Letters From My 5th Grade Journal

Hello my long neglected friends!

I'm so excited to be back on the blog. Way back when I last posted I mentioned the craziness of the upcoming summer season here, but I had every intention of at least posting occasionally during that time. Silly, silly Past Kelly and her outlandish goals.

But it's fall now, and as I've mentioned in the past, winter is my favorite time for writing and revising, which makes it very convenient that fall is when I feel my most creative. All my best researching and outlining gets done as the weather gets gloomier. My guess is that its all the season's ghosts clamoring to have their stories told...or something like that. Regardless, the old brain's a-percolating, which is always exciting.

Recently, during one of my customary where-did-I-put-that-thing-I-suddenly-can't-live-without searches, I came across my old fifth grade journal. I gave it a quick once over and decided that in this chilly weather/warm brain season, what better way to start my writing sessions than with a quick trip back to the early days....

Things learned: As the story goes on characters shouldn't always love the same things they loved in the beginning. Life happens. Things lose their shine. However, characters shouldn't turn their back on all their original interests. Some loves are forever.

Case in point: I no longer have an affection, or even patience, for soccer. The Best Friend Formerly Known As Roomie can attest to this. Hocus Pocus, on the other hand, still rocks.

The Five Superheroes of Grief

I’ve been layering on sweaters for the past week to guard against the chill. That’s right, the chill. Because apparently being within two and a half weeks of the first day of summer isn’t enough to get Mother Nature to stop giving Maine the cold shoulder. My only recourse is therefore to focus on large-scale summery thoughts.

And what’s more large scale and summery than superheroes?

Who, let’s face it, are half-assing their jobs. For all their strengths these super-individuals seem to lack a certain amount of staying power. Sure, they show up and save the day (and scores of lives) time and time again. Don’t get me wrong, that’s great, but what is the quality of these rescued lives?

Undoubtedly, everyone’s feeling pretty elated about the whole being alive thing at first, but what happens when that survivor’s glow wears off? Everyone has to deal with the fact that their entire concept of reality has just been blown to crap. Where, might we ask, are the superheroes then? Maybe they’ve flown the coop for a romantic getaway with that special someone or really had to book it back to school for their U.S. History midterm. Perhaps they’re just settling down for a well-deserved post-averting-the-apocalypse snack.

It doesn’t really matter because the result is always the same – the mere mortals are left to Kubler-Ross it up themselves and put their lives back together piece by piece. Which is particularly unfair when you consider that these five are so equipped to help humanity deal with the various stages of grief:

Denial – Hindsight

In the wake of total and utter destruction, sometimes it’s nice to pretend that none of it ever happened. Everything’s still fine. And who better to help with that than an individual whose claim to fame is his ability to accurately analyze how events could have ended if different choices were made? Carlton LaFroyge can listen for hours while humanity goes on and on about how things are still totally the way they were – no big. And each time he’ll just sagely nod and say, “They could have been.” The main reason Mr. LaFroyge will probably be willing to tackle this somewhat thankless job is for his own safety. I can’t imagine that there is anyone the other superheroes want to punch more in the face than this guy while he’s Monday-morning-quarterbacking their most recent supervillain defeats. Additional bonus, the fact that this gentleman is so intensely punchable will eventually catapult humans to the next stage of their grieving.

Anger – Hulk

There are a lot of angry superheroes. I’m pretty sure that all job listings for the career path state, “Qualified candidates must have a constant, barely contained fury simmering just close enough to the surface that it ruins any personal relationship they endeavor upon.” However, it would be foolish of me to pretend that there is a better face for Terrifyingly Overpowering Rage than Dr. Bruce Banner’s alter ego, the Savage Hulk. Childlike and temperamental, this hero is an expert in the navigating the physical manifestations of anger, aka breaking things. Thankfully, because Dr. Banner is a self-sacrificing sort of person he’ll probably be willing to help us humans smash out our issues and because he’s a genius, he’ll probably take us in controllable groups to a place where we’re less likely to do more damage than necessary to our established infrastructure. Now, odds are pretty good that the whole of humanity will tire before the Hulk does. So, when all the anger has been forced out of you, leaving nothing but an exhausted husk, it’s time to advance to the next stage. But, let’s keep it in the family, shall we?

Bargaining – She-Hulk

When everyone gets to the bargaining stage, Jennifer Walters is who we want in our corner. Generally, a little bit more chill than her cousin, Ms. Walters is a skilled and versatile attorney. She’s represented the whole spectrum of clients – victims of crime, criminals, corporations, superheroes and supervillains. And, she’s won. A lot. Not all that surprising, when you consider her talent for seeing various perspectives – even within herself. After all Ms. Walters and She-Hulk don’t always agree on the issues and they’re the same person. This is a lady truly gifted at the art of debate. Ready to try regaining normalcy through negotiation? Call her immediately. But if you’re feeling more like getting into bed and pulling the blankets over your head for awhile, maybe it’s time to move on.

