.written september 14, 2009.
I live in a basement apartment, and my landlords are not small people, so my suspicion is they are generous with the air conditioning upstairs. Our apartment doesn't have its own thermostat, so if they're hot upstairs, I'm especially cold downstairs-- always. Tonight I'm a different kind of cold downstairs, though, one that is notably crispy, and I'm pretty sure it means that autumn is almost here.
We went to bed before midnight because tomorrow is a long day for both of us, and maybe it was the sitting around all day that wore me out, but I had been perfectly content for a while to lie there with Ames's arm curled around my stomach and his forehead resting prettily against the back of my head, contemplating the drift off to a sleep that hasn't actually come yet. It's too chilly, it's too autumn chilly, and though my bladder isn't particularly full with just two cans of Diet Coke, I'm too shivery to just let it sit there.
When I get up, I look in the mirror and I'm satisfied with these new bangs that aren't very new, actually, since bangs are bangs and there aren't very many variations: short, shaggy, side-swept. Sometimes you can combine the variations, and I'm sure I have, since I'm addicted to bangs, but I've been growing mine out since May so that my hair would be more versatile for the wedding, even though I ended up pulling all my hair back anyway. The rest of my hair is a reliable mess, since, in our whole relationship, my hair has inexplicably managed to escape from bobbi pins and ponytail holders after midnight, sprouting up all over my head in a ridiculous and hopefully endearing way. Ames never complains, he usually laughs, but I smooth it down across my head even though he's asleep.
Tripping over various throw pillows and the footie pajamas I wore yesterday evening, I stumble back into the bed I didn't make this morning and think about how we don't have side tables yet. Ames uses his hamper to rest my red-shaded lamp upon, that perfectly matches the duvet, and I've got nothing more than a folded red box from IKEA. I'd like to read that David Sedaris piece right now, from the 2008 Best American Essays collection called This Old House, which actually reminds me of Samuel Johnson's essay about his own boarding house. It's nice to know famous essayists maybe draw inspiration from other, older, more famous essayists. It gives me a chance. I grab my overturned cell phone from my IKEA box table, since the light of it charging annoys Ames (it really is bright, to his credit), and huddle under that red duvet, pressing various buttons incrementally so that I can read the essay without the light being too bright. This piece is amusing. David Sedaris is amusing. He's nostalgic, like me, but I haven't read the end of the essay yet.
I've been thinking of all the essays I'd like to write, and was suddenly inspired that we might be able to go to England after all if Ames and I find grants to pay for our trip. What kind of grant could I possibly get? What paper could I propose to research in London that would justify my attending the theater program, but not necessarily writing about it directly? I'm flooded with ideas, and I remember that Louise Imogen Guiney essay which details her thoughts as she observed a special collection of Tudor paintings in the late 1890s, most of which are now hanging at the National Portrait Gallery, and I think how I've seen them too, and maybe I could base an essay of my own off of hers? And what other essayists could I write about? Charles Lamb and his crazy, murderess sister, and A. A. Milne, and Addison and Steel, and certainly Samuel Johnson, who all lived there in London, where I could be next summer, writing about the same things that I might write about and discuss why that's important, the unchanging intrigue of sites and sounds, regardless of age.
I'm starting to be very excited about that idea, and others, while I read some David Sedaris, and then Ames turns over to face me in his sleep, his arm tucked under the pillow and his knees brushing my legs as he tucks them under himself, so close to me in our roomy queen-sized bed. He is long and lean and the sheet is draped so artfully over his waist, and I think how a Victorian artist might have captured him with the sheet and the pale light of my cell phone, set to Power Save Mode, highlighting all the right parts of him. His hair is sticking up all over, so we're not so different I guess, and I imagine how his eyes would look if he slowly opened them to smile at me, but he sighs with sleep instead, undisturbed now by the light, and I think he must be the most perfect specimen of a human male.
I watch him for a while and let David Sedaris slump across my chest, enchanted by the beauty and peaceful perfection of the man lying next to me; the man who wants me forever; who kisses my forehead and doesn't ever forget to tell me, "Goodnight, sweetie, I love you;" who has long limbs and long toes and can reach anything in the kitchen that we share because we are married; who married me three weeks ago and who has already grown up so much; who is the kindest, most tender-hearted man I've ever known; who squeezes my hand three times while we watch a play or sit in a room filled with people--
--and I kiss that slim, toned arm and revel in the sweetness and smoothness of his olive skin before I slip out of bed again to think about him without distraction.
24 November 2009
21 November 2009
truths
1. I hate the phrase "...that is."
As in, The way they think, that is. I think it's really pretty obnoxious tacked onto the end of sentences, because it's a clarifier that people think is all clever when they use it typically. A clever clarifier. But it's not clever, it's annoying. To me, that is.
2. I'm pretty excited by having in-laws.
And I'm really pumped to have another brother-in-law in January because he is pretty cool and I've known him for a long time, even if he doesn't ever blog, practically.
