Dare to be naïve. R. Buckminster Fuller

There are questions that need to be asked and the first one, of course, is who in their right mind would choose to go by "Buckminster"? Makes you wonder what the R stands for. (And I can google it myself, thank you.)*

In a moment of randomness, I posted the following on blue-beta: I need a new personality. Any suggestions? I didn't think about it much after, at least not the posting of the question. I have thought about ways that I need to change. And then twice in one day I was asked what I meant by needing a new personality. One person argued that my personality is fine just where it is. When I challenged him and his lack of knowing my personality, he made a rather convincing argument. Point for him. But I still am making a list of things I need to do/be to like myself better and make myself more likeable to other people. Because I've decided that sooner than later I need to join the world. I've heard that it can be a nice place to live. So the following are elements of my personality that I am changing or need to embrace or whatever. Feel free to make more suggestions; just note that number six is forgiveness, so if I don't talk to you for a few days, I'm working on number six.

1. "Dare to be naïve." A mon avis, there is too much emphasis on knowing in my life. I don't want to be ignorant or innocent and I think I often come across much more than I actually am or know. It's okay to be good; it's okay to have faith; it's okay to hope. At least, that's what I'm going to keep telling myself.

2. "Dare to be vulnerable." This has become the mantra of my counselor. I have to admit that I can't do everything. I have to admit that I can't always be the best or the brightest. I have to admit that at some point in my life I'm going to fail.

3. "Be willing." This follows the first two. I am reluctant to embrace change or embrace situations even an inch out of my comfort zone. Tonight a friend asked what adventures I was planning on having in the next six months. He then defined adventure as stepping outside of my comfort zone. That definition handy, I told him no adventures for me.

4. Make it to number six so that I can list forgiveness.

5. Be more organized. I keep forgetting papers, which isn't like me. Or I just don't give myself enough time, which is like me, but I'm too tired lately to get everything done. Waiting to need number two.

6. Forgive.

7. Forget

8. Remember.

9. Stay connected.

10. Love. Dare to love and to let people love me.


*I looked him up on Wikipedia. His first name was Richard. And this was one of my favorite postage stamps of all time.

Such a good feeling

I woke up late again. So late that neither showering nor make-up were possibilities. I could only wash my face, brush my teeth (it had to be done), grab some clothes, and haul for my car. I arrived to class ten minutes late. I suspect the instructor would be annoyed with me, except I'm the instructor.

I taught. . . something. . . and then went home for a quick shower (still no time to wash hair and I chose not to do my make-up--oddly liberating) before returning to campus to "loan" LaLa my car until five.

What is a girl to do for almost four hours (when I have the appointment that is keeping me on campus)? Well, if you're eg, you people watch.

I'm not usually a people-watcher. Usually I'm a people avoider. I don't like people staring at me, so I return the favor as often as possible. Today is different. Yesterday I had to write the beginning freewrite for a short story to show my 218 students. I've never written a story before. Yes, I'm a hypocrite. So I'm trying to change that by writing my first story. (Do you feel the universe tilting off balance? Just wait until I show up to Fob with prose.)

I surprised myself by enjoying that beginning freewrite. It actually gave me a place to start. But this writing is like jumping in the deep end for me and I've never been a great swimmer. I spent yesterday thinking out my characters. And I continued working today by hitting the library and now the Wilk lounge (by the ballroom).

So now I'm here, watching people, thinking about how one character would wear that or another character would notice that. And I'm watching the dance class. Somehow dance is fitting into this puzzle.

It's going to be a good day. Whether I like it or not. Whether I'm wearing make-up or not. In fact, I've had good solid conversations with three guys I know today. No worries about appearing attractive. Just focused on the conversation. It's an awesome feeling.

But now they're starting the waltz, so I'm going to go.

four brozy

I'm not sure who the true author of this evil is, but right now I get to point my finger at Brozy. (Actually, I was flattered. You like me. . . and I'll stop there, because I like you.)

Four Jobs I've Had
1. MFHD secretary
2. inscape editor
3. file clerk at Wood Crapo (You can play "Find eg's dad.")
4. data entry for the Mormon Literature Database (And you thought imdb.com was cool.)

Four Movies I can watch over and over
1. Say Anything
2. Strictly Ballroom
3. Drive Me Crazy
4. Much Ado about Nothing

Four Places I've Lived
1. [Hometown], Utah
2. Lehi, Utah
3. Dallas, Texas
4. London

Four TV Shows I Love(d)
1. Scrubs (on DVD)
2. Gilmore Girls
3. Full House
4. American Idol

Four highly regarded and recommended TV shows that I've never watched a single minute of
1. 24
2. House
3. Can this year’s Olympics count? (No TV.)
4. Anything else high regarded and recommended in the past year or so

Four Places I've Vacationed
1. California
2. Dublin
3. Hurricane
4. San Juan Islands

Four of my favorite dishes
1. Homemade chicken soup
2. Calypso rice and homemade tortillas
3. yellow curry (by Brozy)
4. Bacon cheeseburger

Four sites I visit daily
1. BYU
2. The Broken Arms
3. The Fobcave
4. blue-beta

Four Places I'd Rather Be Right Now
1. asleep
2. sleeping
3. blanket fair
4. in bed

Four Bloggers I am tagging
1. Mr. Intensifier
2. Master Fob
3. Joe
4. Zero

Trust me. Everyone is less mysterious than they think they are. Claire, Elizabethtown.

you'll do

I feel a little guilty. Oh, let's be honest. I always feel guilty. But a small percentage of my guilt tonight is wrapped up in the following post:


I knew Carbon Leaf would bring me luck. The song "Life Less Ordinary" made me happy and dance-y. Very few songs make me dance-y. Dance, yes. Dance-y, no.

I arrived at inscape a little late tonight. And by a little late I mean almost an hour late. And everything was going just grand. Prose was reading prose. Poetry was reading poetry. Funny how those things work that way. I prepared to be useless for an hour of my life, but it didn't work that way. I was needed. I was needed. I was needed.

To print out poetry and number submissions and drink Diet Coke. It is absolutely necessary that someone at inscape be drinking Diet Coke or else the world implodes. Don't believe me? Well, just take away our Diet Coke drinker and see what happens.

I hate it when a line ends like that.

Submissions printed and numbered and Diet Coke downed, I needed something just for me. So I turned to my CD case and found Carbon Leaf. I wanted "Life Less Ordinary." And since I'm the editor I can do whatever I want. "Life Less Ordinary" came blaring through the PC speakers--tinnily, but blaring.

Enter the boy.

Some of you have met the boy, who will now be dubbed Cute Inscape Boy. My height, dark hair, great eyes, excellent dresser. And apparently good taste in music. He recognized Carbon Leaf and came to investigate. His favorite song on the album is "Let Your Troubles Roll By." He then inspected my CD case, approving of some and asking about others. And I flirted with him. I often do.

And I enjoyed it. But I felt guilty flirting when I feel so terrible. As if I used the poor boy for my own entertainment, a momentary release from my internal hell.


I'm impossible to forget, but I'm hard to remember. Claire, Elizabethtown.

honestly

Listening to The Shins because that's who the cool kids listen to. (And yes, Master Fob, I know that I should be listening to The Fugees, but the mix you made me is clear on the other side of the room and I'm Lazy.)

I've been thinking. Actually, I've been trying to avoid thinking. And there I go again. The point of the point is to say that I know I'm too honest sometimes and I apologize. I'm not sure what part of my reserved little self breaks down when I start writing, but it's always a huge lapse of judgement and discretion, etc. Of course, my mother is always reminding us that if we apologize for something it means we're not going to do it again. And I'm sure there will be a night when I just need to write and it means so much more when I blog as opposed to writing it and saving it somewhere.

Conferences went well today. I like my students. I think they like me. Whole lot of like in the room, people. At least there was. Now I'm in my very cold very alone house. And there's that silly honesty thing again. I'll work on it.

one large cheesy pizza, just for me

I spent the day on campus. Went to class, taught a class, and then seven hours in my box of an office. I managed to effectively avoid the bulk of the day this way. I assumed that if I came back to the house suitably late, the newlyweds would have vacated the premises. No such luck. In fact, my fumbling with my keys at the door was met not by my roommate but newlywed number one waiting for her Valentine's Pizza.

I rolled my eyes at the lack of romantic thought behind said Pizza (despite the capitalization), but thought it sounded perfect for the lonely bitter twisted soul upstairs (i.e., me). So I ordered my own pizza--medium, half green pepper, half artichoke hearts--and started up Elizabethtown while I waited the fifteen minutes necessary before picking the pizza up. When I got the pizza (please note that mine is lowercased), the cashier opened the box to show me my medium green pepper artichoke heart-shaped pizza. Wait. Read that again. Heart-shaped. Pizza. Happy Valentine's Day to me. After a day of avoiding the day, it showed up in my pizza box. Wait. Let's do this right. Pizza Box. Dammit.

Dammit, dammit, damn. And that being said, I'm going to let everything spill out now. I am lonely, incredibly lonely. I love what I do, but it's lonely. Yesterday I sacrificed my dignity and asked aa where he meets the girls he dates. Not that I'm looking for a girl. But I'm looking for someone to be with (preferably male). Someone tall, etc. Someone who respects me. Someone who is independent. Someone who lets me be independent. Someone who will take care of me. Because, to be quite honest, I'm so tired of taking care of myself and everyone else.


I will miss your lips and everything attached to them. Claire Colburn, Elizabethtown.

Valentine

I hate stupid people.

answer: playlist

I was in the worst of funks today. Maybe it was the "mean reds." Maybe it was just me allowing emotion to take over everything. Maybe I can just blame it on hormones. Maybe not.