Depression – Yellowjacket

Sad Henry Pym is sad. Crime fighting just doesn’t hold the same allure it once did. He hasn’t made a big scientific discovery since those Pym particles. Even worse, his failures seem highlighted by the successes of all those around him and it’s throwing him off his game, not to mention making for a fairly miserable home life. Which kind of explains why he jumped the gun and screwed up Captain America’s plan to calm down the Elfqueen, leading to his subsequent court-martial. Spoiler alert: Things for Dr. Pym are going to get worse before they get better, making him the perfect choice for the public when they reach the stage of melancholy and despair. This guy is an expert in those feelings. Just a little tip for humanity – when Pym starts talking about how much greater the world would be if we could all just build a giant robot to attack our friends, you might want to think about scheduling a meeting with our final hero.

Acceptance – Oracle

Barbara Gordon kicked quite a bit of ass as Batgirl. Then the Joker shot and paralyzed her, ending her crime-fighting career. So, what did she do? Built a new freaking crime fighting career – continuing to help Batman, joining up with the Suicide Squad, forming the Birds of Prey, and serving as a member of a little group of well intentioned souls called the Justice League of America. Because when the going gets tough, the tough like to work with Barbara Gordon. Why? She keeps her shit together. Babs doesn’t pretend things are great – whenever her world is totaled, she acknowledges the astronomical level of suck and then keeps on moving forward. Who better, then, to help the general populace reach that final step of accepting that their old lives are over and it’s time to rebuild? Think of how full of purpose they’ll be. 

Right up until the next villain causes countless casualties and trillions upon trillions of dollars in property damage and everyone needs to start this whole damn process all over again.  

True Love Never Dies...Or Something About The Force Being With Me

When I was a kid, my ideal day would have been pitching a blanket fort in front of the TV, watching a nonstop movie marathon and dumping my giant bin of Legos on the floor and building to my heart's content.

To be honest, that would still be a pretty ideal day for Adult-Kelly. The only difference is, I'd probably do all of this in jeans and t-shirt. Back in the day, I was a little bit fancier - or at least had more time to do movie-binge-preparations. So, rather than going with a run of the mill outfit, I would dress up in the manner of the characters I was watching.

It didn't matter what genre of movie. I dressed up like Zorro. I dressed up like a Mighty Duck. I dressed up like Eliza Doolittle.

There's a reason I work at a theater and spend my free time creating fictional words and people.

But while all of my beloved childhood films still hold a special place in my heart, there has never been any that has rivaled my affection for the original Star Wars trilogy. My parents took me to see the re-release in 1997. I was eleven years old and within minutes of the credits I had given my heart over completely.

I went home, searched through dozens of VHS tapes until I found ones on which my family had recorded the movies when they'd been on TV. I couldn't wait for Empire and Jedi on the big screen - though I would of course see them there - I had to watch them immediately. Even if it meant spending hours fast forwarding tapes until I could find them.

I read every Extended Universe novel I could get my hands on. My parents started assuming that any time I said their name it was going to end in a request to be taken to the closest book store or Blockbuster. I skipped school when Episode I came out a couple years later.

Over time there were things in books and/or films that took the story in directions that I wasn't a huge fan of, but not even that could shake my love for these stories.

Today the trailer for the newest installment has been released and I can already feel myself getting lost in the wonderful quicksand of repeat viewings.

Now, I can't say from this teaser what this movie will bring. If it will be everything that I want it to be. But I do know that when I watch it, I feel like that little girl who watched Empire on loop for a full sunny August day, despite her father's requests that she at least take a fifteen minute break for some fresh air. Whose mother came home after work to find her standing in the living dressed in her best Leia on Hoth costume, because that was the natural choice when watching Empire. Who thought it was necessary to memorize the serial number on the Millennium Falcon's main engine block....you know, because. Who felt like everything was magic when she heard the first few chords of the well-known score. Who decided a notebook like this was necessary.

The little girl who dreamt of being a princess who kicked ass.

And that just gives me one more reason to be excited about next Christmas.

My mother was surprised to come home
to this, but not so surprised she didn't
grab a camera. 

And maybe to practice my hair braiding....just in case.

Working Titles

I knew when I opened up the the moving truck and saw the solid wall of things inside - this was going to be a marathon, not a sprint. And so the unpacking continues!

My new place is definitely starting to look like a home instead of the box fort of a deranged lunatic, but I've some distance to go before every evening isn't spent building my severely lacking upper body strength lugging boxes from one room to another.

One thing I can say for myself, I'm a very specific label-er. When I start clawing past the packing tape, I know exactly what I will find there.

The labels can not, however, tell me why I packed my 
Polaroid camera in a different box from the film. 
But, hey, at least I know where my '80s jacket is. 

Looking at all the labels, I started wondering what my possessions say about me, which lead to other existential quandaries revolving around the art of unpacking. My thoughts all solidified in book titles (naturally) and now, at the very least, I have the title of my future memoir.

• "Pillows & Books:" The Rests and Ruminations of Kelly Johnson 

Too many boxes were labelled this way for me not to take the hint. And then, of course, there was the expression I kept seeing on the faces of all the lovely friends and family hauling my things out of the moving truck.