3. Urinetown is going to be a freakin funny show.
I don't think I even ever officially mentioned that Ames and I are both cast in Urinetown the Musical at UVU, in spite of the fact that I'm not even a student. Ha! We don't open till January 21 (had to get an early start before Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks), but we've already started run-thrus and it is so, so funny. It's been a relatively delightful rehearsal process so far, too. I'm excited for Ames to have an awesome/gross cop mustache and for me to wear a pregnant suit and jump rope and sing all at the same time. Intrigued now, aren't you?
4. I really need/want a full time job.
There is one that I applied for at UVU that I am trying my very hardest to secure for myself (and Ames, since it'll be great income and I can get free school and benefits) with the theater department at UVU. I feel pretty good about it and have all kinds of fingers crossed and recrossed and crossed again.
5. I can live without facebook...
For various/ridiculous reasons that don't need detailing, we haven't had the internet in our apartment for approximately 9 weeks. Don't get me started about this. But my point is, I haven't been able to spend much time online lately-- as in, today is the first time I've logged into anything since Monday, and I've survived.
6. ...but probably not without Twitter.
I. Love. Twitter. It's silly, but I love it. I love sending tweets, I love receiving tweets (mostly), I love having almost 90 followers (woo woo!). And on that note:
7. You only "get" Twitter once you just dive in and use it.
Get it sent to your phone, guys. You'll get it, I promise.
8. My wedding rings are seriously the most beautiful that ever existed.
I wish I had a better picture to post than the ones I took right after we were engaged. They're so sparkly and lovely and people think it's a whole lot more fancy than it actually is. I think that's part of the reason I love them too, because they're actually really very simple but they're tricksy and just kind of little and unassuming.
9. In-N-Out is just a hamburger place, not Mecca.
In-N-Out just opened locally and the greater Provo-Orem area has gone CRAZY. I was informed that people were waiting in line the length of an entire city block. Are you kidding me? It's a hambuger. I get them for $0.99 at Wendy's or McDonald's or Burger King or IceburgArcticCircleRedRobinBurgerSupremeSonicDairyQueenChadder'sFiveGuys whenever I want. I don't intend on tasting In-N-Out (since I haven't ever) until the craze has settled down enough that I can wait in line for less than ten minutes like a regular person who is not obsessed with beef patties.
10. It is possible that I am, in actuality, one of those Blog Girls who love fall.
I intend to expound on this later, but I think that, while I hate Blog Girls with their awesome blog layouts and awesome music playing and awesome ambiguous profile pictures (usually of their shoes) and cool hair and exclusively lower-case lettering, I might be one a little bit. What if I am? We have a lot of similar traits, in that we love fall and crunchy leaves, wearing scarves and boots, and the way it smells outside. Also snuggling, Christmas approaching, cardigans, and wearing lots of layers. I love all of those things, with passion. I've even blogged about it. And I selectively lower-case letter! But Blog Girls annoy me so hard. How do I reconcile this? To be continued (with bated anticipation, I'm sure).
11. The Twilight series is a dissenting topic to discuss within a marriage.
For real, Ames and I came as close to we ever have come to a legitimate argument (but not really) regarding Team Edward vs. Team Werewolf. There's a tweet-fight about it floating around the internet and various text message inboxes. Do not discuss Twilight if you want to avoid serious (but unserious) contention.
As in, The way they think, that is. I think it's really pretty obnoxious tacked onto the end of sentences, because it's a clarifier that people think is all clever when they use it typically. A clever clarifier. But it's not clever, it's annoying. To me, that is.
2. I'm pretty excited by having in-laws.
And I'm really pumped to have another brother-in-law in January because he is pretty cool and I've known him for a long time, even if he doesn't ever blog, practically.
3. Urinetown is going to be a freakin funny show.
I don't think I even ever officially mentioned that Ames and I are both cast in Urinetown the Musical at UVU, in spite of the fact that I'm not even a student. Ha! We don't open till January 21 (had to get an early start before Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks), but we've already started run-thrus and it is so, so funny. It's been a relatively delightful rehearsal process so far, too. I'm excited for Ames to have an awesome/gross cop mustache and for me to wear a pregnant suit and jump rope and sing all at the same time. Intrigued now, aren't you?
4. I really need/want a full time job.
There is one that I applied for at UVU that I am trying my very hardest to secure for myself (and Ames, since it'll be great income and I can get free school and benefits) with the theater department at UVU. I feel pretty good about it and have all kinds of fingers crossed and recrossed and crossed again.
5. I can live without facebook...
For various/ridiculous reasons that don't need detailing, we haven't had the internet in our apartment for approximately 9 weeks. Don't get me started about this. But my point is, I haven't been able to spend much time online lately-- as in, today is the first time I've logged into anything since Monday, and I've survived.
6. ...but probably not without Twitter.
I. Love. Twitter. It's silly, but I love it. I love sending tweets, I love receiving tweets (mostly), I love having almost 90 followers (woo woo!). And on that note:
7. You only "get" Twitter once you just dive in and use it.
Get it sent to your phone, guys. You'll get it, I promise.