Saule suggested that I do what he does in a funk--physical exercise. I laughed. Ha ha ha. I tried to find my peace in movies, books, food. Nothing. No good. And then inspiration. I summoned (okay, begged) LaLa from the basement and we began our playlist for the first time in months.

"Someone Like You"
I peer through windows, watch life go by, dream of tomorrow, and wonder why the past is holding me, keeping life at bay. I wander lost in yesterday, wanting to fly, but scared to try.

"Only Hope"
There's a song that's inside of my soul. It's the one that I've tried to write over and over again. I'm awake in the infinite cold, but you sing to me over and over again.

"Written in the Stars"
Is it written in the stars? Are we paying for some crime? Is it all that we are good for, just a stretch of mortal time? Or some God's experiment, in which we have no say? In which we're given paradise, but only for a day.

"Easy as Life"
All I have to do is forget I ever knew him. All I have to do is put my longing to one side. Tell myself that love's an ever changing situation. Passion would have cooled and all the magic would have died. It's easy, its' easy.

"I Know the Truth"
This should have been my time, it's over, it never began. I closed my eyes to so much for so long and I no longer can. I tried to blame it on fortune, some kind of shift in a star. But I know the truth and it haunts me; it's flown just a little too far.

I haven't sung like that in a long time and it was the release I needed. Every pent up thought escaped in the music; every pent up emotion was redirected.

So sing. Sing a song.

The extermes are easy.

Vespers

More than you love me, very possibly
you love the beasts of the field, even,
possibly, the field itself, in August dotted
with wild chicory and aster:
I know. I have compared myself
to those flowers, their range of feeling
so much smaller and without issue; also to white sheep
actually gray: I am uniquely
suited to praise you. Then why
torment me? I study the hawkweed,
the buttercup protected from the grazing herd
by being poisonous: is pain
your gift to make me
conscious in my need of you, as though
I must need you to worship you,
or have you abandoned me
in favor of the field, the stoic lambs turning
silver in twilight; waves of wild aster and chicory shining
pale blue and deep blue, since you already know how
like your raiment it is.

Louise Glück

only one word for it

Every Sunday I check postsecret. I know it's. . . what's the word. . . voyeuristic? but I like reading what other people are keeping hidden. Sometimes the secrets come across as fabricated, but that just gives you an opportunity to consider what that person is really keeping secret.

I checked today and found card after card about love. Which is to be expected. Stupid pagan holiday. But I still read the cards and enjoyed some of them, including the card adorning this post. (Story of my life. I have all the books I need. Give me your soul, please. I'm not picky about condition.)

Love has been on the brain lately. Not just my brain--everyone's. Maybe this is how it is all the time and not just this time of year, but good night. It's taking over conversation, classroom, movie, and worst of all, my poetry. I've resigned myself to living in a lovesick world.

I know this isn't a new concept, but tonight my friend was talking about how there is only one word--love--for so many emotions: ice cream love, movie love, sister love, boy love, God love. They're all different. I love one person differently than I love another. I'll tell you that I love someone, but I would never tell that person.

It's difficult to find yourself loving someone and knowing that they won't love you. It's painful to think that you were "in love" with someone without really loving them. And that wasn't cryptic at all.

And now Rach is here, so I'm not going to explain myself. You'll just have to wait for part two.

crying over spilled coke

I was taking a bath and reading a book and reaching for my can of Diet Coke with Lime and my hand slipped and the Coke went over the edge and smashed on the floor and spilled--shot--everywhere and I leaned forward and looked at the spilled Diet Coke with Lime and started thinking about how I would blog about the brown liquid fizzying furiously and then calming and spreading over the peach-and-white bathroom tiles and how that was the last straw and I couldn't take anymore and I decided to cry right then and there, which is what I've been wanting to do for weeks but I couldn't cry and just sat there waiting to cry and watching the Diet Coke spread to the edge of the tub and the edge of the cabinet and I moved the rug and reached for toilet paper to temporarily clean up the Diet Coke while I finished my bath and I realized that my bath was finished and so was this sentence.

sunburnt

Good Lord for alliance! Thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a corner and cry 'heigh-ho!' for a husband.

Much Ado about Nothing

Have I written this post before? Not this exact post, but something similar. Perhaps last time "sunburnt" didn't refer to an actual sunburn. Today, I'm afraid, it does.

Last year, on a whim, my mother decided that for her birthday we were going to go tubing. Not just drive up the street, find a hill tubing. Soldier Hollow tubing--the kind that would qualify for an Olympic medal (right behind curling). You get hauled up the mountain while sitting on tube that is connected to a tow rope. All this while listening to whatever music they decide to pipe over the tubing hill. "Thriller." The Killers. Country. Christmas music. Whatever.

Last year we had fun. So it became a tradition. This morning we suited up and headed for the hill. There were a few snags, but for two hours we sped down the hill over and over again. It was fantastic.

We brought sunscreen. At least, Dad brought sunscreen. But who wants to smell like coconut in February? Everyone's a little red, but I win. The things people will be comparing my face to--well, come say hello and tell me what comes to mind.

poetry reading

Poetaster Valentines Reading

10 February 2006
7:30 p.m.
2015 JKB

You should come.

aeiou. . . y

We moved into more comfortable territory today in cw theory: Robert Hass's Human Wishes, which is half prose pomes/nondelineated verse, half poetry. Kim immediately asked if I felt more comfortable. I answered as truthfully as possible: No.

I did feel more comfortable, but I've suddenly been paying attention to the aural quality of language. I always have enjoyed it--Kim's poetry, Hopkins, etc.--but I'm much more aware of it now. Last night I left a friend's apartment (yes you know him and yes I'm protecting him from having to confess associating with me) and as I drove away I had a rhythm and then the words to match it. I actually changed destinations and headed straight for home so I could record it before it left. It's this intense exchange and repetitions of words and the meaning is in the obsessing over certain words rather than the words themselves.

So back to class. I do feel more comfortable with Hass's poetry, but I had to switch gears in order to read it. I started out just listening to the words, reading it out loud to find the stresses, the rhythms. Kim asked me to read the first piece in the book, which I did. I used to be scared of reading out loud, of the sound of my voice, the sound of the words. I wanted to leave them on the page. I didn't realize how much I was hurting my poetry to feel that way. Now I just need to find a balance between the aural and the narrative, the sound and the meaning behind the sound. Because I still want the imagery, the ability for connection. Not that aural precludes connection--but if you can do both, the way Kim does.

This post will end on a weak note, but on a nice one. After I read, Zero (the friend formerly known as JeffT) leaned over to tell me I have a nice reading voice. And I grinned, remembering a compliment I received after my reading last semester: someone (who has asked to remain anonymous) told me when they closed their eyes, the sound of my voice was very. . . I think the word used was sultry.

Fits together

After last night's blogging madness, I should probably just rest my fingers tonight and sit in silent contemplation, preparing some magnum opus to someday release on the blogging world.

But I don't want to.

I feel like writing tonight. Not sure what about. How honest do I want to be? And those are wasted sentences--not a single image or concrete thought to hold onto.

concrete = solid
abstract = withdrawn

I should play with those, write a poem. A prose poem, which we don't call prose poems because that is relegating them into a category that doesn't fit.

Fit fit fit. I repeat words a lot. I say this to warn the Fob pantheon of what is coming on Thursday night. Something entirely different. Don't know what's come over me. Actually, I do. Know what's come over me. Damn creative writing theory class. Can't write anything that doesn't sound false anymore. It's all about sound. On the page it looks dreadful. But every sound fits together. Fits. Fits together.

Tonight I got the best hug of my life. It was a terrible dream.

Comment #16

For the creative writing class I team-teach, there are fifteen stock comments that SHowe gave me (and the students) for reading and commenting on poetry. Pearls of wisdom like "Show, don't tell," "Edit--eliminate flabby words," and "What the hell is this?" Okay. I made the second one up.

I have a new one to add. Number sixteen.

16. Stop falling in/out of love and wasting my time, dammit.

My favorite color is Brian

Ring around your finger,
won't you come out and play?

This morning I couldn't shake a ghost from my past. It started quite innocently. I was blow drying my hair in the bathroom. Blow drying my hair and dancing. What is so ghostly about that? You didn't ask what I was dancing to.

I'm so serious, I'm so serious, I'm so serious, so-o-o-o-o serious.

I kid you not. If you're from Utah or Idaho, participated in an EFY, or have been subjected to roommates of a particular nature, you probably recognize this lyric from the USU-based music group Colors. They were, at one time, the epitome of Mormon cool. We sang along. We had autographed CDs. We went to outdoor concerts. We screamed for Ryan and laughed at Russ's white Mormon rapping. And I, I swooned for Brian.

Okay, swooned is probably too strong a word. But he was really cute, played guitar, and had glasses, which a recent survey established as being dead sexy in the world of. . . well, any world really. He was also married, but as this was a celebrity crush, it was okay. Most of my friends had similar leanings toward Ryan--the tall, tan, handsome drummer. Drummer in the loosest sense of the word.

Russ wasn't married, but we didn't crush on him. Poor Russ. Maybe he's married now.

But Brian, Ryan, and Russ don't matter now. All the matters is the music. And my favorite chorus of all time:

No no no, no no no no no no. No no no, no no no no no.

I'm so serious.

These Japanese Knee Socks

"These socks! These Japanese knee socks!"
Kapka

I have no idea how the rest of the song goes, but I now know how Kapka felt when she composed her little ditty to her knee socks. You see, on Saturday, Cinderella and I went on a shopping expedition of the most dreadful kind--the kind where you know you want to buy something, but you don't know what.

