Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Excusez-moi, je suis sick as a dog.

Item one. I went grocery shopping tonight with my roommate. My list read something to the effect of "milk, OJ, lightbulbs, ground beef (for Sven), anything qualifying as real food." I came home with three boxes of yellow rice, two cans of green beans, an onion, four limes, a green pepper, and (wait for it) two large chocolate bars, two faux cheesecake mixes (no one tell my mother), cake mix, and frosting. So much for that real food. Note to self: Don't attempt grocery shopping when doped up on cold medication.

Item two: I seem to have initiated some major soul searching. Or at least some form of contemplation. My deepest apologies. But I keep thinking about this, the whole compartment idea, which has somehow flip-flopped from labeling others to labeling ourselves. The fact is, I have some pretty thick walls. And I maintain those walls by maintaining my compartments: the student, the older sister, the editor, etc. The problem is, my worlds keep colliding. (Mixing metaphors. Excuse me.) I'm with my friends when my little sister comes over. Or I'm in editor mode when I need to be a student. Separate worlds are, or at least they were, effective. But they're too difficult to maintain. So I find myself saying bizarre things at work and workshopping poems from a "Can I publish this?" point of view. Now the question about this blog: Can I publish it? We shall see.

This is me at a lower resolution. I am so incredibly HOTTTT!

Monday, November 29, 2004

The Great and Powerful Oz, or Pop-u-lar

On the way to and from our Thanksgiving in Hurricane, my sister and I listened to the soundtrack of Wicked (a new Broadway musical bigger than indoor plumbing) which claims to offer, and which I choose to believe offers, the true story of the witches of Oz. Basically the Wicked Witch of the West was framed, as well as being (1) an outcast because she was green and (2) the best friend and college roommate of Glinda the Good. I'd recommend the music to anyone who can stomach this type of musical offering--but there I go. I need to repress my tendency to review things and get to the point. The point being. . . I like labels. I keep saying this. I like my compartments. (This stemming from a trip to Wales in which I was dubbed "Galadriel-esque" while my best friends were given the infinitely more easily explained "cute" and "quixotic." Which is a very good word.) And yet at the same time I resist my compartments. I mean, look at what happened to Elphaba (the Wicked Witch of the West). She was never really wicked, just someone with incredibly bad luck. Or something like.
Anyway, my point is this. I like you--you being most people when they are not (1) driving or (2) standing in some sticky sweet reunion in the middle of a narrow hallway. If my tendency to label offends, just write me off as that self-righteous editorgirl who doesn't know what she's talking about. In the meantime, I'm going to continue referring to the sophisticate, the genius, and good ol' Fido.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

My sanity for a wreath.

My roommates are in the process of Christmas-ifying our apartment. This actually began last week (before the day of thanks) when we bought wrapping paper to cover "a few select areas" in the apartment. I was with my writing friends and returned to find every possible area and then some covered in wrapping paper and tied with curly ribbons.
When I returned from Thanksgiving, my roommates had added white lights, which was actually the one decoration I insisted on--I'm addicted to them. I've written poetry about them. Bad poetry, but still.
And now one of them has shown up with bags and boxes and Santa Clauses and bells and the oddly shaped horns, that I know aren't French, but I don't know what else to call them. All cute-sy and pine cone-y and red ribbon tied. She keeps saying, "If we're going to be the Christmas apartment, we need to go all out." Who said we wanted to be the Christmas apartment? It's not like anyone will actually ever come over to behold us in our Christmas glory, complete with matching reindeer sweaters.
I'm all for Christmas. Hooray for angels and shepherds and wise man and the whole Nativity bit. Hooray for driving around snooty neighborhoods checking out obscene light displays. Just keep it out of my apartment.
There goes my Beatles record. . . my sanity for a wreath. Stay tuned for tomorrow night when we hang snowflakes from the ceiling and hold hands to sing Amy Grant Christmas songs around our $9.99 fake plastic Target brand Christmas tree.

She asked for it.

Forgive my excessive blogging tonight. I just want to say I hit my roommate in the face with a cake. In my defense, she asked for it.

Saturday, November 27, 2004

The editor is naked.