8. My wedding rings are seriously the most beautiful that ever existed.
I wish I had a better picture to post than the ones I took right after we were engaged. They're so sparkly and lovely and people think it's a whole lot more fancy than it actually is. I think that's part of the reason I love them too, because they're actually really very simple but they're tricksy and just kind of little and unassuming.
9. In-N-Out is just a hamburger place, not Mecca.
In-N-Out just opened locally and the greater Provo-Orem area has gone CRAZY. I was informed that people were waiting in line the length of an entire city block. Are you kidding me? It's a hambuger. I get them for $0.99 at Wendy's or McDonald's or Burger King or IceburgArcticCircleRedRobinBurgerSupremeSonicDairyQueenChadder'sFiveGuys whenever I want. I don't intend on tasting In-N-Out (since I haven't ever) until the craze has settled down enough that I can wait in line for less than ten minutes like a regular person who is not obsessed with beef patties.
10. It is possible that I am, in actuality, one of those Blog Girls who love fall.
I intend to expound on this later, but I think that, while I hate Blog Girls with their awesome blog layouts and awesome music playing and awesome ambiguous profile pictures (usually of their shoes) and cool hair and exclusively lower-case lettering, I might be one a little bit. What if I am? We have a lot of similar traits, in that we love fall and crunchy leaves, wearing scarves and boots, and the way it smells outside. Also snuggling, Christmas approaching, cardigans, and wearing lots of layers. I love all of those things, with passion. I've even blogged about it. And I selectively lower-case letter! But Blog Girls annoy me so hard. How do I reconcile this? To be continued (with bated anticipation, I'm sure).
11. The Twilight series is a dissenting topic to discuss within a marriage.
For real, Ames and I came as close to we ever have come to a legitimate argument (but not really) regarding Team Edward vs. Team Werewolf. There's a tweet-fight about it floating around the internet and various text message inboxes. Do not discuss Twilight if you want to avoid serious (but unserious) contention.
16 November 2009
things on my mind
you know. just what i'm thinking about.
twilight woods
(not because of the new moon release this week, though i mean...)
christmas/christmas trees/christmas decor/christmas
(i want my house to smell like a pine tree)
cherry chapstick
(retro goodness)
this dog
(to be named mops)
urinetown the musical
(only i don't get the eye patch. pregnant suit, though.)
twilight woods(not because of the new moon release this week, though i mean...)
delicious macaroni and cheese
(even easy mac will do)
(even easy mac will do)
christmas/christmas trees/christmas decor/christmas(i want my house to smell like a pine tree)
cherry chapstick(retro goodness)
this dog(to be named mops)
thanksgiving dinner
(comes before christmas, but what can you do?)
losing weight
(sans bellybutton ring)
this play
(opening at hcto in may 2010)
the rocket summer
(not coming to ut on tour right now, but just released a new ep)
this haircut
(sans lip ring)
♥ ames ♥
(also the golden horseshoe, where this was taken)
(comes before christmas, but what can you do?)
losing weight(sans bellybutton ring)
this play(opening at hcto in may 2010)
the rocket summer(not coming to ut on tour right now, but just released a new ep)
this haircut(sans lip ring)
(also the golden horseshoe, where this was taken)
07 November 2009
dear person i knew once,
I was planning on kind of telling you off, insisting that you aren't worth my time anyway and I don't care that you have so unceremoniously ended our friendship of seven years without any actual notification and have a nice life thank you the most very much. I think you'd just gain some satisfaction from that, since it would be pretty obvious that I do care about our apparently ended friendship, enough to write a public letter-blog even.
Instead, I very earnestly want you to know, you are worth my time-- or at least, you have been worth my time when you were nice and squishy and my friend and filled with endless "Who loves you, baby?"s. You were worth my time when you sent me flowers to congratulate me for a performance you had to miss. You were worth my time when I was sad and feeling hopeless about all those boys who really weren't worth my time, just like you said, and I wrote your name in my scriptures next to a verse you suggested to me. You were worth my time when you read my blog and told me I was good, and all those times when you said I was unappreciated as an actress. You were worth my time when you read my friend's blog and then decided you loved her and I went with you to buy her jewelry. You were worth my time that night you texted and told me to be with her, even though I knew you were miserable too, and I wanted you to know that. Genuinely.
We were friends for seven years after a misunderstanding was smoothed over, and I asked you to that dance because I really did want to go with you. I promise. We ate ice cream and watched lots of movies at your parents' house. You called my parents by their first names, which is typical of you, but it made me feel happy anyway. You were sad when my dog died. She liked you, you know. You wrote a movie once, in about 800 drafts, and I was going to be in it since you said the character was based on me, even though the character was called Kelly. I went to all those concerts in your backyard and our friend's backyard, and we talked online very late at night. We talked about critical theories sometimes. You're smart, and you know it, and I'm smart too. It was nice to feel smart together, even when I suspected that you might feel smarter than me (which isn't a truth-- you're just different smart. I hope you accept that).
