aaand a new obsession begins, or How I Lost My Entire Weekend

I caved.  I finally read Twilight.  All the way through.  (for those of you who have been here a while, I attempted to do so back in… February?  March?  but couldn’t finish because it was mind-numbingly awful of my many social obligations.)

However.  A new day breaks, and a new obsession begins.

(Except when I say “obsession,” I mean, you know, a mild sort of amused interest.  obviously.)

I bring you a new word, guys.  ”Lolfan,” defined as those who have read Twilight, understand the insane compulsion to somehow finish the books no matter how bad they get, and can still function in society without beginning a desperate search for “their Edward.”  (or comparing their significant others to the aforementioned fictional character.)

“I pretty much made up this word just now to describe the kind of people (i.e., me) who read these books for the sole purpose of snarking on them and yet cannot stop oh God please send help. Levels of affection for the subject matter may vary; macros and icons are often involved. Twatlighters (see below) are a good example of lolfans.”

Thanks, cleolinda.

These are my people! They counted out 165 references to Edward’s beauty. My long-lost tribe, my band of brothers!  (I fear, however, that no one will ever share my strange fascination with quoting obscure sections of Henry V.  Thanks, Dad.)

And my favorite part of cleo’s snark-filled recap?

…he still has her Snapple cap in his pocket, because Edward Cullen is a thirteen-year-old girl.

and

(His excuse for showing up uninvited: she left her jacket in Jessica’s car the night before, so he brought his for her to wear. “It was cold. She had no jacket. Surely this was an acceptable form of chivalry.” I’m just saying, “chivalry” doesn’t look like a word anymore. And I am so not making his obsession with it up. Entire drinking games could be organized around variants of this word as appearing in this book. Also: chivalry.)

But.  I still can’t stand Bella.  Sorry.  I tried.  (but blech.)

If you would like to add joy to your life, regardless of your status on the whole “fan” scale, read Growing Up Cullen, in which Edward is characterized as a 40 year old mother on a bad day due to all the other Cullens’ constant crazy-making and poor angsty Edward is all on his lonesome… scrapbooking and listening to Nickelback cds.  Nobody understands him, you guys.

(and oh, the late-to-the-party glee I have: there’s more).

…hours of clicking later…

Oh sweet lord of the rings.  What have I stumbled clumsily across?

He had reddish, blonde-brown hair that was groomed heterosexually. He looked older than the other boys in the room — maybe not as old as God or my father, but certainly a viable replacement. Imagine if you took every woman’s idea of a hot guy and averaged it out into one man. This was that man.

Nightlight, a Twilight parody.

There goes my entire November.  See you guys on the other side.

oh.  and yes, I’m going to see Jacob’s abs that movie.  but only because my boyfriend’s sister is dragging both of us!

Nostalgia

Do you ever have a longing for a time that you never lived through?  I’ve settled for a slight obsession with history, and I go through different phases.  Is it the 1930′s, or the 1300′s this week?  The “simple” living of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s era, or the [thrilling] hedonistic peak of Venetian rule?  The mystery of Mayan temples or the peak of grunge rock?

Yeah, I know.  I’m weird.  And I have more trouble focusing on one specific period than kids who are supposed to get through a school day on Halloween.

Sometimes, I really wish time-travel was possible.

But then I remember.  We are living here.  Now.  Calm down and focus.

(And I love love love this poem.)

Remember the 1340′s? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called “Find the Cow.”
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.

Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet
marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags
of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.
Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle
while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.
We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.
These days language seems transparent a badly broken code.

The 1790′s will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.

I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.
Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.
And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,
time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,
or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me
recapture the serenity of last month when we picked
berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.
I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees
and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light
flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse
and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.

As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,
letting my memory rush over them like water
rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.
I was even thinking a little about the future, that place
where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,
a dance whose name we can only guess.

-by Billy Collins

Letters, part cinq

Dear tuberculosis,
Please don’t be inside my lungs.  Also, I hope that bump/”injection site” on my arm doesn’t react to you.  Because that would be bad.  Thanks.

Dear girl-who-hits-on-my-boyfriend,
Please desist.  Apparently we’re supposed to ‘get along,’ and it would be so much easier for me to actually tolerate you if you’d kindly stop.

