breaking up is hard to do

I woke up this morning and came to the sad realization that I would be waking up in Charleston (as a student/transfer-South Carolinian/Charlestonian) for the last time.  I graduated yesterday, and while that fills me with pride in my accomplishments and excitement about starting the next chapter of my life, it has also plagued me with sadness and nostalgia.

I have said goodbye to a lot of people I love and "see you later" to the ones who can never be rid of me,  but I am still grievously sad (as anyone within 40 feet of me can attest - I have cried a lot this week).  Why am I so sad though? This is the beginning of something new, even though it means the end of something beloved.   And then I realized why I am so weepy:

I am breaking up with Charleston.

I took this picture at Freshman Orientation, Summer 2008 :)

I once joked on Facebook that I was "in a relationship with the city of Charleston" and "it's complicated."  Complicated because so many people are in the same relationship, I think. Or because in the summer it gets really hot and smells like garbage and/or fish. Sometimes it's hard to love that. But I did.

In the summer I would joke that I was "in a long-distance relationship with the city of Charleston."   I would start to have dreams about just walking the streets, I missed it so much.  And then a month would go by and it would be time to move back. And I would roll down the windows as we drove into the city and say "it smells like beach" and smile.  And I would unpack and take a walk around the city, wishing on several occasions that it were possible to give the city a BIG I-missed-you hug.  (I had to settle for a lamppost. There was gum on it...)

I haven't experienced very many break-ups, and they have never been too devastating, and I think that's because I have never truly been in love.  Until I moved to Charleston.

I know it's a break-up (and that's why I am so inconsolably sad) because:

• Every song is about us.   (me and Charleston, that is.)  Driving home from my parents' hotel room the other night, I heard two songs on the radio and I wanted to cry.  These are songs that I have heard millions of times before and on the surface have nothing to do with graduating or leaving or anything really. They were:
• Hold on Loosely - 38 Special   "usually it's too late when you/ realize what you had/ so hold on loosely/and don't let go...etc."
• Mr. Jones - Counting Crows  "when everybody loves you/ you can never be lonely"
• thank goodness I didn't hear the Cheers theme or James Taylor or "How Far We've Come" or something otherwise reminisce-y.  Looking at these lyrics now, it seems really stupid, but the other night these songs were about meeee.  And that's how I know it's a break-up. Because I am acting crazy.
• When people say "you can still come visit!"  what I hear is "we can still be friends...."  Visiting is such a hollow mockery of our relationship it makes me sad to think about it. I will always belong here, but I won't belong to Charleston the same way ever again.
• I know that this is "for the best" but I don't care. We will both go on to grow and flourish. But I am allowed to be sad about something wonderful ending. So damn it, I will be sad. 

So goodbye, Charleston.

It sucks to leave you.  I will always have a HUGE place in my heart for you and for the College and all the wonderful people I met as a happy consequence of moving here four years ago.  I will miss you. I will miss the Farmer's Market and praline samples and Charleston Christmas traditions and nuns and church bells and crooked streets and lampposts covered in gum and old houses and boarded-up fireplaces and seagulls and the Cooper River Bridge and horse-drawn carriages and alleyways and the Battery and bicycles and the best cupcakes I will ever eat. I will probably never stop dreaming about walking these streets with the people I love.
Stay beautiful, Charleston.  I will be back to visit (we can still be friends).

I've cried a lot about leaving here, but this morning when I looked out my window I knew it was never a one-sided relationship:  Charleston was crying too.

NYC

30 Rock is filmed in Brooklyn. Sad face.

I just got back from New York!  For the first time in my whole life. Until this weekend, all I knew about New York came from movies and TV.  And in the case of a few of those (like How I Met Your Mother, Friends, Will & Grace, and Seinfeld) they aren't even filmed in New York. Or even on the East Coast.
So all I knew came from

• Jungle 2 Jungle
• Home Alone 2
• Big
• Kate and Leopold
• Someone Like You
• You've Got Mail
• Hitch
• ...I don't need to list these. Just think of pretty much every movie ever made. Except the ones by John Hughes.

Overall, this did not give me a very good idea of what the city is actually like and gave me a weird set of expectations going into this trip.  Mostly that the city of New York exists to be filmed: with wet streets to reflect lights at night and the streets perpetually bustling around a single person as he or she walks slowly, obliviously through them with a look that betrays the fact that their thoughts are far, far away.  Thinking about him. Or her. Or how to keep their superhero costume from bunching under their day clothes.