I do want you to have a nice life. I want you to be happy, and I know you can be. Maybe you are happy. You keep writing as if you are, though I've noticed you've been sick lately from status updates and things. I have kept track of you, even though you don't really want anything to do with me, I think. My updates are still public if you ever want to check, since you won't see anything automatically now.
I know you think I had adverse opinions about you that I'd never say. For what it's worth, I didn't. Still don't, really, except for when you say mean things about people I love-- including yourself. I like that you are who you are, without apology, almost to a fault. You think, and study, and make decisions, and stand up for yourself and other people. I'm not even mad that you put opinions in my head and words in my mouth. I'm mostly just sad about it. I thought you knew me better than that, to know that I wouldn't think or say those things about you. Maybe we grew apart more than I thought.
I know you've thought some adverse things about me and mine, too. It doesn't matter how I know. I know sometimes you say mean things about people behind their backs. We all do. I've known for a while that you probably say mean and untrue things about me. It's okay. I don't know why you think those things. I'm happy. My people make me happy. My marriage makes me happy. Whether or not you understand or think I'm wrong or misinformed or blinded, I'd hope you'd be happy for me, being happy. I'd hope you'd trust my decisions and my choices and my husband. I try very hard to trust you and yours (sans husband-- though if you had one, I'd try to trust that too).
I guess I'm not really sure why we have to end. I kind of knew it would happen. I don't resent it. But I did know, all the way back in March to some extent. And while I know our end has mostly to do with my best friend, I guess we probably would have ended anyway. We're different people than we were seven years ago, though I never thought our differences were exactly irreconcilable. I kind of always thought you'd be you and I'd be me, and we'd bounce along together with a sort of mutual understanding and respect for the person we've cared for such a long time. I know you think I take her "side" with everything, but I don't. I'm not sure there's a "side" to be had. I talk to her a lot. I'm with her a lot. I know how she feels about you and about things, but I also know how I feel about you. I didn't really think my friendship with another person would permanently get in the way of us. It hasn't in the past, though I know how you feel about many of my other long-time friends.
It might go to your head, this letter-blog, but as much as I love you, you need to know I'm not going to fall at your feet. I'm not going to leave a zillion comments on your blog or text you eighty times, only so you can tell someone else how needy and annoying I am. I have people who want me. I can turn to them. But I'll gladly turn to you again, when you want me, when our history means something to you, when I'm not so easily forgotten by merely removing me from your blog roll and friend's list and probably from your phone, too.
Maybe it's sentimental. And maybe it's inappropriate to declare publicly. And maybe you won't even read this, or maybe you will and you'll resent it. Or maybe you'll read it and all those things about us being friends will remind you that de-friending a person is a very sad and symbolically final sort of thing. One little click has made a clear impression on me, because you made an impression on me. You continue to make an impression on me, or I wouldn't even be writing this.
You're money, baby. You're so money, and you don't even know it.
Love,
Emily
Instead, I very earnestly want you to know, you are worth my time-- or at least, you have been worth my time when you were nice and squishy and my friend and filled with endless "Who loves you, baby?"s. You were worth my time when you sent me flowers to congratulate me for a performance you had to miss. You were worth my time when I was sad and feeling hopeless about all those boys who really weren't worth my time, just like you said, and I wrote your name in my scriptures next to a verse you suggested to me. You were worth my time when you read my blog and told me I was good, and all those times when you said I was unappreciated as an actress. You were worth my time when you read my friend's blog and then decided you loved her and I went with you to buy her jewelry. You were worth my time that night you texted and told me to be with her, even though I knew you were miserable too, and I wanted you to know that. Genuinely.
We were friends for seven years after a misunderstanding was smoothed over, and I asked you to that dance because I really did want to go with you. I promise. We ate ice cream and watched lots of movies at your parents' house. You called my parents by their first names, which is typical of you, but it made me feel happy anyway. You were sad when my dog died. She liked you, you know. You wrote a movie once, in about 800 drafts, and I was going to be in it since you said the character was based on me, even though the character was called Kelly. I went to all those concerts in your backyard and our friend's backyard, and we talked online very late at night. We talked about critical theories sometimes. You're smart, and you know it, and I'm smart too. It was nice to feel smart together, even when I suspected that you might feel smarter than me (which isn't a truth-- you're just different smart. I hope you accept that).
I do want you to have a nice life. I want you to be happy, and I know you can be. Maybe you are happy. You keep writing as if you are, though I've noticed you've been sick lately from status updates and things. I have kept track of you, even though you don't really want anything to do with me, I think. My updates are still public if you ever want to check, since you won't see anything automatically now.
I know you think I had adverse opinions about you that I'd never say. For what it's worth, I didn't. Still don't, really, except for when you say mean things about people I love-- including yourself. I like that you are who you are, without apology, almost to a fault. You think, and study, and make decisions, and stand up for yourself and other people. I'm not even mad that you put opinions in my head and words in my mouth. I'm mostly just sad about it. I thought you knew me better than that, to know that I wouldn't think or say those things about you. Maybe we grew apart more than I thought.
