I'll write an extended, more detailed blog later about all the things I'm grateful for, but since Christmasing is always exhausting, I'll sum up:
I'm grateful for my family and for how cool they are. I'm grateful for my sister and that we've liked each other since we were little babies cooing "Go in nursery and eat cookies" and "I'll help you, Bizzy" at each other. I'm grateful for the sense of humor our extended family possesses and that it has trickled down the generations. I'm grateful for my mom's painfully good looks, and my dad running down the driveway behind my training-wheel-less bike, and their delightfully dated, oversized glasses.
I'm grateful for books about supremely nerdy things like punctuation and Shakespeare and Mary Poppins, and people in my life who know me well enough to actually buy them for me.
I'm grateful for good taste in jewelry. Any future husband of mine has a lot to live up to, given the standard my dad has set.
I'm grateful for dear, dear friends who send me texts, emails, IMs, and facebook messages, wishing me a merry Christmas, telling me they miss me, and informing me how grateful they are for me in their lives on this day. I'm grateful for singular "friend language" and funny poetry and extreme obsession/dissection of the excrusiating minutia of our lives. I'm unspeakably grateful for the support and encouragement I receive practically on a daily basis, though it's probably annoying and somewhat unfounded.
I'm grateful for Judy Garland and Gene Kelly.
I'm grateful for history and for places far away from here, where I aspire to belong.
I'm grateful for Jelly Bean, Bonny, and Sprout.
I'm grateful that I am no longer stuck in awkward 6-10th grade physicality, though I do mourn the passing of my golden "cute years" (apparently I peaked at age-4, mullet and all).
I'm so grateful for Pop Apricot colored glittery nail polish, since I haven't been able to paint my nails ALL SEMESTER!
I'm grateful for sweet, cute boys who probably don't even know it when they're being sweet and cute, and who keep my spirits up, just by their cuteness.
I'm grateful for my BYU experience, and also grateful that it's quickly coming to a close. Also terrified, but mostly grateful. I'm grateful for the potential and probability of eventually moving on in a big way. I'm so grateful for my major. I'm grateful for the British Renaissance and Restoration, for Queen Elizabeth I (and II, for that matter), for Westminster Abbey, for the early-modernist and modernist periods, for the Church of England, for Jacobean and Restoration drama, for creative non-fiction and essays, and GRAMMAR (because, contrary to the opinions of some, I do know how to speak/write).
I'm grateful I was able to retrieve every document, every picture, and every song I've ever downloaded when my computer was pronounced dead beyond repair last week. I'm grateful for a shiny new external hard drive.
I'm grateful for four years worth of A Christmas Carol and all the many people involved in it each year. I'm grateful to have come into a very successful year with it, and to go out on the same note. I'm grateful for beautiful dresses and another excuse to wear a corset. I'm grateful for such good friends, old and new, and to share the experience with them. I'm grateful for a nice, supportive Jeremy to play my husband, even though we had our share of silly misunderstandings and fake real marital problems. I'm grateful to have shared the stage with both my mom and my sister again.
I'm grateful for the 1988 church movie Luke II that is less than 5 minutes long, that we watch on Christmas Eve every year. I'm grateful for the spirit it captures with Joseph's warm eyes and the king's trembling lip and the donkey drooling and the sheep bleeting, and especially the tiny little voice at the end singing, "Let Earth receive her King."
I am so grateful Earth has receiceved her King, and will receive Him again someday. He is the reason I can be grateful for anything else in my life. I'm overwhelmed by His love and steady hand, even when I can't see Him guiding me. I love Him.
26 December 2008
22 December 2008
jane austen fan club
Confession: I love Jane Austen. I love Jane Austen books, I love Jane Austen movies, I love BBC Jane Austen. Sometimes I watch Pride & Prejudice 1.5 times in a row when it's on Oxygen because I forget how much I love it but then it's on and I love it and I can't turn away except to turn off the part when Darcy stretches his hand because it's so much my favorite part that I can't even stand to watch it, which makes complete sense, doesn't it? I can't say that I go so far as to stand in the second-floor window at Shakepeare's birthplace and have a "Jane Austen moment," looking out into the garden, but absolutely she pierces me to the core. Give me Darcy! Give me Tilney! GIVE ME CAPTAIN WENTWORTH!!!!
There, I said it.
There, I said it.
21 December 2008
cubed
There is a cube sitting in the middle of a desert. It isn't very large-- probably about a square foot or so-- and made of shiny glass. The glass is thick and durable. A ring of displaced sand surrounds the cube, like maybe it fell from somewhere and plopped down with a muted thud, but who knows where it came from? There are mountains far, far in the background, the tops of trees at the foot of them. Maybe there's an oasis? Around the cube there are tiny desert weed seedlings, twigs flicking around in the wind that blows from the right, and the spray of sand on the cube is not harsh but it is constant and one side of the cube and its edges are starting to become scratched and dulled by all those tiny tiny flecks of rock.
Then there is a straight ladder. It stands perfectly balanced, weighted in the sand and supported by an unseen force. It is wood and carved, simply but prettily, and stained dark brown-- not painted, but stained. It's become dull and worn with time, so it looks antique, but it probably should be sanded and stained again. It stands a few yards from the cube like a Dali painting, thirteen rungs high, just standing and standing and bound and unmoving, unmovable.
A dark brown horse with a black mane runs past, far away with a trail of dust behind him, running, running, but blink! and he is next to the cube, standing to the right as an indirect protection from the wind and sand. The horse is calm and looks at the cube, curious but only mildly interested, yet it holds his focus. He watches the cube, the unpolished side having become smooth again, and stamps once.
Then there is a straight ladder. It stands perfectly balanced, weighted in the sand and supported by an unseen force. It is wood and carved, simply but prettily, and stained dark brown-- not painted, but stained. It's become dull and worn with time, so it looks antique, but it probably should be sanded and stained again. It stands a few yards from the cube like a Dali painting, thirteen rungs high, just standing and standing and bound and unmoving, unmovable.
A dark brown horse with a black mane runs past, far away with a trail of dust behind him, running, running, but blink! and he is next to the cube, standing to the right as an indirect protection from the wind and sand. The horse is calm and looks at the cube, curious but only mildly interested, yet it holds his focus. He watches the cube, the unpolished side having become smooth again, and stamps once.
15 December 2008
distractamondo
I would do well to stick to focus and concentrate on these four prompts I've got to study for my British drama class. My final tomorrow is going to be one of these questions, and all I have to do is write an essay about it. Just one essay, about one question, from a possible four questions-- no identification, no extrapolating. You'd think I would have had this done hours ago, since I started studying around 11am. You'd be wrong.
Things Distracting Me
1. I am going to see Light in the Piazza tomorrow night. Clearly this will require me to get a new pair of tights and a new, dressy top (preferably in dark green), but I don't know when I'll have time to swing by Forever 21 (since I know it won't fail me). Clearly I need to set aside time to plan my day around a shopping trip tomorrow afternoon.
2. I haven't spoken to Marie in weeks and weeks, and lo and behold, there she is on facebook at the same time as me! Friends before Finals, I always say. (I always say it.)
3. I'm supposed to somehow teach a class in my friend's AP English class tomorrow morning, thereby providing me experience to write a 10-page final paper, at the same time I'm supposed to be in a final for the class that requires the 10-page paper. This overlapping of schedules would not have been a problem except that my professor rescheduled our final meeting time (wherein we will eat breakfast food and discuss our final projects, not actually take an exam...) and now I'm in the most sticky catch-22 of all time. And unlike Michael Scott, I use the phrase meaningfully.
4. I feel like I don't write very much anymore. Not to say that this lame post is writing of great quality, per se, but it does help to just dump out my brain every once in a while. My goal is to write some good things over Christmas break.
5. I'm worried by how my pants are (or aren't) fitting these days.
6. My laptop is busted, so I'm at home using the dusty old desktop, and it's freezing in this office. I have little extra clothing to choose from, to say nothing of warmth, since all of my clothes are at my house by campus where I actually live. The computer thing is a REALLY big problem, but so are my slowly-freezing fingers.
7. Tuesday will be the 1-year anniversary of when Bonny went away. I miss her. Having Sprouty here makes it easier, though.
8. Someone I've known for 7.5 years is in a secret gay relationship. It is, but shouldn't be, morbidly amusing. Who wants to read about old, be-wigged dead guys and their thoughts on sexuality when I've got sexual mores in my own life to study!
9. People keep complimenting me this week and being all nice and flattering-- and I have no idea what to say to them, mostly because I'm not convinced of their flatteries myself. I'm not saying they're liars or that they're playing any angle in being nice to me, but it's very difficult to accept compliments when you look at pictures of yourself and think, "Wow. This picture actually exists...?" And I probably sound like a real compliment whore, but I'm definitely not asking people to say nice things about me right now. It's just awkward when other peoples' views don't seem to line up with the view you have of yourself.
10. Maybe I want to teach English? Maybe Anna's school is going to be hiring teachers for next year and they don't require a license at the time of hire? Maybe I'm going to show up to class on my first day and have all the girls tell me their names are incorrect on the roll and that their names are actually things like "Alice B. Heind" and then I'll open my desk drawer and a garden snake will slither out?
11. No, no-- I still want to be an actor, and go to England where they produce all these lovely Restoration plays that I'm supposed to be studying right this second.
12. Passive-aggressiveness is not an attractive trait even if supposedly I have to forgive it and chalk it up to young age and inexperience in others. It is frustrating. And annoying. Mostly annoying.
13. I'm anxious to try out my new amathyst-colored eye shadow which was an unintended, but not exactly regrettable, point of purchase.
14. I'm so so so excited for finals to be over so I can go spend money on other people this weekend. I like Christmas shopping. You know, people complain about the commercial side to Christmas, and I get that, but I like spending money on other people and giving them thoughtful presents that maybe somehow convey a little bit of the love I have for them.
15. I hope I get the Will & Grace series box-set for Christmas so I can watch Seasons 6-8 since I've basically exhausted Seasons 1-5. Yes, this is actually something I'm thinking about at the moment instead of Aphra Behn and The Rover.
And that, my friends, is what is distracting me.
08 December 2008
unexpected success
It's been a long, drawn-out weekend. My nerves have been tested-- my confidence has soared, was quickly destroyed, and then brought to some kind of neutral indifference (though of course I'm not actually indifferent). And it's not over. I'm not sure when it'll be all settled and decided, but here's the thing:
No matter what happens, or how everything turns out, I've been overwhelmed by the amount of support and encouragement I've received from so many people. I have never felt such an out-pouring of love from so many dear friends, family, and people I don't even know very well. I can't begin to express my gratitude for all the sweet texts, hugs, smiles, etc., etc., from namely--
No matter what happens, or how everything turns out, I've been overwhelmed by the amount of support and encouragement I've received from so many people. I have never felt such an out-pouring of love from so many dear friends, family, and people I don't even know very well. I can't begin to express my gratitude for all the sweet texts, hugs, smiles, etc., etc., from namely--
-JL, AN, AB, NJ, MS, KF, ED, M, D, SB, JW, JS, CM, EG, NS, JG, RG, DD, SM, JM, SH, SL, HR, RW, TW, MG, MM, JG, CC, HC, JA, VW, JG-
For verily I say unto you, that great things await you.
-D&C 45:62-
For verily I say unto you, that great things await you.
-D&C 45:62-
25 November 2008
inspirational thought
The mind is a powerful thing. As you think, it becomes everything. I can see the Empire State building. The top of the Empire State building was meant as a post for the Zeppelin to come in and dock and land. People would deboard the Zeppelin and come down and land on top of the Empire State building. Man could actually fly across the ocean with trapped natural gas, gases that were here. They just sealed them up and said, "Hey, let's go across the ocean and we'll land on a building." That, at the time, was so remarkable, so huge that they named it a skyscraper because it was huge, it scraped the sky. That came from the imagination before that was built-- that was in somebody's head. And all they did was put it down to paper and then tell somebody else, "Hey, you know what we could do if we do this." And somebody else joined and said, "Oh, my gosh, you know what, if we did this, we could also make it stronger, we could make it bigger." Somebody else said, "Oh, my gosh, we could take that Zeppelin and we could dock it there."
People dismiss the power of the mind. They dismiss the power of the imagination. As you think, will become. You create. You create everything in your world. The way you view the world is what you have created. Your happiness, your sadness, your pain. You create it. You can't change the things that happen to you, but you can change the way you look at them.
People dismiss the power of the mind. They dismiss the power of the imagination. As you think, will become. You create. You create everything in your world. The way you view the world is what you have created. Your happiness, your sadness, your pain. You create it. You can't change the things that happen to you, but you can change the way you look at them.
[In the new book, Winners Never Cheat Even in Difficult Times] by Jon Huntsman...he says, "On my mother's tombstone are etched Shakespeare's immortal words, 'Sweet are the uses of adversity.'" Wow. "Sweet are the uses of adversity." We can sit and look and say, "My gosh," or we can realize that adversity is there for a reason. He said that he looked at some mystical thing as saying, "Well, you were destined for great things." You are. You are. I mean, I understand it. I get it. If I would have gone then, I convinced myself, "Gee, I'm not good for anything; I just keep hurting people, everybody I meet, everything I touch." But then I learned from the mistakes and I dedicated myself to not make those mistakes, and I still make mistakes but I try to learn from them and try to change my -- and look. In that time I've had four glorious children. I have good friends. I don't know how much of an impact I've made, but I know a couple of lives that are different because I didn't die and better because of it.
You are meant for great things. You and I, we may never be the President of the United States and the whole world may never know our name, but it doesn't really matter. It doesn't matter. But you've got to learn the Lord just keeps giving you the same problems over and over again and until you give up and say, "Okay, whatever, whatever. Whatever it is you want me to do. Whatever." And when you do, your whole life changes. When you do, it's so much easier. I've got to tell you, because then you can blame God for everything that goes wrong and you were like, hey, I wasn't steering, you were the one driving; you took me here. It's an amazing thing.