But surprise(to me)! New York is a real place. That exists. It exists when the cameras aren't there. It exists when the Glee kids aren't dancing around all over the place and the Gossip Girls aren't...gossiping.  So if I learned anything from this trip it's that New York is real and real people really live there.

There are lots of opportunities to take pictures of people taking pictures.

I also learned all those apartments in shows like Friends don't exist. Unless you have a trust fund. Or you're in Brooklyn.


My goals for this trip:

Eat real New York Pizza.

check.

Eat a real New York bagel. 
- Russ and Daughters - check.


Find Bret and Jemaine's apartment.

check.

See a famous person.
- BAM! Saw Brian Williams walking around NBC Studios wearing hipster glasses. - check.

Overall, a COMPLETELY successful trip that surpassed all my expectations and thoroughly exhausted me.

THANKS MALLORY!

running

This summer, I am fighting my inactive tendencies!

Kinda. A bit half-heartedly, to be honest.
I am running.
If you know anything about me, you know that I hate this. I hate running. I believe that it should be used only in emergency situations and as punishment for real sports.  But when a friend asks says "we should go running! At the park!" what else can you do but take a second to consider your slight jiggly-ness and say "definitely!"

On a good day, I can run for about eight or nine minutes. That's right. Minutes. 
On a bad day, I can run for 20-30 before succumbing to my doom and accepting death.  ...there's a story here. Allow me to explain:

Last week, Kala and I decided to run someplace different: a trail by our house that goes through the woods, under bridges, and past the movie theater. We parked and started off down the trail.
We ran, I stopped to walk after my lungs stopped working, and I walked until Kala turned around and we met in the middle.

As we started to walk back, the sky started getting unnaturally dark for 6PM and the air was heavy with imminent rainfall.  I looked up, and thick, dark clouds loomed overhead.  The trees swayed and I noticed a suspicious lack of bird noise.

Storm's comin'.

"Hopefully we'll make it back before the rain hits!" we said.
Hopefully.

The rain hit, hard. Trees thrashed violently. Lightning cracked and thunder boomed threateningly.
But that wasn't so bad. In fact, it was kinda fun to run in the rain. And then the trees started trying to kill us.
It was a bit like that moment in Pac Man: you're chasing a blue ghost and you've almost caught up to it- you feel powerful and like everything is going your way- then (blink) it's pink again and suddenly you're the hunter become the hunted.
The trees which were normally sought as shelter have become the scariest. things. in the world. Like the forest in Snow White, or the poor interpretation of the last Triwizard challenge in Goblet of Fire (where the maze tries to eat Cedric and Harry).

doesn't look so scary now, but just wait till the trees come to life

I would say I ran for my life, but if that were true, my life doesn't seem that important to me. I had already run more than normal that day, and when the storm hit and Kala shouted "let's just run back" over the rain, my reaction was "sure!"  Actually, I believe at first it was "well, the Mythbusters say you'll get wetter running through rain than walking" but this was no ordinary summer rain.  It was no delicate sprinkle, no short-lived shower.  This was a monsoon.  A monsoon that was hurling trees at me like a kid throws water balloons. Except tree limbs don't splash when they hit pavement, they block the trail or fall directly on top of you.

We managed to finally get out of the Death Woods, Kala running the whole way. I stopped twice to retie my shoes and a few times out of sheer exhaustion.  I escaped with only a scrape across my thigh, but I learned something about myself: In the case of a zombie apocalypse*, a visit to Jurassic Park, a mugging, an alien invasion, or a missing-identity spy thriller, I am going to die.  I will stop to rest my lungs or tie my shoes and I will get eaten, or beaten, or shot.
I was also reminded why I will never be Sydney Bristow.

not bad for a summer afternoon.


*the Zombieland kind, not the Shaun of the Dead kind.  Zombieland zombies can move pretty fast (Rule #1- Cardio). In the event of a SotD Z-day, I might be able to survive by hiding and/or using my sewing machine to bludgeon any that come close to me.

back home again

I am back in the ATL for the summer. I already miss Charleston and the people who belong there, but I am also excited for the summer and anxious to have a few months without paper writing.

Right now, I am waiting to go to an interview for my summer internship, and in the meantime playing host to a cable guy drilling holes in the basement. But here are a few gems from my time spent at home so far:

Daniel is overall excited for me to be home and keeps bringing up memories he has of things we have done together that I can not recall as clearly as he can, like

"hey Claire, hey Claire, Claire. Hey. Remember, remember how we used to watch X-men 2 and eat Bagel Bites? Remember that?"

and this also includes

"Remember how I used to have most of my teeth? well look" 

and he pulls back his mouth to show me missing molars.

Ryan may be more entertaining. He and my mom should put on a show.