I know you've thought some adverse things about me and mine, too. It doesn't matter how I know. I know sometimes you say mean things about people behind their backs. We all do. I've known for a while that you probably say mean and untrue things about me. It's okay. I don't know why you think those things. I'm happy. My people make me happy. My marriage makes me happy. Whether or not you understand or think I'm wrong or misinformed or blinded, I'd hope you'd be happy for me, being happy. I'd hope you'd trust my decisions and my choices and my husband. I try very hard to trust you and yours (sans husband-- though if you had one, I'd try to trust that too).
I guess I'm not really sure why we have to end. I kind of knew it would happen. I don't resent it. But I did know, all the way back in March to some extent. And while I know our end has mostly to do with my best friend, I guess we probably would have ended anyway. We're different people than we were seven years ago, though I never thought our differences were exactly irreconcilable. I kind of always thought you'd be you and I'd be me, and we'd bounce along together with a sort of mutual understanding and respect for the person we've cared for such a long time. I know you think I take her "side" with everything, but I don't. I'm not sure there's a "side" to be had. I talk to her a lot. I'm with her a lot. I know how she feels about you and about things, but I also know how I feel about you. I didn't really think my friendship with another person would permanently get in the way of us. It hasn't in the past, though I know how you feel about many of my other long-time friends.
It might go to your head, this letter-blog, but as much as I love you, you need to know I'm not going to fall at your feet. I'm not going to leave a zillion comments on your blog or text you eighty times, only so you can tell someone else how needy and annoying I am. I have people who want me. I can turn to them. But I'll gladly turn to you again, when you want me, when our history means something to you, when I'm not so easily forgotten by merely removing me from your blog roll and friend's list and probably from your phone, too.
Maybe it's sentimental. And maybe it's inappropriate to declare publicly. And maybe you won't even read this, or maybe you will and you'll resent it. Or maybe you'll read it and all those things about us being friends will remind you that de-friending a person is a very sad and symbolically final sort of thing. One little click has made a clear impression on me, because you made an impression on me. You continue to make an impression on me, or I wouldn't even be writing this.
You're money, baby. You're so money, and you don't even know it.
Love,
Emily
31 October 2009
thoughts on having blonde hair
So I've decided I should never be a blonde.
I mean, I've got no problem dying my hair. At the moment it's a faded sort of burgundy that needs to be unfaded, in fact, so I guess it's lucky that I'm all intent on dying it all pretty and artificially burgundy again. With highlights.
At the moment, in the spirit of Halloween, I'm wearing a little blonde bobbed wig as I sit in the Box Office of Hale Center Theater Orem, dressed as a 1920's stenog. How thoroughly modern of me. I've got a cute little blue dress with cute little red heels and cute seamed stockings and a cute red hat, and this hair which is, on anyone else, a cute little blonde wig, but I look at myself and hear all kinds of sirens blaring, BAD IDEA! BAD IDEA!
Once upon a time, I wore a blonde wig all summer and was more or less convincing:
Clearly I'm thrilled about it, yeah? Actually, to be true, that wig was pretty good, and I was only partly self-conscious about my brown hair poking out around my ears. The ringlets were another story:
Note the suspicion in my eye. I felt like a Marie Osmond doll, where they all kind of look like her. You know what I mean? But for real, Marie Osmond dolls that look like Amy fully exist. Behold, little Adora My Dolly:
It's freakin' Marie Osmond (or me, since we have matching enormous brown eyes and naturally dark hair aren't I cool I'm like a celebrity hair toss imaginary cigarette tap) as Amy March.
But okay, okay, duh-- that was a stylized thing, and in truth, ringlets only look good on tiny children and Wendy Darling. They look especially CA-RAH-ZEE on Irish dancers, particularly small ones, am I right?:
But the point is that I had to be blonde in that play. I couldn't not be blonde, regardless with how comfortable I was. I think the thing that bothered-- and is currently bothering-- me most is how dark my eyebrows look(ed) against the hair. And I am sooooooooo not confident enough to pull a Scarlett Johansson:
She's not my favorite to start, and call me crazy, but I just feel like this is a BAD IDEA! BAD IDEA! in spite of her pretty eye makeup and perfect teeth.
I bet if I had pretty eye makeup (and perhaps perfect teeth) at the moment, I'd feel less awkward about my light hair and dark eyebrows at the moment. Unfortunately, the wig was a last-minute decisions, and I didn't even put on any extra makeup for this costume except a swipe of red lipstick. So yeah, I'm pretty awesome-- mascara from yesterday, no fixes to the complexion, and red kiss-proof lipstick to go with light blonde hair. BAD IDEA!
I've done those virtual make-over things where you upload a picture of yourself and then the website puts outdated/ugly hairstyles on your crappy, pixelated head, and I've tried various colors. Turns out purple is a pretty good look for my coloring.
Why didn't I even grab a purple wig from the wig shop this morning, instead of a blonde one?
I mean, I've got no problem dying my hair. At the moment it's a faded sort of burgundy that needs to be unfaded, in fact, so I guess it's lucky that I'm all intent on dying it all pretty and artificially burgundy again. With highlights.