I have been found out, discovered via Google. One more person knows the identity of editorgirl. I feel naked. And yet this allows me to ramble on about an interesting concept that continually fascinates me. In the words of our good friend William, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other word would smell as sweet." We'll ignore that this is being offered by a vapid, suicidal 13-year-old. . . or maybe we won't. The idea is that you are free to act differently under different names, which become different personas. As editorgirl I am more outspoken and to be perfectly honest, less considerate of other people. Under my publishing pseudonym I'm someone who actually considers herself a poet. . . another interesting topic. Maybe I'm just hung up on labels, but I'm more interested (today) in the labels we slap on ourselves. When Miss K posts quotes about "the genuine poet," I have to ask if I am a geniune poet and if I can honestly define myself as such. And the question becomes can I ever (or you, if you care to project these musings onto yourself) combine the different labels and personalities to be a whole person? I suppose time (and some more late afternoon ramblings) will tell. Or I'm sure you have your two bits to throw into the pot. Of course, 25 cents is a lot to ask for an opinion.

Friday, November 26, 2004

Thanksgiving Day: Hurricane, Utah

Happy day-after-the-madness-that-is-Thanksgiving. I hope you all survived. I did. . . sort of. Anyway, I wrote a little this holiday and as I have to submit stuff for workshopping on Tuesday, I thought I'd ask you guys to throw in your ten cents (when do we ever stop at two?) now. It's still pretty rough, so be brutal. Maybe not brutal. . . just observant. . . too many ellipsis. And now, the poem.

Thanksgiving Day: Hurricane, Utah

We drive past everyone's favorite Chinese restaurant
to a turkey dinner with no dressing--
just yams left boiling in too much liquid
still on the table when dessert is served,
a thin orange film
crusted over the top.

When he was born his mother
named him Legend
imagining great wings and demigods
as she imagined herself stoned.
When his aunt adopted him
she rechristened him Nicholas,
as in Saint, hoping to draw a halo
over his head.

For this we give thanks--
a tired patriarch
bowing over his posterity
as they surreptitiously pick
at his Thanksgiving feast.

The focal point, Daniel,
in his stiff baseball cap,
lens at eye, snapping
a thousand words each second
[this stanza is not done. . . ]

lounging in my little gold car
facing the mountains
eyes closed to the sun.
In the backyard the boys
cry out for the football
Uncle Stephen and Uncle Alan
throw over their heads.
In the kitchen,
Grandma shows my sister
how to cut yams.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Chick flicks

Flying in the face of my intellectual, cultural snobbery, I love chick flicks. I don't cry or anything. I just get giddy enough to keep me man-free for another week or so. Tonight my roommate and I subjected ourselves to the latest Hilary Duff offering--a step beyond your average chick flick. It was badly acted, with a predictable plot, and not one good kissing scene. So in honor of our terrible girls night out, I'm going to list 10 chick flicks every girl should see and every guy should know. Trust me.

1. I'm not sure why this one is coming first, but Win a Date with Tad Hamilton is a great chick flick, for one very good reason: Topher Grace. His character is witty, spiky-haired, and just geeky enough to be adorable. The high point? When Topher's character Pete tells Rosalee (Kate Bosworth) that he's in love with her. Perfect.

2. About a Boy. Based on the novel by Nick Hornby (which I admittedly still need to read), this movie features more than Hugh Grant with a decent hair cut. The style, the music, the acting are all brilliant. And it's one most guys can suffer through.

3. "I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen." Fact: I will say yes to the first guy who proposes to me by holding a stereo above his head playing "In Your Eyes." I may have to later reconsider my answer when I'm not completely bowled over by his homage to Say Anything, but still. Lloyd Dobbler just might be the perfect man.

4. While we're talking 80s movies, I'm going to throw in Pretty in Pink for one reason: Duckie. Enough said.

5. My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Maybe it's just applicable in cultures who hold these types of weddings dominated by the culture, but MBFGW is admirable for having two attractive but not perfect leads. Seriously, men do fall in love with women who wear a size 8. . . or a size 12.

6. Mr. Darcy. I mean, Pride and Prejudice. You can take the one with Colin Firth, with Laurence Olivier, or even with Orlando Seale, but Darcy is Darcy. My dear friend Jane wrote quite possibly the most infuriating, endearing man known to women and we love her for it.

7. Running a close second to Mr. Darcy is Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. And in addition to Benedick, you have the Prince, Claudio, and if you prefer the bad boy, Don John. But Benedick is the man for me.