--Glenn Beck, 11/24/2008
19 November 2008
Blog Secret
Sometimes I wear shimmery caramel flavored lip gloss to bed, in part because I ran out of chapstick a few months ago, in part because you never know when a boy might want to kiss you in the middle of the night.
I don't like one of the girls in my major and she admitted in a personal essay that she stole, and was banned, from the Dollar Store. I absolutely use it as further justification not to like her.
I plan outfits around my glasses.
Part of the reason I love acting is because I've always wanted to be someone I'm not.
It worries me that I'm becoming complacent about my inattractiveness to men. I'm concerned that I'm going to marry the first "metro-sexual" guy who takes two looks in my direction, only to find out ten years down the road that I was a last-ditch attempt to like girls and that I'm a convenient cover-up--and will I mind it, or pretend not to know?
...though it would be an entirely different story altogether if I already knew. I don't have to explain or justify myself, I'm only saying.
My friend Ashley wears men's cologne because perfume gives her headaches. I tried it once but found myself sniffing my own wrist uncontrollably because it smelled so very much like boy.
I never feel more fat and bloated than I do when I'm actually losing weight.
I feel like my great-grandmother Minnie and I would have been good friends, had she not been my great-grandmother, and had we been the same age. I wonder if she knows me and watches me, and if she feels the same way about me. I hope she does.
I can't decide if The Secret is a complete sham or not. Does that mean I basically question the concept of faith?
I dress on purpose. Now that I know I can pull off "that style," I do it partially because I know I can. Sometimes it would just be easier to go back to wearing jeans and boxy t-shirts, though.
I want to publish a book of essays someday but I think probably no one will read them.
It really, really, really, really, REALLY annoys me when really annoying people with even more annoying blogs have more hits on their counter or get more comments than I do.
I think that if I wrote for a living, I'd run out of things to say because I'd just be squirreled away at home all day, trying to write 9-5.
I wonder if my perception of my talent is unfounded and if I'm actually one of Those Girls who no one will tell is actually untalented.
I'm jealous of people who write better than I do, especially when English is their second language.
I haven't read a piece of fiction on my own accord in more than a year.
I'm grateful that I have a sense of humor about life. I think some people equate my tendency to be self-effacing with cynicism, and maybe it's a coping mechanism or something, but my ability to avoid taking things too seriously (when appropriate) actually makes me appreciate life better. Typically, I'd just rather laugh than cry.
There are those in my life whom I've tried to make myself fall in love with because it just makes sense, you know? I have found love doesn't work that way.
I actually almost cried when I found out the costume that fits me perfectly was going to be altered.
I don't like being sick, but I don't mind receiving sympathy when I'm sick.
Sometimes I write blogs or update my facebook status to act as bait, hoping certain people will comment. Sometimes it works.
12 November 2008
Dear John
When I eat at Denny's, I tend to drink an average of 3.5 Diet Cokes-- usually after midnight, mind you-- with my ever-predictable club sandwich (tomatoes picked off), and then I have to go to the bathroom 3 times. At least 3 times. It's like clockwork, and of course the longer I stay, the more often I'll have to go to the bathroom, so on and so on.
While the act of visiting the bathroom is quite an intimate matter, it's also a most universal experience. Everyone eats, everyone sleeps, everyone dies, everyone needs a bathroom once in a while. There's also a certain, universal satisfaction in going to the bathroom—it is essentially, at its most basic level, pleasurable. You go in feeling uncomfortable, and you walk out feeling much better. Win, win.
The way a bathroom is kept can reveal a lot about the person to which it belongs. Walk into someone's bathroom and it is perfectly clean—fresh towels hanging, coordinating colors, maybe even some potpourri or a scented candle next to the sink. Compare it to a bathroom covered with a layer of sticky, dusty film on the counters, clumps of hair in the shower and a bathmat strewn carelessly across the ground. Usually you'll find a ring of dirt along the waterline in the toilet. Many conclusions can be reached about the keepers of these bathrooms. I know for myself, I'd like to be friends with Clean Bathroom Keeper, or at least have them come clean mine.
Unquestionably, there are various places that are nicer to visit than others. I would go so far as to admit that I even have my personal favorites when it comes to bathroom facilities. For example, I love the bathrooms in the JFSB on BYU campus, especially the one in the south-west corner on the ground floor because no one is ever in it. I like my bathroom at my parents' house because it is mine, and I like the bathroom in my parents' bedroom because it is not mine. I don't use that one very often, so I'm sure part of the thrill is the unknown. The bathroom on the 3rd floor of the student center is fun too, partly because there's a couch in there, and I do like the one on the 2nd floor of the Provo Library since it's very quite and not ruled by screaming children, like the one on the main floor.
I think my favorite bathroom of all is in the mezzanine of the Eastman Theater at the School of Music in Rochester, New York. It's an entire suite up there, with a piano in the lounge and tables to sit at, all carpeted and lush and luxurious in shades of green and gold-gilded trim. When the theater was built in 1922, the mezzanine women's room was the place to see and be seen during intermission at the symphony or between features at the cinema. I picture groups of women sitting around the room, talking and eyeing each other curiously, while just a few steps away in the back room, toilets flushed. This didn't prevent conversations from continuing, pianos from playing, society from functioning. In 7th grade, I used to take my homework to that bathroom every Wednesday after piano lessons while I waited for Dad to finish working, studying at a table next to a window that looked down onto Gibb Street. It is a very refined place to study, that bathroom.
But as fond as I am of some bathrooms, others offend me. For example, I don't so much care for the bathroom at my apartment. There's not very much ventilation and I feel a little bit claustrophobic. Also the paint on the ceiling above the shower is peeling really badly and I find myself staring at it and it makes me feel inexplicably more and more uneasy. I stare up at that ceiling in varying shades of white and gray, with all the shadows cast by paint curls and, I don't know, maybe it'll cave in? The uncomfortable paint is even worse while I'm actually in the shower, but that's a different story altogether.
I don't like bathrooms in grocery stores. Occasionally they're kept relatively well (there's a Shop 'N' Save in Norway, Maine that comes to mind, particularly) but generally speaking, groceries and bathrooms are a little too organic. It reminds me too closely that this becomes that, and even though we're talking about something most human and the natural progress of things, I don't like dwelling on the thought.
Ironically, I tend not to mind bathrooms at restaurants that are kept nicely clean, though restaurants are not only where groceries are prepared but also consumed. Admittedly, I raise my eyebrow at patrons to carry their leftovers into the bathroom with them. I have noticed those who do so are also likely to carry on phone conversations in public bathrooms, which is an equally questionable practice.
I don't like using the bathroom at any boy's apartment only because it means I'm using the bathroom at a boy's apartment, and that is embarrassing.
Airplane bathrooms are terribly awkward. When the Fasten Seat Belt sign goes off and I get up and start walking down that aisle, everyone knows what I'm getting up to do. Then I get there and I'm stuck inside this tiny little bathroom with all its tiny compartments for soap and tissues and paper towels, and I can hardly turn around in it. And seriously, it's only one step above the Porti-Potti, with no water in the bowl and the lightweight plastic lid. On the bright side, the aero-Porti-Potti actually flushes, so airplane bathrooms are preferable to ground-based Porti-Potties.
The bathrooms on the streets of Paris are also one miniscule step above standard Porti-Potties in that they also flush (sort of) and as a bonus, they look like little martian houses. However, after you lock yourself in, you set yourself down on a bowl-- literally a bowl, with no hole in the bottom-- and when you're finished, it doesn't so much flush as it dumps the contents into a collection bin of some kind behind the main, useful part of the street toilet. You just push a button, so it's all very automated and impressive until you start to think about the thin little wall standing between you and a mountain of refuse of the most disgusting kind. And that's assuming the user of this bathroom even makes it inside, as I unfortunately discovered on my way to the Metro one morning, when I closely avoided stepping into a pile of leakage oozing directly next to the door of the pod-person bathroom. Clearly whoever said Paris is the most romantic city in the world has not used one of these Franciscan gems.
The bathrooms at the Hale Center Theater are okay except for one specific stall in the main women's room, because there is insufficient water pressure—but only in that stall. You have to hold down the flusher for a long time. I do not need my bathroom-going experience to be tainted by something so inconvenient as holding down the flusher longer than necessary. I mean, I have important places to be.
Probably my least favorite bathrooms of all are at Denny's, which is ironic given the frequency with which I visit Denny's bathrooms. At the Orem Denny's the force of the flush is so great that I feel like I'll get sucked in too. I try to use the Buddy System there, in the event that someone (namely Julie) has to break down the door and pull me out of the swirling vortex. The Provo Denny's is your stereotypical, neglected diner bathroom with water leaking everywhere and shreds of toilet paper strewn about the floor. I saw a worker in there once with a huge fan to dry the floor. It concerns me when a place has such a pluming problem as to require an enormous fan for all the water on the floor.
When it comes down to it, however, sometimes a bathroom is just a bathroom. Maybe it's got a row of a dozen stalls, maybe there's a couch to intrigue you though you know you'll probably never stay long enough to use it, and maybe it's only decorated by a set of $7.99 Martha Stewart hand towels. In the end, necessity will prevail you know, especially after an average of 3.5 Diet Cokes and a club sandwich (tomatoes picked off).
While the act of visiting the bathroom is quite an intimate matter, it's also a most universal experience. Everyone eats, everyone sleeps, everyone dies, everyone needs a bathroom once in a while. There's also a certain, universal satisfaction in going to the bathroom—it is essentially, at its most basic level, pleasurable. You go in feeling uncomfortable, and you walk out feeling much better. Win, win.
The way a bathroom is kept can reveal a lot about the person to which it belongs. Walk into someone's bathroom and it is perfectly clean—fresh towels hanging, coordinating colors, maybe even some potpourri or a scented candle next to the sink. Compare it to a bathroom covered with a layer of sticky, dusty film on the counters, clumps of hair in the shower and a bathmat strewn carelessly across the ground. Usually you'll find a ring of dirt along the waterline in the toilet. Many conclusions can be reached about the keepers of these bathrooms. I know for myself, I'd like to be friends with Clean Bathroom Keeper, or at least have them come clean mine.
Unquestionably, there are various places that are nicer to visit than others. I would go so far as to admit that I even have my personal favorites when it comes to bathroom facilities. For example, I love the bathrooms in the JFSB on BYU campus, especially the one in the south-west corner on the ground floor because no one is ever in it. I like my bathroom at my parents' house because it is mine, and I like the bathroom in my parents' bedroom because it is not mine. I don't use that one very often, so I'm sure part of the thrill is the unknown. The bathroom on the 3rd floor of the student center is fun too, partly because there's a couch in there, and I do like the one on the 2nd floor of the Provo Library since it's very quite and not ruled by screaming children, like the one on the main floor.
I think my favorite bathroom of all is in the mezzanine of the Eastman Theater at the School of Music in Rochester, New York. It's an entire suite up there, with a piano in the lounge and tables to sit at, all carpeted and lush and luxurious in shades of green and gold-gilded trim. When the theater was built in 1922, the mezzanine women's room was the place to see and be seen during intermission at the symphony or between features at the cinema. I picture groups of women sitting around the room, talking and eyeing each other curiously, while just a few steps away in the back room, toilets flushed. This didn't prevent conversations from continuing, pianos from playing, society from functioning. In 7th grade, I used to take my homework to that bathroom every Wednesday after piano lessons while I waited for Dad to finish working, studying at a table next to a window that looked down onto Gibb Street. It is a very refined place to study, that bathroom.
But as fond as I am of some bathrooms, others offend me. For example, I don't so much care for the bathroom at my apartment. There's not very much ventilation and I feel a little bit claustrophobic. Also the paint on the ceiling above the shower is peeling really badly and I find myself staring at it and it makes me feel inexplicably more and more uneasy. I stare up at that ceiling in varying shades of white and gray, with all the shadows cast by paint curls and, I don't know, maybe it'll cave in? The uncomfortable paint is even worse while I'm actually in the shower, but that's a different story altogether.
I don't like bathrooms in grocery stores. Occasionally they're kept relatively well (there's a Shop 'N' Save in Norway, Maine that comes to mind, particularly) but generally speaking, groceries and bathrooms are a little too organic. It reminds me too closely that this becomes that, and even though we're talking about something most human and the natural progress of things, I don't like dwelling on the thought.
Ironically, I tend not to mind bathrooms at restaurants that are kept nicely clean, though restaurants are not only where groceries are prepared but also consumed. Admittedly, I raise my eyebrow at patrons to carry their leftovers into the bathroom with them. I have noticed those who do so are also likely to carry on phone conversations in public bathrooms, which is an equally questionable practice.
I don't like using the bathroom at any boy's apartment only because it means I'm using the bathroom at a boy's apartment, and that is embarrassing.
Airplane bathrooms are terribly awkward. When the Fasten Seat Belt sign goes off and I get up and start walking down that aisle, everyone knows what I'm getting up to do. Then I get there and I'm stuck inside this tiny little bathroom with all its tiny compartments for soap and tissues and paper towels, and I can hardly turn around in it. And seriously, it's only one step above the Porti-Potti, with no water in the bowl and the lightweight plastic lid. On the bright side, the aero-Porti-Potti actually flushes, so airplane bathrooms are preferable to ground-based Porti-Potties.
The bathrooms on the streets of Paris are also one miniscule step above standard Porti-Potties in that they also flush (sort of) and as a bonus, they look like little martian houses. However, after you lock yourself in, you set yourself down on a bowl-- literally a bowl, with no hole in the bottom-- and when you're finished, it doesn't so much flush as it dumps the contents into a collection bin of some kind behind the main, useful part of the street toilet. You just push a button, so it's all very automated and impressive until you start to think about the thin little wall standing between you and a mountain of refuse of the most disgusting kind. And that's assuming the user of this bathroom even makes it inside, as I unfortunately discovered on my way to the Metro one morning, when I closely avoided stepping into a pile of leakage oozing directly next to the door of the pod-person bathroom. Clearly whoever said Paris is the most romantic city in the world has not used one of these Franciscan gems.