At the moment, in the spirit of Halloween, I'm wearing a little blonde bobbed wig as I sit in the Box Office of Hale Center Theater Orem, dressed as a 1920's stenog. How thoroughly modern of me. I've got a cute little blue dress with cute little red heels and cute seamed stockings and a cute red hat, and this hair which is, on anyone else, a cute little blonde wig, but I look at myself and hear all kinds of sirens blaring, BAD IDEA! BAD IDEA!
Once upon a time, I wore a blonde wig all summer and was more or less convincing:
Clearly I'm thrilled about it, yeah? Actually, to be true, that wig was pretty good, and I was only partly self-conscious about my brown hair poking out around my ears. The ringlets were another story:
Note the suspicion in my eye. I felt like a Marie Osmond doll, where they all kind of look like her. You know what I mean? But for real, Marie Osmond dolls that look like Amy fully exist. Behold, little Adora My Dolly:
It's freakin' Marie Osmond (or me, since we have matching enormous brown eyes and naturally dark hair aren't I cool I'm like a celebrity hair toss imaginary cigarette tap) as Amy March.But okay, okay, duh-- that was a stylized thing, and in truth, ringlets only look good on tiny children and Wendy Darling. They look especially CA-RAH-ZEE on Irish dancers, particularly small ones, am I right?:
But the point is that I had to be blonde in that play. I couldn't not be blonde, regardless with how comfortable I was. I think the thing that bothered-- and is currently bothering-- me most is how dark my eyebrows look(ed) against the hair. And I am sooooooooo not confident enough to pull a Scarlett Johansson:She's not my favorite to start, and call me crazy, but I just feel like this is a BAD IDEA! BAD IDEA! in spite of her pretty eye makeup and perfect teeth.I bet if I had pretty eye makeup (and perhaps perfect teeth) at the moment, I'd feel less awkward about my light hair and dark eyebrows at the moment. Unfortunately, the wig was a last-minute decisions, and I didn't even put on any extra makeup for this costume except a swipe of red lipstick. So yeah, I'm pretty awesome-- mascara from yesterday, no fixes to the complexion, and red kiss-proof lipstick to go with light blonde hair. BAD IDEA!
I've done those virtual make-over things where you upload a picture of yourself and then the website puts outdated/ugly hairstyles on your crappy, pixelated head, and I've tried various colors. Turns out purple is a pretty good look for my coloring.
Why didn't I even grab a purple wig from the wig shop this morning, instead of a blonde one?
03 October 2009
book people
I went to the library the other day. I went to the library because I live only two blocks from the library and I wanted to get a library card. I like libraries very much. I worked in one once. I like to read the books that are in the library, and sometimes use the computers because even though they're public access and slow and grandpa dinosaur computers, there's something more smart-- or at least more calm-- about a library computer than my teensy laptop which is so trendy and small and can fit in my purse, practically.
So I walked to the library in my favorite black cardigan that has the stitching on the outside instead of the inside, and my purple shoes from Target, and I was reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn as I walked because it helps to pass the time. I like tripping across the cracks and the weeds in the sidewalk because I'm reading a book and not watching my feet. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn has been called one of the Best Books of the Century, and it was given to me for my 23rd birthday from one of the Best People of the Century-- one julieannaface-- and it was pretty fitting for me to have that book with me, since I had three-- literally three-- people in those two blocks comment on that book.
"Oh, what a good book!" one woman remarked as she sat in her van in front of a stranger's house, windows rolled down, so suddenly that I jumped out of my cardigan almost and all I could do was laugh uncomfortably and reply with a shaky, "Yeeahahahaaaaah."
A kid with a backpack on a bike whizzed by, but not without telling me, "That is one of my favorite books!" I thought that was pretty neat because he's a man, but the swollen backpack hinted it might be filled with books, which made me assume he's either just one of Those People who have read and know everything, or he's a Book Person-- a Book Person like me.
I am a Book Person, I'll have you know. My degree doesn't automatically grant a person the title. I know a startling number of English majors who aren't, in fact, Book People. Maybe they're Writing People or Research People, or sometimes they're just I Don't Want To Be An Elementary Ed Major People, and I guess that's fine because at least they're honest. I'm a Book Person, and so was that kid on the bike. We're those who smell the insides of books at the store, or in the library, because there is something so familiar and comforting about the smell of books, new or old. We're those who probably haven't read all the latest Best Sellers, though we have read some, because we like to read the classics, the Best Books of the Century. We like to sit in libraries just because. Maybe we even carry our own books to the library, even though we intend to read other books once we get there, because we just love books books books. Am I right?
For better or worse, there is a breed of Book People that surpasses all-- the Librarian. I revere librarians and their Book Personedness. When I bounced into the library and up to the front desk to get a new card, I had half a mind to play Francie Nolan-- you know, being inspired by trees growing in Brooklyn-- and ask the librarian, "Do you know any good books for 23-year old girls?" I didn't, though. I didn't need to. Because I am a Book Person, and I Get It.