• Fill the Box Entirely With Books; and Other Ways to Get Rid of Those Well-Meaning Loved Ones

Why, Past Kelly, why?

I've taken to just issuing blanket apologies before anyone starts to move anything, despite the wary looks that puts in everyone's eyes.

Once, I started actually getting things out of their cardboard prisons, things really got fun. Going through all the things I've stored for the last two years is like a mix of Christmas and some weird kid's time capsule. Some things I'm so excited to find again, others I'm truly puzzled as to why I ever thought they were worth saving. I'm looking at you 95% empty jar of lotion.

• Home Stylings for the Nerd Chic

That tome will definitely include the best placement for one's Death Star cookie jar and how to incorporate one's troll dolls in with one's living room decor to form a cohesive decorative theme. Or something along those lines. Furniture construction has also been a fertile ground for future book ideas.

• They Found Me Crushed: Improperly Fastened Book Shelves and Other Real Physical Threats to Your Average Avid Book Collector

I'm not saying that I've ever been the victim of shelving upheaval. I'm also not not saying it. Make of that what you will.

And finally, there is the piece that I must get back to working on right this second:

• Never Ending: One Woman's Story of Unpacking

I already know how that one turns out. Spoiler alert: She never finishes unpacking, just gets sucked into a labyrinth of boxes.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it looks like there might be a Minotaur coming around that corner.

Where the hell did I pack that sword?

Christmas Cheats

As my mania is well documented here on the blog, it's not very surprising that I'm already biting at the bit for Christmas movies. I try to keep myself on a strict schedule - no holiday movies or music until Thanksgiving. I do this more for other people than myself...well, it's a little bit for myself, seeing as I'd like to keep my friends.

But once Santa comes riding down the street in the Thanksgiving Day Parade, all bets are off. 

I'm generally able to hold off until the aforementioned acceptable start time, but sometimes the insanity stirs early. Especially when I'm in the process of planning the RAINN Down Hope fundraiser. I don't know that anything puts me in the right frame of mind for the holidays as quickly or completely as dealing with all the generous and kind people involved in the dinner - whether they attendees, donors or supporters. 

Seriously, every email, text or tweet I get makes my heart grow three sizes. At this point, it's about 89,613 times larger than it should be, but them's the breaks. The real issue is that now I want to watch a Christmas movie. 

As there's only a week left until I can do and feel no guilt for rushing the season, I'm going to be breaking in to my cheat movies:

1. The Shop Around the Corner

2. When Harry Met Sally

3. While You Were Sleeping

4. Michael

5. You've Got Mail

All movies with Christmas scenes and themes, that give me the fix I need without actually being Christmas movies. 

Another great outlet for my crazy?

Making up this year's Christmas movie calendar! (I exercised great restraint in putting only one exclamation point there. You're welcome.)

Let me know if you'll be "joining" me for any of the movies. We can tweet-chat during. 

Now, all that's left is the countdown until next Thursday when I officially start to see the world through my Christmas eyes. Spoiler alert: they turn you all into claymation. It's awesome. 

Dark Corners & Creepy Dolls

We have officially entered the month of All Hallow's Eve. So, naturally, I'm thinking about scary things. Okay, not really scary things. Not like that doll from Annabelle. Seriously, come on folks. Maybe, if you absolutely must buy dolls, give yourself a fighting chance and at least stop buying the ones that already look demonic. Even if it turns out that they don't want to kill you (unlikely), there's no way that any child looking at one of those things from their crib everyday isn't going to grow up a bit traumatized. I'm feeling a little traumatized just thinking about it. 

No, no, no. I said I'm not thinking about scary dolls. NOT. Just like I'm not thinking spider. Evil, creepy, crawly harbingers of doom who want to crawl all over me whilst I slumber, nesting in my hair and - No! Stop it, brain! We are thinking about non-scary scary things. NON-SCARY SCARY. I have to sleep again someday, you jerk. 

You know, like the little sis. 

When we were kids, my sister loved little more than lying in wait and then jumping out and scaring the crap out of me. She appeared from behind doors, down dark hallways, once from a kitchen cabinet that I had foolishly believed to be filled only with pots and pans. 

There were always two things I could be sure of:

1. If there was a chance for my sister to make scream, she would take it. 

2. Before that scream had even finished, she would be insisting that I promise that I was never going to try to get her back. 

And I always did make that promise, partly because I just wanted her to stop saying it so I could focus on pushing my heart down out of my throat and partly because I knew in my heart of hearts that I had already scared her enough for a lifetime - HOWEVER INADVERTENTLY - and that I had to be a kind older sister. So, that's what I was. 

Mostly. 

You see, my parents got us My Twin dolls for Christmas one year. We loved them, but over the years my sister grew to be a bit creeped out by this toy with her face. She used to put it away in the closet on a regular basis. I can neither confirm nor deny if I was the reason this had to be done more than once. Nor will I admit to placing it on her bed, with the head tilted toward the door so the little sister doll would be staring at my little sister human when she came in. No, sir. I won't admit to anything of the sort. 