The bathrooms at the Hale Center Theater are okay except for one specific stall in the main women's room, because there is insufficient water pressure—but only in that stall. You have to hold down the flusher for a long time. I do not need my bathroom-going experience to be tainted by something so inconvenient as holding down the flusher longer than necessary. I mean, I have important places to be.
Probably my least favorite bathrooms of all are at Denny's, which is ironic given the frequency with which I visit Denny's bathrooms. At the Orem Denny's the force of the flush is so great that I feel like I'll get sucked in too. I try to use the Buddy System there, in the event that someone (namely Julie) has to break down the door and pull me out of the swirling vortex. The Provo Denny's is your stereotypical, neglected diner bathroom with water leaking everywhere and shreds of toilet paper strewn about the floor. I saw a worker in there once with a huge fan to dry the floor. It concerns me when a place has such a pluming problem as to require an enormous fan for all the water on the floor.
When it comes down to it, however, sometimes a bathroom is just a bathroom. Maybe it's got a row of a dozen stalls, maybe there's a couch to intrigue you though you know you'll probably never stay long enough to use it, and maybe it's only decorated by a set of $7.99 Martha Stewart hand towels. In the end, necessity will prevail you know, especially after an average of 3.5 Diet Cokes and a club sandwich (tomatoes picked off).
08 November 2008
02 November 2008
26 October 2008
Probably falling on deaf ears
I don't like to be told I'm wrong. I don't think many people like to feel belittled or stupid or ignorant or made to feel like their opinions, because they are not "popular" or whatever, are wrong.
As we're approaching the Big Day where this country will collectively participate in a political spring cleaning, there's more "discussion" than ever, and I'm all for discussion-- as long as it's remains a discussion.
DISCUSSION: consideration of a question in open and usually informal debate.
(thank you merriam-webster.com)
I'll be honest, while I do not consider myself a staunch Republican, I do consider myself Conservative, which means my views tend to swing toward the right. I do my best to consider platforms, social issues, figure out my place within this crazy mess, then vote accordingly. Want me to be straight up about a few things?
1. I think Sarah Palin is kind of hardcore. I do not envy the amount of stabs that have been made at her expensive, unfairly, since she entered this race.
2. If I were a California state resident, I would vote Yes on 8. There is an enormous amount of awful, sad soul-searching behind this decision so don't anyone dare to call me close-minded or inhumane, but that is ultimately the course of action I would take.
3. Obama is not my homeboy. I do not find him persuasive, I do not think he will be able to follow-through with the radical change he intends to inspire in this country, I do not think he is an attractive man. I will not vote for him.
These are opinions that, in my experience, have not been open for DISCUSSION since political debate on a personal level has typically been reduced to a sarcastic battle of wits, name-calling and finger-pointing. There is no amount of openness involved.
Recently, a note was posted on facebook by someone I know, supposedly with the intent to "open the discussion" about Prop 8, not to sway votes or opinions. First of all, what else could her intention have been other than to sway opinions? I should hope that an open DISCUSSION should absolutely aim to encourage participants to re-evaluate their stances, the outcome being a better understanding of the opposing view at very least. But secondly, I have found that the following conversation has been anything but open, since opposing views have given their arguments only to be told that they are, in so many words, WRONG. So in other words, this conversation is not being opened, but absolutely closed. Apparently, Prop 8 is a closed issue and therefore not a DISCUSSION at all, and those who might choose to vote Yes are misinformed, ignorant, and unconstitutional, letting their unpopular religious beliefs get in the way between the separation of church and state.
The implication that I am misinformed, ignorant and unconstitutional really entices me to participate in any public forum of this nature. I mean, who wouldn't want to be willingly attacked for their beliefs!
I hardly need to touch the media's transparent support of the Democratic vote with silly tactics like showing Obama's (heroic, progressive, all-American) picture first and McCain's picture (usually showing him mid-sentence or in some otherwise monkey-like position) second in commercials encouraging American's to vote. I'm hardly inspired to "Rock the Vote" since the slogan has cleverly been plastered on t-shirts with a crucial change: "Ba-Rack the Vote." And while I absolutely feel for Jennifer Hudson's recent and most tragic loss, I don't care that Obama offers his support to her family since I think you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who didn't, the awful McCain/Palin camp included!
Some tips for liberals who might hope to "discuss" with us crazy backwards conservatives:
1. We tend to be as firmly planted in our beliefs as you are in yours.
2. Just because we are conservative does not mean we are ignorant. We earnestly believe in our conservative views as you do in your liberal. It is not a lack of information or "forward thinking" that landed us here.
3. Do not site or twist the words of spiritual leaders or literature in order to support your claims that will make spiritually-influenced political opinions hypocritical. It only leads to a more convoluted circle.
4. Sarcasm is unattractive. I'm really grappling to find any humor in this most serious situation, and sarcastically making fun of our beliefs- and therefore, of us, to our faces- will not spark a very open DISCUSSION.
5. The old adage may just hold true: don't discuss politics or religion among friends. There will never be black-and-white answers, exchanges of well-informed (from either perspective) opinion will never result in an absolute change-of-heart.
I hope we're all as well-informed as we can be this year. I hope that we have each studied platforms thoroughly and have formed decisions for ourselves so that our votes will reflect what we believe will prove the best course for this country. I know this is what I have aimed to do, and I sincerely hope that those with differing views (especially those who know me well, regardless of their own political stances) will give some credit to my informed opinions.
As we're approaching the Big Day where this country will collectively participate in a political spring cleaning, there's more "discussion" than ever, and I'm all for discussion-- as long as it's remains a discussion.
DISCUSSION: consideration of a question in open and usually informal debate.
(thank you merriam-webster.com)
I'll be honest, while I do not consider myself a staunch Republican, I do consider myself Conservative, which means my views tend to swing toward the right. I do my best to consider platforms, social issues, figure out my place within this crazy mess, then vote accordingly. Want me to be straight up about a few things?
1. I think Sarah Palin is kind of hardcore. I do not envy the amount of stabs that have been made at her expensive, unfairly, since she entered this race.
2. If I were a California state resident, I would vote Yes on 8. There is an enormous amount of awful, sad soul-searching behind this decision so don't anyone dare to call me close-minded or inhumane, but that is ultimately the course of action I would take.
3. Obama is not my homeboy. I do not find him persuasive, I do not think he will be able to follow-through with the radical change he intends to inspire in this country, I do not think he is an attractive man. I will not vote for him.
These are opinions that, in my experience, have not been open for DISCUSSION since political debate on a personal level has typically been reduced to a sarcastic battle of wits, name-calling and finger-pointing. There is no amount of openness involved.
Recently, a note was posted on facebook by someone I know, supposedly with the intent to "open the discussion" about Prop 8, not to sway votes or opinions. First of all, what else could her intention have been other than to sway opinions? I should hope that an open DISCUSSION should absolutely aim to encourage participants to re-evaluate their stances, the outcome being a better understanding of the opposing view at very least. But secondly, I have found that the following conversation has been anything but open, since opposing views have given their arguments only to be told that they are, in so many words, WRONG. So in other words, this conversation is not being opened, but absolutely closed. Apparently, Prop 8 is a closed issue and therefore not a DISCUSSION at all, and those who might choose to vote Yes are misinformed, ignorant, and unconstitutional, letting their unpopular religious beliefs get in the way between the separation of church and state.
The implication that I am misinformed, ignorant and unconstitutional really entices me to participate in any public forum of this nature. I mean, who wouldn't want to be willingly attacked for their beliefs!
I hardly need to touch the media's transparent support of the Democratic vote with silly tactics like showing Obama's (heroic, progressive, all-American) picture first and McCain's picture (usually showing him mid-sentence or in some otherwise monkey-like position) second in commercials encouraging American's to vote. I'm hardly inspired to "Rock the Vote" since the slogan has cleverly been plastered on t-shirts with a crucial change: "Ba-Rack the Vote." And while I absolutely feel for Jennifer Hudson's recent and most tragic loss, I don't care that Obama offers his support to her family since I think you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who didn't, the awful McCain/Palin camp included!
Some tips for liberals who might hope to "discuss" with us crazy backwards conservatives:
1. We tend to be as firmly planted in our beliefs as you are in yours.
2. Just because we are conservative does not mean we are ignorant. We earnestly believe in our conservative views as you do in your liberal. It is not a lack of information or "forward thinking" that landed us here.
3. Do not site or twist the words of spiritual leaders or literature in order to support your claims that will make spiritually-influenced political opinions hypocritical. It only leads to a more convoluted circle.
4. Sarcasm is unattractive. I'm really grappling to find any humor in this most serious situation, and sarcastically making fun of our beliefs- and therefore, of us, to our faces- will not spark a very open DISCUSSION.
5. The old adage may just hold true: don't discuss politics or religion among friends. There will never be black-and-white answers, exchanges of well-informed (from either perspective) opinion will never result in an absolute change-of-heart.
I hope we're all as well-informed as we can be this year. I hope that we have each studied platforms thoroughly and have formed decisions for ourselves so that our votes will reflect what we believe will prove the best course for this country. I know this is what I have aimed to do, and I sincerely hope that those with differing views (especially those who know me well, regardless of their own political stances) will give some credit to my informed opinions.
24 October 2008
19 October 2008
Bodily Thoughts
So I've always had this desire to be thin. I mean, who doesn't want to be thin? Apparently that's what the media is always telling me-- "Be thin! Calista Flockheart is your ideal, otherwise you won't make it in this biz! Bonus point if you're also blonde!" Sure, Tyra is trying to break down stereotypes and change expectations, but it hasn't been cool to be plump since the 19th century when plumpness = money enough to eat well. Incidentally, it was also cool to be pale. Clearly I was born in the wrong century.
Because I'm inclined to say no, I don't even look like myself in this picture. This is when I was at my thinnest in college, post-SPAC, pre-hyperthyroid diognosis. I feel like I look like an alien. I'm a happy alien, apparently, and I don't remember feeling particularly freakish when I was skinny*, but yes. I just look like a really skinny, pale, alien with melted-off makeup. I don't think I want to be this skinny alien.
*Skinny is, of course, a relative term.
(And if you're wondering if I posted this picture just to make up for that awful picture of me a few mouse-scrolls up, you wonder right.)
The problem is this: I have been "skinny" before. Relatively so, at least, because let's face it-- given my genes and my build, I will never be skinny by Hollywood's standard. But I used to be quite a bit thinner than the average woman's pants size (12) and it was really satisfying to buy pants half that size.
But tell me, ignoring the post-show makeup and slightly-droopy eyes, do I even look like myself in this picture?
Because I'm inclined to say no, I don't even look like myself in this picture. This is when I was at my thinnest in college, post-SPAC, pre-hyperthyroid diognosis. I feel like I look like an alien. I'm a happy alien, apparently, and I don't remember feeling particularly freakish when I was skinny*, but yes. I just look like a really skinny, pale, alien with melted-off makeup. I don't think I want to be this skinny alien.*Skinny is, of course, a relative term.
For what it's worth, it also makes me equally uncomfortable to see myself like this: 
I have discomfort seeping from every pore in my body in this picture. True, part of it is the ugly, half-blink face I'm making. This was post-hyperthyroid diagnosis/initial treatment, pre-return to school. Admittedly, I was still within "average" range (ie. exactly a size 12) so why should I even be uncomfortable? I know what a brat I sound like when this is a size many women would love to be, but it's personal for everyone, and (especially since I carry much of my weight in my face) I hope to steer clear from Size 12 Emily. I hate this picture. It's a test of strength to even post it.
What's my point here? My point is that I don't really want to be skinny. I like to eat and I don't like to exercise, and I'm fine about that. I liked it when I went to England and lost weight without trying, but I also like having a little meat on my bones. Given my hesitance to post a Fat Picture, though, I don't like being heavy either. So where does this put me?
I feel like I lucked out a little bit with Little Women this summer. It was a huge confidence booster to be informed that I am castable not only as a teenager, but also in spite of the fact that most of my stage sisters/double are much thinner than me. It would seem that in order to more easily continue to get roles like this, I should be thinner. There was a ring of truth (albeit exaggerated) when a particular teacher of mine mentioned how much easier it would be if I didn't have to worry whether I'd fit into costumes or not.
Really, I guess I should just take a cue from the fact that I continue to be cast in things-- in real roles and not always just in the ensemble. And most of the kinds of roles I want to play are not ingenues anyway-- they're typically the funny, "crazy best friend" roles and usually, funny = not skinny.
Let's take a look at my theatrical idols:
Judy Garland-- not always skinny
Megan Mullally-- not that skinny
Madaline Kahn-- also not always skinny
So obviously it's possible to have the career I'd like to have an not be stick thin. In fact, I think these women are even more beautiful because they're not stick thin (well, I guess Judy was sometimes. She fluctuated a lot. A LOT a lot. She was not naturally stick thin, is my point). But didn't they gain success when they were thinner versions of themselves? They reached a point and started getting roles where it was easier to be a "normal" size and not worry about a few "extra" inches?
And let's be real, supposedly it's easier to snag a boyfriend/husband if you're thin. Beauty does tend to be shallow, no beating around the bush there. I'd be lying if it didn't go both ways, too-- girls tend to prefer fit men over those who are not quite so fit. It's terribly hypocritical of me. I'm a hypocrite on top of being socially overweight. GREAT!
I'm not even sure what kind of conclusion I'm arriving at here. I guess I'm reinforcing any Self Actualization I've done in the last few months and also trying to justify my inconsistent exercise regimine. I could just put any resolutions out to the Universe, but I think I need to be more accountable than that, so here you are blogosphere:
I resolve to reach my goal to lose this pesky pants size by Christmas, and keep it that way.
Additionally, I don't intend to strive to attain my alien face again. I shall remain a nice, happy, not-hungry medium and pleasantly stay there, fulfilling my place as a crazy best friend, both onstage and off. She's everyone's favorite anyway, right?
(And if you're wondering if I posted this picture just to make up for that awful picture of me a few mouse-scrolls up, you wonder right.)