My idea of shopping involves wandering through Gap. If Gap doesn't have anything I love, I usually give up. But Cinderella takes more of a gather approach to shopping (see Tolkien Boy's blog. And yes, I realize that I just implied that I'm a guy when it comes to shopping). So Cindy suggested a few of her favorite stores and off we went.

I used to love Maurices as much as I love Gap, but I haven't been for a long time. It's changed. I've changed. We approached each other warily at first. But once the first blush of awkwardness left, we embraced and renewed the old friendship.

That was dreadful, but too entertaining to delete.

The whole point of the post (well, almost the whole point), is that I found two items that left me giddy the rest of the day. One was a wool, herringbone print, red/white blazer complete with elbow patches. Red elbow patches. For $7.50. The other was a long, chocolate brown skirt that deserves its own song, something similar to Kapka's knee socks song. It was so perfect Tolkien Boy noticed (or maybe it had to be pointed out to him), and TB doesn't notice anything I wear ever. (Or any girl, but as always, this is about me. And Master Fob. Did I mention that apparently I'm one of the nuns of Fob? So not fair. And so appropriate.)

Today I was teaching my 115 students about writing their personal essay so that their reader can relate to the student's personal experience. I used the skirt story as the example and asked how I would get [male student] to relate to the story. They talked about making an analogy or a generalization. And I gleefully punched holes in their ideas. Then we talked about the magic of question answer question.

Why did I want a skirt like that?
Because my sister (LaLa) has a white long skirt that I love to borrow and I want one of my own.

Why can't you just keep borrowing her skirt?
I can't. She's married now.

What else changed when she got married?

And suddenly my skirt story isn't about a skirt, but about someone leaving and having to find a way to replace them, which is something everyone can relate to.

I told you I was brilliant, but no, you wouldn't listen. ;)

consider yourself, take two

Last night I blogged a blog that apparently was deemed unworthy of blogdom by the powers that be and disappeared. I didn't delete it. In fact, when I blogged this morning, I was terrified to find it gone. I had spent an hour writing and rewriting and almost convinced myself that I had dreamed that I had blogged. The former existence of that post, however, was witnessed by Lady Jane, Cinderella, and Katya, so at least I know that I'm not crazy. And being in a slightly more stable mood tonight, as well as having some new thoughts courtesy of the day's events, I thought I'd try again, along the same lines, but with a few new twists.

I believe I wrote last night that "Love is in the air. Couples are multiplying. Even my feminist sisters are flirting, etc." Don't think that I'm not supportive of your or anyone else's endeavors towards love. I fully support love and romance and coupledom. In the basement pseudo-apartment of my house right now there is a newlywed couple that I admire for their maturity and their respect of each other, in addition to the fact that they tackle each other every chance they get (no innuendo intended).

That being said, I've begun to think, for the first time in my life, that a relationship is not in the cards for me right now. And for very good reasons. One is my education. The second is that, as I so eloquently put it last night, I'm a mess. I'm not emotionally unavailable, which has become my favorite label to apply to guys; on the contrary, I'm too emotionally available. And while I know that I can't expect to solve all my own problems, I'm not ready to ask someone else to take on the burden of my problems. Maybe I'm selfish, but I like to think that I'm being considerate.

I'm not sure how or when this entered in, but I know I posted last night about that lovely YW adage, Be the person you want to marry, or at least be the person the person you want to marry will want to marry. Katya PM'd me about this and made a very good point: If you become the person you want to marry, then what's the point of marrying him or her? The idea of a marriage is a complementary relationship, which in my case will mean finding someone who can appreciate poetry, but who will (fingers crossed) also like to do the dishes.

So what does hold you together?

So what does hold you together? For me it's the law, politics, the Sixers, and good food.
Simon, In Her Shoes

There will be a whole post coming on Simon. He's joined the ranks of "Why do men like that only exist in the movies?" And I can feel a rant coming on, but I'm going to save it for later.

Let's say you get four things in life that hold you together. I'm sure that some of us have more, some have less. But you can say four. Four things that keep you waking up in the morning or keep you awake at night or just keep you from running up and down the street screaming. So here are my four things.

1. Poetry (writing and reading).
2. Teaching.
3. Family.
4. Music.

Coming up: Simon and men like him.

L*A*N*G*U*A*G*E

I take issue with these people. And if you're not sure who these people are, they are the people who want to prove that language is inadequate for expression by mauling and manipulating it. Or prove that language mauls and manipulates us by being inadequate. Who knows. They don't.

This began on Monday. We were looking at "Tender Buttons" in the infamous 617 class--which I usually love, but on this day, I was just annoyed. "Tender Buttons" is a text by Gertrude Stein in which she privileged sound over meaning in order to create a new type of language-oriented experience. This apparently allows the reader/hearer to experience the language more purely. I didn't enjoy it. The class (meaning the prof and one student who just makes me. . . ) were excitedly pointing out how Stein is removing sytactical hierarchies. But she's not. And I sat there looking at periods, commas, headings, paragraph breaks. They all establish a hierarchy. Which is why I like them. (editorgirl is taking over the poet in me and strangling her.)

The conversation continued on Wednesday with a walk through the breakdown between writing and language that finally collapses under the watchful eye of Derrida. Go Jacques. But under that collapse comes the clean-up crew to reconstruct what has been so carefully deconstructed. I did learn two new words: hypotactic and paratactic. Hypotactic is the hierarchal state; paratactic is a state of equality, which is the goal of the L*A*N*G*U*A*G*E poets.

And then the bomb. Our first creative assignment for that class is to attempt to create a paratactic presentation of language. I ranted. I raved. I frothed at the mouth.

And then I chatted with TO. He used a word I didn't know (strafe), but liked the sound of. And that response to the word was just as valid as my liking the definition of my favorite words. So I have now begun to collect words for this little project of mine. My favorites are pivotal, soulstress, kiss, thumb, tractor, elongate, mercy, beat, accession, ascension, foster, and quadragesimal. If you have a favorite word, please contribute.

What's in a name?

I'm looking around my living room for something to blog about.

Kiss Me Kate. No, sends the wrong message. Kiss Me Cade? Ew. Who would name their child Cade? And have I mentioned I'm biased against all names beginning with C? Chad, Corey, Cade, Kyle. Okay. I know Kyle doesn't start with a C. But Boyfriend 1's name is in there, along with all his brothers. And I strongly dislike all of those names. Except Corey. Corey for a girl, after Corey Flood in Say Anything. Not that I would never name a child after a movie character. A book character, that's a separate issue. I think all my children should have literary names. The list right now is Beatrice (Much Ado about Nothing), Bailey (Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants), and Elizabeth (which is my nom de plume as well as my middle name--so does it still count as a nom de plume?). Apparently I'm having only girls, no man child. (Congrats to the Fobs, by the way.) All the male names I like have connections to men in my life and I have a feeling that any man I marry would have issues with me naming a son after another man (not related). Wouldn't you? (If you're a male. If you're not, feel free to reverse the situation and then proceed to tirade.) Hell, I'd have problems.

I just decided to add the name "Esme" to my girls list. Still no boy names. Except Gideon--which would be after a mentor/professor, so it's still weird.

I do like the idea of having a background to your name, rather than "Mom and Dad thought it was cute/liked it/did it to spite Grandma," which I believe is the reason for the flood of Tiffanys and Tiffanis and Brittanys, Brittneys, and Brittanis I went to high school with. My mother feels the same way--all of our names are laden with meaning and history. This feeling, however, spills over to how she feels about her yet-to-be-born grandchildren (at the rate I'm going, they're going to be a long time coming. Good thing there's LaLa and Jeremiah, and Sven and his waiting girlfriend. And then there's the Jester who at 15 has enough dates lined up once he's turned 16 to keep him busy for a year. That's only about 5-1/2 years before he marries one of them and makes Mom happy). At the top of her list is "Riley," which I insist is a dog's name. She hates the name "Beatrice"--"Bailey" and "Elizabeth" are okay. Maybe I should add Brunhilda to the list so that Beatrice suddenly won't seem so bad.

Go red go red, laugh white.

Points if you know where that quote is from. Triple points if you can tell me why I should care.

And now I'm going to spoil the game. Wait. No I'm not. I'll wait for tomorrow, after I've sat through yet another discussion that leaves me clenching my teeth, and then present my tirade in all its rabid glory. It's fun to be passionate.

That set aside, what to write about tonight? I just spent the evening in the most decadent fashion: watching Twelfth Night with a handful of people whose company I actually enjoy. Granted, some did feel the need to speak over the best lines, but this is to be expected of eccentric intellectuals, or whatever they preferred to be called. I think the strongest aspect of this interpretation of the play is the sympathy shown in the portrayal of the low-brow comedic portion. You feel, or at least I feel, so much more for Malvolio and poor poor Sir Andrew. I tend to get frustrated with Viola/Cesario, Olivia, and Orsino. But the key to all things wonderful is Feste. . . Ben Kingsley is brilliant and he does the songs brilliantly.

And after spending a graph on that, I realize I don't want to write about that. I want to write about my anti-therapy session today. Or at least part of it. But I must away to roommate prayer.

*break for roommate prayer*

So today was one of those days where I didn't think I had anything to say during my counseling session, but I started talking anyway and of course you find out that there are still things wrong with you, and today I found out that my way of coping with my current situation may not be healthy or the right perspective. Which I didn't have to be told and which I didn't want to be told today. I was saying that after surviving a run-in with the seven-year-crush, I realized that who I am comes before who I will marry, at least right now. And who I am is important enough to me that at this point I'm not going to change for any guy, seven year crush or not. I should have just stopped there, but I rambled my way into confessing one of my greatest fears. It's big enough that I'm not going to attempt to include it in this blog post, because it's too big and because I don't want to tell the world yet. Which is odd. I tell you, my reader, everything. Or at least a large, somewhat biased portion of everything. That fear, however, convoluted every healthy statement I'd made, every conclusion I'd come to, leaving me here, still alone and still scared. But wondering if there is a right answer.

