

Weekend Bliss

Well, I somehow survived this past weekend. Amid the hours spent on my second round of the SAT, never-ending performances at the Irish Festival, and a few spats with my parents, I did find time to watch a new quasi-favorite film—Easy Virtue. Have I never mentioned that I adore the fashion of the inter-war years? Silly me. Honestly, the film has inspired me to make up my mind to chop off my brunette locks in favor of a 1920’s/30’s short bob-ish cut. Yes! Jessica Biel’s hair is my ideal (in my natural color, of course). On top of the on-top-of-all-that, I also made frenzied plans with a kindred of mine for her to make the trip up from the big upstate city for the weekend…this coming weekend. Short notice frenzy! I’ve warned her that my surroundings are extremely dull, but it’ll be marvelous to see her again (it’s been since…oh, about July?). Anticipation is setting in!
On another note, I’ve been stealing a few hours each evening for about a week now to slip outside and enjoy the warmth, the mud and the muck. It’s what puts the ‘bliss’ in ‘weekend’. Today the temperature has slowly inched its way up above sixty, making one happy little duck typing away at her laptop. Ah, spring is a glorious season! Yesterday I took along my appropriately ruby-colored camera to capture a few shots of my short trek.

The Feline Kind

I’m not sure how people can’t love cats (at least the sleeping variety). This is my rather large little boy, Boromir, after about six solid hours of sleeping on my bed. He didn’t rouse himself for at least another hour or two.
What is it exactly that people have against the feline kind? Personally, I think that it’s their jealousy. Think about it: house cats have a pretty posh life; they eat, sleep, play, and are basically worshiped by owners. The wild varieties have a natural grace, both elegant and lethal. They’re svelte, have amazing balance and a tendency to come out of any danger on top, plus, we have to consider those claws—not something that most of us would argue with. Ever watched two cats fighting? Let me tell you, the most digitally altered human fight for a screen is nothing compared to two cats showing their bitter enmity. They are tough, lovely, mysterious, aloof, and, well, feline. Come to think of it, I’m pretty jealous of them myself. I'm filled with endless admiration for them.

"If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much." ~Mark Twain