Poem of praise/prays

Possible ode topics
April
april
cupcakes
the girl who used to bake cupcakes like a mad woman
the guy who sits in front of me in my contemporary literary class
Mater Fob (wonder where I got that idea)
my mother
Statler and Waldorf
John Cusack
Anonymous, phunny Phanny, and Kapka for their responses

I've spent the evening and now today trying to think of a subject for an ode. And I think part of the problem is that, in a way, every poem I write is meant to look at the subject from a critical perspective. Very rarely do I write a poem of praise, because well, they usually turn out very bad. Very very bad. (Add intensifiers to my list.)

On a less personal note, but still important, is that I think poetry is no longer the place for a proper ode. Watching New York Doll last night, about bassist Arthur "Killer" Kane was, in fact, watching an ode. Film is a more appropriate medium for an ode because it's able to more effectively present someone.

Which reminds me: go see New York Doll. I'll go with you. It was a little heavy-handed in places, but it really was a beautiful/brilliant piece.

od

It's a terrible thing to realize one must write an ode for the morrow and having nothing to ode about. At such a crossroad, there is only one thing to do:

go see New York Doll.

the difference between light and dark

It's one thing to think/logically conclude something. It's another to internalize/believe/accept that same thing.

I've been oh-so-slowly reaching the conclusion that 1) I'm okay with who I am, 2) I want a PhD, and 3) I'm okay being single. And in my head it all makes sense, but I'm having a hard time getting the rest of me to believe.

Courtesy of Library Communications (darn them)

Students speak out: featured in reading series

Three graduate students will be the guest speakers at this week's English Reading Series, sponsored by the Department of Humanities and the Harold B. Lee Library.

Once every semester, several students from the English Department are featured among other renowned authors and literary experts from BYU and abroad. On Friday (November 18) at noon [eg], Joseph Plicka, and James Dewey will read their own works in the Library Auditorium, and those in attendance might be able to one day tell others they heard them first.

Budding author [eg] could tell you that she loves London, the month of April, contemporary poetry, theatre, John Cusack, and the Muppets. Or she could tell you that she prefers the name "editorgirl," a story she just might tell if you come to the reading.

Joe Plicka teaches English 115 and is writing a novel for his Master's thesis. He recently won the Carolyn Barnes Poetry Award for his poem "Why the Virgin hangs in my bedroom."

Because James Dewey enjoys sound, he writes songs as well as poetry. He is currently working on a Masters degree in Portuguese, writing a thesis on Noemia De Sousa, a poet from Mozambique.

In my defense, I did not give them the phrase "budding author" (who would?) and it was "april," not "the month of April." Oy. Good thing no one will read this. Oh wait. . .

empty

I should be reading Slavoj Zizek's The Sublime Object of Ideology. I can only define two words in his title. (Hint: one is an article, one is a preposition.) Actually, I really enjoy it when I'm reading it, at least compared to Benjamin or Levinas, but then I put the book down and can't remember what I've read. It's an exercise in futility, one that I will be repeating until 3:00, when class starts and I sit in the back row, staring at the beautiful head of the tall, beautifully-dressed guy who sits in front of me. But for the next eight or so minutes, I'm going to let myself blog.

Thank you for all the congrats. I really am excited to teach 218--although I'm terrified of teaching short fiction. I don't write short fiction; I don't have the attention span. What I am is a very good reader of short fiction (of anything, really, as long as it's not Zizek). I'm hoping that will carry me through. Oh, and that Master Fob and Tolkien Boy will let me ask stupid questions when they're discussing each other's fiction. (My comments are usually "Wait. Do we know this character?" and "Hey, TB, you missed a comma." Actually, it's usually, "TB, get rid of this comma. It's unnecessary.")

In other news, there is no other news. My visiting teacher (who I suprisingly like) stopped by for a chat yesterday. She kept asking for news and I kept telling her I had nothing to tell her. My life is school and teaching and whatever movie I choose to anesthetize myself with. (Last night it was The Company. I love dance movies. This makes no sense. I can't dance. Much.)

I've paused too many times and am reaching the eight minute mark. Nothing profound to say. Only that. . . ooh. Final story of the day. SH (my 518 professor and the professor I'll be TAing for) thought that my poem "things incommon" was an Icarus poem. I actually liked the idea--I've been thinking about wings, courtesy of Miss K--and so "things incommon" is currently an Icarus poem. I'm taking it to poetasters tonight. Fingers crossed, they'll trash it and it will become something real.

you missed a spot

I've been absent a few days. Not that anyone said anything, but I felt it. This strange emptiness. . . my need to blab on and on about the most banal things, aka my life.