Good night.

Coming to a Classroom Near You

After reading Master Fob's post of editorgirl-inspired insanity, I felt so pleased with myself that I have decided to share my own IMI (instructor moment of insanity)--although, today's will decidedly not be appearing in Master Fob's classroom anytime soon. I hope.

Today was yet another day where I went to class without a lesson plan. I'm waiting for someone to call me on it, but so far, nothing. But there is one student who I continue to suspect suspects something. Of course, this could be because he's a rather attractive male and I find myself suspicious and insecure around rather attractive males, regardless of their status as my student, my instructor, my home teacher, my neighbor, my sales clerk, my. . . I'll spare you (unless you were having fun, in which case, be my guest).

So now that editorgirl has permitted herself one awkward instructor admission (and yes, editorgirl recognizes that she has just switched from first to third person--she got bored), she is going to continue her story.

After a rushwrite, a storytelling competition, and general tomfoolery, I began my little lecture for the day about writing and imagery and writing yourself as a character. And there, in the second row of desks, is the RAM, looking very intense. At least, as intense as a person can look in a 115 class. The effect was heightened by his heavier brow--does that image even make sense? It's a kind of less pronounced Frankenstein's monster kind of thing going on--and now you will never again believe my taste in men. (And if you saw my two ex-boyfriends, plus the seven-year-crush, you never would have believed in my taste in men to begin with. Oy.)

All of my rambling here is, of course, to demonstrate today's teaching style. I tend to wind off on various storytelling tangents which endear me to my students but accomplish nothing more. But today, as I was talking and doing the scan-the-room-to-include-everyone head motion, I kept stopping at Mr. RAM. And not because he's a RAM--because he was looking at me so intently. I finally stopped and said--no, exclaimed--something to the effect of "Why are you looking at me like that?!?"

Everyone in that row stopped and looked to see who I was exclaiming at, as I continued to exclaim, "Not that it's a bad thing, it's just unnerving. You're so. . . what's the word. . . just staring and. . ." "Intense?" another student offered. "Yes. Intense. Which is a good thing."

My babbling was stopped by the student sitting behind RAM apologizing. He had been singled out by the other students. "No, not you. It's [RAM]." RAM started and began apologizing. "I'm sorry. I was just listening to what you were saying."

"Well, stop doing that."

I did apologize after class. I guess it's a good thing Master Fob loves me unconditionally, because I am doing my best to scare everyone else away.

Guilt

I have a pile of guilt on my doorstep.

Actually, it's a pile of newspapers I was conned into subcribing to, but it all amounts to the same thing. On Friday, Stellar helped me push the existing pile of papers into the window well; two more have shown up and I just know that they'll spawn and by Friday there will be a new pile of papers taunting me every time I leave my house. Actually, the guilt will overwhelm me to the point that I'll stop leaving the house completely and instead of killing the mice with D-Con, I'll have dinner parties with them and read the same books over and over again (luckily I have enough that they'll be on a yearly rotation) and I'll order breakfast, lunch, and dinner delivery and after a few years, the paper will form a wall (thanks to the non-decomposing plastic bags) around my house and my existence will become merely a legend that the school children tell.

Do you see what guilt can do to a girl?

pamplemousse, or Arty Chokes Three for a Dollar

Macey's and Mentos. I've been to Macey's a dozen times this week and every time I've bought at least three packs of pamplemousse (pink grapefruit) Mentos.

Today I went to buy eggs for brownies. And pamplemousse Mentos. But there weren't any. Licorice, Green Apple, Cinnamon, Sours. No pamplemousse. I went and grabbed a few other things, then returned to the bin of Mentos by the register. I saw a glimpse of pink at the bottom of the bin and started digging. This continued and after a few minutes I had seven packs of pamplemousse Mentos and the bin had none. I walked to the register, feeling quite pleased with myself.

I returned to Macey's tonight after an evening of manic fobbing. Well, it was manic on my part. I actually had the perfect plan to approach Macey's Guy. I was going to give him a flier for tomorrow night's (tonight's?) Open Mic--with my number on the back. And tell him that he should use that number.

He wasn't there. Trust me. I looked. But there was something else--pamplemousse Mentos, three for a dollar.

Tonight I would have rather had the man.

Trivia and Triumphs

editorgirl trivia question: How many times has eg bought herself an obscenely priced meal to celebrate the "completion" of the fall 2004 inscape? And for a bonus point, what did eg buy herself today to celebrate the (fingers crossed) final completion of the fall 2004 inscape? Answers at the end of this post.

Today has been one of small triumphs, although it didn't start out that way and the day is far from over.

I woke up at 7:50 a.m. to my sister telling me I had class in ten minutes. (LaLa had come upstairs to see if she could get a ride to campus). I bolted out of bed, washed my face, told LaLa that her hubby would have to play chauffeur today, grabbed the first clothes from the floor (so not instuctor-appropriate), swiped on some mascara, and headed for my car, which of course was buried under last night's pseudo-snow.

I made it to class by 8:15 a.m. and I proceeded to sit there with a slightly-more-than-blank look on my face until the connection between Wendell Berry and Levinas clicked and I got to play the scary grad student again. Great, great fun.

When class ended at 9:15 a.m. I realized that I had about twenty minutes to figure out what "paradox" was and how to teach it to my 218 students. Oh, and I needed an exercise for them to do in class. So I did what any person in this situation would do--I called my mother. We chatted for a bit and as we chatted, I came up with an exercise that I thought just might work. So I tried it and it worked and then I got to sit back and enjoy the rest of the class period. (Read: party in my head. I went out to the hall to dance for a minute. Seriously.) That, and SHowe told me my outfit was fine for a Thursday class.

That brings us to 11:00 a.m. WIM: Writers Instructors Meeting. Yuck. But today was different. Pat Madden was talking about the personal essay (even though they're getting rid of it next year). And LadyJane was there. And life was good. And then I started writing.

My creative writing theory class this semester is focusing on works that don't fit in prose or poetry--they have features that accomodate or reject both genres. Prose poems, poetic prose, short shorts, etc. And none of those titles really work. But the discussion yesterday opened up a new thought pattern in my head of writing. That, and I had a good IM session with Tolkien Boy last night. If it sounds like therapy, well, it kind of was. I finally realized what it is that I need to do (provided I get up the nerve to do it, I'll explain in the near future). But 617 combined with that realization allowed me to write a new kind of poetry--all the way through WIM.

Basically I'm just happy because this means I have something for FOB tonight. Can't go empty handed.

editorgirl trivia questions answers: You know editorgirl can't count. Who knows? Bonus point: Carl's Jr. Guacamole Bacon Six Dollar Burger. Yummy.

This is the list that doesn't end

I actually made a list of what I was going to blog about today. And lost it. So instead of entertaining/boring you with the details of my day, here is the beginning of the list that InDialect suggested: Top 100 male literary crushes. I haven't even come close to 100, but this is a start. In no particular order:

1. Benedick (Much Ado about Nothing)
2. Fitzwilliam Darcy (I'm surprised you even had to ask.)
3. Buddy Glass (Franny and Zooey; Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenter)
4. Zooey Glass (Franny and Zooey)
5. Thomas Lane (Tam Lin)
6. Barney Snaith (The Blue Castle)
7. Gilbert Blythe (Anne of Green Gables books)
8. Roland Michell (Possession)
9. Theodore Lawrence (Little Women)
10. Dan (Little Men; Jo's Boys)
11. J. Alfred Prufrock
12. Edward Rochester (Jane Eyre)
13. Edward Ferras (Sense and Sensibility)
14. Colonel Brandon (S&S)
15. Mac (Eight Cousins; Rose in Bloom)
16. Lord Goring (An Ideal Husband)
17. Demetrius (A Midsummer Night's Dream)
18. Rob Gordon (High Fidelity)
19. The Speaker in "For Esme--with Love and Squalor"

And I'm out. For the night, at least. I know I should have italicized each of the titles, but I'm lazy. And I know there are more than nineteen. Please add your suggestions. I can't promise they'll make the list, but hey--couldn't hurt.

P.S. They aren't in the right order, but Benedick had to be number one. Find eg a Benedick, and you'll find a happy eg.

Vignettes

His name is "Alex."
I had a rather brilliant idea for a poem tonight at Poetasters. Provided all goes well, it just might premiere at the Valentine's Day reading. There's just one little problem: The poem requires a love interest, or at least a crush, and I am completely without. Considering my life at present, this is not surprising: my male enrollment of my two classes this semester is composed entirely of either marrieds or uncrushables at the present time. And by uncrushable I mean peroxide blonds, pompous, snap-you-like-a-twig, etc. Students, of course, are off limits. My best guy friends are my best guy friends. And almost every other male I know exists primarily in cyberspace. So, no crush for eg, although I am taking suggestions.
I announced this tonight--that I need a crush. To finish my poem. No other reason. And LauLau announced that there's this "goldenish haired" guy on campus who she sees frequently and crushes on. "His name is 'Alex'," she said, complete with air quotes. "One day we'll meet and I'll ask if his name is Alex and it will be." "And then," continues Keller, "people will stop and start singing, 'I've seen that smile somewhere before.'" Keller pauses. "I want to be in the chorus. Can I share in your moment?"

Q-sack
I missed the chance of a lifetime. But it was a chance of a lifetime that I didn't want. Does it still count?