Look at that - I ended up thinking of scary dolls after all. And yet I'm smiling. 

Possibly in a maniacal fashion. But who can really say?

Dispensing Good (but Mostly Non) Fortune

I had a lovely evening recently of researching fortune tellers and eating Chinese food. Once I had fully consumed my fortune cookie (as I was told I must), I was again struck by how much the "fortunes" aren't fortunes. 

1. Order. 2. Order. 3. Observation. 

In reference to #3...stop watching me cookie makers!

I was also very aware that I don't care about that at all. I love these silly things. They're rather like the Dove Miniatures' affirmations, only with slightly fewer references to chocolate.

Long ago, for some reason that I can no longer remember, I decided that I would never throw the fortunes away. However, I have no plans on appearing on Hoarders: Fortune Cookie Edition. Thus was born my containment method.

If I happen upon a "fortune" that I really enjoy, I keep it, but hide it from myself. Stick it in a pocket or a purse or a book - somewhere I'm likely to forget about and find again down the road. And then try to remember why the hell I thought this particular one was worth saving.

Now if the "fortune" doesn't resonate with me, that's when the real fun begins. I neither trash them nor keep them. Instead they become the property of unwitting family, friends, coworker and occasional strangers. No, not any of the people reading this, of course. I would never do that to you. The random fortunes you've found in your belongings came from another Fortune Dispenser. 

Obviously.

Stop looking at me, already.

Okay, you know what, we should really talk about one of your quirks now. Mostly because I need something to distract the person next to me so I can slip this fortune in her pocket.

Movie Madness

Happy Day After Giving Thanks! Hope you all had a phenomenal holiday and are now safely ensconced somewhere far away from crowded stores. Unless that’s something that you look forward, then I wish you all the greatest deals.

In case you are in any way the same type of crazy as me and have been counting the days until you can appropriately watch holiday themed movies without venturing into that scary “Christmas in July” territory, I’d like to present you with this year’s super nerdy – and borderline frightening – December movie schedule.

Hope you enjoy! But, really, mostly hope that you’ll forgive this display of mild insanity. After all, I did dedicate an evening just to movies staring members of the Saved By the Bell cast. That’s got to count for something, right?

For The Benefit of Future Generations

So, I've been going through some things from my childhood. Cleaning out the old homestead. Because, there comes a time in every lady's life where she has to decide if she really needs to hold on to those root beer bottle caps from '96. Not that I'm not sure the beverages in question were delicious.  I mean, seriously, it's root beer. What could go wrong? But is it necessary for me to commemorate my drinking it? That's the question.

And the answer is, probably not....but maybe....hold strong, Johnson, hold strong....No. The answer is no. I don't need that. 

Of course, there have been a few gems that will be truly hard to part with. For instance, this notebook from the late '90s:

I know what you're thinking, Of course, you can't throw out such a bitchin' ice cream cone notebook! And you're not wrong, but this little pad is so much more than that. It is a detailed, if poorly spelled, record of information vital to the survival of human culture.

 

Simple and to the point. Perfect for passing

information along to future generations. 

 Hopefully those future generations won't be so 

dependent on spell-check that this mistake

makes the record indecipherable.

"Scruffy looking nerf herder" would have also

been acceptable. 

 

 I believe the descriptor here was meant to be 

"Crafty." Unless "Crafy" is Bespin slang.

Listing a Wookie's age seems more likely to

make him angry than the whole beating

him at chess thing.

Cibor, huh? It's just....so....close.

 He's a simpler fellow than that C-3PO guy.

 Wow, Past Kelly, a "Spoiler Alert" would have

been nice. 

Both objectivity and spelling took a bit of 

a hit here. 

 It just seems like there may be more dashes

here than absolutely necessary.

Just for clarification purposes, Yoda's species 

has always been listed as "unknown." 

Don't know what this "Green Dwarf"

business is about.

Apparently the rage over these "jerks" manifests

in the devolution of spelling.

Nope, sorry. Scratch that last observation. Friend

or foe, spelling is clearly not a priority.

With the wisdom that comes with age, I can now

admit that perhaps Mr. Fett's story was a bit

less black and white than I originally thought.

As such, "jerk" might be a little bit strong. 

That this descriptor was thought to be necessary

seems a bit speciesist. Just saying. 

 If you're wondering when Wedge got this mispelled

promotion (which you're not), Past Kelly was

just giving you a little taste of what the

extended universe has to offer.

Hence the inclusion of this one character who 

appears only in the books.

 The final proof that these insane ramblings were

not ultimately meant for me, but rather for some 

studier of maniacal tendencies. Unless I thought

there was a chance I might forget I was indeed

female. Because the whole Star Wars thing

was clearly going to stick. 

It just seemed wrong not to share these with you all. Where exactly would the justice be if you were not all informed of the kind of person you're cyber-hanging out with?