Dear niece,
I have more fun watching you and spoiling you rotten than should be allowed.  Hopefully you’ll always remember me as the Fun (Not-Related-By-Blood) Aunt.  But for now I’ll settle for being the only aunt who’s willing to watch you at any time of the day and take you to the park and chase you around the playground because I’m really a monster who’s going to try to eat you if I catch you but I can’t because everyone knows that you’re safe on the jungle gym.

Dear universal childhood,
I love that no matter what, the jungle gym is always the “safe” or “time-out” area on playgrounds across the culture.  This makes me happy.

Dear politics,
Is it really so hard to come to an agreement for the sake of mankind?  For crying out loud, swallow your pride and do what’s right for the good of others.  Stop being so Greedy Grabbersonian.

Dear summer-that-will-not-end,
Go away.  I am so ready for fall, with the crunchy leaves, the crispy weather, the costumes, the seasonal drinks at Starbucks, and the general feeling of excitement and expectation for Christmas.  (Yes, I think of everything in terms of the Christmas season.)

Goodbye j.o.b., hello O.C.D.

How many of you have ever been unemployed?  It’s quite strange to go from working 8+ hours a day to none, to say the least.  How have I chosen to deal with it?  By developing sudden neat-and-tidy mania in between job-searching like it’s going out of style.

It’s no surprise to me that cleaning is a way for me to cope.  When life starts to feel overwhelming, I react by making myself busy, usually with cleaning because I’m not crafty, and I can’t create worth a darn.  This works out well in my life, because I am the definition of organized chaos.  I’ll let things be until I start to go crazy, then I’ll clean like a madwoman.

(You’d think that I would be on par with Monica by now, but I’m not.  I’m a master of neat clutter, and my work desk always looked like a mild hurricane had hit it by the end of the day.)

This week I managed to downsize the mess covering my current dwellings from “post-Earthquake of 1906″ to “somewhat under control.”  This was no small feat; I was planning on taking at least a month to tackle the work load.  I’m sure you can understand the feeling of victory and glee when you take a look at what you started with and what you made.

This has spilled out into other parts of my life, however.  Now, when I go to my best friend’s place, I find myself cleaning her kitchen compulsively, tidying the living room after her four-year-old has managed to pull out every toy she’s ever owned, or even doing the laundry, just because.

(Perhaps it’s because I can’t control my life, so I’m trying to control everything else.  Maybe.)

This weekend I organized all of my bills and letters… spanning the past six years.  I wanted to sing and dance once I finished.

I have a sickness.

Help!

Public television fail

I have many issues with the educational policies of our government.  (We’ll save those for another time.)

But it looks like now they’ve taken their toll on one of my favorite programs as a child!

(Yes, I do hope the song gets stuck in your head.  It’s a great show!)  :)

Happiness is…

wandering through The Happiest Place on Earth with BFF and niece with ice cream on a perfect day, sitting on a park bench in the breeze to watch a parade, and riding the train around the park a few times while the four-year-old falls asleep.

Good times, guys.  maybe being unemployed isn’t 100% awful.
(only 98%).

Come go with me

(dom dom dom dom dom, dom-bee-doo-bee…)

(Now your soul is happier, and the Beach Boys are in your head.
My work here is done.)

Countdown: T-minus 12 hours…

…until the End of My Job.

It’s strange, because it has hit me at random times.  I tend to do things to put off thinking about The End by obsessing over minor things such as how amazing Rachel McAdams is.  (I have decided that I’m going to get my hair cut on Saturday, and I want to cut my bangs to look just like hers.)

Tonight I went out with friends and celebrated the End of Me.  It was wonderful, except I would have to keep from crying at the oddest times.  I would look around at our (overly-loud, raucous) table full of friends and people dear to me, and suddenly my vision would go blurry for no reason at all!  Don’t get me started on the strange behavior of my tear ducts when I had to hug everyone goodbye.

*stifled sob*

Why does change have to be so hard?  I can accept the fact that change has to happen, but why does it have to be so painful?  I feel as if I’m ripping off my limbs, tearing out a part of my soul, instead of simply re-locating from one beautiful city to another.