Scene: My dad and I are deciding what to eat for dinner, and Ryan decides he wants to eat too. Boys.  Ryan comes back from the freezer in the garage with a box of Mozzarella Stix. 
Me: Ryan, those things are like 6 years old.
Mom: No, we bought more. They eat them all the time. Ryan, tell her how many you ate that one time.
Ryan: Claire. I ate 25 Mozzarella Stix. I didn't poop for like four days.

(Mom sizes up the two of us as Ryan helps me move stuff inside)
Mom: Is he taller than you? I think he is. Ryan-show Claire your muscles.
(Ryan flexes his arm)
Me: What is that? That protrude-y thing? Is that even supposed to be there?
Ryan: Whatever it is, girls like it.

And Sean was doing calculus.
But now I am back home with my dog and my cat and the rest of the crew. This should be a good summer. But you never can tell at this point...

when God closes a door, he opens a beach house

It is my final night of spring break, and I am sitting at my computer. But oh, what a great week it has been.

I spent Sunday to Saturday morning at my friend Hannah's beach house on the Isle of Palms. Several things:

1. this was the first year I didn't just go home and veg out on the sofa. Which may have been a mistake because apparently we have a 3D TV now.
2. I was worried that because I wasn't getting a break from the people I see everyday, I would grow to hate them after a day or two of sharing a house with them.
3. The high all week was about 65 degrees. Every time I went out on the beach I had a sweater or a blanket.

don't you want to just dive right in?

BUT it turned out to be really fun.  There were always new people in the house bringing food and games and conversation. I accrued a whole library of new music and made some new friends. And although it sucked to be at the beach and be unable to apricate*, the chill doesn't change the look of the stars at night. 

and here is my latest favorite:




*Balderdash tells me this means "to sunbathe" but my spell check says it is not a word. Dictionary.com confirms it is, indeed, an English word, although the most popular usage was in the 1690s. Go figure.

shenanigans

It's my last day in A-town. So I should be packing right now, but I can't bring myself to do it somehow. Don't worry, I will. Eventually.

The other day, I woke up like usual for work. My alarm went off, ruined my dream, and I fumbled around, sleep-drunk, for the off button. I coaxed my head off the pillow and stumbled through the mountains of "packing" in my room and headed towards the bathroom.

For those of you who know me well enough to have been upstairs in my house (or just those of you who may have creeped up there, or even those of you who I've already told this to) you know we keep our hamster in the bathroom. This sounds weird, I know. But it's best for everyone; if a hamster is gonna be smelly somewhere, it might as well be where it's already smelly. And with three boys using that room, trust me, it's rancid. OK, maybe it's not that bad. It does smell like showers sometimes, which is good. Especially if they use my mango and pomegranate soap and think I don't know about it. ANYWAY. The hamster is in the bathroom. Between the two sinks on the counter.

Also- about the hamster: Daniel bought her. He saved money and begged and begged for one. Mom said if he had enough to buy the hamster and its food, he could get it. We had had hamsters before; a little brown one named Pepper and a black and white we named Oreo for obvious reasons. Oreo was a bitch. Anyway. They both died of the same mysterious eye-popping-out disease at completely different times in our family history. They also both escaped a few times. Don't ask me how. I just know one ended up chewing up the carpet in my closet. It was the bitchy one. So when we tried to catch her she ran all around and gnawed at our hands with what I remember to be venomous eye teeth.

So my mom had one condition when Daniel left with my dad one evening to buy his hamster: "That thing better not have a tail. If it gets out, and it will, I am NOT picking up anything that has a nasty rat tail without whuppah-ing that thing. NO. TAILS." (a note to those outside the family: whuppah is the noise a whip makes. SO there you go.) Daniel, restless with excitement, agrees vehemently, crossing his heart and hoping to die and all that.

Well, a bit later they come home with a little cardboard carrier (which is dumb Petsmart, hamsters eat cardboard. Use your brain) and I'm sure you can guess what Daniel brought home:
In my mom's defense: it is a tail. But Daniel protested that is it a Chinese dwarf hamster, and the tail is really small.

Daniel named her Aphrodite. Eventually, Mom grew to like her.

So that morning, I noticed her food dish was empty and her water was almost gone. I filled them both, with a mental note to give Daniel a verbal lashing for shirking responsibilities, etc.

When I came home from work, my mom called from the living room "Guess what So-and-So said on Facebook: 'you should put the hamster in a plastic bag and keep it in the car' hahaha!" (for those of you who haven't heard The Dead Dog Story, remind me to tell you. The shorthand is this means the hamster is dead.) I paused, trying to understand. "What?!" "Oh. Aphrodite died."