The librarian, looking every inch her part with perfectly smoothed hair and a forest green turtle neck and her gold-rimmed glasses connected to a chain so they could hang around her neck, eyed me with my messy ponytail and skinny jeans and tiny purple purse (which maybe I'm not even cool enough to carry), and asked how she could help me. I suddenly lost all my nerve. It turns out, I am unnerved by Supreme Book People. I stood there like a jumbly mess, thumbing the corner of my book and rolling back and forth on the side of one foot. "I'd like a library card, please," I did manage to stammer and felt my cheeks start to burn for an unknown, and very discouraging, reason.
I suddenly reached out and rested A Tree Grows in Brooklyn on the counter so she would somehow know of our kindredship and she wouldn't look at me That Way. She nodded at it, but didn't comment, and said, "I think we can do that for you. Do you live in Orem?" By my uneasiness, I'm quite sure she figured I might be 17-years old, 18 at best, and probably still lived with my mommy and daddy. After the fact, I guess I could have drummed my married-fingered left hand across the cover of my book, but maybe that would have been trying just too hard. I nodded that I did, somehow unable to form any kind of words in my mouth, and growing more and more annoyed that I couldn't stand before her with poise and an air of don't mind me, I come here all the time. "Do you have a driver's license or picture ID with you?" she asked, the brooch on her sweater mocking me. I nodded again and started to fumble with my purse to get my wallet. Why was this so difficult? "We'll also need a proof of address," she added, and when I paused, dumbfounded, I could swear there was a condescending glint in her eye.
I haven't printed a new driver's license yet, see, with my new name and address, and most of the mail I receive still has my maiden name. "I... I... I don't have anything like that with me," I admitted quietly, screaming in the back of my mind, "NO! NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! I GET THIS PLACE! I BELONG HERE! I'M ONE OF YOU! A BOOK PERSON, LIKE ONE OF YOU!!!!" while she shrugged politely sort of and oozed a strange kind of pity and judgement. "You'll need to bring those before we can issue you a library card," she informed me. I nodded and backed away slowly, hoping the bottom of my pants wouldn't catch on the carpet and send me tumbling to the floor, since that definitely would be the most graceful way to bow out of this situation.
I crawled away to the Adult Non-Fiction section, feeling less of a Book Person than I ever have and intending to find some solace in William Hazlitt and Charles Lamb and maybe some A.A. Milne if I could be so lucky. Book of the Century or not, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn couldn't cut it being fiction, and a novel, and therefore out of the general realm of my recent (read: past three years) experience. While pleasant, and inspiring, and beautiful to read, and borderlining on non-fiction, Betty Smith was no match for the personal and intellectual ramblings of Vernon Lee. I breathed a literal sigh of relief when I got to that row with all those beautiful authors and the word "essay" sprinkled throughout most of the titles and wanted to hug the whole shelf so that scary librarian could see because something tells me she probably doesn't even love essays and while she may be the Mother Superior of Book People, there are only a handful of us that are ESSAY BOOK PEOPLE.
I am an Essay Book Person. I love to be an Essay Book Person.
I started pulling collections of essays from the shelf almost at random, really only intent on reading The Essays of Elia which I grabbed specifically and tossed my hair about it because how many people in the world can actually say they even know the title The Essays of Elia and grapple it off the shelf specifically? NOT MANY, YOU SCARY LIBRARIAN BOOK LADY. And I took all those books and plopped into a comfy library chair off in the corner all by itself, with all these books scattered at my feet, and I read that Essays of Elia for an hour before I trekked home to be with Ames, and you know what I did? I put away all those books I didn't even touch right there on the Books for Reshelving shelf-- all except The Essays of Elia because maybe that librarian will find it and smile with satisfaction, happy that someone finally took that book (which she has probably never read, thank you) off that shelf and enjoyed it for a while and enjoyed it enough to leave it for her to find and enjoy herself.
Because I am a Nice, Essay, Book Person, and I hope you will be too.
So I walked to the library in my favorite black cardigan that has the stitching on the outside instead of the inside, and my purple shoes from Target, and I was reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn as I walked because it helps to pass the time. I like tripping across the cracks and the weeds in the sidewalk because I'm reading a book and not watching my feet. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn has been called one of the Best Books of the Century, and it was given to me for my 23rd birthday from one of the Best People of the Century-- one julieannaface-- and it was pretty fitting for me to have that book with me, since I had three-- literally three-- people in those two blocks comment on that book.
"Oh, what a good book!" one woman remarked as she sat in her van in front of a stranger's house, windows rolled down, so suddenly that I jumped out of my cardigan almost and all I could do was laugh uncomfortably and reply with a shaky, "Yeeahahahaaaaah."
A kid with a backpack on a bike whizzed by, but not without telling me, "That is one of my favorite books!" I thought that was pretty neat because he's a man, but the swollen backpack hinted it might be filled with books, which made me assume he's either just one of Those People who have read and know everything, or he's a Book Person-- a Book Person like me.