15 October 2008
13 October 2008
city
there's a harvest each saturday night
at the bars filled with perfume and hitching a ride
a place you can stand for one night and get gone
it's clear this conversation ain't' doing a thing
cause these boys only listen to me when i sing
and i don't feel like singing tonight
all the same songs
here in these deep city lights
girl could get lost tonight
i'm finding every reason to be gone
nothing here to hold on to
could i hold you?
the situation's always the same
you got your wolves in their clothes whispering Hollywood's name
stealing gold from the silver they see
but it's not me
here in these deep city lights
girl could get lost tonight
i'm finding every reason to be gone
there's nothing here to hold on to
could i hold you?
calling out somebody save me
i feel like i'm fading away
am i gone?
calling out somebody save me
i feel like i'm fading
in these deep city lights
girl could get lost tonight
i'm finding every reason to be gone
there's nothing here to hold on to
could i hold on to you?
11 October 2008
Thoughts, while snow threatens
I think I'm going to have perogies and kielbasa for elevensies today.
It's nice to rock an audition, and know you did, and even though you don't know the outcome yet, you feel good about yourself for having rocked it.
Why won't this abc.com Full Episode Player work? I need to catch up on Grey's Anatomy, Pushing Daisies, and Ugly Betty, thank you.
Also The Office, but that's on nbc.com.
I'm tired of flaming democrats obnoxiously spouting their opinions and entirely bashing mine. Not even mine-- I'm tired of obnoxious democrats bashing any opinion that isn't their own, ears entirely closed (to say nothing of minds), with no room for an edgewise word. I don't care to hear you hear yourself talk anymore. If you'd like to have a discussion, I think that's great and I'd love to join you, regardless of our differing views. If you're just going to be sarcastic and relatively attacking, get out of my face before I punch you in the teeth. Now go ahead and try to turn that into a Sarah Palin joke-- something about growing up in tundra wasteland and knocking out the teeth of a wolverine that's wearing lipstick or whatever-- because you're just that funny, to boot.
Me + Sarah and Robbie = <3
Some kind of virus or trojan or something has sneaked onto my computer. I can't seem to get it cleaned off and that little pop-up is really starting to bug me.
I think I've numbed myself to Ghost Hunters. I still watch it every week but it's just not as scary as it used to be. I don't even get creeped out very much anymore. That said, I don't think I'd like to be haunted in real life. I'm happy to watch others hunt ghosts.
I like hunting of a different nature. My friend Ashleigh knows this.
My toes are cold. It's a little bit exhilarating because that means winter's on the wing. There's something promising in the crispness of the air and the time of year and all sorts of exciting traditions. I wore my corduroy coat with my Rooney pin for the first time this week. I love that coat. Today, if it's cold enough, I might wear my wool coat I love so much and I'll wear a scarf too. AND MY GREY BOOTS. I love those grey boots. I'm pretty sure September - December is my most favorite, blissful time of year.
I should probably get some Pudding on the Rice this week. Bittersweet Symphony, please.
I haven't been to a movie in a very long time. I think I'd like to go see a movie this week. I might even go by myself. It'll be like that time that I went to the National Gallery in London all alone, or when I went to Her Naked Skin at the National Theater and it was raining and I almost didn't get off the Tube that night to go back to the flat because I was so entirely in love with that city and maybe if I didn't get off the Tube I would never have to go home. That's what going to a movie by myself would be like.
It's nice to rock an audition, and know you did, and even though you don't know the outcome yet, you feel good about yourself for having rocked it.
Why won't this abc.com Full Episode Player work? I need to catch up on Grey's Anatomy, Pushing Daisies, and Ugly Betty, thank you.
Also The Office, but that's on nbc.com.
I'm tired of flaming democrats obnoxiously spouting their opinions and entirely bashing mine. Not even mine-- I'm tired of obnoxious democrats bashing any opinion that isn't their own, ears entirely closed (to say nothing of minds), with no room for an edgewise word. I don't care to hear you hear yourself talk anymore. If you'd like to have a discussion, I think that's great and I'd love to join you, regardless of our differing views. If you're just going to be sarcastic and relatively attacking, get out of my face before I punch you in the teeth. Now go ahead and try to turn that into a Sarah Palin joke-- something about growing up in tundra wasteland and knocking out the teeth of a wolverine that's wearing lipstick or whatever-- because you're just that funny, to boot.
Me + Sarah and Robbie = <3
Some kind of virus or trojan or something has sneaked onto my computer. I can't seem to get it cleaned off and that little pop-up is really starting to bug me.
I think I've numbed myself to Ghost Hunters. I still watch it every week but it's just not as scary as it used to be. I don't even get creeped out very much anymore. That said, I don't think I'd like to be haunted in real life. I'm happy to watch others hunt ghosts.
I like hunting of a different nature. My friend Ashleigh knows this.
My toes are cold. It's a little bit exhilarating because that means winter's on the wing. There's something promising in the crispness of the air and the time of year and all sorts of exciting traditions. I wore my corduroy coat with my Rooney pin for the first time this week. I love that coat. Today, if it's cold enough, I might wear my wool coat I love so much and I'll wear a scarf too. AND MY GREY BOOTS. I love those grey boots. I'm pretty sure September - December is my most favorite, blissful time of year.
I should probably get some Pudding on the Rice this week. Bittersweet Symphony, please.
I haven't been to a movie in a very long time. I think I'd like to go see a movie this week. I might even go by myself. It'll be like that time that I went to the National Gallery in London all alone, or when I went to Her Naked Skin at the National Theater and it was raining and I almost didn't get off the Tube that night to go back to the flat because I was so entirely in love with that city and maybe if I didn't get off the Tube I would never have to go home. That's what going to a movie by myself would be like.
09 October 2008
02 October 2008
Facebookial clarity
I learned a lesson tonight.
What I learned is, facebook stalking availeth nothing but disappointment and discouragement.
Listen-- go on living in your little dream world, where anything is possible with anyone. Go on believing that you might mean something special to someone in a more special way than anyone else could mean anything specially, because the minute you get curious, you'll find you're not so special after all.
Well, maybe you are special somehow. But the point is that you're not as special as you thought you were, which is equally disappointing, maybe more so.
WOULD YOU RATHER: be secure knowing you're not special at all to someone? Or know you're special, unsure to what extent?
Facebook and blogs will remind you that those arms have held someone else, and those hands reached for someone who is not you. That laugh has delighted in someone else's cleverness. That heart has missed someone while they were away, while you were here all along.
I'm not even talking romantically, lest everyone chalk up this entry to be another Sad Loveless Emily blog. It could be romantical, if you like. It could be friendly. Mostly it's a matter of meaning. You don't mean as much as you thought you did. The way they treat you doesn't have so much meaning because it turns out they treat someone else differently too. The sentiment behind the unspoken affection doesn't mean quite so much.
You're not really so different from her, you know. You're cut from the same kind of cloth-- at least on the surface. You like similar art and books and weird bands, but they like the same art and the same books and the same weird bands. Turns out you're synthetic and they're the expensive import.
Synthetic fabric is less expensive; why beat around the bush? it's cheap. I know I'm not cheap. They don't make you feel cheap. How can't you feel cheap? I mean, I get it. Even I'd pick cashmere over a cotton blend any day-- cashmere who "gets" modern art, no less.
That's my vice, I think. I don't "get" modern art. I'm trying. I keep trying, I'll keep trying, though I hardly come close to understanding. They understand. I think I'm the canvas modern art is painted on, and they are the trendy silk curtains hanging in the gallery-- the curtains who hang there and study modern art all day, but I can't see the painting since it's painted on me, painted over my eyes or at an angle that limits my view. Canvas is rough and showcases a subjective experiment. Silk curtains are complimentary and unobtrusive and not necessarily up for aesthetic debate. Who argues about curtains while they're in a modern art gallery anyway?
You don't want to find out what they think about someone who is special to you. I promise, you don't want to know that anyone is special to them the very way that same anyone is special to you. You want to go on in a state of happy ignorance, especially when you've only briefly met your comparison. You want to recall your own memories without someone else's intruding. You don't want to be the first choice, upon which they can look for, and find, improvements. The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.
For once in your life, you want to be picked last.
So don't stalk anyone on facebook. Your remedial math skills might reveal you're not as special as you thought you were. 1 + 1 = 2.
What I learned is, facebook stalking availeth nothing but disappointment and discouragement.
Listen-- go on living in your little dream world, where anything is possible with anyone. Go on believing that you might mean something special to someone in a more special way than anyone else could mean anything specially, because the minute you get curious, you'll find you're not so special after all.
Well, maybe you are special somehow. But the point is that you're not as special as you thought you were, which is equally disappointing, maybe more so.
WOULD YOU RATHER: be secure knowing you're not special at all to someone? Or know you're special, unsure to what extent?
Facebook and blogs will remind you that those arms have held someone else, and those hands reached for someone who is not you. That laugh has delighted in someone else's cleverness. That heart has missed someone while they were away, while you were here all along.
I'm not even talking romantically, lest everyone chalk up this entry to be another Sad Loveless Emily blog. It could be romantical, if you like. It could be friendly. Mostly it's a matter of meaning. You don't mean as much as you thought you did. The way they treat you doesn't have so much meaning because it turns out they treat someone else differently too. The sentiment behind the unspoken affection doesn't mean quite so much.
You're not really so different from her, you know. You're cut from the same kind of cloth-- at least on the surface. You like similar art and books and weird bands, but they like the same art and the same books and the same weird bands. Turns out you're synthetic and they're the expensive import.
Synthetic fabric is less expensive; why beat around the bush? it's cheap. I know I'm not cheap. They don't make you feel cheap. How can't you feel cheap? I mean, I get it. Even I'd pick cashmere over a cotton blend any day-- cashmere who "gets" modern art, no less.
That's my vice, I think. I don't "get" modern art. I'm trying. I keep trying, I'll keep trying, though I hardly come close to understanding. They understand. I think I'm the canvas modern art is painted on, and they are the trendy silk curtains hanging in the gallery-- the curtains who hang there and study modern art all day, but I can't see the painting since it's painted on me, painted over my eyes or at an angle that limits my view. Canvas is rough and showcases a subjective experiment. Silk curtains are complimentary and unobtrusive and not necessarily up for aesthetic debate. Who argues about curtains while they're in a modern art gallery anyway?
You don't want to find out what they think about someone who is special to you. I promise, you don't want to know that anyone is special to them the very way that same anyone is special to you. You want to go on in a state of happy ignorance, especially when you've only briefly met your comparison. You want to recall your own memories without someone else's intruding. You don't want to be the first choice, upon which they can look for, and find, improvements. The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.
For once in your life, you want to be picked last.
So don't stalk anyone on facebook. Your remedial math skills might reveal you're not as special as you thought you were. 1 + 1 = 2.
19 September 2008
.epic.
As if Bryce Avery or the Rocket Summer actually needed any defending.
Playing with Phantom Planet.
happy. birthday. ME.
Playing with Phantom Planet.
happy. birthday. ME.
18 September 2008
Of Unattaining Men
I went to a wedding reception recently, and it made me wonder if I’ll ever actually have one of those of my own. I don’t really date guys very seriously. I’ve never been in a real “relationship.” I’m not really bothered by it because if anything, I have an excess of young men in my life. Believe me, I’m not complaining—but with so many young men around, you would think I’d have a lot more dating under my belt. Frankly, I do not. I mean, I’ve had my share of little flings, but I think people assume I’ve been around a lot more than I have. Apparently I give off that vibe, but that’s a completely different blog just waiting to be written.
It could be that I’m afraid of commitment—well, not so much afraid of commitment as much as I’m afraid of getting too close to someone. Apparently I’m one who loves the chase, the unknown, the does-he-or-doesn’t-he. Either that, or I’m a sucker for self-inflicted heartbreak. Why? I don’t know. You’d think I’d prefer security over insecurity, but I’m not defending or trying to justify myself here. I’m only saying.
Not surprisingly then, I tend to pine for men who are unattainable due to lack of mutual interest, distance, and/or marital status. Since apparently it’s easier for me to go on participating in a one-sided relationship, I get pretty creative when it comes to men.
For example, I’m recently intrigued by someone because of his blog. I’d say it takes a singular kind of person to be attracted to another person because of the way he writes. Nerdy, right? Also, completely ridiculous. Regardless, it has lead me to facebook-stalk him. I always read his blog with every intention to make some kind of dazzling, witty comment, but rarely follow-through because everything I come up with is lame. I’d rather not be lame, so that’s the extent of my relationship with Intriguing Blog Man.
(I have to admit how strange it is for me to write “man” instead of “guy” or “boy.” I should probably explore the possibility that my hesitancy to acknowledge someone’s adulthood would indicate I’m uncomfortable with the idea of an adult relationship. Boys are those you have crushes on, guys are the ones you date but not very seriously, and men are grown up enough for marrying—in other words, the Ultimate Commitment. Being able to call someone a man in all seriousness would also imply that I am a woman, and that is a word I feel awkward using to describe myself.)
I used to work at the Missionary Training Center bookstore. For such a crushy person, you’d think it would be the last place I’d want to work, surrounded by thousands of young men (many of whom are really quite attractive, for the Spirit is a great beautifier. And so is Brazil, because I haven’t met a single unattractive native Brazilian so far). In that sense, it’s actually a pretty safe place for me to work. It provides me endless opportunities to crush on boys (since I can’t date them at all, to say nothing of seriousness, and they are most certainly not men) without the possibility or terror of it developing into anything. I’d be lying if I told you a lot of them don’t flirt with me, but it’s nothing very personal—we’re the only Real Girls they have contact with, and when you’re stuck in that spiritual vacuum for ten weeks, who can blame a guy for wanting to talk to a Real Girl?
A word about flirting. I’m starting to think my natural tendency to flirt is a major factor that leads people to make unfounded assumptions about my dating history. Curiously, I think it’s also my flirting that not only disinterests anyone I might actually pursue for an extended amount of time, but it’s also what makes me become disinterested. It’s all part of that chase thing, where the minute flirting prompts any kind of line crossing, snap! I freeze up, start worrying too much, and that’s the end of that. Don’t get me wrong, I love to flirt, but I think I look forward to the day when there’s just an instant, electrical connection with someone. I’ll probably marry the man who cuts to the chase, kisses the snot out of me, and then says something that would live on in movie history, should they ever make a movie out of us. No more games or interpreting body language, thank you.