Also, if the anthropologist for whom I wrote this is out there and has been wondering why it's taken so long for these observations to see the light of day, I apologize deeply for the delay. Please let me know if you need further clarification on the aforementioned observations. 

I will await your response. 

Out with the Old, In with the More Logical

All right, folks. It’s question time.

Do you ever have one of those days where for some strange reason you can not get a rather inane query out of your head? Just to be clear, that’s not actually my question. Just one of those annoying rhetoricals that regardless of how you answer can not keep me from blabbering on.

The point is, I had one of those days today. And it was a question that has haunted me similarly on past such days. A question I do believe will continue to irk my brain until we do something about it.

Why, in the world, are we still calling the garment we place on our lower halves a “pair of pants?”

Why?

Not why we did originally. That makes sense to me. Pantaloons were made up of two unjoined legs. You wanted your whole lower half covered? You needed a pair of them. Great.

But why are we still doing it?

I’ve received varying answers over the years when I’ve railed at whoever would listen.

“It’s just what we’ve always called them.”

Hey, I love traditions as much as the next gal. Believe me. But it seems we didn’t care quite enough about it to keep calling them pantaloons. So if your argument is simply that we are slaves to custom, then you really shouldn’t be half-assing it. Tell me that you’re going out to pick up a new pair of denim pantaloons and I might put more stock in this statement.

“People are too used to it. It’ll never change.”

Really? Laziness?

Humans not only created the original leg coverings, but then later on decided, “You know what? This whole two separate things held together by a belt is annoying. Let’s just add a piece on top and make it one thing. Maybe then I’ll stop misplacing that damn right pantaloon,” and made it happen. And then they went further and made these mystical objects in a wonderful variety of materials. Corduroy! Denim! Linen! Velour! Let’s make them really flared on the bottom! Nope, sick of that. Let’s make them so tight on the bottom that it’s hard to wear even ankle socks! How about a few regularly cut ones for the rest of us? We can make those too? Perfect!  

Humans can do all that, along with a couple other things over the course of history, but we don’t have the get-up-and-go to alter the way we talk about something?

For shame.

Of course, even this excuse is better than the one that I receive the vast majority of the time:

“Well, you’ve got two legs, don’t you?”

Let’s, for the sake of expediency, put aside the bizarre implications of this statement if we extend it out to why in all of hell we refer to our lower undergarment as a “pair of underwear.” Well, expediency and the fact that I’m not actually comfortable asking if any of you have more than one ass.

So, yes, I do have two legs. I also have two arms, which are often covered by sleeves. However, the garment the sleeves are attached to is called a shirt. Singular. I don’t get up in the morning and pull on my shirts. Well, I mean….I do if I’m layering, I guess. But you get what I’m saying.

Now, for the ladies reading, let us consider our upper undergarment. Yes, there are two cups, but when sewn together, they become a bra. Again singular, despite also being able to boast that it covers something of which I have more than one.

And for today’s final example of why this argument is the height of ridiculousness,* I offer you a picture of me this past Christmas:

Yes, envy and awe are the correct emotions with 

which to view this photo.

This garment covers everything with the exception of my hands and head. Despite this, we refer to in the singular. Further, we are so enamored with the marvel of this singularity, we have built it right into the name.

The onesie.

And if we can do that for this article of clothing, taking into account all it covers, I do not ever again want to hear that they are called pants because I have two legs.

Now, I believe in us, as a people. Together, we can effect change. We can ensure that our great-grandchildren aren’t still having this conversation.

And we can start today.

Well, maybe tomorrow. It’s getting kind of late over here and I need to put on pajamas.

No!

Procrastination is the enemy!

Forget pajamas. I’m going to put on a sweatpant!

That’s right, folks. I said it.

So, what are you doing to help the cause?

*Bold statement to make in light of this entire post, I know. But I’m sticking by it. 

Organizational Peeves

I love my Roomie dearly. Best friends for eight and a half years. She’s a lovely person with many fine qualities.

When I look at her bookshelf I want to punch her in the tooth.

It has nothing to do with her tastes in reading. I’m absolutely of a to-each-his-own mentality when it comes to that. Read whatever you want. I am not, however, so open minded when it comes to the organization of one’s bookshelf.

You see, the Roomie does not separate fiction from non-fiction and it fills me with burning fury.

Having just written that sentence, I want to make it clear that, yes, I do realize how ridiculous I sound. 

But it just drives me so crazy.

I don’t expect her to arrange it exactly as I do – non-fiction then fiction, with sub-sections of genre – though, let’s face it, it would be nice. Nor do I expect her to start using library cards like the one another friend gave me, that have me itching to lend out my books. (It came with a date stamp and everything!)

But seriously, fiction and non-fiction all mixed up? I go in there to peruse the shelves and, with the exception of Harry Potter, have no idea what I’m going to pull.

It’s anarchy.

Just makes me want to sneak in there and set things right.

Then I realize I’m having a Sheldon Cooper moment and resist.

But it’s not easy.

Okay, now that I’ve shared my weekly does of crazy, let’s hear yours.