8. A tie between The Importance of Being Earnest and An Ideal Husband. Wilde was brilliant, and these two film versions featuring Rupert Everett are wonderful. . . even if Everett is gay. Maybe because Everett is gay.

9. The next is a random offering. You've Got Mail does not feature the most attractive men on the planet, although it does feature one of the most neurotic women on the planet in the form of Parker Posey's character. What's key here is the relationship formed first through letters and then through one man's attempts to win his email pal's affections. I dare guys to get to know the girl first. This means knowing more than her first name and phone number.

10. Number ten came too soon. I have a whole list including Runaway Bride, Notting Hill, Some Kind of Wonderful, Serendipity, Sabrina (with Audrey Hepburn), Sabrina (with Harrison Ford), Roman Holiday, and even Anne of Green Gables. And I'm sure I could toss out a few more titles.

So basically here you have the key to a woman's heart, men (and/or guys). And women, if you haven't seen any of these, let me know. We'll have to hold a movie night.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

And the walls came. . .

Hi everyone. I posted just a few seconds ago, but this is my blog and I can say/write/do whatever I please. The last post opened up some new opportunities for personal reflection.
I tend to categorize people--not stereotype, categorize. It makes them easier for me to deal with. But I'm realizing that I continue to categorize myself and in doing so I've built some pretty thick walls. I hope this blog serves to break down at least some of those walls.
In "This is my choice." I wrote about boyfriend number two of two. I'm being excessively honest when I say he hurt me a lot. It was the first time I had just been myself with a person and by dumping me he was saying that myself as a person wasn't good enough. So I've categorized myself, letting people know me only one category at a time: the poet, the roommate, the student, the editor, the flirt (yes, Trent, I can and do flirt). There are more categories, but they don't fit as neatly on the page. I'm rambling. My point is that I'm always surprised when someone who I've shown one side to indicates that they've seen other sides of me: when a roommate tells me I'm smart, for instance.
I'm not trying to lay myself out for inspection. And I'm not going to attempt to explain myself here. But I do promise to be open. It's not so much for you (you being the handful of friends who take the time to read this), but for me. Hah! Purely selfish intents again. But you are more than welcome to come along for the ride.

This is my choice.

I wrote that--"This is my choice"--all over the (paper) tablecloth at Macaroni Grill tonight. (I have a feeling that I spelled that wrong, but it's too late for fact checking.) I was exorcising an old demon. I dated a guy who in reality was pretty cool. I think I tend to describe him in less-than-flattering terms in order to make myself feel better about being dumped by the manipulative slob. And there I go again. Anyway, said male had an agenda while we were dating that basically consisted of a series of hoops I had to jump through--movie etiquette, music preference, etc. One was going to MG and drawing on the tablecloth (again, paper) with the provided crayons.
As (I think) mentioned in past blogs, I don't like being told what to do. I fully intended to draw on the tablecloth, but first busied myself with the menu. I was debating between a few dishes when Mr. Less-Than-Wonderful suggested that I draw with the crayon he was handing me. I told him in a minute. He "suggested" again. After a few minutes of this, I outright refused to draw. When we later broke up he specifically cited this moment of our relatively (for Provo) brief relationship as one of his red flags. I wasn't crazy enough or in touch with my inner 5 year old enough to draw on the stupid table.
Maybe I'm being vindictive in writing this, but to be quite honest, I've wondered about that. What did my rather childish refusal to draw on the table indicate? I am protective of my independence. I'm protective of my opinions, my thoughts, my expressions of personality (in my head these are different things). I've become a lot more considerate of people over the years, but at the same time I've become more considerate of myself. I'm not being selfish. I'm being me. Which is all I really can do. So tonight I drew on the table. And it was my choice.

Saturday, November 20, 2004

Too much to do

There is a list on my bathroom door detailing everything I need to do today. I've half-accomplished one--I can't even check it off yet. There is so much going on in my head that I can't focus on any one thing. I have a million papers due, half an million things to do around the house, and my muse is hitting me over the head screaming, "Write! Write! Write! Write!" I'm in this terribly apathetic mood, which hypothetically could be cured with a good ol' fashioned drive, but my brother has the car. I did try a walk, but it just wasn't the same: no loud music, no gunning it through a yellow light, no windy roads. And I need to figure out grad school applications. Which scare me more than anything. La-di-da.

The danger of Google

A friend of mine googled (I love that verb) my name last night. Anyone feeling the great urge to do the same, please know that nothing of mine will come up. I am not a 14 year old girl in Ohio. I don't think.