Don’t get me wrong: I have missed my hometown.  It’s one of the most beautiful places on earth (America’s Finest City, baby!) and quite honestly I always saw myself coming back someday to live.  I want to get married here, raise my kids here, grow old here.  I love my city.

Also, I have missed my best friend.  Sure, visiting every month is great and all, but it’s wreaked havoc on my car (and wallet).  It will be so nice to see her on a regular basis and do normal everyday best friend things again.  Plus I will get to be ‘Tia Jo’ to her daughter daily instead of odd weekends.  I need to make good on my threat promise to spoil her rotten.

And of course, the best part is that I’ll finally be living close to The Boyfriend again.  We’ve been (best) friends for so long that a semi-long-distance relationship hasn’t been too hard on us for the beginning (actually, I think we’ve managed to see each other almost every weekend so far), but it’s been a little difficult at times.  It’ll be nice to see him regularly and do the ‘normal’ couple stuff instead of have to do something sorta-special on the weekends just because we’re together again.

But still.  This SUCKS.  I am leaving behind close relationships, wonderful people, amazing places… basically the last six years of my life.  I have BONDED, people.  It ain’t that easy to cut and run.  I have best friends up here, too!

I feel like I’m mourning the end of these relationships instead of a simple move.  It’s partly true; things are not the same long-distance.  I won’t be able to drop by the girls’ house to watch House when I feel like it.  I can’t bully the guys into helping me move heavy objects by showing up at their apartment with cookies and a six-pack.  Going to breakfast in Uptown isn’t going to be drop-of-a-hat-easy any longer.  Planning Drinks or Going Out just isn’t going to happen unless it becomes this Big Event that I have to drive for two hours to join.

And I will miss it.

I will miss my old haunts; the parks, bookstores, hole-in-the-wall restaurants that I’ve discovered, quiet places, shops, coffeehouses, and stores.  I will miss knowing the city upside down and backwards.  I (already) miss our apartment.  I will miss work, and all the wonderfully frustrating headaches that comes with manipulating 30+ college students to do my bidding.  Most of all, I will miss the people.  I miss the relationships I’ve forged, the friendships I’ve discovered, the acquaintances that were just beginning to solidify…

This sucks.

As soon as I get home-home*, I’m going to watch sappy movies with a pint of ice cream and a box of tissues.**

*home-home = the place I’m going to be living indefinitely, where all my stuff is.  I’ve been living out of a suitcase and couch-crashing at various places for the last two weeks while I finish at work.  Long story, don’t ask.

(**never done that before in my life, but if the movies say it works… well, I’m willing to try anything once.)

in which I fall madly in love (again)

Oh, internets, I have so much to tell you.  The main thing on my mind right now (besides the fact that my job is ending in seventy-two hours) is the fact that I am deeply, madly, hopelessly in love.

You’d think this would be about the boyfriend.

(It’s not.)  (Well, he’s a prominent character, but… you’ll see.)

I came to an important decision in the weeks that I’ve been away from you, dear world.

I… am going to get a dog.

That’s right.  I shall soon embark upon the joys of raising a small child in furry form.  (Eventually.  The whole lack-of-job, unsteady-living-arrangement situation is getting in the way right now.)  But WHEN I get a job that pays more than barely enough to cover student bills and buy things called “gas” and “food,” I am gaining a wriggly little yipper of mine own.

Let’s face the facts.  I’ve been waiting for one since I lost my own beloved dog (still a very painful story, lots of bitterness against my parents there), but life keeps stomping on my poor doggie dreams until they resemble a pile of dog crap instead.

But no longer, for I have decided that I am getting one.  Soon.  I’ve even studied the different types, what would be suited for me and my lifestyle, what I’m looking for in a soulmate furry bundle of love pet, etc.  The beloved boyfriend (darn him) is allergic to anything that breathes and walks on four legs.  EXCEPT “hypoallergenic” dogs!  (Face it: there are no ‘hypoallergenic’ dogs, only ones that shed less, and with proper care, won’t make his head explode).  Many frantic hours of research later yielded my result:

A yorkie-poo!  (I can’t say the name to any living, breathing human without choking on laughter, but apparently I can write it and still maintain my composure.)  It’s a Yorkshire terrier/poodle crossbreed, and they’re SO STINKIN’ CUTE.