SO. Never feeding a hamster again. But at least she kept her eyeballs. And her dignity. Unless Ethel (cat) dug her up in the back yard...

stupid job

There are about 10000 things I didn't get to do this summer. Usually I am forced to blame myself, my procrastinating nature, for my crippling summer-onset laziness. BUT this year, it's totally my job's fault.

At least that's what I am telling myself.

Whenever I think, OK, need to make a list of all the crap...why didn't I do that already...need INK don't forget INK...I have six more days of work...can I ask for a day off...I need boxes... and all these things begin to overwhelm me, I just think STUPID JOB instead of STUPID CLAIRE. Which is good for my psyche, overall.

But now all the things I didn't do this summer (like watch Pulp Fiction or finish my quilt) are buried beneath all the things I need to do in the next six days. One list is full of regret, and the other is full of anxiety.

I'd better get crackin'.

things that go bump

update: still effing hot.

here's a scene from last night, around 12:14-

It is 93 degrees in this house. Probably hotter upstairs, here in my room. I read for a bit and turn out the light. The fan is whirring loudly at the window, but is largely ineffectual. I twist, and one leg is under the sheet while the rest of my body waits, uncovered, for cool relief.

I force my eyes to adjust to the new world of my pitch dark bedroom. Then, the thought:

With the fan so loud, I won't be able to hear them.

Only I could scare myself so thoroughly and for no apparent reason. Who's "them?" Aliens? Robbers? The family of Cat People who moved into my closet while we were gone? Who knows.

I hesitantly pull my exposed leg under the sheet, for safety.

This is gonna be a hot one.

a typical night home

So I am left home with my brothers tonight while my parents are out at some country club function with relatives. They took the good car and abandoned me with Ryan. So let me tell you what that means:

Ryan is a thirteen year old boy. And for any of you who ever wondered "what is the worst age for a younger brother to be?" you would have your answer in the number 13.
He is helpful and considerate at his best, but usually spends his time farting, muttering sarcastic comments in a stage whisper, or trying to break my fingers.
Right now he is playing a video game. Which means I don't hear much from him except the occasional overly loud groans and the deep thud of his foot hitting the wall. In a while, either his eyes will be tired or he will get fed up with a level he can't beat and he will come looking for a fight. Or possibly to watch Buffy. I can never anticipate which way it's going to go.

Luckily, I also have to pick up Sean from work soon, so that at least adds another element to this hormonal puzzle that could either result in a pleasant evening bonding with my brothers over a movie, or stomping upstairs and doors slamming.

Let's see, shall we?

misc

Ok, I have a few things to say, but none of them are substantial enough for a full post. Here are some things I've been thinking about lately:

THE AIR CONDITIONING IS ON. It's a miracle. Not only can we bake things in the oven again without overheating the house and killing the dog, we also closed all the windows! And that means those stupid birds have shut up. Well, they're still annoying, I just can't hear them as well through a pane of glass. :) It was getting kinda ridiculous. They were talking to me. Their chirping and horny mating calls were starting to sound like real words: one of them always says Germannnyyyy, and one says "shiverme shiverme shiverme timbers" and another says "babysitter babysitter" and then there's one that just copies ALL OF THEM. Doing one call after another, in succession, like the most annoying type of car alarm.


I'm a little bit in love with Simon Pegg. OK, a lot. Watch the show Spaced. I finally did. (hint: it's all on Hulu)


My job is tiring and suckish and I know I complain about it too much. Friday is my first pay day!!! yay. I will make a real effort to not bitch about it anymore because I don't want to be that girl. It's like in high school when I was in orchestra and my friends and I all hated our conductor. We would find ourselves complaining about him on the weekends at sleepovers until we realized "oh no. he won. he's in our heads all the time!" So I will stop. Now.


I'm almost through a book called Name of the Wind, which I was reluctant to read simply because someone told me I'd like it. Which instantly turns me off to it. Except then that someone decided to harass me over facebook and bug me and bug me until I read it. Damn him.


I still have no idea what day of the week it is. When I was in church yesterday, I flipped through the missalette and found out that there are only 9ish more weeks of summer. Which is still a long time.

let me sum up

"Let me explain. No, there is too much- let me sum up."

OK, this is the point I have reached in my summer:

• all my e-mail messages are automated from a scholarship website or schedules from my boss.
• I can't remember what day of the week it is. Probably because I have no weekends anymore.
• I can't remember what I have been doing with myself for the past week (other than work) but I feel like I've been busy...
  