I had an evening-long tryst with a guy once as he was getting ready to go on a mission, and therefore unattainable. We didn’t know each other very well then, we don’t know each other any better now, and as I drove home that night, I laughed to myself about my silly behavior. That’ll teach me to NCMO ever again... To my surprise, I also found myself in the metaphorical driver’s seat—he was the weird clingy one who couldn’t really figure out what he wanted, so of course it threw me for a loop. Usually I’m the one who is used and left behind to sort out my conflicting feelings, thereby landing me in the one-sided relationship. This time, I wasn’t at all interested in a relationship; I just wanted was a make-out-ship. Concluding that this wasn’t fair to any parties involved (especially my ear, because boy howdy! did my ear grow a fondness for that guy), I backed off completely, in spite of later invitations to join him in the hot tub. What a test of constitution and will power. Yeesh.
I’ve done the long-distance crush too. I can’t really call it a “relationship” since we never spent that much time together, and then I moved across the country. For better or worse, the crush that began when I was 13-years old continued to burn within me for the next five years as I wrung each letter dry (letter, mind you. Oh, we didn’t fall victim to any of these newfangled conveniences like email or the telephone. That would strip the romance from it, you see!), interpreting every word as proof that we would live the fairytale life someday, and have an incredible How We Met story to boot.
Needless to say, that one didn’t work out. And you know, thank goodness for it. We’re not nearly as alike as I thought we were when I was 13.
Married people are “safe,” too. Now hear me out before you get all shocked and find your underpants all bunched up—I have never pursued a married man. I will never pursue a married man. I would be horrified beyond reason if I ever found myself in a position where a married man might pursue me. Just, no.
That said, married people are not dead, nor are they ugly, unfunny, or disagreeable. In other words, a man’s marital status does not necessarily discourage attraction to them on my part, though it does immediately discourage any inclination to flirt or play any games I might with a similar person who is unmarried. I mean, hello! I have eyes! So I take a step back and appropriately enjoy their charms because I’d rather die than break up a family, and he’s already blissfully married. It’s the epitome of an inappropriate crush, but at least I’m secure in the knowledge that the relationship will only end when I’ve grown tired of it.
There are scores of celebrity would-be suitors, and while a small part of me hopes that someday, one or two of these romantical aspirations might be realized, let’s just be honest with ourselves.
In this vein, I suppose it would be useless for me to go into any detail about the men who are the most utterly unattainable, in that they are celebrities and, inconveniently, dead. This does not prevent me from loving, perhaps irreverently but with every inch of my heart: Gene Kelly, John Keats, W. N. P. Barbellion, Charles Brandon, Christopher Marlowe, Robert Cummings, Montgomery Clift, Buster Keaton, Philip Sidney, or Thomas Middleton. To name a few.
And you know, ultimately I think this is the reason why I might not have a wedding reception of my own someday. I might meet some lovely guy tomorrow, but there will be that looming question: does he write as well as Intriguing Blog Man?
It could be that I’m afraid of commitment—well, not so much afraid of commitment as much as I’m afraid of getting too close to someone. Apparently I’m one who loves the chase, the unknown, the does-he-or-doesn’t-he. Either that, or I’m a sucker for self-inflicted heartbreak. Why? I don’t know. You’d think I’d prefer security over insecurity, but I’m not defending or trying to justify myself here. I’m only saying.
Not surprisingly then, I tend to pine for men who are unattainable due to lack of mutual interest, distance, and/or marital status. Since apparently it’s easier for me to go on participating in a one-sided relationship, I get pretty creative when it comes to men.
For example, I’m recently intrigued by someone because of his blog. I’d say it takes a singular kind of person to be attracted to another person because of the way he writes. Nerdy, right? Also, completely ridiculous. Regardless, it has lead me to facebook-stalk him. I always read his blog with every intention to make some kind of dazzling, witty comment, but rarely follow-through because everything I come up with is lame. I’d rather not be lame, so that’s the extent of my relationship with Intriguing Blog Man.
(I have to admit how strange it is for me to write “man” instead of “guy” or “boy.” I should probably explore the possibility that my hesitancy to acknowledge someone’s adulthood would indicate I’m uncomfortable with the idea of an adult relationship. Boys are those you have crushes on, guys are the ones you date but not very seriously, and men are grown up enough for marrying—in other words, the Ultimate Commitment. Being able to call someone a man in all seriousness would also imply that I am a woman, and that is a word I feel awkward using to describe myself.)
I used to work at the Missionary Training Center bookstore. For such a crushy person, you’d think it would be the last place I’d want to work, surrounded by thousands of young men (many of whom are really quite attractive, for the Spirit is a great beautifier. And so is Brazil, because I haven’t met a single unattractive native Brazilian so far). In that sense, it’s actually a pretty safe place for me to work. It provides me endless opportunities to crush on boys (since I can’t date them at all, to say nothing of seriousness, and they are most certainly not men) without the possibility or terror of it developing into anything. I’d be lying if I told you a lot of them don’t flirt with me, but it’s nothing very personal—we’re the only Real Girls they have contact with, and when you’re stuck in that spiritual vacuum for ten weeks, who can blame a guy for wanting to talk to a Real Girl?
A word about flirting. I’m starting to think my natural tendency to flirt is a major factor that leads people to make unfounded assumptions about my dating history. Curiously, I think it’s also my flirting that not only disinterests anyone I might actually pursue for an extended amount of time, but it’s also what makes me become disinterested. It’s all part of that chase thing, where the minute flirting prompts any kind of line crossing, snap! I freeze up, start worrying too much, and that’s the end of that. Don’t get me wrong, I love to flirt, but I think I look forward to the day when there’s just an instant, electrical connection with someone. I’ll probably marry the man who cuts to the chase, kisses the snot out of me, and then says something that would live on in movie history, should they ever make a movie out of us. No more games or interpreting body language, thank you.
I had an evening-long tryst with a guy once as he was getting ready to go on a mission, and therefore unattainable. We didn’t know each other very well then, we don’t know each other any better now, and as I drove home that night, I laughed to myself about my silly behavior. That’ll teach me to NCMO ever again... To my surprise, I also found myself in the metaphorical driver’s seat—he was the weird clingy one who couldn’t really figure out what he wanted, so of course it threw me for a loop. Usually I’m the one who is used and left behind to sort out my conflicting feelings, thereby landing me in the one-sided relationship. This time, I wasn’t at all interested in a relationship; I just wanted was a make-out-ship. Concluding that this wasn’t fair to any parties involved (especially my ear, because boy howdy! did my ear grow a fondness for that guy), I backed off completely, in spite of later invitations to join him in the hot tub. What a test of constitution and will power. Yeesh.
I’ve done the long-distance crush too. I can’t really call it a “relationship” since we never spent that much time together, and then I moved across the country. For better or worse, the crush that began when I was 13-years old continued to burn within me for the next five years as I wrung each letter dry (letter, mind you. Oh, we didn’t fall victim to any of these newfangled conveniences like email or the telephone. That would strip the romance from it, you see!), interpreting every word as proof that we would live the fairytale life someday, and have an incredible How We Met story to boot.
Needless to say, that one didn’t work out. And you know, thank goodness for it. We’re not nearly as alike as I thought we were when I was 13.
Married people are “safe,” too. Now hear me out before you get all shocked and find your underpants all bunched up—I have never pursued a married man. I will never pursue a married man. I would be horrified beyond reason if I ever found myself in a position where a married man might pursue me. Just, no.
That said, married people are not dead, nor are they ugly, unfunny, or disagreeable. In other words, a man’s marital status does not necessarily discourage attraction to them on my part, though it does immediately discourage any inclination to flirt or play any games I might with a similar person who is unmarried. I mean, hello! I have eyes! So I take a step back and appropriately enjoy their charms because I’d rather die than break up a family, and he’s already blissfully married. It’s the epitome of an inappropriate crush, but at least I’m secure in the knowledge that the relationship will only end when I’ve grown tired of it.
There are scores of celebrity would-be suitors, and while a small part of me hopes that someday, one or two of these romantical aspirations might be realized, let’s just be honest with ourselves.
In this vein, I suppose it would be useless for me to go into any detail about the men who are the most utterly unattainable, in that they are celebrities and, inconveniently, dead. This does not prevent me from loving, perhaps irreverently but with every inch of my heart: Gene Kelly, John Keats, W. N. P. Barbellion, Charles Brandon, Christopher Marlowe, Robert Cummings, Montgomery Clift, Buster Keaton, Philip Sidney, or Thomas Middleton. To name a few.
And you know, ultimately I think this is the reason why I might not have a wedding reception of my own someday. I might meet some lovely guy tomorrow, but there will be that looming question: does he write as well as Intriguing Blog Man?
15 September 2008
Of desperation
When I walked into my house this afternoon, I smelled a bad smell. At first I was worried it was something like the sewer or rotting foundation or something gross and financially inconvenient, but no. No no, I think this stink is something a little more familiar, a little more dire.
It is the sorry smell of desperation.
The very word just ooooooooooozes pity and self-defacing and makes me flinch and recoil. Try saying it different ways. Desperaaaaaaaaation. Despera-see-yon, like the French. Try flipping the R. No matter how you say it, the bottom line is that desperation is the active form of despair, the act of despairing, the physicalization of despair.
Despair.
De spair.
Des pair.
Desp air.
I don't feel very desperate. I do not feel like I am actively despairing. Certain friends of mine will know of my propensity for reacting somewhat dramatically to various events in my life--shocking, I know. But I mean really, I'm not a mopey, sad, emo kid, even if my favorite band is something as musically insignificant as The Rocket Summer. So sometimes I wear 80 black plastic bangles on my wrist, and paint my fingernails black and navy blue, and I like a man in guy-liner! These are NOT cries for attention!!
Maybe what is a cry for attention, however, is my current facebook status: Emily braucht ein Kuessen. Jetzt. Jetzt jetzt jetzt. Or in English: Emily needs a kissing. Now. Now now now.
Now I know some people like to get all mystical and vague and "insert deeper meaning here" with their facebook stati, but not me. When I say I want a Kuessen, I mean I want a Kuessen. I want someone to pop on Facebook chat (which is actually making me despair at the moment, as it is slow and kicks me/my friends off every 4.5 seconds) and say something like, "Casual kissing? No attachments, just a few minutes of carnal-but-chaste indulgance to take the edge off? When can I come over?"
Normal people, or in other words, those who are not filled with despair, do not make blatant, desperate Facebook attempts to secure a NCMO. I guess I should cheer myself with recognition of the fact that I would not necessarily accept propositions from just anyone, despite my obvious desperation, so clearly I'm not that desperate. Also I'm not anxious to justify myself. Clearly.
I could name you at least six people with whom I'd make out with, no questions asked. I'm not going to tell you who they are. Maybe that will leave you desperately wanting to know more. Or maybe not.
Don't worry. My desperation is not limited to kissing, lest you think that's what this whole post is about. Please. I'm not so desperate as to focus all my desperate attention on one single area and I know how to multi-task, thank you very much. I'm also desperate for things like approval, to be considered for various roles in various shows, a money tree, a new wardrobe, a Diet Coke. Were it so easy to be simply desperate for one single thing, but I'm increasingly convinced that's not really possible. When you allow yourself to be overcome with overwhelming need for a thing, it easily becomes two things, and then three and four things, and pretty soon you're able to list all of these things you're just craving to get, like your insides are all boiling and you're starting to feel shaky and your eyes are crossing.
Desperation in it's most foul, most pathetic form is not limited to public pleas for kissing. You might be desperate to impress someone, desperate to avoid something uncomfortable, desperate to live up to the standard that's been created for you by others or yourself, desperate to get out, desperate to get in, desperate to convince a person you're worth the chance, desperate to shake the unyielding attentions of someone who's desperate for you in their own way. I feel like I'm surrounded by all this desperation, all this metaphorical scrambling and scratching and crawling...
WHY do we feel the NEED to IMPRESS each other so MUCH!!
Don't mind me. I'll just curl up on the floor in a necessary fetal position, rock back and forth a little, and concentrate on the desperation that surrounds me, this stink-pot of desperation where everyone parades around with smiles like everything is fine, even though on the inside everyone has frizzy hair and their toes poke through their worn-out sneakers and everyone is screaming like, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!"
Do you hear circus music playing? I feel like I'm in a Tim Burton nightmare. And there's no one for me to kiss anyway.
It is the sorry smell of desperation.
The very word just ooooooooooozes pity and self-defacing and makes me flinch and recoil. Try saying it different ways. Desperaaaaaaaaation. Despera-see-yon, like the French. Try flipping the R. No matter how you say it, the bottom line is that desperation is the active form of despair, the act of despairing, the physicalization of despair.
Despair.
De spair.
Des pair.
Desp air.
I don't feel very desperate. I do not feel like I am actively despairing. Certain friends of mine will know of my propensity for reacting somewhat dramatically to various events in my life--shocking, I know. But I mean really, I'm not a mopey, sad, emo kid, even if my favorite band is something as musically insignificant as The Rocket Summer. So sometimes I wear 80 black plastic bangles on my wrist, and paint my fingernails black and navy blue, and I like a man in guy-liner! These are NOT cries for attention!!
Maybe what is a cry for attention, however, is my current facebook status: Emily braucht ein Kuessen. Jetzt. Jetzt jetzt jetzt. Or in English: Emily needs a kissing. Now. Now now now.
Now I know some people like to get all mystical and vague and "insert deeper meaning here" with their facebook stati, but not me. When I say I want a Kuessen, I mean I want a Kuessen. I want someone to pop on Facebook chat (which is actually making me despair at the moment, as it is slow and kicks me/my friends off every 4.5 seconds) and say something like, "Casual kissing? No attachments, just a few minutes of carnal-but-chaste indulgance to take the edge off? When can I come over?"