So what happened? A few things, beginning on Friday, post-post. (ha ha ha.)

1. I found out I'm reading at the English reading series this Friday. Yep, I'm reading my poetry to a bunch of strangers. (Unless you come. Friday, 18 November, noon, HBLL auditorium.)

2. I had an email from my poetry professor, with a postscript asking me if I had checked my box that day. I hadn't, so I raced to campus and found. . .

3. a letter telling me I had received the first 218 internship. This means I'll TA next semester and (if I do well) have my own class next fall. 218 is a creative writing class. Creative. Writing. Oy.

What came next was 1) excitement and 2) a whole bunch of guilt. I knew that getting the reading and the internship meant that my friends who had also applied didn't get them--and I kind of wished they had the reading or the internship.

I didn't want to blog about it, because I knew at least one of those friends reads this blog. And I wanted to tell that friend in person. And it was really really really hard. And yes, Tolkien Boy, I'm excessively fond of intensifiers.

I've been rocketing back and forth between excitement, guilt, pride, fear, and annoyance (this one due to my family's reaction) all weekend. Which resulted in friend abuse, etc. And now blog abuse. And now I'm going to post what I wanted to post on Friday:

Everyone is invited to the English Reading Series graduate student reading on Friday, 18 November 2005 at noon in the HBLL auditorium. Joe Plicka, who is brilliant, will be reading. Oh, and me too. Oh dear.

Nothing but blue skies from now on

The white night is over. I apologize for that post. I apologize, but I'm going to leave it there as a reminder to me, because I really did feel those things/that way. And sometimes I need to say it, not dwell on it, and then go to bed (which I did).

Today, however, thus far, has been smashing. I woke up, got ready, and taught class. It was a fun class today, which is always good. We got off on multiple tangents, but I'm learning to structure my class to allow for those. And in the midst of tangential conversation, I can tell that they're getting what I need them to get.

That being said, I'm turning them into DC addicts. Which is wonderful. Yesterday I showed "Math Lab" and "I Like My Women" before class (I sometimes will turn on movies as they're coming in to loosen the mood) and then we brainstormed research topics from "Modern Dance." Today we talked about voice and I still had the DVD in my bag so we watched "Mother Goose." When it was over, my students called for more. I told them they could either do what I had planned for class in class or take it home as homework and watch a clip. We watched "BYU Kind of Life."

There is nothing quite like this BYU kind of life

baby.

are u ok?

How are you tonight?

And they all turn to look at me, like a divided Cerebus, staring, waiting. And I can feel--literally feel--my eyes not quite fitting the sockets and I can tell that they might care, not just be waiting for a response. But I have to give them one. And what do I say?

Fine, thank you. I'm just sitting here, patiently waiting for the work to begin that I came for.

Fine, thank you. I was just wondering how you were.

I'm fan-tast-ic, so carefully enunciated you believe me.

Or do I say that I'm exhausted? That I feel foolish and not intelligent? That I talked to my friend on the drive over, to my dead friend who I don't even know if I have the right to talk to. That I am missing a key part of myself so much I can't respond to them tonight. That I am alone, always. That I am tired, no matter how much sleep I get. That I have ceased to do what I've always existed for. That I stole her idea of wings and stapled them to my back only to discover they were only feathers and wax and are melting against my skin. That I don't dream and I miss that interaction.

But I am fine. Busy, but fine. Tired, but fine. Fine. I'm fine.

visualization and al-lusions

Actually, this post won't al-lude to anything. I just wanted to be clever.

The visualization technique is still working. I've been falling asleep and staying asleep, which is wonderful. I also feel like I've become less productive, but have decided my health is worth it. Anyway, Miss K asked about it and I have yet to get through the whole thing before I fall asleep (isn't that wonderful?), so instead of reading Zizek, I'm going to let you in on the secret.

Visualize (that means imagine) a room. It can be any size, any shape (mine is always round). Choose a color for the walls--or a different color for each wall. It's your room, you can do whatever you want with it.

Furnish the room, but sparingly. (Okay, that's what the lablady told me. I always have huge bookselves climbing the sides of the room a la British Museum Reading Room or Trinity College's library with a few paintings and a small writing desk.)