I want to die.
Actually, I don't. But I find myself thinking this sometimes. And then tonight I got another reminder of why I don't want to die.
We have mice at our house. I think I told the mouse-in-the-rubbish-bin story. Well, after that night, we put out D-Con, which is supposed to be a humane way of killing mice. (If humane means not having to deal with their tiny dead bodies.) It's a poison that the mice eat. It makes them thirsty, so they go outside looking for water. The water activates the poison and then they die. At least, that's what supposed to happen. Tonight I came home to find a mouse next to the short flight of stairs between the kitchen and the living room. I personally don't want to die on my side with my legs and arms sticking out in front of me and my tail curled towards my feet. I also don't want my brother-in-law to have to pick me up and carry me out to the trash can.

Metaphors
Actually, they're not metaphors. They're analogies or allegories or something. My therapist likes to tell me these metaphors to help me understand that I have no control over my life. He's told me the vacuum metaphor, the chess board metaphor, the gun metaphor, the bus metaphor, etc. I thank him, and then remind him that this is the reason I come in once a week to talk with him.

InValid
This didn't happen today or even this week. It happened many, many years ago, when editorgirl was just a little girl. She read a book and found a word that she liked: invalid. She figured out what it meant and waited for the perfect opportunity to use it. The opportunity came at dinner one night. But instead of saying invalid, she pronounced it in-valid. Which made perfect sense to her. (Still does, as a matter of fact.)
I feel inValid.

pamplemousse
I am addicted to pamplemousee (pink grapefruit) Mentos. Damn you, Macey's, and your 3/$1 deals!

a post in which eg not only imitates aa's style of titling his poetry, but also writes about the pub while watching Bride and Prejudice

I went to the Pub again tonight to finish inscape. You have to be careful when you go to the Pub on a Thursday night. If you go before 9:00 p.m. you run the risk of being attacked by the Leading Edge. So I patiently waited until 9:05 to drive to campus.

9:13 I'm at the Pub. I park my car at the curb and pull my keys out of my purse. (Naveen Andrews is hot.) I dodge the melting snow falling off the roof. Check the door. It's unlocked. Damn.

There are a few people upstairs. Okay. I don't want to be upstairs. I cross my fingers that my room is empty and head down the stairs, ignoring every stray look I get. Two of the rooms at the bottom of the stairs are open with peoples. The door to my room is closed. I knock. No answer. I assume I got my way--and open the door to find three people. No, not just three people. Three smelly people. Here's a word of advice: If you're in a hot room for a long period of time, no amount of ventilation is too much. (I want random musical numbers when I go shopping. And Naveen Andrews. Or the guy playing Darcy. What's his name? Martin something?)

"They look sizzling, no?"

So the stinky people. And my room. And the only computer in the whole place that will open the TIFF files I downloaded last night. I (nicely) kick the girl sitting in front of my computer out of the chair and the room and begin to count the minutes until they leave. All of them. I'm guessing ten minutes.

Would I be writing this if they were only there for ten minutes? Of course not. They were there nearly as long as I was--more than an hour. (I want an arranged marriage.) And they weren't working on a publication, Leading Edge or otherwise. They were doing math. (Henderson. Martin Henderson.) Since when is the math lab in the Pub? It's not. And will someone explain why they had to be in my room? Grrr.

That out of my system, I'd like to invite you to visit me tomorrow in the Garden Court. 11:00 to 2:00. It's the student journal fair. It would have been nice to know it was tomorrow before this week, but whatever. I made up wristbands, I have submission forms, and lots of candy. (Mmm mmm good. Not the candy. Mr. Henderson.)

Agony of Soul 2

Earlier this evening, Duchess documented the conversation as she hung out with Uffish and me. Every time she published, we became wittier (i.e., I screamed at the computer more and Uffish attempted to console me with Duchess egging us both on). The grand finale occurred after Duchess had published for the last time, so I get the privilege of reporting it.

Ahem.

Uffish: So now "Valentine's Day poem" is code for "Merciful heavens, that sucks!"

And with that excellent segue, I would like to remind everyone of the two major poetry readings coming up. The first is a week from Friday at my house. The second is the annual Poetaster Valentines Day reading. Not sure what day--probably right before the day of love commences.

I'm trying to decide how I feel about Valentine's Day. For the longest time, I had this idea in my head that there were a few special days of the year: Valentine's Day, New Year's Eve, my birthday, and Columbus Day. (Just kidding about my birthday.) And then I met this little man named reality. We first ran into each other when my boyfriend informed me that he had a blind date. On New Year's Eve. Then we bumped into each other--not at Macey's, as you'd expect, but actually over the phone--when my second boyfriend broke up with me two days before Valentine's Day. Since then I've lived those two days like every other day.

But I'm still holding out for Columbus Day.

Back to basics

After too many hours, I've discovered that it is much easier to give a check plus to a rushwrite than it is to give a grade out of 5 for a poem. And so I'm doing what I always do when things get rough--running away. But since it's late and I have no desire to get dressed to go out (I was going to say I have no desire to put a bra on and then realized that was way too much information), I'm running through my head. It's exhausting. Not much in the way of scenery. But it's an interesting trip.

Scene one: His office. Not "his" as in a romantic-y "his," but "his" in a respectful-therapist-I-want-him-to-solve-all-my-problems-even-though-I-know-it-doesn't-and-won't-work-that-way. Usually I sit on the ugly and uncomfortable couch, somehow ignoring the large, deep, cushy, leather recliner to my right, but now I'm sitting in the armchair so that I can "relax" (this is why I don't sit there in the first place). Deep breaths, eyes closed, that type of thing. My legs are crossed and my arms are folded. I wonder if the notes he takes down are about what I've said or about my posture. I really just want the answers, but instead I'm given myself.

Scene two: This summer. I choose the day of my uncle's funeral, although he's my great-uncle and I once asked him in front of my friends if he was my Uncle Don or my Uncle Dan. He was Don. I always felt a little guilty for that moment. It's also the day that my brother is going into the MTC. I'm sitting with my immediate family--somehow we wound up very close to the front--and everyone is watching us cry. My dad is speaking, even though it's my mother's uncle, and asking Uncle Don to help Sven on his mission. I want that, I do, but everyone is watching me cry and I feel guilty because it's not for Uncle Don or Sven. It's for Trent, who I still don't feel I've had a chance to mourn. I'm imagining his funeral, wishing I had been there, instead of this funeral for a man I liked but never really knew.

Scene three: Teenager. As soon as he says the word, I know where I'm about to go. Sitting at my desk in my basement room, no windows. Doing homework with the radio on loud enough to ignore my mother but quiet enough to hear the doorbell ring. It's dance-asking time and I know that I'm going to be asked this time around as I do my homework. I can see the lined notebook paper, see the pencil (I must be doing math), see the end of my ponytail hanging down over my shoulder. The doorbell doesn't ring.

Scene four: I'm told to find an image of me in my childhood. I look and find a few, but they are inconsistent, rather blurry. Blonde hair, glasses. Books. Always books. And as I write this, I remember an argument on the playground about the pronunciation of my favorite characters in my favorite series, which shall remain nameless.

All these girls are connected. They are all me. And somehow this idea of me is connected to the images they know and are resurrected by, not the depression or the anxiety or the fear. I can't let it best me. I can't and I won't, even though some days I want to.

inferior

Confession: I'm typing this during Poetasters. Because I am a brilliant multitasker and if I don't blog now, it's not going to happen. And because I didn't bring anything. Again.

I am in a foul mood tonight. Big fat surprise. And I have a roast waiting at home. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. Domestic Editorgirl. Careful--she's copyrighted.

Question (because I don't dare cut off Will): Can the amateur poet honestly feel justified in disappointing the expectations of his audience without supplying something equally brilliant?

Was I allowed to speak then?

Home from Poetasters. I give up. But at least I missed speed sk-dating. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The World's First Manned Flying Desk Set: A Diatribe (of sorts) in Three Acts

Act I. The Grandmother
Scene: LaLa and Jeremiah's Wedding Luncheon. I'm sitting where I belong--the siblings table--when a woman sits down next to me who does not belong there. She's Sherlene, Jeremiah's grandmother. I greet her, then turn my attention to Marzipan, who is sitting on my left and making the difficult decision between chicken parmesan and stuffed shells. That crisis resovled, I turn to my water glass and find myself cornered by the Grandmother. We exchange pleasantries, and then she pulls out the big guns: her grandsons, several of whom are still (surprisingly) single. There's Sean, who's going to business school. Nathan, who just got off his mission, but he's so mature. (Yeah right, lady.) The catch: all of these boys are outdoorsmen who need high-energy women in their lives. Oh, and did I mention they look nothing like my comparably handsome brother-in-law?

Act II. Moonlighting on the Palace Steps
"So I told him, every girl is a princess and she needs to be treated like one," my (former) roommate explains as she tells me about the boy she's dating. I listen attentively, as I always do--with one ear on the conversation and one brain cell trying to figure out how I can someday be the one telling the story. And another brain cell beating the first brain cell senseless, reminding it that I'm not interested. I'm happy. I like teaching, research, grad school. To hell with men. Off with their heads. And all that good stuff.
And then I come home and Cinderella and I list of our top five turn-on/turn-offs. (Kind of like the clapper.)

Act III. Forthcoming and Fortnightly
This weekend is LaLa and Jeremiah's open house. I'm supposed to go and smile and interact with people I've never met and never wanted to meet. The Grandmother will be there, this time with the Grandsons in tow, not just verbal descriptions. And somewhere between Act I and Act II, I've spent more time than I'd like to admit telling people--home ward, student ward, classmates, professors, relatives--that I'm single. Single, single, single, and thank you for asking. I'm getting tired. You know how when you write a word over and over again or look at it too long, you can't tell if it's spelled correctly? Well, I've said "I'm single" so many times, that I'm starting to wonder if that's the right answer. So here's my solution: I'm going to pay a guy to date me in name only. I'd prefer that he not be at BYU or live in Utah for that matter, but that won't necessarily be a deal breaker. I've consulted my finances and, provided that I cut out all late night runs to Wendy's, I figure I can pay him about $37.50 fortnightly. And then, this weekend, when the Grandmother attacks, I'll be ready.