Normal people, or in other words, those who are not filled with despair, do not make blatant, desperate Facebook attempts to secure a NCMO. I guess I should cheer myself with recognition of the fact that I would not necessarily accept propositions from just anyone, despite my obvious desperation, so clearly I'm not that desperate. Also I'm not anxious to justify myself. Clearly.
I could name you at least six people with whom I'd make out with, no questions asked. I'm not going to tell you who they are. Maybe that will leave you desperately wanting to know more. Or maybe not.
Don't worry. My desperation is not limited to kissing, lest you think that's what this whole post is about. Please. I'm not so desperate as to focus all my desperate attention on one single area and I know how to multi-task, thank you very much. I'm also desperate for things like approval, to be considered for various roles in various shows, a money tree, a new wardrobe, a Diet Coke. Were it so easy to be simply desperate for one single thing, but I'm increasingly convinced that's not really possible. When you allow yourself to be overcome with overwhelming need for a thing, it easily becomes two things, and then three and four things, and pretty soon you're able to list all of these things you're just craving to get, like your insides are all boiling and you're starting to feel shaky and your eyes are crossing.
Desperation in it's most foul, most pathetic form is not limited to public pleas for kissing. You might be desperate to impress someone, desperate to avoid something uncomfortable, desperate to live up to the standard that's been created for you by others or yourself, desperate to get out, desperate to get in, desperate to convince a person you're worth the chance, desperate to shake the unyielding attentions of someone who's desperate for you in their own way. I feel like I'm surrounded by all this desperation, all this metaphorical scrambling and scratching and crawling...
WHY do we feel the NEED to IMPRESS each other so MUCH!!
acute, atrocious, audacious, climacteric, critical, crucial, dangerous, despairing, despondent, dire, drastic, extreme, fierce forlorn, frantic, furious, futile, headlong, heinous, hopeless, incurable, irretrievable, lost, monstrous, outrageous, precipitate, rash, reckless, remediless, terrible, urgent, vain, vehement, violent
Don't mind me. I'll just curl up on the floor in a necessary fetal position, rock back and forth a little, and concentrate on the desperation that surrounds me, this stink-pot of desperation where everyone parades around with smiles like everything is fine, even though on the inside everyone has frizzy hair and their toes poke through their worn-out sneakers and everyone is screaming like, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!"
Do you hear circus music playing? I feel like I'm in a Tim Burton nightmare. And there's no one for me to kiss anyway.
14 September 2008
Maybe I DO suck at writing
Sometimes I feel like if it weren't for making lists of crap, I wouldn't be able to write blogs.
WARNING: Writing lists is habit forming.
WARNING: Writing lists is habit forming.
03 September 2008
Best summer EVER omg lol!!!!1!!!!11!!!
So I know we're into Day 2 of the school year, but you guys, 2008 was an EPIC summer. I would be ungrateful if I didn't go back and give the last few months a proper send-off. Though the order of events is not particular, none is more important than another.
Highlights from the Best Summer Ever
- Bringing home the bestest little baby named Sprout. This was technically during Finals Week of Winter semester, but we fell in love this summer, so it counts.
- Seeing Rooney with Valerie, and dancing to When Did Your Heart Go Missing? by myself in the crowd.
- Seeing Ben Folds with Tyler and (sort of) Marie, and elbowing a guy as he attempted to push ahead of me.
- Talking to Alex on FB chat at 5am, more than once.
- Working at the MTC with all the mostly cute/sometimes obnoxious/always ridiculous missionaries, like Elder Swinney.
- Watching the Sister Montgomery/Elder Commons drama unfold.
- Having a crush on a beautiful missionary from Russia named Bogdan (bling!)
- Moving from my room to the spare room.
- Getting into a car accident that provided the funds for me to live in London for a month.
- Driving a deluxe PT Cruiser for a month that smelled like cigarettes and Febreeze when I attempted to get the smoke smell out.
- Having Ghost Hunters marathons with myself.
- Talking to Biz for hours and hours about our futures.
- Learning that I can, indeed, belt and that my mix voice is not the limit of my vocal horizons.
- Getting cast as Amy in Little Women even though I wasn't even called-back for the role and didn't know how much I wanted to play that part.
- Discovering blonde is not a scary/awful look for me.
- Singing The Most Amazing Thing and loving that performance more than any other, even though Rhett had been stuck with a pin from his pants in a very uncomfortable manly place.
- Having as many costume changes in various parts of the theater as I did in the actual dressing room.
- Misplacing my slip during my quick-change outside, thereby flashing my corseted charms to all of Orem, Utah, as well as my castmates. I never made that mistake again. Maybe I wanted to, but I never did.
- Mao, and Silent Football.
- Reuniting with Courtney onstage for the first time since high school.
- Going to the midnight showing of Wall-E with Alexis, Steve, Rhett, Joel and Kacey. We fell in love with a robot, but who wouldn't?!?
- Sister pow-wow.
- Going to King & I with Kyle and Darick, then talking to the Jeffs family afterward.
- Going to Footloose with Cory and Matt with Coscto churros and an entire pizza. It's fine.
- Going to The Drowsy Chaperone and meeting my boyfriend, Jonathan Crombie, of Anne of Green Gables fame.
- Arrested Development on my iPod.
- Seeing Indiana Jones 4 with Jeremy and Matt-- and driving up to Jordan Commons in Jer's BRAND NEW CAR!!! Also, skipping Little Women rehearsal to be there.
- Getting the greatest haircut of my entire life, with the best hair color of my entire life, which color I did myself out of a box from Target, thank you.
- Watching Celebrity! at the Shell and making comments probably a little bit too loudly. Who cares. That was My Band, you guys.
- Texting funny things with Julie, usually including a great deal of "circus music."
- Going to the Olive Garden and being snarky with Jen and Whitney. I seriously love being snarky with Jen. Jen, why aren't we more snarky more often?
- Clue night at the SCERA Shell with AJ, Julie, Kyle, Jeremy, Janessa, Heidi, etc. "I don't like boobs." Also, going to Denny's afterward.
- What am I talking about-- going to Denny's, anytime, with anyone. But mostly Julie, Kyle, AJ, Ness, etc.
- Watching Impromptu and talking with Heather until 4am.
- The Tudors season 2. MY BOYFRIENDS ARE SO ATTRACTIVE.
- Having Spencer take my new headshots practically moments before I left for England, and having my favorite one be the most-ignored one of the whole bunch.
- Going to Hooters with Jeremy, Matt and Melinda, followed by The Dark Knight on IMAX. The IMAX part made up for the disgusting fried pickles.
- Deciding to pursue acting as a potential career, and being recognized for my efforts-- both by directors and producers, but also people on the street saying, "Hey weren't you in Little Women?" I mean literally, on the street. Because I hang out on the street.
- A single chapter from the Italy section of Eat, Pray, Love.
- Staying at Applebees till all hours with Katie and Heather the night/morning I left for England.
- Picnicking with AJ at Stardust. Clam Supreme that was almost made without the clams.
- "Not to sound weird or anything, but you two are really cute together." We know. Thank you.
- Being able to do another show with Mom.
- Learning to seriously love myself. Seriously.
- Thai food with KTB, Julie and Kyle.
- EUROPE. Dream. Come. True.
- My big yellow purse from Camden.
- Kissing a stranger from Australia
- Losing weight without trying.
- Having dinner and going to a show with old folk dance friends. Turns out I miss them, even if I don't miss the program. At all.
- Watching The 39 Steps with Jeremy and Heidi.
- Our first rehearsal for Pericles after returning from London.
- Megan and Cathy having babies.
- Watching Stranger Than Fiction with Andy.
- Shopping with Jackie for school stuff and discovering our mutual love for cardigans.
- Finally meeting and hanging out with much of the extended Oblad family.
Favorites
Songs: Low--Flo Rida; Disturbia-- Rihanna; 4 Minutes-- Madonna
Albums: Walk This Way-- The White Tie Affair; The Trick to Life-- The Hoosiers
Plays: ...some trace of her-- Royal National Theater; The Revenger's Tragedy-- Royal National Theater; Merry Wives of Windsor-- Shakespeare's Globe Theater
Buildings: Westminster Abbey; Big Ben; the National Portrait Gallery; Hale Center Theater Orem
People: Jonathan Rhys Myers; Ben Jonson; Queen Elizabeth II
Highlights from the Best Summer Ever
- Bringing home the bestest little baby named Sprout. This was technically during Finals Week of Winter semester, but we fell in love this summer, so it counts.
- Seeing Rooney with Valerie, and dancing to When Did Your Heart Go Missing? by myself in the crowd.
- Seeing Ben Folds with Tyler and (sort of) Marie, and elbowing a guy as he attempted to push ahead of me.
- Talking to Alex on FB chat at 5am, more than once.
- Working at the MTC with all the mostly cute/sometimes obnoxious/always ridiculous missionaries, like Elder Swinney.
- Watching the Sister Montgomery/Elder Commons drama unfold.
- Having a crush on a beautiful missionary from Russia named Bogdan (bling!)
- Moving from my room to the spare room.
- Getting into a car accident that provided the funds for me to live in London for a month.
- Driving a deluxe PT Cruiser for a month that smelled like cigarettes and Febreeze when I attempted to get the smoke smell out.
- Having Ghost Hunters marathons with myself.
- Talking to Biz for hours and hours about our futures.
- Learning that I can, indeed, belt and that my mix voice is not the limit of my vocal horizons.
- Getting cast as Amy in Little Women even though I wasn't even called-back for the role and didn't know how much I wanted to play that part.
- Discovering blonde is not a scary/awful look for me.
- Singing The Most Amazing Thing and loving that performance more than any other, even though Rhett had been stuck with a pin from his pants in a very uncomfortable manly place.
- Having as many costume changes in various parts of the theater as I did in the actual dressing room.
- Misplacing my slip during my quick-change outside, thereby flashing my corseted charms to all of Orem, Utah, as well as my castmates. I never made that mistake again. Maybe I wanted to, but I never did.
- Mao, and Silent Football.
- Reuniting with Courtney onstage for the first time since high school.
- Going to the midnight showing of Wall-E with Alexis, Steve, Rhett, Joel and Kacey. We fell in love with a robot, but who wouldn't?!?
- Sister pow-wow.
- Going to King & I with Kyle and Darick, then talking to the Jeffs family afterward.
- Going to Footloose with Cory and Matt with Coscto churros and an entire pizza. It's fine.
- Going to The Drowsy Chaperone and meeting my boyfriend, Jonathan Crombie, of Anne of Green Gables fame.
- Arrested Development on my iPod.
- Seeing Indiana Jones 4 with Jeremy and Matt-- and driving up to Jordan Commons in Jer's BRAND NEW CAR!!! Also, skipping Little Women rehearsal to be there.
- Getting the greatest haircut of my entire life, with the best hair color of my entire life, which color I did myself out of a box from Target, thank you.
- Watching Celebrity! at the Shell and making comments probably a little bit too loudly. Who cares. That was My Band, you guys.
- Texting funny things with Julie, usually including a great deal of "circus music."
- Going to the Olive Garden and being snarky with Jen and Whitney. I seriously love being snarky with Jen. Jen, why aren't we more snarky more often?
- Clue night at the SCERA Shell with AJ, Julie, Kyle, Jeremy, Janessa, Heidi, etc. "I don't like boobs." Also, going to Denny's afterward.
- What am I talking about-- going to Denny's, anytime, with anyone. But mostly Julie, Kyle, AJ, Ness, etc.
- Watching Impromptu and talking with Heather until 4am.
- The Tudors season 2. MY BOYFRIENDS ARE SO ATTRACTIVE.
- Having Spencer take my new headshots practically moments before I left for England, and having my favorite one be the most-ignored one of the whole bunch.
- Going to Hooters with Jeremy, Matt and Melinda, followed by The Dark Knight on IMAX. The IMAX part made up for the disgusting fried pickles.
- Deciding to pursue acting as a potential career, and being recognized for my efforts-- both by directors and producers, but also people on the street saying, "Hey weren't you in Little Women?" I mean literally, on the street. Because I hang out on the street.
- A single chapter from the Italy section of Eat, Pray, Love.
- Staying at Applebees till all hours with Katie and Heather the night/morning I left for England.
- Picnicking with AJ at Stardust. Clam Supreme that was almost made without the clams.
- "Not to sound weird or anything, but you two are really cute together." We know. Thank you.
- Being able to do another show with Mom.
- Learning to seriously love myself. Seriously.
- Thai food with KTB, Julie and Kyle.
- EUROPE. Dream. Come. True.
- My big yellow purse from Camden.
- Kissing a stranger from Australia
- Losing weight without trying.
- Having dinner and going to a show with old folk dance friends. Turns out I miss them, even if I don't miss the program. At all.
- Watching The 39 Steps with Jeremy and Heidi.
- Our first rehearsal for Pericles after returning from London.
- Megan and Cathy having babies.
- Watching Stranger Than Fiction with Andy.
- Shopping with Jackie for school stuff and discovering our mutual love for cardigans.
- Finally meeting and hanging out with much of the extended Oblad family.
Favorites
Songs: Low--Flo Rida; Disturbia-- Rihanna; 4 Minutes-- Madonna
Albums: Walk This Way-- The White Tie Affair; The Trick to Life-- The Hoosiers
Plays: ...some trace of her-- Royal National Theater; The Revenger's Tragedy-- Royal National Theater; Merry Wives of Windsor-- Shakespeare's Globe Theater
Buildings: Westminster Abbey; Big Ben; the National Portrait Gallery; Hale Center Theater Orem
People: Jonathan Rhys Myers; Ben Jonson; Queen Elizabeth II
30 August 2008
28 August 2008
Encouragement from The Universe
I'm trying to distract myself with things to do that don't involve packing. I'm also very bored, and I feel each minute excrutiatingly crawl into the next. Even Ghost Hunters International isn't helping to pass the time...
...leaving me nothing better to do than pack.
Curse you, Universe.