There is one chair in the room. You decide what it's like, how big it is, where it is, what it's made of, if it's even a chair (I thought about a LoveSac one night, but it just made me miss BetsyJane). Once you've designed it, sit down.

The wall you are facing has been removed and there is a huge picture window. What are you looking at? The mountains? The beach? Editorgirl?

And suddenly you are dragged out of your visualization to reality. Sorry--it had to happen. You're not in bed right now, preparing to go to sleep. You're in class and you need to be paying attention. Or S-boogie is clinging to the back of your chair, waiting for you to read to her. And she is much more important than this blog. Go read to your child.

one to grow on

happy blogday to me
happy blogday to me
happy blogday, dear eg
happy blogday to me

cupcakes are forthcoming

This desk set wants to fly.

After a rather traumatic Sunday, which I can't remember if I al-luded to on my blog or not, I've been mentally reassessing my life and what I want.

I want to write. Not Write, but write. And publishing would be wonderful, but I'd rather help other people get published. I want to see other writers succeed.

I want to get a PhD in English literature.

I want to teach and research at a university.

More specifically, I want to teach contemporary literature, more specifically poetry and drama.

I want to be a theatre critic. (Some of you might be saying, You want to be Claudia Harris. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.)

These are my top five right now. Somewhere down the list are "I want to date, fall in love, get married, raise a family," but that isn't my focus right now. (Insert Trentian comment about how I'll change my mind next week.) Also on the list are traveling, learning more about Bollywood, living in London, studying at Trinity College in Dublin, etc.

I just want to live. I'm sorry that this post isn't comical or anecdotal, but this is what is in my head. That these are the things I want to do and these are the things I will do.

And someday everything else will happen.

sweet dreams

Yesterday I made a trip to the Stress Management Biofeedback Lab--which is as scary as it sounds. After talking about how my schedule must be stressing me out (thank you Captain Obvious), the lablady started giving me advice on sleeping. She starts talking about this technique "which is called (grand movement of the hands) Visualization." Yes, I know what visualization is. Yes, I have a decent imagination. Let's do this (the room was dim, warm, and there was "soothing" music in the background. I just wanted a nap). Instead, she gave me some additional advice of things to do just before hitting the sack that would not cause my mental or physical exertion. You know: reading a (fun) book, reading the scriptures, writing in my journal, writing a friend or "a loved one who is far away," writing poetry, medit--wait a minute. Did she say writing poetry? As an activity that demands no mental exertion? And reading? Good night.

I managed no greater reaction that nodding. . . the entire time. And then was hooked up to multiple (read: two) machines to measure tension and anxiety, or something like that, while she played a tape to lead me through a relaxation/visualization technique. I was doing an excellent job of relaxing until the end. She showed me the numbers from the machines--there was a sudden spike of anxiety. I knew exactly when that happened. It was when the man on the tape unknowingly offered a rhymed couplet.

After all this, I decided to try it last night, at the detriment of my homework. I wrapped things up 30 minutes before I wanted to go to sleep. I got ready for bed. (I admit that I hadn't completely stopped my brain--I keep revising my DC review in my head.) I dimly lit the front room and read "The Materialization of Cecil." And then I climbed into bed and visualized. And I slept. It was fantastic.

Eye Candy: The DC review

For those of you who want to, head to www.divinecomedy.net/board. Or you can just read it here.

Going to the late Saturday showing reminded me of the delicate balance of the circle of Divine Comedy. Well, not so much a delicate balance as the rampant insanity that ensues in the last show. Each month’s series can be expected to follow this pattern:
First Friday show: funny, but the cast might still be a little shaky on their lines and experiencing a wonderful case of nerves
Second Friday show: funny, funny, funny. The cast knows that they can do it and they nail just about every sketch.
First Saturday show: About the same as the Second Friday show.
Second Saturday show: Having reached this point, the cast again experiences a wonderful case of nerves, but this time as in “You’ve got some. . .” Which is wonderful to watch if you know the cast and Divine Comedy. Can be a little unsettling for first-timers though.

And now I will quit preaching to the choir and do what I do best: write another chapter of my dissertation.

The cast has achieved a sense of unity and balance that wasn’t there in the last show. Perhaps it was the influence of Yoda and company in the “Mentors” sketch, which was quite possibly my favorite this time around. That being said, I was enjoyed watching cast members working outside of their (or what I perceive to be their) comfort zone. Fingers crossed I’ll be able to point out some of these as I talk about the show.