• The air conditioning is still not on- and it's really becoming noticeable.
• I have a routine: wake up, eat, work, eat, TV, read, sleep. rinse and repeat.

My job is both good and bad. Good because I have something to do. Every. Day. Bad because it's a job.

My position as a concession stand operator/spray park attendant has guaranteed a certain amount of yelling. Not AT people, mind you, just in general. Shouting through the concession window, hollering "WALK" at random intervals to reinforce my position of power (because I don't get to have a whistle), and repeating my self over and over telling people where to buy wristbands and that they can't have food or Gatorade. Heaven forbid someone drink colored water in a giant sprinkler park.

My throat has been killing me since my second day of work. And there is no down time to recover. I suggested putting up a sign saying NO FOOD OR DRINK but of course my throat is less important than city budget.

However, I was nervous about taking a Spanish class next semester for my minor because I didn't take any Spanish last year. After a summer at a city park in Roswell, GA, I think I'll be in pretty good standing with my foreign language. I TOLD YOU Spanish would be more helpful than French, sixth grade naysayers!

june!

It's JUNE. One of my favorite months of the year. Warm, muggy, usually full of vacations and no immediate commitments to worry about. This year, all of those descriptors are FALSE. Except "muggy." way to go, 2010.

This June has been wet and stormy so far. No vacations in sight except for the distant promise of a stay in a Gulf Shores condo at the end of July. AND I am working at my lovely summer job EVERY DAY. Every. Day. Monday to Friday, holidays off, some vacation time? NO. Sunday-Sunday. At least five hours a day. Everyday. Including holidays (which are scarce anyway, I suppose).

The only good news about this horrible June is that it is wet, which makes parts of my job easier. Working at a splash park means checking for wristbands; banning food, drinks, toys and strollers; and sometimes (SOMEtimes) shutting off the water due to thunder and lightning. When it rains, there are less people to disappoint when you have to say "no ice cream in the splash park." However, it DOES mean I get yelled at by the people who feel they deserve a refund because of the rain. Too bad. I can't do that, ma'am.

Can't wait till pay day. Only twenty more days.




In unrelated news, I just heard on the 6 o'clock news some GT students were experimenting with some chemicals FOR FUN behind their dorm when they exploded, giving them second degree burns on their chests, faces and arms. Anybody know these guys?

EDIT: I realize that sounds like I said the students exploded. While that would be terrible (and much more exciting) I meant that the chemicals exploded onto them.

fallen leaves down a creek

So far, my summer vacation (this past week) has consisted mostly of hours upon hours of television, even more hours of sleep, and a few interludes with a friend or two. I can not believe I have been home for less than ten days. It feels like years. In a good way. Or maybe not...

I know that if this were all I had to look forward to, the remnants of my sanity would begin to drift away from me like fallen leaves down a creek. Or dandelion seeds in the wind. Or helium balloons into the abyss. I know because even now, after living through one thirteenth of my vacation, I can feel it starting.

The GOOD NEWS IS that I start my job tomorrow. Or today, rather. I take on the exciting position of splash park supervisor/ concessions stand cashier. Huzzah.

I know that after a week or so of that, I'm gonna start to lose it again. And that, my friends, is when I pick up my quilt!

The Lost Continent

I'm back. Now to business.

I've been reading a lot as I've been driving to and from New Orleans and Isle of Palms, and also spending a lot of downtime either on a beach, porch, or atop a mound of unmade bedclothes in the center of the chaotic den of mess that is my bedroom.

I finally finished Bill Bryson's first book: The Lost Continent. and thank goodness.

At the beginning of the summer, I devoured countless books of his; accounts of treks through the Appalachian wilderness or sunburnt Outback. When I began reading Lost Continent, I became slightly put off at his attitude, writing style and general view of the country he was exploring: small town America. At first I thought I had simply had too much Bill; this was the last book of his I was reading, as I had exhausted all the others in the used book store. Then I decided it was his position in life that made him sound different, annoying even. He was fresh from twenty years in England and back to his homeland to gripe about the changes since the 60s and the excessive number of spray cheese flavors. It was also his first novel. Maybe, I thought, he's just more charming as a self-deprecating, balding, old guy. However, my judgement early on began to affect how I was reading his book. My inner monologue became hostile towards him as he described the south as backwards and stupid (how original!) and frequently made up town names that show his general feelings on the area: "[it was] in some place like Firecracker, Georgia, or Bareassed, Alabama." This was dangerous. Once I make up my mind about something, it's hard to stay objective, and once I notice something, it tends to poke at me (like the frequency and consistency of my R.A. using the word 'um' while delivering the fire safety talk: "...and um, if you could um, just make sure you know um, how long to cook your um, popcorn, we'll um, avoid any um, annoying fire alarms. um. um. um."). So, naturally, I began to dislike this favorite author of mine line by line, comparison by comparison, state by state.