23 August 2008
Identity Crisis
So I've thought about it-- I've thought about it for a long time-- and I've come to a conclusion that might startle you. It might shock and/or disappoint you. Nevertheless, it is a truth that needs to be faced.
I'm starting to hate my nickname Emdab.
I'll pause a moment while you gasp.
Recovered? Okay. Well here's the thing-- it used to tickle me. I used to love it, and I used to love people calling me by it. I kind of loved that everyone in folk dance called me Emdab, even teachers. I liked that it was kind of unique. I mean obviously I liked it at some point considering it's my blog address and part of my MSN screen name.
I think it's starting to wear on me though, kind of grate on the old nerves. I can't even give you a specific reason why. Maybe I'm just kind of over it. So many people use it to refer to me that it's not really special anymore (not that it was anything dreadfully clever in the first place, let's be real). Sure, it's usually used with an air of fondness and sometimes I like to hug and squish the people who coo at me, "Awww! Emdab!" A bit childish perhaps. Perhaps perhaps.
You know what it is, maybe? I think I mostly don't like it in two specific cases:
1. When people don't know me well/at all but use it. Irritating.
2. When it's used by people I know well/want to know better if-you-know-what-I-mean. There's something really kind of thrilling when Someone uses my full name, and I can't really tell you what it is. I don't even mind just Em or some variation on that theme, but Emdab just puts Special Someones in the same category as everyone else and it makes me feel like they have put me in that category as well. It's not comfortable.
I'm not saying I want people to stop using it completely. And I mean, what am I going to do if people call me Emdab? I'm not going to be like, "Cha, you know what? Don't call me that." because that's somehow rude, right? I'm just putting it out there for people to take it or leave it:
I'm falling out of love with Emdab. I wouldn't mind if you called me Emily. Em or Emmy or anything similar is acceptable, but let's not push it too far.
Now take a moment to look at my boyfriend Jonathan ---------------------->
I'm starting to hate my nickname Emdab.
I'll pause a moment while you gasp.
Recovered? Okay. Well here's the thing-- it used to tickle me. I used to love it, and I used to love people calling me by it. I kind of loved that everyone in folk dance called me Emdab, even teachers. I liked that it was kind of unique. I mean obviously I liked it at some point considering it's my blog address and part of my MSN screen name.
I think it's starting to wear on me though, kind of grate on the old nerves. I can't even give you a specific reason why. Maybe I'm just kind of over it. So many people use it to refer to me that it's not really special anymore (not that it was anything dreadfully clever in the first place, let's be real). Sure, it's usually used with an air of fondness and sometimes I like to hug and squish the people who coo at me, "Awww! Emdab!" A bit childish perhaps. Perhaps perhaps.
You know what it is, maybe? I think I mostly don't like it in two specific cases:
1. When people don't know me well/at all but use it. Irritating.
2. When it's used by people I know well/want to know better if-you-know-what-I-mean. There's something really kind of thrilling when Someone uses my full name, and I can't really tell you what it is. I don't even mind just Em or some variation on that theme, but Emdab just puts Special Someones in the same category as everyone else and it makes me feel like they have put me in that category as well. It's not comfortable.
I'm not saying I want people to stop using it completely. And I mean, what am I going to do if people call me Emdab? I'm not going to be like, "Cha, you know what? Don't call me that." because that's somehow rude, right? I'm just putting it out there for people to take it or leave it:
I'm falling out of love with Emdab. I wouldn't mind if you called me Emily. Em or Emmy or anything similar is acceptable, but let's not push it too far.
Now take a moment to look at my boyfriend Jonathan ---------------------->
20 August 2008
Trend-tastic
I have a problem with addiction, you guys. No, it's nothing that might threaten my health or my ability to make good decisions, but that doesn't make it any less serious.
My name is Emily, and I'm addicted to nail polish.
Don't laugh at me. This is a serious problem! Seriously! The only real Beauty Trend I follow on people.com is Stars' Must-Have Nails. I'm all about keeping up with the In colors in Hollywood, unless it's something ugly like Rhianna's bright yellow, banana-colored nails. That was a color that was A) gross B) not complimentary with my skin tone. I mean, let's not get TOO crazy here.
But really-- I love nail polish. It's kind of an unfortunate love because I'm not very kind to my
nails. They chip really easily and I have to do a lot of touching up. I know. It's a hard-knock life, right?
Recently my favorite brand is Maybelline Express Wear. It's affordable, comes in a variety of delicious and not-annoying colors, and dries in just 50-seconds! Could it get any better?!! Ashley, my frequent late-night Smith's shopping companion, has helped me choose a
few shades from this brand before. Just yesterday I got Crimson, and now I'm rocking it like Hillary Duff.
And speaking of Hillary Duff, yes that IS a ring on her finger. RUMORS ABOUND!!
But anyway. If you're wondering what is the first thing I did when we got to our flat in London, I'll tell you: I painted my finger nails. It was the day after I finished Little Women, during which time I spent an AGONIZING two months with plain, boring nails (discreetly painted with clear polish, I'll have you know). So as we sat waiting for Chris to come let us in, which is a story all its own, I
cheered up and gave myself brown nails. Delicious!
I might have been pushing it during She Loves Me, a show in which we were encouraged to paint our nails red or pink to fit our 1930s costumes. Red is fun and all for a while, but after doing my research, I was thrilled to discover that women in the 30s used all kinds of interesting colors, including BLACK! Which means
I didn't have red nails for the rest of the run. Clearly.
When I was in seventh grade, I used to paint my nails every Tuesday while my mom taught voice lessons. That was definitely back when awesome colors like metallic orange and poison green were soooooo In, and I was so trendy, you don't even know. Ahead of the times and everything. Predicting a revival in "classic" trends after the unfortunate 90s-meets-70s (what a tragically groovy time in my early teens), I went Red one week-- flashy, bold, confident. Sadly my confidence was shot when a particularly snotty-but-popular 8th grader scoffed at me on the bus and said scathingly, "Red? That's so retro." I might take it as a compliment these days but at the time, I was SO EMBARRASSED. Retro? Me??
Of course, I should have taken anything she said with a grain of salt-- this insult coming from the girl who admitted to getting a Shi Tzu puppy for Christmas so she could swear in front of her mother. Brilliant.
So that explains it. Apparently my obsession with trendy nail polish dates back to seventh grade when a snotty girl insulted my color of choice. Well thank you, snotty girl. Thank you, and your little dog too.
My name is Emily, and I'm addicted to nail polish.
Don't laugh at me. This is a serious problem! Seriously! The only real Beauty Trend I follow on people.com is Stars' Must-Have Nails. I'm all about keeping up with the In colors in Hollywood, unless it's something ugly like Rhianna's bright yellow, banana-colored nails. That was a color that was A) gross B) not complimentary with my skin tone. I mean, let's not get TOO crazy here.
But really-- I love nail polish. It's kind of an unfortunate love because I'm not very kind to my
nails. They chip really easily and I have to do a lot of touching up. I know. It's a hard-knock life, right?Recently my favorite brand is Maybelline Express Wear. It's affordable, comes in a variety of delicious and not-annoying colors, and dries in just 50-seconds! Could it get any better?!! Ashley, my frequent late-night Smith's shopping companion, has helped me choose a
few shades from this brand before. Just yesterday I got Crimson, and now I'm rocking it like Hillary Duff.And speaking of Hillary Duff, yes that IS a ring on her finger. RUMORS ABOUND!!
But anyway. If you're wondering what is the first thing I did when we got to our flat in London, I'll tell you: I painted my finger nails. It was the day after I finished Little Women, during which time I spent an AGONIZING two months with plain, boring nails (discreetly painted with clear polish, I'll have you know). So as we sat waiting for Chris to come let us in, which is a story all its own, I
cheered up and gave myself brown nails. Delicious!I might have been pushing it during She Loves Me, a show in which we were encouraged to paint our nails red or pink to fit our 1930s costumes. Red is fun and all for a while, but after doing my research, I was thrilled to discover that women in the 30s used all kinds of interesting colors, including BLACK! Which means
I didn't have red nails for the rest of the run. Clearly.When I was in seventh grade, I used to paint my nails every Tuesday while my mom taught voice lessons. That was definitely back when awesome colors like metallic orange and poison green were soooooo In, and I was so trendy, you don't even know. Ahead of the times and everything. Predicting a revival in "classic" trends after the unfortunate 90s-meets-70s (what a tragically groovy time in my early teens), I went Red one week-- flashy, bold, confident. Sadly my confidence was shot when a particularly snotty-but-popular 8th grader scoffed at me on the bus and said scathingly, "Red? That's so retro." I might take it as a compliment these days but at the time, I was SO EMBARRASSED. Retro? Me??
Of course, I should have taken anything she said with a grain of salt-- this insult coming from the girl who admitted to getting a Shi Tzu puppy for Christmas so she could swear in front of her mother. Brilliant.
So that explains it. Apparently my obsession with trendy nail polish dates back to seventh grade when a snotty girl insulted my color of choice. Well thank you, snotty girl. Thank you, and your little dog too.
19 August 2008
Europe-- natural beautifier
So I've been home from Europe for five full days. Since my triumphant return, so to speak, I've slipped rather seamlessly back into "normal life," kind of to my dismay. I have:
--replaced the cell phone I lost on the way to England
--hung out with a dozen friends I've missed the last month
--returned to regular attendance at LDS church
--started a new job
--resumed rehearsals for Pericles
--seen two more plays (because clearly I haven't seen enough theater recently)
As cliche as it sounds, it's been so easy to get back to Real Life that I really feel almost like the last month didn't happen.
Luckily, it did happen. It just kind of feels like it didn't.
The most frequent question I've been asked is, What do you miss most about England? The short answer is, Everything. The reconsidered answer is, Everything except the lack of air con. The realistic answer is, Everything except the currency exchange rate.
All kidding aside, as I've thought about the question, the thing I miss most about Europe (after five days, I'll grant you) is how I felt in Europe. Cue cheesy 80s ballad.
For whatever reason, English Me took 20 minutes to get ready and managed to have cute hair every day. English Me didn't have my makeup melt off quite so quickly, and my bangs seemed to fall the right way. English Me was perfectly, 100% self-aware but not at all self-conscious. Even when I was hot from walking all day, when I was goofing off, when I didn't particularly care what I looked like, I didn't feel frumpy or uncute. I have never felt more pretty, confident, desirable, or happy to be myself in my whole life.
Sadly, I feel like I've already slipped out of that confidence and back into American Me. American Me bugs me. American Me is insecure and slightly neurotic. American Me is not only self-aware, but 100% self-conscious. American Me does not attract international doctors, and international doctors are certainly not enticed to make out with American Me. American Me wants to see more, be more, do more.
I have never felt more beautiful in my life than I did in this picture. I only wish it wasn't blurry, though I guess even that reflects how I was feeling at the moment. I was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a head wrap to cover my unwashed hair-- but I was untouchable.
--replaced the cell phone I lost on the way to England
--hung out with a dozen friends I've missed the last month
--returned to regular attendance at LDS church
--started a new job
--resumed rehearsals for Pericles
--seen two more plays (because clearly I haven't seen enough theater recently)
As cliche as it sounds, it's been so easy to get back to Real Life that I really feel almost like the last month didn't happen.
Luckily, it did happen. It just kind of feels like it didn't.
The most frequent question I've been asked is, What do you miss most about England? The short answer is, Everything. The reconsidered answer is, Everything except the lack of air con. The realistic answer is, Everything except the currency exchange rate.
All kidding aside, as I've thought about the question, the thing I miss most about Europe (after five days, I'll grant you) is how I felt in Europe. Cue cheesy 80s ballad.
For whatever reason, English Me took 20 minutes to get ready and managed to have cute hair every day. English Me didn't have my makeup melt off quite so quickly, and my bangs seemed to fall the right way. English Me was perfectly, 100% self-aware but not at all self-conscious. Even when I was hot from walking all day, when I was goofing off, when I didn't particularly care what I looked like, I didn't feel frumpy or uncute. I have never felt more pretty, confident, desirable, or happy to be myself in my whole life.
Sadly, I feel like I've already slipped out of that confidence and back into American Me. American Me bugs me. American Me is insecure and slightly neurotic. American Me is not only self-aware, but 100% self-conscious. American Me does not attract international doctors, and international doctors are certainly not enticed to make out with American Me. American Me wants to see more, be more, do more.
I have never felt more beautiful in my life than I did in this picture. I only wish it wasn't blurry, though I guess even that reflects how I was feeling at the moment. I was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a head wrap to cover my unwashed hair-- but I was untouchable.
This post is making me sound so sentimental I want to sock myself. American Me also apparently struggles to write meaningful blogs in a non-irritating way, especially because this reflection is not intended to encourage an outpouring of flattering responses. It's not a matter of being told I'm pretty or talented (though I'd be hard pressed to find a girl who doesn't like to hear those things anyway)-- it's a matter of feeling pretty and engaging and funny.
My sweet friend Anna told me I need to find something that can be a constant reminder of English Me. My boyfriend Big Ben as my screensaver on my phone isn't enough. In fact, I think it's making me nostalgic more than anything, and nostalgia is making me American Debbie Downer instead of English Me, who is charming and likes herself a lot and doesn't mind her faults quite so much.
I'll figure out something. But in the meantime, to answer the question, the thing I miss most about Europe is me.
15 August 2008
Last night in Scotland
Apparently I just have to leave Utah for attractive, successful men to be interested in me. And I mean, I'd take an Australian orthopedic surgeon in Scotland over most local guys any day, even if it's just for one evening.
For once, the Crazy Best Friend wins.
For once, the Crazy Best Friend wins.
13 August 2008
Braving Scotland
We've made it to the final stretch of our time in the UK. I can't believe how fast it's all flown by, though at the same time it's felt like forever-- like a "fairy dream."