Oh, you don’t have any?

Just me that’s crazy, huh?

Well, that’s fine, too.

*awkward crickets*

Feeling a Little Red Faced...

Have you ever been embarrassed by the books you don’t like?

I mean, we all have books we can take or leave. That leave us with a sort of “meh” feeling. And as reading is fairly subjective, our “meh” books are likely someone else’s classics. It’s just the way it goes. I’ve certainly loved books other people have hated.

It’s the risk you run when you ask a person what they thought of a story. And it’s cool, because even if it turns into an over-the-top raging argument, you walk away with a different perspective.

But there are definitely those moments where I’m tempted to avert eye contact and make inarticulate sounds when someone brings up a book. Books that it just feels wrong to admit that no, they were simply not my cup of tea.

Still, no book is going to be loved by every person who picks it up. And, since I’ve already told you about all the ridiculous things I’m not embarrassed for loving, I figure it can’t be worse to tell you about the classic things I am embarrassed for not loving. My very guilty displeasures, if you will.

Here are my top three:

-          Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)

o       I love the world of this book, dark and gloomy. But I’ve read it three times and each time have wanted the two main characters to disappear into the moors. I’ve read a number of books that have had lead characters who I didn’t particularly like as people, but I still cared about how their stories ended (Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlett O’Hara, for instance. Not someone I’d want to be friends with, but I had to know how things turned out for her). I was just never able to connect with Catherine and Heathcliff.

-          Grendel (John Gardner)

o       This book has absolutely everything that I love. A new perspective on an epic tale. A fantasy monster telling his side of the story. Seers and dragons. Every component is awesome. But somehow, when it all comes together I find myself staring at the clock more than the book.

-           Romeo & Juliet (William Shakespeare)

o       Perhaps the issue here is that I first read it when I was the same age as young Juliet. And I wanted to smack both her and her Romeo. They meet at a party, are married the next day, and within a week have both killed themselves. A little bit excessive considering their knowledge of each other was pretty much limited to the fact that they were from feuding families and both fairly attractive. I remember thinking that if I read about them talking about something other than how they shouldn’t be together (Maybe hobbies? Favorite foods? A normal day in their lives?) that I could have bought the whole willing-to-die-for-each-other a little bit more.

So, what books are you embarrassed to admit you don’t really care for?

No boughs of holly, but still...

I don’t know about you, but my halls are all sorts of decked. The Roomie and I don’t have an enormous amount of space to work with, but we make it festive. Well, technically, I do the decorating whilst Roomie fulfils her holiday tradition of napping on the couch in red sweatpants and a Santa hat. But, regardless, we both play our roles and the apartment gets its seasonal makeover.

It would be really difficult for me to pick a favorite decoration, but for the sake of my efforts here, I’m going to discuss the Department 56 houses. While every decoration reminds me of a story, the houses are the only ones that can be set up to tell one on their own.

I grew up setting these houses up. My mom collected them and I liked to sit and watch their little lights twinkle and myself stories about where in the village or city I would live (the yellow house that generally sat atop the kitchen cabinets) and where I would work (the movie theater that constantly showed White Christmas). At least this is what I thought about when I wasn’t being tortured by questions of why the people were doomed to grow to such heights that they could never fit into the doors of the buildings where they lived.

Even crouched over, Gramps here is about a story tall.

Over the years I started collecting them as well, sometimes receiving them as gifts, sometimes taking them from my mother’s horde under the dark of night.

Whoops, guess the cat’s out of the bag. 

(Tangent: Why are we carrying cats around in bags in the first place? 

Seems like a great way to get scratched.)

Our apartment is not quite large enough for me to showcase all of my houses every year and for whatever reason, the Roomie will not agree to sleeping in her closet for the month of December so I can transform her bedroom into a showroom. She’s selfish that way.

Still, I manage to do some sort of display whenever the holidays roll around. It takes me hours to get it all together and decide not only where the buildings are situated this year, but also how all the city folks are going to be interacting.

She’s covering her mouth to hide a smile. He totally said he was going to come courting and never did. 

Serves him right to get jumped on by a wet dog. Even if that middle-of-the-face beard is hard to resist.

And then I’ve got the folks who are new to town. This gentleman, for instance, only found his way to my city this year.

He goes by Melvin and is my soul mate: 

Carrying way too many books and kind of blurry. 

What more can a girl ask for?

How about you? Any holiday decorations that you look forward to every year?

Idea Overload

I love writing.

But occasionally I get a little carried away.

You see, I’ll start off with the best of intentions. As I drift off into the Neverland of dreams, suddenly the greatest idea in the world will come to me. And I will think, Yes! This is the story I must write!

And sometimes it is (though not necessarily the story that I must write right now). Other times it’s just the overtired brain vomit of someone all hopped up on candy canes and gingerbread men – A steampunk mystery romance picture book about a turnip and a dragon who needs a root canal. Best. Idea. Ever.

Not quite.