“Freshman Nights” was excellent for two reasons. The first, of course, is that it was a fun, high energy number that involved the entire cast. The second reason was that the dialogue preceding the song was just as witty/intelligent/funny as the song itself. Matt’s letter took a very close second to the song itself (and Joel’s dancing was a distant third). I am going to qualify my praise with a few thoughts, however. One: the problem with a show-stopping number is that it, well, stops the show. In prepping to write this review, I remembered liking the sketch that followed (Clean Flicks), but I couldn’t remember what it was. There’s no real solution to this, other than having FN as the final number, which would change the traditional DC format. Two: just like “Freshmen in the Night” last time, I couldn’t hear all of the lyrics. Part of this was the overpowering (male) backup singers (who were wonderful). The result: I have “hum ha hum. . . dance, awkward romance” stuck in my head with no idea what the rest of the line was.

Next on my list of “things I want to talk about”: running gags. The highlight by far was Mr. Teacherson. I was glad to see him return and I hope we get to see more of him. Teacherson in high school, in college, as Joel’s supervisor snatching his hat away on the job, and finally, Mr. Teacherson in the rest home. It was nice to see it come out in other sketches (Mentors and Hillary Potter are the two I’m thinking of), but they came significantly later in the show than Mr. Teacherson. I’m just hoping the audience caught on—because it was brilliant.

The other returning character, Steve Erwin, I wasn’t as excited to see. (Although the rest of the crowd disagreed with me.) It’s probably just that I’ve never actually seen his TV show and am an undercultured, uneducated idiot. But it just wasn’t as exciting/funny as last time. At least not until Matt slithered into his snake act and delivered his line. That was beautiful. And an example of a strong ending, which I understand is hard to pull off, but some of the sketches were hilarious, but then had nowhere to go. Speaking of “ADD Judge,” it wasn’t obvious that he was ADD until the title went up on the web page—he was just some weird guy who couldn’t pay attention, which is the stock, stereotypical definition of ADD.

I was glad to see more of the cast being used in the different sketches. Paul was great in (what I’m thinking as) the “Closed for devotional 2” sketch, the Clean Flicks sketch (“The French have clothing-optional beaches. We don’t believe in options.”), and Halestorm meeting. Actually, everyone was wonderful in these sketches. It’s difficult to single out particular performances because cast members were used well. Although, I’m going to guiltily admit, that I missed the Ultimate Latin Lover (was that him in “Sitcom”?).

Having said that it’s difficult to single out, I’m going to tally up some of my favorite “little” moments of the show: Lisa sitting on the silver platter and her amazing half-time (that was impressive), Mary in “Divine Dorm Design,” Jono as Yoda and in “Freshman Nights,” Hillary in “The Ring” and “Saving Seats,” Joel as Kirby Heyborne (or was that Kirby Heyborne as Joel?), Taylor in “Sitcom” and “Freshman Nights,” Will in FN, “Sitcom,” and the lawyer in “ADD Judge,” Trevor as Teacherson/Snaperson, Matt as Cecildore (that hat was awesome), and Paul in the above.

I’ve review-ed myself out. That and I’m getting funny looks for laughing in the office. Thank you, Divine Comedy.

For Kapka

Item: leaves in the gutter.

After two hours of raking and bagging, my arms and knees and back weren't too happy with me. (Yes, I am a wimp.) Sister had come home and was helping me bag the pile on the strip of grass by the street, but we still had the longer part of the strip to clear. (What is that strip called anyway?) There was already mass amounts of leaves in the gutter in front of our house--I swear the neighbors pulled out their leaf blowers and just shot everything to the front of our house. I decided that a few more leaves wouldn't be too noticable, so I casually pushed the leaves off the strip and into the gutter--stopping whenever a neighbor came out of their house. It was noticable. I didn't care much, but then I had a stroke of brilliance. When I left to run an errand, I made it a point to drive through the leaves in the gutter. Genius. Pure genius.

Yesterday, with white space

Item: one leaf rake.

In order to avoid the wrath of Sister, I cleaned the bathroom. In order to gain the good approval of Sister, I decided to rake the yard, which was covered in enough leaves to make driving up the canyon a redundant activity. Two hours and eight garbage bags later, the yard was (almost) leaf-free. In the process, I wrote about ten posts about the experience. This will suffice.