So though our time has been limited, I've managed to do some nice sight-seeing. We had lunch
at the Black Medicine Cafe Co. That's right, you Harry Potter fans, that's where JK Rowling infamously began writing Harry Potter. It's exactly the kind of place you'd expect it to be, very quaint and cozy, especially when it's rainy and Edinburgh-y. We walked through the Fringe and were attacked by millions of people trying to advertise their shows. I wasn't mad, because we went and advertized quite loudly yesterday in the rain and you know, you gotta do what it takes to get seven people in the audience (I'm not exaggerating), but we felt bad taking their fliers when we know we can't see anything tonight. So we didn't take any.
And a trip to a foreign city wouldn't be complete without bashing through a medieval castle, so we used our British Heritage passes to get in. The view was gorgeous, and as usual I was struck by the layers of history there. We also got to see the Honours aka the Scottish Royal Jewels. Not quite as glittery as the Crown Jewels in England, but frankly, just as impressive. And you're not limited to being shoved through on a people-mover so you can linger around them as long as you want. Annie and I split the most delicious $5 chocolate ever, too.
Today was the really the first time that I've taken to 
Edinburgh, even though it's our third/last day here. I think I've just been so exhausted and burnt out from traveling so much, and STRESSED OUT over our show Flies in the Snuffbox that I haven't been able to let myself appreciate it fully. This morning we gave our second/final performance at the Fringe Festival, which is the reason we're here in the first place. It ended up being a good show, and I'm really proud of us all for pulling it together. I think it was a really good experience for all of us. And look at the logo for our venue, the Demarco Roxy Art House-- startlingly familiar...
Edinburgh, even though it's our third/last day here. I think I've just been so exhausted and burnt out from traveling so much, and STRESSED OUT over our show Flies in the Snuffbox that I haven't been able to let myself appreciate it fully. This morning we gave our second/final performance at the Fringe Festival, which is the reason we're here in the first place. It ended up being a good show, and I'm really proud of us all for pulling it together. I think it was a really good experience for all of us. And look at the logo for our venue, the Demarco Roxy Art House-- startlingly familiar...So though our time has been limited, I've managed to do some nice sight-seeing. We had lunch at the Black Medicine Cafe Co. That's right, you Harry Potter fans, that's where JK Rowling infamously began writing Harry Potter. It's exactly the kind of place you'd expect it to be, very quaint and cozy, especially when it's rainy and Edinburgh-y. We walked through the Fringe and were attacked by millions of people trying to advertise their shows. I wasn't mad, because we went and advertized quite loudly yesterday in the rain and you know, you gotta do what it takes to get seven people in the audience (I'm not exaggerating), but we felt bad taking their fliers when we know we can't see anything tonight. So we didn't take any.And a trip to a foreign city wouldn't be complete without bashing through a medieval castle, so we used our British Heritage passes to get in. The view was gorgeous, and as usual I was struck by the layers of history there. We also got to see the Honours aka the Scottish Royal Jewels. Not quite as glittery as the Crown Jewels in England, but frankly, just as impressive. And you're not limited to being shoved through on a people-mover so you can linger around them as long as you want. Annie and I split the most delicious $5 chocolate ever, too.So tonight we're going to see the Military Tattoo up at the castle, and then a few of the girls are going out to Frankenstein for Rocky Horror night! I just know how jealous some of you are. Nothing says "Goodbye Europe" than a Rocky Horror sing-along at a bar in Scotland.
11 August 2008
Good advertising
If you own a company and want twenty-somethings like me to buy whatever it is you're selling, stick this man's face on a billboard and I'll buy whatever the H you want me to. If that makes me shallow, I don't want to be deep.
I like food
Alright, I confess: part of the reason why I was excited to come to Europe was because I was happy to finally eat some of this FOOD that everyone is always going on about. "Everything tastes so much better in Europe!" they say, though perhaps it needs little salt (from what I heard). Chocolate is better, bread is better, cheese is better... Well I'm here to say-- the rumors are true.
I guess I should begin by mentioning the bagel I ate at JFK airport during our layover on the way to England in the first place. Anyone who knows me well knows that I rather live for bagels, particularly ones from New York, to the point that my mother brings them back for me as presents when she visits. Though I would have preferred a salt bagel with shmear, I settled for an Everything bagel because you can't go wrong with more, more, more, right? Bottom line: New York bagles > bagels from anywhere else. I was pleased.
Wagamama was a very London experience, our group all separated in a very warm, very large cafeteria-style place. To be honest, it was a little bit like glorified Raman-- perhaps the way Raman is supposed to be prepared, because the package likes to offer more filling ways to prepare such a happy 14-cent meal. Don't you worry, though, this was no 14-cent meal in honor of Anna's birthday. We took a nice break from the Tower of London to eat there because obviously there's no better way to celebrate the preservation of your head connected to the rest of your body like Japanese noodles.
I snogged a little while in London, at a delicious place appropriately called Snog. Lest you think my snogging was of the making out sort, it was actually a natural frozen yogurt shop. Like Provo's Pudding on the Rice, I kind of felt like I was inside my iPod the whole time we were there, but the yogurt was YUMMY!!! and it's the only place I found anything in London for free-- little pins that said clever things like "Snog with friends" and "Less talk, more snogging." You bet I took advantage of those.
Crepes are also everything they're cracked up to be in Europe, especially when they're filled with cheese and from a place that celebrities endorse, and shared with a big group of people as passionate about crepes as you are.
Pub food turned out to be quite good, if not expectedly overpriced. I celebrated Chris's birthday by eating a plate of chips. That's all. Just chips. I shared a surprisingly delicious plate of nachos with Annie in Stratford at a place called the Beefeater Restaurant, and some stuffed pasta with Anna on our last night in London up in the Marylebone area. I couldn't let my English experience be complete without a sampling of fish and chips (ever traditional), and even though I don't love fish, you can fry cardboard and it would taste pretty good to me. Mashed peas, maybe not my favorite, but I'm glad I didn't refuse the adventure.
I've eaten very well while I've been in Europe, and in part, I mean that as healthily as I do tastily. My eating habits have been conducive to our rigorous walking which has, in fact, encouraged the loss of some extra baggage around my middle, a fact I'm in no way complaining about. Happily, this means I've been able to eat some pretty heavy meals too, and once again,
I'm not complaining.
Let's go over my food history for the last few weeks.
I guess I should begin by mentioning the bagel I ate at JFK airport during our layover on the way to England in the first place. Anyone who knows me well knows that I rather live for bagels, particularly ones from New York, to the point that my mother brings them back for me as presents when she visits. Though I would have preferred a salt bagel with shmear, I settled for an Everything bagel because you can't go wrong with more, more, more, right? Bottom line: New York bagles > bagels from anywhere else. I was pleased.As can be expected in England, I've had my fair share of pasties. I was wary at first 
because they came SO highly recommended by returning members of the group that I was like, "...I'm no conformist." But listen, the price is certainly right, and they're rather "traditional" to boot, and we all know how traditionalist I can be, if not conformist. I think my favorite pasty experience was in our first week, when we found a teeny little place on the way back from the British musuem-- cornish pasty, chips, and peas. The most satisfying was also our first week at Covent Gardens, sitting on the side of the road all in a row. But curiously, the most tasty was just yesterday on Fleet Street, rather cold, from a package, and shared with Anna. I wonder what it would have tasted like all piping hot?
We went down to the National Theater once, and I was filled with hate for the women sitting upwind, chain smoking like chimneys. Naturally it made me crave ice cream, which we finally found up the river. It cost way too much, but luckily, it was delicious, and it had a piece of Cadbury chocolate stuck into it. Nothing changed my life more, however, than the gelato Chris recommended the night we missed The Dark Knight premiere. Amaretto has never tasted more divine, to the point where I'll probably never order it again in the States. Okay that's not true, but it's a very pretty, nostalgic thought.
because they came SO highly recommended by returning members of the group that I was like, "...I'm no conformist." But listen, the price is certainly right, and they're rather "traditional" to boot, and we all know how traditionalist I can be, if not conformist. I think my favorite pasty experience was in our first week, when we found a teeny little place on the way back from the British musuem-- cornish pasty, chips, and peas. The most satisfying was also our first week at Covent Gardens, sitting on the side of the road all in a row. But curiously, the most tasty was just yesterday on Fleet Street, rather cold, from a package, and shared with Anna. I wonder what it would have tasted like all piping hot? We went down to the National Theater once, and I was filled with hate for the women sitting upwind, chain smoking like chimneys. Naturally it made me crave ice cream, which we finally found up the river. It cost way too much, but luckily, it was delicious, and it had a piece of Cadbury chocolate stuck into it. Nothing changed my life more, however, than the gelato Chris recommended the night we missed The Dark Knight premiere. Amaretto has never tasted more divine, to the point where I'll probably never order it again in the States. Okay that's not true, but it's a very pretty, nostalgic thought.
Wagamama was a very London experience, our group all separated in a very warm, very large cafeteria-style place. To be honest, it was a little bit like glorified Raman-- perhaps the way Raman is supposed to be prepared, because the package likes to offer more filling ways to prepare such a happy 14-cent meal. Don't you worry, though, this was no 14-cent meal in honor of Anna's birthday. We took a nice break from the Tower of London to eat there because obviously there's no better way to celebrate the preservation of your head connected to the rest of your body like Japanese noodles.The most potentially romantic, but actually violent, meal was shared at Regents Park the night
we saw Twelfth Night. Many of us brown-bagged it, others got various overpriced sandwiches from Tesco and Pret and the like, and we all settled down in a corner of the park, right near a fountain, to enjoy the evening before an outdoor play. It turned a little bit ugly when we started playing Silent Football, though, when our shoulders were all beat upon by our neighbors in an attempt to catch the attention of King Joe the Pantless or whatever the heck we were supposed to call him.
we saw Twelfth Night. Many of us brown-bagged it, others got various overpriced sandwiches from Tesco and Pret and the like, and we all settled down in a corner of the park, right near a fountain, to enjoy the evening before an outdoor play. It turned a little bit ugly when we started playing Silent Football, though, when our shoulders were all beat upon by our neighbors in an attempt to catch the attention of King Joe the Pantless or whatever the heck we were supposed to call him.I snogged a little while in London, at a delicious place appropriately called Snog. Lest you think my snogging was of the making out sort, it was actually a natural frozen yogurt shop. Like Provo's Pudding on the Rice, I kind of felt like I was inside my iPod the whole time we were there, but the yogurt was YUMMY!!! and it's the only place I found anything in London for free-- little pins that said clever things like "Snog with friends" and "Less talk, more snogging." You bet I took advantage of those.France introduced a number of delicacies that aren't so much delicate as much as they are very
typically French. I basically just ate bread and cheese while I was there. Breakfast consisted of a basket of bread, with various soft cheeses to spread on top. While everyone at buffet style at Flunch, I ate bread and cheese. All I ate for dinner our first night was a croissant and some other flakey pastry that I still don't know the name of. My very expensive lunch at the Louvre was basically a gourmet bagette. If I could keep French bread fresh longer, I would have brought some home with me. And though it wasn't glamorous, one of my favorite memories of French bread was shared with Jaclyn, breaking and sharing it on the Eurostar train on the way back to London.
typically French. I basically just ate bread and cheese while I was there. Breakfast consisted of a basket of bread, with various soft cheeses to spread on top. While everyone at buffet style at Flunch, I ate bread and cheese. All I ate for dinner our first night was a croissant and some other flakey pastry that I still don't know the name of. My very expensive lunch at the Louvre was basically a gourmet bagette. If I could keep French bread fresh longer, I would have brought some home with me. And though it wasn't glamorous, one of my favorite memories of French bread was shared with Jaclyn, breaking and sharing it on the Eurostar train on the way back to London.Chocolate in Paris is good. I brought a lot home. Duh. I would have had Parisian quiche, but the girl didn't know what a Visa card was, muchless if she could accept one.
Crepes are also everything they're cracked up to be in Europe, especially when they're filled with cheese and from a place that celebrities endorse, and shared with a big group of people as passionate about crepes as you are.I know I've brought it up before, but I have to admit to the 
superiority of an American classic-- McDonalds-- in Europe. Suppsedly Burger King is even better, but I don't know about that. I mean I had to draw the line SOMEWHERE when it came to eating American food. Seriously, that cheeseburger I had in Paris was the most delicious thing ever, and even though it didn't end up agreeing with me too well in Stratford, I most enjoyed my Shakespearean fries. And somehow it made it even better to share such lame McDonalds trips with other fine people who knew exactly how lame it was for us to eat cheeseburgers in Paris and Stratford-Upon-Avon, aka two of the most quinticentially "European" places of all time. Viva USA.
superiority of an American classic-- McDonalds-- in Europe. Suppsedly Burger King is even better, but I don't know about that. I mean I had to draw the line SOMEWHERE when it came to eating American food. Seriously, that cheeseburger I had in Paris was the most delicious thing ever, and even though it didn't end up agreeing with me too well in Stratford, I most enjoyed my Shakespearean fries. And somehow it made it even better to share such lame McDonalds trips with other fine people who knew exactly how lame it was for us to eat cheeseburgers in Paris and Stratford-Upon-Avon, aka two of the most quinticentially "European" places of all time. Viva USA.Pub food turned out to be quite good, if not expectedly overpriced. I celebrated Chris's birthday by eating a plate of chips. That's all. Just chips. I shared a surprisingly delicious plate of nachos with Annie in Stratford at a place called the Beefeater Restaurant, and some stuffed pasta with Anna on our last night in London up in the Marylebone area. I couldn't let my English experience be complete without a sampling of fish and chips (ever traditional), and even though I don't love fish, you can fry cardboard and it would taste pretty good to me. Mashed peas, maybe not my favorite, but I'm glad I didn't refuse the adventure.And to begin my Scotland experience, I spent the evening at a very little, moderately priced Thai restaurant, because that's obviously what you do when you're in Edinburgh-- eat Thai food. In truth, it was delicious massaman curry I've had since the last time I had it, only this massaman was even BETTER because it was really spicy. I think maybe I still like Bangkok Grill better because it usually means I'm eating Thai food with Katie, Madison, my family, or other people I love a lot.
Now that I think about it, I like people better than I like food. And I especially love the people with whom I eat food. If only I could transplant them all to Europe to eat with me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)