Threatening your (my) reality

I was reading through old blue-beta threads this week. I do that when I want to create a new thread, so that I don't drag up a topic that has been done to death. In November, Katya created a thread simply titled "reality." The idea was to list what your current/future significant other has/will have to put up with from you. I made my list almost immediately. Then Tolkien Boy created a complementary thread--"optimistic reality," listing what you would bring to the relationship. That list wasn't so easy to create; in fact, I never posted it. But (thank heavens) perceptions change and so do lists. I'm going to continue on this thought, but first, my reality list and my optimistic reality list.

1. My alarm goes off multiple times in the morning--the norm is about two hours.
1. I can and will wake up when something is important.

2. I watch movies to unwind or rewind.
2. This means I own a lot of movies. Renting is rarely necessary.

3. I will spend money on 1) books, 2) movies, 3) music, 4) food, and 5) you.
3. Let me rephrase that: I will spend money on you. You and food. You, food, and music. You, food, music, and movies. You, food, music, movies, and books. But you will always come first--and not just when it comes to spending money.

4. I cannot/will not balance a checkbook. Nasty things.
4. I will, however, be aware and respectful of our financial situation.

5. I will not ask you after a movie what you thought. I will, however, tell you what I thought and expect you to jump in.
5. I will go see pretty much any movie, provided your arm is available if it's scary.

6. Same goes for plays/dance concerts.
6. I don't expect you to see every play/dance concert with me.

7. If you don't like movies/plays/dance concerts, you may leave.
7. Um, yeah. What she said.

8. I come with family and family issues.
8. My family is pretty much awesome. If you and I get along, you'll be fine with my family.

9. I will not look like my mother when I get older. I'm sorry.
9. That being said, I'm already attractive and women in my family do age well.

10. I am a mess, but an organized mess. Touch and die.
10. I will respect your messes--or organization--or both.

11. I will occasionally write about past relationships. This is not a reflection on you, it's just good triggering towns.
11. I never stay true to reality in my poetry, so don't worry.

12. I'm going to get a PhD. If this bothers you, you may leave.
12. I don't expect you to get a PhD. This has changed from a year or two ago. For years, I just assumed that I would marry a lawyer. And then it morphed to "professional degree seeking men only." And now all I care is that you are passionate about something, regardless of your degree. Oh, and that you respect my passions and education.

13. I can't count. This may explain number 4.
13. You will always be able to tease me about this, if nothing else.

14. I strongly dislike nicknames. (LadyLondon and editorgirl are exceptions, but unless you were in on those before we became "we," ne touche pas.)
14. I'll never call you "babe" or "sweetheart" either. "Hon" will occasionally happen.

15. There are more. A lot more. In fact, I am going to write a book. Which reminds me--don't bother me when I'm writing. Don't hover, don't think I'm going to pause to acknowledge you. Just let me write, dammit.
15. I swear. And I don't mind if you do. In fact, I'll probably like you all the more.

She cleaned the mirror.

Be a good nerd

Of course I shouldn't be posting. I should be in bed, asleep. Perhaps I can calm at least 57% of your motherly instincts by telling you that I am in bed, posting. Yeah--whoever decided a laptop was a good idea for me wasn't too smart.

But now that you're all here, I'd like to begin the meeting. Hey! Over here! QUIET! Look everyone: this is Quiet Coyote. His mouth is shut and his ears are listening. I'm not kidding, Kapka. Quit smiling. Now for the agenda.

1. Where the hell is Sarah?
2. Give me the damn pants.
3. It's a tradition; I've been rejected traditionally for the past 23 years.
4. Enough drama.
5. Take K out and you take out the fun.

This is not supposed to be a weepy post. In fact, I suspect that I will circumlocute all possible topics of weepiness. Or not.

The trinity met for the last time for the next nineteen months. I suppose it's blasphemous to think of us that way, but there isn't another word that matches what we are. Triumverate? And that's as much as my brain can handle.

I feel responsible for many things tonight. Things that aren't my responsibility. TB would point me to my corner of the triangle to sit and consider what I've not done if he were here, but he's not. Instead it's just me and this funny feeling in my stomach that feels like guilt. Or it could be that I didn't eat much today.

I don't know what to do. And I wish that someone would just tell me. TB and Master Fob came very very close to telling me last night and I obeyed, to a certain extent. I know how to handle most situations, at least most situations that I can logically assume I'll find myself in (watching Lost tonight with Uffish causes me to question that statement). I don't have the answer for this situation. Is it to become someone else? Is it to ignore whatever it is I feel? Am I overdramatizing this? Am I overanalyzing? Should I even give a damn?

Played True Colors tonight. It's amusing to find out what people think of you. Even more amusing to find out what you think of yourself.

1238

Class is over. Has been over for over an hour.

I took dancingqueen (my laptop) to class today, hoping to teach them the joys of BlackBoard 6. I set it up early, to make sure that it would connect to the internet. It did and in my crazed dance of victory, I turned on some music.

The class stopped talking and stared.

"What kind of music do you listen to?" one of the young men asked.

"Um, indie, classic rock, whatever," I answered, reaching over to forward the CD to something a little more conventional. Or I thought it was conventional. It was Postal Service. More blank stares.

"Okay," I said (a bit confrontationally, I'm afraid). "Come up to the board and write what you'd rather be listening to." Blank stares, blank stares, and oh, blank stares. "I'm serious. Get up here. There's three pieces of chalk."

Finally a few started moving to the front of the room. "This is your rushwrite for the day. If you want credit for being in class, come write on the board." Finally I had all 21 music preferences up on the board. I used them to put together the brochure groups. Clever? Maybe not. But definitely (or defiantly) entertaining.

0950

I am about to go teach 115. I should be working on my lesson plan. I should figure out what I'm going to teach today, preferrably before I get to the classroom. From where I'm sitting in the TNRB atrium, I can see at least five of my students, also waiting for class, all assuming that I have something to say.

And no, I haven't called him. Yet.

(End of post. Cliffhanger. Crappy one, but still a cliffhanger. I'm the next Stephen King, I am.)

stupid movie

My life would be a stupid movie simply because I'd be a crummy main character. You're at least supposed to feel something for the main character, right? I wouldn't be likeable. I'd be irritating. Take tonight for example:

Editorgirl drives up to a house in her car, Muffy. We don't know why the car is named Muffy, but that's its name and we except such monikers in this world. Editorgirl turns off the car, but stays inside for a moment. Is she collecting her purse? Herself? Or just waiting for a song on the radio to end? She climbs out of the car, at first gracefully, but her purse catches and she ends up in an off-balance tug-of-war with the car to extract the beige vinyl bag. She regains balance, adjusts her coat, buttoning the last button, and closes the car door, locking the car as she walks to the house.

Once inside, editorgirl is greeted by TB, Master Fob, FoxyJ, SBoogie, Bawb, Duchess, and Ambrosia. It's Ambrosia's house and Ambrosia is preparing curry and rice. There is a fondue pot on the table, with slightly bubbling chocolate inside and a stack of various dippable foods outside. Editorgirl joins the group, greeting everyone in return, and takes a seat next to Duchess on the loveseat. Don't get too excited by that name, because nothing happens. Our main character sits still so long that we begin to wonder if the tape is broken, repeating itself as she nods and laughs at the conversation. The only convincing proof that the tape is, in fact, intact, is when editorgirl gets up to serve herself curry (which is heavenly) and to dip squares of cream cheese into the chocolate (which is a different but no less valid type of heavenly).

Editorgirl bids farewell to Ambrosia, Duchess, Bawb, and Asmond (who showed up late and therefore gets mentioned late) and walks to her car with TB in tow. They drive to Master Fob's house, with editorgirl taking the longest route possible. Music plays on the radio and the conversation is entertaining, but generic.

As the Fobbing begins, the Fobs (writing group, not the family) welcome a new individual--who has yet to earn his online moniker. Because there is a new member, the Fobs introduce each other, interrupted by goodnight hugs and kisses from SBoogie. Cuteness ensues, courtesy of our guest star.

Fobbing comes in short bursts, as editorgirl is in turn apathetic, intense, cruel, and hesitant. She, of course, feels guilt for all these emotions, but still enjoys the evening's Fobtacular Fobtacular. As the evening winds down and the risk of "Fernando" blaring from her cell phone decreases, she turns on her cell and hears the ascending tone that indicates she has a message. Master Fob and TB watch as her face registers disbelief and then panic.

Stay tuned for the sequel, crappy movie 2, in which eg agonizes to the point of giving herself a headache. There is no rest for the pathetic.

And that's why no man will ever love me.

Happy Friday the 13th.

Let it be known

I am a wimp.

What we are not

I seem to have spent today defining things by what they are not. I'm going to go in reverse chronological order, because I just returned from inscape where we came up a plan to take over the world . . . I mean, advertise for this semester.

inscape is not a professional wrestler.
inscape is not a broadway musical.
inscape is not a goat.
inscape is not a hair gel.
inscape is not your mom.
inscape is not an online dating service.
inscape is not a jamba juice flavor.
inscape is not a ____________.

inscape is BYU's creative writing journal.

Don't worry--we only used one of the "is not" phrases for each poster, followed up by what inscape is. And for those of you wondering and too lazy to hunt out a poster, the deadline is February 7.