Item: one editorgirl.

Item: four FOEGs (a term created by Master Fob, to stand for Friends of editorgirl, in this case, Master Fob, FoxyJ, Miss K, and LadyJane).

Item: one Divine Comedy show.

I will be writing a review of this occurence, but I will be leaving the following out of the review: 1) I was hit in the head by a flying piece of candy. Twice. Once in the right eye. 2) My dear friend who opened the show was being quite wonderful until she announced the opening prayer, given by one editorgirl. I froze. People gasped. And Master Fob stood up to let me exit our row.

I don't pray in public. Even when "public" is four people I know very well. This isn't because I don't pray. It's because I dislike the vocabulary and register requisite in public prayers. Hence, the shortest prayer ever offered in public at BYU was offered last night at DC.

I am still recovering.

Item: one digital camera.

Post-DC, Miss K, Kapka, and LadyJane joined me for a few hours of chit chat. In the course of the evening, we wound up on the couch. Miss K and I have been trying desparately to get a picture with Kapka, so Miss K went for her camera--no battery. I went for mine--no film. Finally, Sister produced her digital camera and much picture taking commenced. As demonstrated by the following:

And pictures would be here, but blogger is being mean. Will figure it out and then everyone can see our fabulous selves. Maybe that's it. We're just too sexy for blogger.

Nah.

Did you watch the sex scenes?

I'm sitting in my darkened study, basically eavesdropping on my roommates and their boyfriends and their friends in the kitchen. They're talking movies--oy--and one of them mentioned that her boyfriend (husband maybe?) rented three movies for her birthday: Million Dollar Baby, The Life Aquatic, and The Notebook. His excuse for the last one was that it was her birthday and he needed to rent something "girly." She had no desired to see The Notebook (right on, sister suffragette) so they watched the first two, but then the truth came out--he really wanted to watch it.

So they watched it. At which point in the story, Roommate's Boyfriend almost eagerly asked: Did you watch the sex scenes?

I'll pause to let you hear the white space.

This post was slated to be an exegesis of "Grocery shopping with Andrew," but as I have great faith in the intelligence of anyone who regularly checks my blog (and I don't feel like exegesis-ing right now), this is going to be my Blessed English Reading Series Post that occurs every once in a while.

Today's reader: Lance Larsen. Pause to prepare yourself.

I may have blogged this before, but I have an LL (Lance Larsen, not LadyLondon) complex. I've had him for a workshop before, he knows who I am, he stops to chat with me in the hall, etc. I'm completely comfortable chatting with him about anything, including poetry. But after I stop chatting, leave his office, walk in the opposite direction, etc., I freak out. Because that was Lance Larsen I was talking to. He's one of my favorite poets. The way that Kim Johnson makes me all tense inside and sitting on the edge of my seat? Just the opposite--I can relax. I can slowly savor every word. I love them both, but Lance is much friendlier.

Shoot. I have to conference with a student now, so I'll leave you with a few quickly jotted down statements from the reading. First, from Kapka's favorite Jorgensen, who intro'd Lance:

Becoming either one--a Mormon or a poet--is difficult.

Got Rilke?

Try making poems of whatever belongs to you.

Go home saying that.

And from Lance (Note: I was severely entranced, so I didn't get every pearl of poetry that fell from his lips.)

[Books] are the highest form of consumer therapy

ongoing meditations on mortality (re: his poetry)

Artists are the antennae of the race. (Ezra Pound)

I'll pause to let you hear the white space. (reading a journal entry)

There are a million ways to say California, but only a few promise rest. (From his poem "The World's Lap")

Grocery shopping with Andrew

INT--Guy's apartment. DAVE is sitting on the couch. ANDREW walks through the front door, carrying plastic bags from Macey's grocery store.

DAVE (with childlike glee): You're back! How was the store?

ANDREW: Pretty good. (Sets down bags and begins taking items out, putting them away.) I ran into editorgirl. She said to tell you happy birthday.

DAVE: Good old editorgirl! How is she?

ANDREW: She's good. Did you know her sister is engaged?

intimiDating

That was subtle.