But if in the light of day it still seems to have merit, I’ll buckle down and start writing random snippets of information. Character names. Background info – like what he did for his eighth birthday or how she got that tiny scar between her thumb and index finger – stuff that will never actually be in the main story, but is good for me to know. Then I’ll start writing actual sentences. Now, they’re probably not very good sentences this first time around, but they are indeed a string of words that make sense together. Which is the first big hurdle. Sentences can be tweaked later into something that’s actually good, but only if they are already there for the tweaking. If I try to craft the most perfect, glorious, divine sentence in round one, I’m never getting to round two.

Anyway, I’ll get all hunkered down, writing cap securely on (for which I favor the fedora, by the way). And suddenly, the proverbial bolt of lightning will strike once again. Another idea! Awesome! Now I have something I know I can work on when I finish this one. But what if idea two is better? Maybe I should focus on that one, come back to idea one later. But I like idea one. Still, idea two sounds great. Maybe I should try to write both.

And then, as though I’ve set up metal rods in my brain, the lightning strikes come down full force. So many ideas! I love them all! Yeah, turnips and dragons with dental problems! That one wasn’t so bad! I should write them all! I should write all the things!

ALL THE THINGS.

Ten minutes later the Roomie finds me curled up under the dining room table, shaking and muttering nonsensically to myself about how I think I should be the snow-time wizard and won’t give the marshmallows back until I am. And other equally disturbing assertions.

Over time, my brain does eventually unfry itself (for the most part. There’s always a residual singe). And I cautiously return to writing. Ideas still keep coming, but now the most attention I will give them is to write them down on a napkin, or my hand, or the Roomie’s face – whatever’s closest. After that, if they keep nagging me, I punch those ideas right in the face. Not now, ideas! We can be friends later! (See, residual singeing.)

So, in conclusion, I haven’t completely mastered the discipline of focus yet. But, worst comes to absolute worst, you can probably expect something from me in the draco/root vegetable genre at some point.

Now I must buckle down and focus on my one (hear that brain? ONE.) current work in progress.

Tonight’s Christmas Viewing:

• Batman Returns
• “Chuck Versus the Santa” (Chuck)
• “Afternoon Delight” (Arrested Development)

A Festive Warning

So, I’m a fan of the holidays.

If you listen really closely, somewhere in the distance, you can hear the Roomie guffawing at that understatement. But despite my stating it in a slightly saner way here than I might to her, the point stands.

I enjoy the festivities. Getting together with the family. Lights and decorations. Breaking out my old picture books. Watching holiday movies, be they classic, cheesy or both. Dancing around the apartment to old standards whilst wearing a comically tiny red top hat and sipping hot chocolate with both marshmallows and whipped cream. 'Cause that's just how I roll. And because tiny top hats are always funny.

From Thanksgiving through the first of the New Year, I’m excited. My mother has said that she can tell when Christmas is getting closer because I talk more and breathe a little less.

And then, of course, there’s the joy of finding the perfect present for someone you love. After I passed out on my sister’s couch this weekend, belly bloated with turkey and pie, I started thinking about what the most perfect gift I ever gave was. It took me about two seconds to come up with it.

I still remember the feeling. I was probably about nine years old and I knew it – in my gut – that I had gotten my sister the gift to put all other gifts to shame. I don’t remember what I got anyone else that year, but this token of perfection can be recalled immediately. I was over the moon about this and spent quite a while painstakingly wrapping it – the entirety of A Charlie Brown Christmas, if I remember correctly (though this is probably more a reflection on my poor wrapping skills than on my dedication). I wanted to tell her right then what it was, because I had never been that good at keeping secrets. But I held strong. And when she opened it on Christmas morning, I knew I had gotten it right.

Of course, who wouldn’t want a set of stationary with pictures of cupcakes all over it and envelopes to match?

The reason I’m telling you any of this nonsense, is that I wanted to warn you that my mildly manic cheer may occasionally spill over into the blog during the next month or so. It seemed only fair to give you a heads up.

I hope you had a fantastic Thanksgiving!

And now I must go check the Christmas list I made. Probably twice. Though I don’t think anything will ever top that cupcake paper.

Tonight’s Christmas Viewing:

• Die Hard
• “Chuck Versus the Crown Vic” (Chuck)
• “Gemini” (Smallville)

Laughing Is Always Worth It (Though It Sometimes Makes You Look Like A Jerk)

There has never been a day in my life when I haven’t laughed.

Even on the really bad days, there’s always been something humorous to find. And I enjoy the search as much as I do the destination.

And, as I love the laughing, it doesn’t really take that much to get me going. Great jokes, cheesy puns, offhand comments…they all tickle me. I’ve mentioned that I’m one of those (I refuse to believe I’m the only one) weird people who occasionally likes to hear the dialogue of a book out loud. On more than one occasion, a line from a book has struck me as so amusing that I can’t actually say it because every time I try, I laugh too hard.

Then there are people in my life who I think of as carriers. They’re the bearers of contagious laughter. The people who, for whatever reason, if they’re laughing, I’m laughing. I don’t even have to be in on the joke. They’re just downright infectious.