I am a Book Person, I'll have you know. My degree doesn't automatically grant a person the title. I know a startling number of English majors who aren't, in fact, Book People. Maybe they're Writing People or Research People, or sometimes they're just I Don't Want To Be An Elementary Ed Major People, and I guess that's fine because at least they're honest. I'm a Book Person, and so was that kid on the bike. We're those who smell the insides of books at the store, or in the library, because there is something so familiar and comforting about the smell of books, new or old. We're those who probably haven't read all the latest Best Sellers, though we have read some, because we like to read the classics, the Best Books of the Century. We like to sit in libraries just because. Maybe we even carry our own books to the library, even though we intend to read other books once we get there, because we just love books books books. Am I right?
For better or worse, there is a breed of Book People that surpasses all-- the Librarian. I revere librarians and their Book Personedness. When I bounced into the library and up to the front desk to get a new card, I had half a mind to play Francie Nolan-- you know, being inspired by trees growing in Brooklyn-- and ask the librarian, "Do you know any good books for 23-year old girls?" I didn't, though. I didn't need to. Because I am a Book Person, and I Get It.
The librarian, looking every inch her part with perfectly smoothed hair and a forest green turtle neck and her gold-rimmed glasses connected to a chain so they could hang around her neck, eyed me with my messy ponytail and skinny jeans and tiny purple purse (which maybe I'm not even cool enough to carry), and asked how she could help me. I suddenly lost all my nerve. It turns out, I am unnerved by Supreme Book People. I stood there like a jumbly mess, thumbing the corner of my book and rolling back and forth on the side of one foot. "I'd like a library card, please," I did manage to stammer and felt my cheeks start to burn for an unknown, and very discouraging, reason.
I suddenly reached out and rested A Tree Grows in Brooklyn on the counter so she would somehow know of our kindredship and she wouldn't look at me That Way. She nodded at it, but didn't comment, and said, "I think we can do that for you. Do you live in Orem?" By my uneasiness, I'm quite sure she figured I might be 17-years old, 18 at best, and probably still lived with my mommy and daddy. After the fact, I guess I could have drummed my married-fingered left hand across the cover of my book, but maybe that would have been trying just too hard. I nodded that I did, somehow unable to form any kind of words in my mouth, and growing more and more annoyed that I couldn't stand before her with poise and an air of don't mind me, I come here all the time. "Do you have a driver's license or picture ID with you?" she asked, the brooch on her sweater mocking me. I nodded again and started to fumble with my purse to get my wallet. Why was this so difficult? "We'll also need a proof of address," she added, and when I paused, dumbfounded, I could swear there was a condescending glint in her eye.
I haven't printed a new driver's license yet, see, with my new name and address, and most of the mail I receive still has my maiden name. "I... I... I don't have anything like that with me," I admitted quietly, screaming in the back of my mind, "NO! NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! I GET THIS PLACE! I BELONG HERE! I'M ONE OF YOU! A BOOK PERSON, LIKE ONE OF YOU!!!!" while she shrugged politely sort of and oozed a strange kind of pity and judgement. "You'll need to bring those before we can issue you a library card," she informed me. I nodded and backed away slowly, hoping the bottom of my pants wouldn't catch on the carpet and send me tumbling to the floor, since that definitely would be the most graceful way to bow out of this situation.
I crawled away to the Adult Non-Fiction section, feeling less of a Book Person than I ever have and intending to find some solace in William Hazlitt and Charles Lamb and maybe some A.A. Milne if I could be so lucky. Book of the Century or not, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn couldn't cut it being fiction, and a novel, and therefore out of the general realm of my recent (read: past three years) experience. While pleasant, and inspiring, and beautiful to read, and borderlining on non-fiction, Betty Smith was no match for the personal and intellectual ramblings of Vernon Lee. I breathed a literal sigh of relief when I got to that row with all those beautiful authors and the word "essay" sprinkled throughout most of the titles and wanted to hug the whole shelf so that scary librarian could see because something tells me she probably doesn't even love essays and while she may be the Mother Superior of Book People, there are only a handful of us that are ESSAY BOOK PEOPLE.
I am an Essay Book Person. I love to be an Essay Book Person.
I started pulling collections of essays from the shelf almost at random, really only intent on reading The Essays of Elia which I grabbed specifically and tossed my hair about it because how many people in the world can actually say they even know the title The Essays of Elia and grapple it off the shelf specifically? NOT MANY, YOU SCARY LIBRARIAN BOOK LADY. And I took all those books and plopped into a comfy library chair off in the corner all by itself, with all these books scattered at my feet, and I read that Essays of Elia for an hour before I trekked home to be with Ames, and you know what I did? I put away all those books I didn't even touch right there on the Books for Reshelving shelf-- all except The Essays of Elia because maybe that librarian will find it and smile with satisfaction, happy that someone finally took that book (which she has probably never read, thank you) off that shelf and enjoyed it for a while and enjoyed it enough to leave it for her to find and enjoy herself.
Because I am a Nice, Essay, Book Person, and I hope you will be too.
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