Many things that annoyed me I chucked up to being a sign of the times (published in the U.S. in 1989), like his relative lack of political correctness. Perhaps today we're just too restrictive of certain terms, but it still bothers me in any publication to hear Asians referred to as "orientals" or all of latinamericans summed up as Mexican. In Lost Continent, Bryson refers to a college student in the news as "a black." Not "a black person" but: "[the students] were a twenty two year old black from Mississippi...and two white guys from New York." Just doesn't sound right to me.

Bryson goes looking for the perfect small town to bring his British family to, or as he calls it 'Amalgam;' a mixture of all the perfect elements a small town can have that don't actually seem to exist in the same place. Basically he quests after the perfect pleasantville of Leave it to Beaver, or more currently, Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls. In the end, I know from reading his books he ends up living in New Hampshire near Dartmouth. However, in looking for perfection, all he really finds is hatred. His attitudes seem too polar. Either he LOVES something, or it is despicable trailer trash. I do like that he describes Charleston as "perfect" but ultimately decides he could never live there because it is in the South which means upon moving his entire family would become uneducated and start speaking at the rate of dripping molasses. to which i say >:P

Overall, I did not enjoy the book nearly as much as his others (I highly recommend I'm a Stranger Here Myself). I was so eager to write about it, I began keeping a notepad next to my bed to write ideas, or more often criticisms. Among these are bullets like

• more cursing


• less apology for drunkeness??

or "he disses the Smithsonian!"

I can't even rate it. You read it and tell me how you feel.

what ever happened to girl power?

If you ever have any doubts about the whacked out gender roles present in the Twilight saga, see here.

Last night I surfed the web to my fullest extent, using all my resources to find free episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer online. I know, lame. But it is summer and that is just what I do. Besides watch iCarly and sew, apparently. Try as I might, I could not find seasons four through seven anywhere. Looks like I'm going to have to expend energy walking or driving somewhere, or even restarting my Netflix (or sneaking onto my parents') to watch those elusive episodes. Unfortunately, I don't think I want them that bad. Pardon my digression. The point is that I have been craving some vampire slayage lately. While perusing channels today I happened upon our rather newly acquired HBO channels (for free!) and two minutes before it starts, I find the movie: Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Nuff said.
So, of course I watched it. I heated up some leftover mac n' cheese, poured some iced tea and settled down to, well, a rather bogus movie (to use the vernacular of the day, which happens to be 1992). I could blabber about differences, draw up a Venn diagram, but I know no one wants to read that. Basically, Joss Whedon is a genius and somehow turned a pretty comical concept into a kick ass TV series. The keys to this transformation, I believe, are dropping Donald Sutherland (or rather, killing him), changing the actress, and most importantly COMPLETELY redesigning the vampires. Sure, getting rid of the creepy Watcher (Sutherland) who I think betrayed her in the end- it's all a bit fuzzy, and I finished watching it less than an hour ago- was a wise choice but the success lies in the last two components.


Sarah Michelle Gellar is amazing. You believe that she could take down any demony bad guy and still make somewhat witty remarks while doing it. You even don't mind that she's dumb, a trait too many TV characters make a weakness and not an endearing character flaw. You want to be her, or her friend, and you even want to hang out in the library with her and the Scooby gang. She works.

The vampires are of course key to the success of the show. Making them almost goofy with pointy ears and lame hissing sounds perhaps led to the lack-luster ratings on the silver screen. Of course, adding a lion roar and squishing their faces when they "vamp-up" always seemed a bit comical to me, but I wouldn't want to meet any of them in a dark alley. The Pee Wee Herman look-alike from the movie, however...let's just say he got his arm ripped off by a non-slayer. Not so tough.

This brings me back to Twilight. Within the teen romance snow globe that is the "twiverse," vampires that sparkle, don't have to be invited in (uh, he watched her sleep... for months), have color changing eyes like Del Sol nail polish, and who can't be killed by anything except another vampire (or possibly a werewolf that isn't really a werewolf) may seem almost normal. within the gaze of Edward Cullen, all logic and sense melts away. I know because it happened to me. But simply watching this video (top) shows just how much of a creeper he really is. It's quite sad that nearly all of America- or the entire world- thinks he's the perfect guy.