On a more serious note, my creative writing theory class spent the hour (and fifteen minutes) defining poetry and prose, primarily by what they are not. And of course, you find that the definitions have blurred--while there are polarized works that are obviously prose or poetry, there are more and more works that occupy the space between prose and poetry--prose poems, short shorts, poetic prose, narrative poetry, etc.

I started playing with this idea in my head. I don't know how it will develop--poem or maybe I'll get crazy and try creative nonfiction (which apparently and unfortunately not hyphenated). It's always easier to define something by what it is not--it's easy to define yourself by what you're not. Which leads to the more important question: why is it so easy to see what we're not and so difficult to see what we are? I'm tempted to start a list, but I think it would distract me from what is important. And by me, I mean you. You, who I am not.

Would you erase me?

I finally saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Sven was right--I loved it. I would watch it again right now but I'm so tired. Why am I always so tired lately? I don't understand. But bed is coming sooner than I'd like it to.

I thought about creating a thread on blue beta about what memories you'd erase if you could. But the whole point of the movie is that memories are important--I'm not so tired as to miss that. Part of me desparately wants to be Clementine or Joel or a combination. Part of me desparately wants to be myself. I wonder how much of myself I've put away this past semester, along with memories that I thought were about pain and disappointment and embarrassment. I don't like to appear foolish or wrong or whatever. I can't imagine that anyone does. But would I discard those experiences, those memories? No. Because, as someone pointed out to me today, I have been successful because I look at both the past and the future. I have been successful, but I have also been lonely and, well, paranoid. I don't think that's too strong a word.

Things are going well right now. Too well. I'm waiting for everything to fall apart. Waiting to realize that everyone hates me or my hair is falling out or my car is wrecked or something has gone terribly wrong. I anticipate these things so that I know how to handle them when they happen. They never do--life manages to find things that I haven't thought of before to throw in my way.

This thread isn't going the direction I planned. I wanted to write about those memories that define me, those memories that put me together. And that, given the chance, I might be tempted to erase.

Winter 2006 Stupid Comment Number One

To my 115 class: "My name is [editorgirl], by the way. (beat) Not Bytheway. [Editorgirl] comma by space the space way period."

Stupid Mormon culture.

Everything's better in London

Things that are better in London include

• chocolate
• candy (primarily Starbursts)
• Nutella
• sandwiches
• vocabulary
• theatre
• accents (it's a win-win situation--they think our accent is cute, we think their accent is sexy)
• McFlurrys (completely serious. why would I joke about such things?)
• book stores
• transportation

The only thing not better in London? Men. Call me crazy, but I prefer a good ol' American lad. I mean--boy.

The Cast

editorgirl. The star of our show. Kind of. This is a show where I stand back and look and watch and then write about it. But what you read is what I get. Does that make sense? Probably not. I'm never going to write about the mole over my right eye. I will write about my hair. Let's see. What else is important? I'm excessively aware of things--most of the time. And because of that, I have to present them here or I'll go crazy. Maybe I'll go crazy anyway, but I'll have fun doing it.





This is LaLa (on her wedding day, if you missed the dress.) Jeremiah is somewhere behind her. LaLa is often the girl I want to be but never am. And then other times I just have to be grateful I'm me. She's my best friend, despite our opposing tastes in music.








I know it would make sense to comment on the "real" person in the picture, but that just leads to conversations about what reality and perceptions really are. Simply put, that's Mom/my mother. The other person isn't a person. It's a life-sized cardboard cut out of George W. Bush with a picture of my brother Sven's head pasted on. I know it's sick and wrong, but look at it this way--it meant we got to cut George's ears off.

This is the Jester. He's hot and he knows it. I'm converting him to scarves; in return, he's learning Death Cab for Cutie songs on his guitar.

This is Marzipan, or Marz for short. I gave her her nickname when she came home from the hospital. My mother hated the name immediately. Too bad. Ultimately, everything is about Marz.

Provolone, or Alone in Provo

Title courtesy of AA and his comments on my favorite kind of cheese.

"Be subtle, mysterious, seductive. (laugh) Why don't men come with instructions?"
The Mirror Has Two Faces

He made the joke, it required a post. But it's scary how appropriate it was--is. The joke and the post.

Today officially begins round two of my Alone in Provo year. LaLa and her (now) husband are now safely removed to the basement. My new roommate--who has yet to earn her online moniker--spent most of the evening on the phone with a mission buddy and left early this morning. I got ready (I'm just going to add that I looked, and still look, fantastic today) and headed to campus to teach my class.

I was hanging out in the TNRB atrium before class and noticed a guy and he noticed me. The next time I saw him, he was sitting in my classroom. Oh well.

My first class of the semester of was creative writing theory with KJohnson. KJohnson and four guys. That's right--with the exception of the professor, I'm the token female. Since when do English classes have a token female? But I'm excited for the class and am anticipating it making several appearances on the lifestyles of the alone and boring. We're going to be looking at and talking about texts that fall somewhere between prose and poetry. That sentence looks and reads dully, but if you know me, you know I'm excited about it.

AA offered lunch and I accepted, so we headed for the CougarEat with JeffT in tow. This doesn't sound very Alone in Provo, does it? Wait for it. On the way we ran into someone. And here comes the AiP part. I'm terribly attracted to him and I have no idea what to do about it. AiP indeed. AA told me to play the game. I have heard of this game, but as with most sports, have chosen to ignore it. No idea what I should do. And does anyone ever win? Because I don't like to play if I can't win.

Ah well. Pass the provolone.

My morning: A story in two parts

I. First class of the semester. I'm teaching in a closet, I have a student that insists on being called Kramer (why does every male with that last name go by it?), and many more that go by their middle names. I had a roommate like this. Her name was Marcy, but her full name was Jessie Maria Marcelete Young. Honestly. If you want your child to go by a certain name, give them that name.

On the plus side, I had a few students who knew who John Cusack is this time around. One of them even named Better Off Dead. He's my favorite student.

II. I am a creature of habit. When I get on a computer, I check my blog, check my BYU account, check my hotmail account, check blue-beta. In that order. The only possible interruption is when I do the blog run through (start with TB to MF to FJ to AAM, etc.) Today, however, there was another kind of interruption.

I checked my blog, my BYU account, and then logged on to hotmail. And my brain turned off as my stomach started churning and my heart started. . . doing something akin to churning. There was a new email, from BF1. BF1 got married this summer. There was no subject heading, just his name in the sender information. I finally clicked on it, to find it a simple mass email notice that he's changed email addresses.

Why do I do this, every time? And by every time I mean with the two guys I've dated and a few others I wish I had? After it's over, I can't handle contact. I get sick to my stomach, nervous, and start lurching towards a panic attack. This is one of the big reasons I haven't dated much--my emotional well-being can't afford another person on the planet who I might run into when I go shopping in Centerville. And when I meet a guy I could be and should be and just maybe am interested in, I can't do much about it. Because I see the end before the beginning (Is that what qualifies a lunatic, SC?) and talk myself out of it.

This post has no end, because I have no idea how to end it.

At the end of the day

So the question that seems to be on everyone's mind: Did editorgirl survive yesterday? And I know the quick witted will reply, Of course--she's posting, which means she's alive, which means she survived. Those who know eg, on the other hand, will think that, but not say it. (They won't?) No, of course not. They'll wait to hear the words from the editor's mouth. (And what a lovely mouth it is too. Haven't seen it? We've got pictures.)

Did I survive? How did the day go? What do I remember? What am I going to write Sven? All imporant questions and necessary to sustain life. (Quick--name that movie.) But I'm not going to answer them. Because I'm not thinking about yesterday.

I'm not thinking about standing at the back of the crowd when my sister came out of the temple with my new brother-in-law (yes, everything is about me. Me or Master Fob.) I'm not thinking about how I unsuspectedly grew tear ducts and was hastily wiping away tears because I was worried about my mascara and my reputation. I'm not thinking about how my grandmother noticed, and then my mother, and then my sister, and finally that new brother-in-law of mine. I'm not thinking about how I completely ruined my New Years Resolution to avoid all physical contact via hugging.

I'm not thinking about picking the Jester up from his high school with a bag of clothes for him to change into, not thinking about him reading Sven's toast, not thinking about how charming he looked in his tux or how Marz looked ages older than everyone else or how she caught the bouquet (or rather tug-of-warred it away from the sister of the groom).

I'm not thinking about how I sat next to the groom's grandmother during the luncheon. I'm not thinking about how I heard about every available grandson she has and even met a few (Sean needs an active, smart wife who loves the outdoors--um try again later, lady). I'm not thinking about how at the reception I finally told my great aunt that I'm dating someone, just to stop hearing about how "we need to find someone for eg." Since when is the experation date age 22? (Although, confession time: I did run across the street to the mall today to try on Happy. I'm so pathetic.)

I'm not thinking about how Cinderella (not dressed in yellow) showed up to rescue me, just as my great aunt was beginning to explain the pain in her back. I'm not thinking about how we escaped to the alcove with my cousin Eric to chat or how Eric becomes quite entertaining when you get him away from everyone and get him talking.

I'm not thinking about. . . well, a lot of things. What am I thinking about? About my mother's baby grand and how I run into the damn thing every time I pass it.

The Waiting Game

Marz and I (plus our cousin Kimber) went up to the temple to see LaLa and Jeremiah come out. (The Jester had to go to school--or wanted to.) I don't have much time to elaborate (I left pictures early so I could write without my mother freaking out too much. LaLa and my father, on the other hand, understand that this is the only way I'll maintain my sanity today.) So, in the words of Visa:

one wedding photographer for one hour: more than anyone should get paid for doing anything
one digital camera in case the photog doesn't get everything: a lot
one wedding dress: more than your life is worth if you get grass stains on it
one bracelet to match the funky earrings that match your funky jacket: $7 (Please note this is my mother, not me.)