This post is a follow-up of sorts to last night's late night ramblings. A conversation has been going on about if girls intimidate guys (I blame Saule). The concensus has been, no, girls don't intimidate guys much. But then the girls scream back with "But that's the reason I've been given for not dating, that I'm intimidating." I've stayed out of the conversation as far as comments go, but it has made me wonder as this is the reason I've been given countless times. (Okay, it's only countless because I can't count to save my life. Today in class I started to count down from 10. I stopped around 7, only because I distracted myself with another thought. One of my students said, "I knew you couldn't do it.")

So here's my thought: is intimidation just an excuse we allow ourselves for being un-datable? Or for simply not being with the people who would want to date us?

Back to Saule. In the infamous car ride home from a Halloween party, Saule and I were chatting. He asked about my job and then (tactfully) asked how much I was making. I make more per hour than most student on-campus jobs, so I usually refrain from answering that question. I reluctantly told him, more out of embarrassment than anything else. ("I'm a good girl, I am.") I'm not sure if in the back of my mind I was worried about intimidating him, but he interpreted it that way and told me--as background--that he's a guy not easily intimidated. He then asked why I thought I would be intimidating. I didn't give him a complete answer then--I got sidetracked by one of my many tangents--but I've been thinking about it.

Reasons (I've been given in the past) that I (might) intimidate a guy:
1. smart. I'm smart. I didn't choose to be this way, but that doesn't mean I choose to act stupid.
2. grad student. Just try telling this to a guy back a year from his mission who has finally decided on a major.
3. job. I know I'm just a grad student instructor, but I received a similar response when I was working for BYU Magazine last year. They are jobs that aren't terribly easy to get and ones that carry their own weight on a resume.
4. smart. Still smart. Maybe it goes beyond the "smart" label. I write. I enjoy cultural events: theatre, plays, etc. But as you've seen on this blog, I don't stick my nose up at not-high-brow entertainment. My only need is to analyze them after the show is over.
5. size. I haven't wanted to put this one, but it's part of me I can't ignore. I'm not huge or anything, I'm just not tiny, petite, doll-like, whatever. I'm tall-ish with a frame I (unfortunately) inherited from my dad's side of the family tree. But I'm comfortable in my body 98% of the time and I don't plan on changing. . . not sure how I'd do that anyway.
6. attractive. This is excessively confident, I know, but this is something my second boyfriend (who really shouldn't count) told me. He compared me to a character in a book (that I still need to read) who was beautiful, but thought she wasn't because she was so beautiful that guys were afraid (dare I say intimidated?) to ask her out. I keep that analogy in my pocket for rainy days.



But does any of this really intimidate guys? Or do I just keep myself barricaded? Or neither? Maybe I'm just un-date-able.

That's a strange line.

Yes, I did wait for the clock to strike midnight before I began another entry. Yes, I am tired. I seem to have lost my ability to stay up all night.

LadyJane and I were talking about what makes a guy--excuse me, man--attractive. And by considering past (two) boyfriends, crushes, etc., I've realized that I have absolutely no pattern. At least, not as far as body type goes. BF1 was on the skinny side, while BF2 was decidedly not. And my crushes have filled in the rest of the spectrum. My only request now, as far as body type goes, is that he be taller than I am.

I was going to blog about this conversation when it happened. And then there were more important things for me to whine about. But then the conversation started again, elsewhere. What makes a person attractive? And I am now going to be shallow and answer the question.

1.

Nope. Suddenly have no desire to discuss the finer points of hair, attire, grooming, and performance ability. (I will mention that I prefer someone who will critique a performance with me, or at least allow me to critique it.) Instead, I will leave you with my (current) top five movie men. Please note that I'm exhausted and only relying on two brain cells for this list. I just might regret it tomorrow.

1. AJ in Empire Records ("I have to tell Corey I love her by 1:37.")
2. Lloyd Dobler. You know the movie. And yes, he should have been number one. But I don't know how much I want a Lloyd as much as I want someone to watch Lloyd with me. ("I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen.")
3. Lord Goring in An Ideal Husband. ("Lord Goring, you are always trying to tell me what to do. I think it most courageous of you.")
4. Nicholas in Princess Diaries 2. ("You are amazing. I've tried to fight it--I have--but you overwhelm me.") This is where the regrets start.
5. Benedick in Much Ado about Nothing. ("Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.")
6. Jonathan in Sliding Doors. ("If you don't drink your fatty drinks, you'll never achieve quality cellulite.")

Okay, I know I said five and that was six. See, I can count. I just often choose not to. Maybe I should add "can and will count" to my list of desirable traits. . .