These books, which I enjoyed along with everyone else, display some of the worst gender roles I've seen since I don't know, Wuthering Heights. Bella is the classic damsel, only twice as clumsy and three times as stupid. She fell in love with a vampire. Not just any vamp either, but an overbearing, overprotective, bordering on abusive, sparkling maniac. The fact that so many teens worship him as a character and Robert Pattinson, who represents all the unwashed creepy awkward kids you ignored in high school, is ridiculous.

To sum up, I wish Buffy were still on the air so that these now vampire obsessed teens and tweens could be exposed to a true heroine and positive role model, and not some lusty brown-eyed girl who constantly underestimates her own beauty and falls for the first guy who treats her like sh*t.

afflictions

Summer seems to be the worst time for getting sick. Most of the time it's not entirely physical either. Sometimes summer afflictions last longer than an eighteen hour bug. They can't be helped with medicine or rest or even Gatorade. In fact, summer vacation is often a time of too much rest. I thought I had had my dose of summer illness with that weird food poisoning stint, but apparently not. Instead, I seem to have been bitten by the crafting bug. [insert B-movie horrified shriek]



Indeed. My idle hands are no longer the devil's playthings, as creepy as that sounds, because they are now busy (not with 24-hour blogging, I'm afraid) with the construction of a quilt. I shudder at the domesticity. Two days ago, fleeing the constant chaos of the main floor (more specifically the kitchen), I retreated to my room. I took a step or two in and remembered there was nothing interesting waiting for me. I had the Internet, of course, a TV and a Bill Bryson book (though lately I've been losing my interest. more on that later). All overused and under-stimulating. A quick glance around my room alerted me to the fact that I had been living in a dump for the past month. Seriously. I had been (and still am) living in the discount shopping cart at the front of the grocery store. You know, the one that always has Easter candy and broken candles or 2 dollar DVDs. Of the many things I noticed, a pile of t-shirts caught my eye. I had set them aside at the beginning of the summer due to limited drawer space upon the reentry of my

(Cat in the Hat day shirts ^)

college wardrobe. They all still fit me; nearly every one a size adult small and most of them were free. Even though I regularly donate to Goodwill (and frequently shop there, therefore replenishing the newly vacant portion of my closet), I could not bring myself to give up these shirts. I didn't want someone else running around with my 10th grade orchestra shirt. Or flutter about wordlessly claiming they worked at the Country Club of Roswell in the summer of 2008. I would create an army of frauds! Imagine the confusion:



person 1: Oh, hey. You went to Centennial. Remember that crazy Dr. Bartley? What a troll.

person 2 (aka IMPOSTOR): Uh, yeah.

1: ...and the salt on the football field. Man what a prank. Hey, who did you have for physics?

2: Actually, I just bought the t-shirt at a secondhand store.

1: What? So you lied to me?

2: only in the loosest sense of the word.

1: ... (at this point, person 1 slaps/punches person 2 until satisfied and stalks off, newly disappointed in humanity)



So, you see, I could not release these shirts for the good of the general public. It was my civic duty to collect these artifacts of my teenage life and preserve them in a shapeless lump on my window seat. Yesterday, however, I decided their time had come. So I cut em up, and I'm gonna sew em back together again. In an aesthetically pleasing pattern of course. At the very least it gives me something new to do. I even believe this urge to create is my brain's way of trying to save itself from atrophy. According to an article I read in a woman's magazine, crafts support brain growth and create opportunities to problem solve and hone new or semi-used skills. So there you go, brain. I'm trying. We'll see what comes of this...

"meaningless consumer-driven lives"

As an avid TV watcher and being on break from school (also on break from work of any sort), I find myself most days "vegging out" and watching hour after hour of television. Interestingly enough, vegging has nothing to do with actual vegetables. which I feel is a shame. I love veggies, especially when swimming in ranch dressing or covered in peanut butter. Luckily, I have not come to the stage at which my friend Kala is; that is, watching multiple episodes of Maury per day and memorizing the schedule so she can plan her day accordingly.

In summer watching mode, shows are not prioritized as they are during the school year. For nine months of the year, when all the "good' shows are on, the tivo manages season passes like a TV watcher's personal assistant. Shows may then be watched at leisure and commercials are skipped entirely. During the summer, however, channels are perused again and again, and I find myself watching 48 Hours: Hard Evidence or I become engrossed in an E! THS about the Olsen twins. Again. When I find a show even remotely interesting, which is not very ahrd considering the low summertime standard (past obsessions include, but are not limited to: Dawson's Creek, celebrity poker tournaments, Buffy the vampire slayer and The Price is Right), I normally stay on the same channel and watch through the commercial break. I feel this truly emphasizes the power of boredom, because I would only do this if I were heavily sedated or if the thermostat read over 80 degrees (don't tell my mom, because she'll find a project for me, oh yes she will).