The look on Uncle Steve's face when his English MA niece knew who Vince Young is: priceless.

P.S. Did I mentioned that they're now married? And her hair looks fabulous.

Rise and Shine, Campers!

Good morning. Welcome to the day of. I'm going to try to post whenever I can today to keep a running total of the day's insanity. This is primarily for Sven, although I'm sure my mother will request a copy (which will be edited) and then it will get passed around to the family. Because let's be honest--everyone is too stressed to pay attention to what's going on.

5:55 a.m. Not every entry will start with a time, but this one has to. Because this is when Marzipan's alarm went off. Let's review. LaLa is the bride. Marz is the little sister. Why was her alarm going off that early? I'll tell you: I don't know.

One of the top three I-will-be-annoyed-at-you-for-an-unreasonable-amount-of-time offenses (in my book) is turning off another person's alarm. So I put the pillow over my head and tried to ignore the incessant beeping. I had it muffled out pretty well when I heard another sound. "LaLa. LaLa. You have to get up." Marz had set her alarm to wake up LaLa. Unfortunately, she thought I was LaLa. (For the record, I'm not.) I pulled the pillow off of my head and looked at her outline. "I'm editorgirl."

"Oh." pause "I thought LaLa was sleeping up here."

"She is."

"Then where is she?"

"In the Jester's room."

"Oh. Okay."

Marz left to find LaLa and I settled back into the covers, ready to sleep for at least thirty minutes. And then: "EG! EG!" I considered not recognizing her, but I rolled over again to see LaLa at the edge of my bed.

"Did Marz find you?"

"Yeah. Can I have a razor?"

"I left them on the bathroom counter." So that you don't have to wake me up.

"Thanks."

"Welcome." I start--again--to let myself sleep. And then: "Oh. I'm going to wake you up in twenty minutes to help me with my hair. Is that okay?"

Let's face it. I was awake. Actually, you don't have to face anything. As I'm writing this, you're probably still asleep. At least, I hope you are.

Growling at my reflection

By this time tomorrow night it will all be over. By this time tomorrow night my sister and then-brother-in-law will be hiding out in some hotel in Salt Lake. By this time tomorrow night I will be passed out on the LoveSac. (Yeah right. I'll be online, hoping that someone else is awake and alone at 10:52 p.m. on a Friday. Which never happens.) And this time tomorrow night I'll feel very differently than I do right now. I hope.

I've had it to here (imagine hand held wherever you think my limit might be) with family and wedding and dogs and whatever. I don't know if I'll survive the night without causing some sort of minor scandal. (Which would fulfill TB's pre-break request.) If anyone wants to come and watch the incredible shrinking editorgirl, email or PM me. There'll be cake.

Today. Today I spent cleaning bathrooms, hunting down ties (Melyngoch was right--DI is the place to go--of course, we're usually right), and writing quotes in the guest book to "personalize" it. About halfway through, I realized I was personalizing more for me than my sister. I started with Much Ado: I love you with so much of my heart there is none left to protest. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably. Of course, this one comes later in the book. I also used DPS and "The Book of Love." And it's made me want an occasion to write these type of quotes for myself. Pa-thetic, I know. Pathetic.

I'm now going to go shave my legs and then stay awake imagining that someone is telling me I have nice eyes.

Chelmsford

I was preparing to clean today, which requires music. I decided to see what the Jester had around, and I found Chelmsford. My mother was in the hallway, so I held the CD out for her to see.

"Do you know what this is?" I asked.

"Three. Times. Lucky," she said, reading the label, and adding, "I'm glad all my children have such nice handwriting." (It's true--we do.)

"That's the name. But do you know what this is?"

"One of Sven's groups, I guess."

"Nope. It's one of his mixes."

This means nothing to you unless you know how seriously Sven took--takes--his mixes. Hours are spent compiling the perfect blend. And those hours are honored by giving the mix a decent name: Three Times Lucky, Educating Archie, etc., and, if it's particularly good, a "band" name, in this case, Chelmsford.

Finding the CD led to a brief discussion about my brother. I know people tend to idolize brothers on missions, but we idolized him before he left. My mother made the comment that it must be scary for LaLa's fiance to join the family with Sven set up as the paragon of all things male. Which isn't to say that he's hyper-masculine--that's part of the reason we adore him. He's an excellent dresser, tall, thin, looks good scruffy and clean shaven. He has brilliant taste in music and movies. He's learning about literature. He's also just plain brilliant. His plan in high school was med school, some type of surgeon. He's now considering law. Not to mention that he's been considered the family scriptorian since he was seven or eight.

Welcome to the family, Jeremiah. Good luck. (Support group is on Thursdays at 3:00.)

A new list

Things I am trying not to resent.

* The bed I am supposed to be sleeping in smells like my sister's fiance. Ew.

* The glow in the dark stars my brother stuck on the ceiling years ago resemble something disturbing.

* I never went to a formal dance in high school. I want the dress. And the updo.

* My mother never taught me how to use make up or choose perfume. She taught my younger sister, who I watched and finally asked for help.

* Not being a brunette medievalist. (Luckily my better half has this covered.)

* He's married. He didn't even have the guts to tell me he was engaged. Jerk.

* Did I mention this bed smells?

First things first

I was going to let another day slip by without blogging. Who needs it when you have my fabulous social life? (For those of you uneducated in sarcasm, that was it.) But when I arrived home and prepared to tumble into bed, I found LaLa in it. I was bugged at first. I was tired; I wanted sleep. But then I realized something wonderful had happened. She has my bed. Which means I get hers (queen sized bed, own room, in the basement, away from my mother's sensitive ears). Which means at least a few hours bonding time with dancingqueen.

And what am I doing with all this free time? Making lists, of course. I'm surprised you even asked.

List 1: Errands for tomorrow.
1. Order "masculine" flowers for the Jester.
2. Go tie shopping. Start at DI, move on to TJMaxx if necessary. Make sure not to tell Mom that I am planning on wearing the tie to the reception.
3. Pick up flowers.
4. Help Marzipan with her science fair project. Oy.
5. Read books for 218. Oy times two.
6. Find quotes for LaLa and Jeremiah's book. Argue that classic trumps cheesy.

I'll spare you the other full lists, but they include "People I enjoy hugging" (rather short) and "Movies I need to see, but will be unable to with an RMS roommate" (rather long, beginning with Fight Club and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind).

And in other news, I got into and excited about football tonight. This hasn't happened in a while. But I was cheering for the underdog and they did what underdogs do best--won.

When you have to be pretty

I am currently "surfing the crimson wave." And I'm not referring to a sports team. When I told my mother, her comforting comment was simply, "Well, it will be over by Friday, when you have to be pretty."

I couldn't remember what Friday was.

My sister is getting married that day. I'm a bridesmaid. I get to be the "mature" bridesmaid, which means my attire leans towards business while the sisters of my sister's fiance attire will lean towards floozy.

I told my mother that no one will care what I look like on Friday. She then informed me that I could invite someone to join me at the luncheon and the reception. A date. I tried to explain that I'm not up to subjecting any of the guys I know to that kind of torture. She just doesn't get it.

In other news, I have spent too much time Fobbing. Translated, I have been making (weak) Your Mom jokes with the Jester and cracking up at innocent statements that are laden with potential. And I'll leave it at that.

I never said thank you for that

A sudden need to write. A sudden need to listen to Death Cab for Cutie's "The New Year." In a house of DCFC fans, can't find the song anywhere. And Sven's pre-mission CD collection is now verboten. Life is hard.

I'm home again. I've tried to ignore the fact by--you guessed it--sleeping. And then sleeping some more. Movie with LittleSister. And a realization that the family must be given 'nyms if I'm going to go on discussing them with you.

My parents can continue on as Mom and Dad, or my mother and father, as needed. My brother on a mission is Sven. Sister getting hitched on Friday has been known as Sister, but this all changes as of right now. She is now LaLa and her fiance will be Jeremiah. The singing wonder, also known as the womanizer and my 15-year-old brother is now the Jester. And the baby is Marzipan. The baby is also 11-years-old. The dog can continue to be the dog.

Saturday night, aka New Years Eve, has mostly dissolved into this dreamlike haze and I'm not sure if it all really happened. I told my mother I had to pay to get 24 people into the house. In reality I just offered food and conversation with other people. It's amazing how if enough food and conversation options are presented, people will take care of themselves. It was a fun night. A long night. I'm still exhausted. (Of course, that could be the meds. The warning label says something like, "May cause drowsiness." Sleeping the majority of the day away counts as drowsiness, right?)

And now, in place of Resolutions, which I am determined are bad for your health, What I Learned on the Last Night of 2005:

1. A young child can make any party that much better. (Many thanks to Master Fob and FoxyJ for bringing S-Boogie. And that child can boogie.)

2. Hotessing and poker are not a good combination. I couldn't concentrate on my hand long enough to do anything worthwhile. Mad props to Duchess for rocking the game. And props to Thirdmango for being such a good loser.

3. Real food trumps desserts. I'm glad it wasn't an evening of brownies and cookies, etc. Although now I have insane amounts of chocolate because we had to hide the lot of it from S-Boogie, who still managed to find piece after piece.

4. I will never play Petra in any form of Scrabble. I like my pride where it is, thank you.

5. I like people. And hugs. I'm starting out slow, though. Right now the short list is very short: Fobs only. And two-year-olds. (And the Jester and Marzipan, but they weren't there.)

6. The shortest distance between a crush and me is not compliments, but the dishwasher.

7. I'm out. Not of things to be happy about. Or good things about that night. But the final thing on this list is "Never regret your folds."