I’ll be honest.  I’ve always had an incredible amount of disdain for small dogs, especially designer ones, (thank you, Paris Hilton and co) but that was before I looked at them.  How can you not love that face??

Geez, Jo, get to the point.

The boyfriend and I were at the mall this weekend, running errands (awwww) when we saw the Puppy Place.  He turned to me and said quite sweetly, “Do you want to go in?”

NO. If we go in, I’ll want one even more than I do now and I think my head would actually explode.

(Of course we went in.)

Sure enough, they had a few yorkie-poos (ah, there’s the snicker.  ogod, how will I ever manage to tell people what it is?) bouncing around in the kennels, rolling around congenially and generally attempting to eat each other alive.  The boyfriend looked down at me, correctly interpreted my lack of breathing and the frozen expression of wild glee on my face, and asked, “Do you want to play with one?”

WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?  Have you no sense of self-preservation?  Don’t you realize that if I so much as touch one, my heart will never truly be wholly yours again??  And no, I don’t want to play with one!  That will make everything even worse.

Of course we went into the little pen area and had the salesgirl bring us a puppy.  (What?  He needs to make sure that he’s not deathly allergic to them!)  Although, I can’t say for sure if I would have been able to bring myself to care if he fell over unconscious at that point, because there, frantically wriggling on the floor (and into our laps) was the single cutest, cuddliest, happiest puppy in the entire world.  But (thank you God) he’s not allergic, and I think he was puppy-smitten too.  At least that’s how I choose to interpret the fact that it took me four tries to get his attention away from the dog that was trying it’s darndest to burrow into his neck.

We only had about ten minutes with her before the store closed, but friends, I’m telling you right now, I have never been more in love.  (well… you know.  puppy-love is just so pure and holy…)  The economy sucks, blah blah, job-hunting has been abysmal and so depressing it’s made me consider medication, yadda yadda, but NOW I have my motivation.

My true love awaits.

(What?  Oh, yes, I love the boyfriend too.  Whatever.)

Here, have another picture.

Time needs to move faster.

Also, someone needs to give me an insane amount of money.  (Now accepting donations.)

Story time!

My family is weird.

Really weird.

My dad especially so.  He taught me at a young age to order eggs “easy over,” that the famous Tolstoy novel is “Peace and War,” and that elephants make a sound like a machine gun (this happens, of course, when they shoot peanuts out of their noses).
(apparently elephants love peanuts.  at least they do in my family.)
(…we are so very odd.)

My dad decided one year that he was going to make his kids smart, goshdarnit, and he wasn’t going to just rely on playing classical music twenty-four seven (and ambushing us with “who’s playing this right now?  what movement?  answer faster or you can’t go to sleep!”), no sirree, he was going to help us!

His brilliant solution was to have us memorize the different common types of birds in North America.  His method?  Flashcards that he’d created in college by destroying some poor book and taping tiny pictures onto a 3×5 card and writing the name on the back.  (Yeah, that’s what kids love.)

You can imagine how thrilled we were when he’d decide to review with us, which largely consisted of him showing us a picture and us cycling frantically through all of the names we’d managed to absorb and hope that we connected it to the right bird.

Did I mention that I was 7, maybe 8 and my sister was 4?  And the pictures were tiny and oh-so-very-boring?

Anyway.  Some of it must have leaked through my skull (my best efforts notwithstanding) because I can still correctly identify a bluebird, a sparrow, a chickadee, a sandpiper, a robin, a cardinal, a heron, a blue jay, a snowy egret, and… a kingfisher.

(What’s that?  Any sane human being would have learned these at some point as they grew up and used their eyes?  Yeah… I really don’t think I learned anything back then.  Poor Dad.)

Anyway, for some utterly mystifying reason (perhaps simply because it was the first one that I remembered correctly), I decided that my favorite bird… was the kingfisher.  Keep in mind that the snowy egret, swan, hummingbird, and freaking owls (I love owls) were in this “flashcard set.”  The kingfisher.  Really, 8-year-old self?  Really??

Anyway, this delightful trip down memory lane was all triggered by this picture:

Ah, such fond memories…