It is during those 30-second segments that I can escape into a tiny, perfect world. If I could live in any commercial, it would be either Garnier Fructis or, of course, Coca Cola. The sheer joy of life depicted in these commercials is almost enough to make me get up off the couch and do something happy. Almost.

summer lovin' (and some hating too)

Most people from the south look fondly on summer memories of their childhood. They recall muggy nights with dusty fans slowly churning the thick wet air and the “symphony” of cicadas and crickets drifting in through the charmingly broken screen of their bedroom window. Some reminisce about playing in the sprinkler or slurping watermelon at a block party. All these are picturesque summer events fondly treasured by those who experienced them and remarked upon whenever the conversation should turn to childhood memories or the upcoming summer season. However, these people seem to always forget some key parts of summer living, like the sound of your own feet melting to hot asphalt or the way a sweat drop meanders down your spine to the waistband of your shorts.

Summer has always been my favorite season, and I believe it is simply because I forget the parts of summer that make me want to scream, live naked, or scratch myself to the point of drawing blood. Every year during the summer, I go nearly crazy. Every year I sit on my bed, sick of the same posters on my walls and disgusted at how my bare skin sticks to the sheets. I revisit times where I have claimed summer as my favorite season and shake my head sadly. What was I thinking? Sure, I love the beach and my birthday and not having to (or being able to) wear itchy wool sweaters. Yet even as I doubt myself and the answer I put on that internet personality quiz deciding which Jonas brother I should marry, I still feel a connectedness to summer that goes beyond my current discomfort. Somewhere in the back of my mind I have a Beach Boys song playing and a flashy Margaritaville sign hung up on a cranial wall. Because, you see, summer is a season that sticks with you (quite often literally, especially if you have leather seats).

Perhaps it is the memories that keep me in a summer state of mind. Positive memories from a young age have a way of preserving an attached emotional state, the same way the ice cream truck still gets your attention. For me, every summer is like returning to your favorite restaurant as a kid and discovering rats in the kitchen and a bug in your salad. Maybe it hadn’t always been that way. Maybe time had slowly faded the paint job and rats had only recently moved in. Either way, you feel betrayed by your memories and sad to be away from such simple, happy times. But you never lose those feelings. You still remember your tenth birthday party and various family dinners. And so it is with summer. I can never forget the times that made me love it, but as of now, I’m sweating at my keyboard and wishing my houseful of brothers didn’t necessitate a full set of clothes.

This may sound depressing or hateful towards this season but it assuredly is not. I simply remark upon these feelings because I find it truly odd how startled I am at this revelation year after year and how it always seems new to me. I find it odd that somewhere between September 22 and June 21 I forget the heat and the trouble sleeping and the feel of sunburn. I forget about flipping the pillow and standing in front of the refrigerator and the incurable laziness. I forget about upper lip sweat and milk jug condensation and mosquitoes (how could I ever forget? But I do). I forget the fact that I am terrified of my ceiling fan. Petrified. I frequently picture the entire apparatus wobbling out of control and soaring through the air to slice open my neck or abdomen or even remove a limb or two. Mostly, I forget the noise. So much noise. At night, insects are the “music makers,” endlessly rubbing legs or clicking abdomens. Many writers equate this noise to song, often regarding it as symphonic. It’s not. It is cacophony.
Human forgetfulness is this season’s saving grace. Perhaps this is true of all seasons. Winter may seem majestic until snow melts in your boots or Jack Frost nips at your nose a little too hard. Spring and autumn have their moments as well, and logically they make sense as someone’s favorite season. Spring brings life and vibrant dewy wild flowers, while autumn throws colors like Jackson Pollock. They don’t boast sunburn or heat exhaustion or poison ivy (a gorgeously itchy plant that rears its head for the summer months). Yet for some reason I cannot switch teams. I am not a winter girl or a spring chick or an autumn babe. I love summer.

As much as I complain about the nasty bits, I truly love these three months. All it takes is a little reminiscing and I pine for summer by October 1st. I remember water balloon fights and the smell of sunscreen. I remember the Fourth of July, summer blockbusters, the cool blast of air conditioning, the healing power of cherry slurpies, beach chairs, sand castles, reading piles of books, unsightly goggle marks, salty hair, and the steady rhythm of flip flops. Memories, both good and annoying, keep summer in my heart. And it’s going to stay there no matter how awful it is now. Maybe this year I’ll write a post-it to myself that says: remember to hate summer. You got 47 mosquito bites.