All this laughter is fantastic, but it does come with a very slight downside. Given my proclivities, I often find myself laughing at inopportune times.

When Roomie's annoyed by traffic and cursing at other cars and occasionally herself. When a coworker inadvertently tells another that he needs to "strap on a pair," and then after a inordinately long pause, "of snowshoes." When my sister tells me that the woman we're listening to speak bears a striking resemblance to a turtle.

The list could go on for days. And I would laugh every time I read it. 

And then there is the situation that makes me look like the biggest jerkboat. You know how babies can really get going when they cry? I mean, it’s impressive. I don’t have that kind of lung capacity. After about a minute and a half, I’d probably just fall asleep. But they can go on for an extended period of time, just wailing. And I'm not talking about when they actually fall and hurt themselves. But just when they're in a crying mood. Well, if I’m holding a child who decides it’s time to let loose, I can go about 45 seconds before I start laughing as hard as he’s crying. And let me tell you, you know who looks like an ass? Someone who’s laughing at a crying baby.

It’s not that I’m not sympathetic to whatever baby crisis the kid is having. I’ll do everything I can to try and figure out what the issue is and fix it. Honest. I’ll just laugh while I do. I think it has something to do with knowing that if the child wants to cry for the next hour, nothing I can do is really going to make a difference. So, I can despair over that fact or I can laugh and think about how when this kid grows up I can tell him all about the time he cried for three hours (my parents have dozens of these gems). And, when given the choice, I will always opt for laughter over despair.

So, while I’m sure if people see me, they think, Look at that creep. Laughing at the crying baby. I’m going to go over and kick her in the knee. Make her cry and then laugh. See how she likes it, occasionally this inappropriate laughter has positive results. This doesn’t work all the time. It doesn’t even work a lot of the time. (I think maybe it worked once.) But in a certain miraculous instance, I found myself pacing with a crying baby who suddenly became distracted by my laughter. Looking up at me with that scrunched little face, all tear streaked, the child just stared for a moment, as if unsure how to handle such a bizarre reaction. And then as if all the stars had aligned perfectly, like unicorn-dancing-on-a-rainbow-of-dreams-and-skittles perfectly, the baby started laughing with me.

So, while I will try my best not to laugh when I shouldn’t, I’m not going to feel too horrible when I inevitably fail. Because sometimes magic comes out of such mistakes.

And how about the rest of you? What makes you laugh (whether or not you should)?

To sprint or to savor....that is the question

How do you read?

I would say that at least eight out of every ten books I read are completed in one sitting. When I was kid, this would have been ten out of ten. But with work and whatnot, this percentage has taken a hit.

This kind of reading is both good and bad. Good because I get to know what happens faster. Bad because that means the book is over.

From the second I start to read, I am at a constant war with myself.

On one side, we have the savor-er. She’s been waiting to enjoy this book, either for months, or since she picked it up at the bookstore twenty minutes ago (both can seem like an eternity). She wants to take note of every detail. Wander through the world of the book until it’s a second home. She plans on knowing the characters better than they know themselves, on shaking her head, small smile lighting her face, when they do something foolish and feel a swelling sense of pride in these folks when they find their way of out of the corner they’d boxed themselves into. She is the strong, silent type. Calm, cool and collected.

And in the other corner, we have the sprint-er. She can see the finish line and she wants to know what’s waiting on the other side. She’s in love with the world and wants to run through it with wild abandon. Rather than stopping to smell the roses, she’s gonna give them a wave as she log rolls down a hill. She’s not at all convinced that the characters know what’s best for themselves, but she’s willing to help them out. She starts out with some helpful suggestions. But they just don’t listen. That’s when the yelling begins. It’s not that she wants to give them a hard time, but come on…she can’t just sit there. And she certainly can’t put the book down and go to sleep, when she knows that they’re struggling. When they eventually get her message and start getting their lives together, she knows that they couldn’t have done it without her. She’s a little kid. Hopped up on Nesquik, pixy stix, and Mallomars.

You see, I consider myself a (relatively) sane person, but put a book in my hand and all bets are off. Battle lines have been drawn and the fighting has begun. On rare occasions, the savor-er wins out. She calms the Tasmanian devil within. More often than not, though, the sprint-er seduces her over to the other side with promises of answers to all those questions she has about the characters and why they are the way that they are and where they’re going to end up. Well, answers and Mallomars.

And then the book is over and the sprint-er looks over at the savor-er and asks, Why’d you just let me run through that?? Now it’s over! I don’t want it to be over! What were you thinking? The savor-er loses the calm, cool and collected vibe she’s so proud of and just starts yelling, You never listen to me, you crazed lunatic! You just bolt through everything like you’re a damn roadrunner. Sprint-er: Yeah, I’d like to see your gravity lessons! Savor-er: What does that even mean? Okay, hold on. This is going off the rails here. It’s fine. We can just reread the book later.

And with that all sorted out, I put the book down and the two sides coalesce back into one.

Until next time.