The following was pulled from a website written by the individual who apparently absconded with my name.

My Mikie is bright, a wonderful guy,
even though when i first met him, he was a little shy,
I remember the time, i met you at battle of the bands,
Ashton poked you in the back, and you came over to stand,
we both were so scared, too afraid to talk,
so me, you and my friends, went for a little walk,
but then the night, drew to a close,
and i knew in my heart, you were the one i chose,
the next time i saw you, was at that one guy and hutch,
your hand by mine, but i was too afraid to touch,
then all of the sudden, you grabbed my hand,
and it felt as if i was being pulled, right out of quick sand,
then i went to Lydia's, and got on ICQ,
seen those sweet typed words, and said yes to you,
we've came along way, since that one night,
we've made through everything, down to the last fight,
Ive had so much fun, kissing your sweet soft lips,
and showing you my sticking out, bony hips,
i remember the night, after the van Halen concert,
in the back of the seat, it felt so good, but hurt,
making out with you, on that very night,
was so amazing, it was as if we were out of sight!
A few days later, you went off to Hilton head,
i wanted to go with you so bad, but i was at camp instead,
You were relaxing, the whole time you were there,
while i was working my butt off, and jumping up stairs,
Then that week you came home, and we had lots of fun,
doing things not mentioned, cause then id feel all dumb,
but all these wonderful things, are just a few from the past
and since then we've made, more than enough love to last,
theres also one thing, thats more than true,
and thats that my heart is always yours, and that i really love you!

Friday, November 19, 2004

Oatmeal Cookie Chunk

It's no big secret that I've had a miserable week. Anyone who talks to me on a regular basis knows that the sun has decidedly not been shining on my head. But you know what's great about life? The way one silly little thing can change your outlook. It my case, that silly little thing was/is Ben and Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk, which just happens to be my favorite ice cream of all time. There are few things on my list that top OCC. The amazing thing is, OCC was a "limited-time" flavor, so it disappeared from my life. (Note: this is not a metaphoric story about a guy. This is all about the ice cream.) I thought our separation was forever and I tried to console myself with cookies'n'cream, chocolate chip, cookie dough, even peppermint (which does run a close second, but again, is seasonal). All with little success. Then today I'm in the frozen foods aisle at Macey's and I think, "I'll just check and see what B&J have today." And there, with a shiny blue "By Popular Demand" stamp, is my Oatmeal Cookie Chunk. The sun is shining again, people. I hope you're having a wonderful day. eg

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

When it rains

Good morning all. I'm holed up in my home away from home away from home, otherwise known as the Pub. Somehow my moderately distasteful day has become a severely crummy one. I woke up late, for starters. Work was relatively blah, class was obnoxious, and then I found out that there is a small contingency of students who think I'm a bitter washed-up senior with nothing better to do than criticize those who are so obviously my superiors (see previous entry). In short, people are particularly stupid today and I just don't want to deal with them.
My roommate keeps telling me I need more sleep. Which, in some twisted way, is like my mother telling me I need to read The Hiding Place. I never read the Hiding Place and I'm not sleeping for a similar reason. Pure stubbornness. Plus, who honestly has time for sleep? It's an hour wasted in both directions. And I'd still be running around screaming "I want my brain back." Really what I want to do is curl up and watch Say Anything, preferably with a guy (who at this point will remain nameless), fall asleep, wake up, and send in my grad school apps. What a good idea. Maybe I'll do just that. Right after a two-hour inscape session, a three-hour april session, and reading a play about how Shakespeare could have saved Ireland if he had only gone there.
I've talked myself out. Now I'm going to take it out on Steve. I like Steve almost as much as I like april. . . both in a strictly you're-a-cool-married-guy way.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Take it like a man

I like theater, literature, the arts in general. All these lovely things that are purely subjective. Like comedy shows. And I have this quirky belief that in order to improve these subjective things, we need to be open to critiques. For example, if I write a poem I'm going to show it to people, get some responses, find out that all but one line is complete trash, and then write a less terrible poem. Criticism is necessary.
So (enter personal experience) this weekend I attended a comedy show. Twice. I was supporting some cast member friends and being entertained. But after the first evening of laughing so hard my face hurt, I was prepared to consider the pros and cons of the show. And (surprise, surprise) one of my favorite things to write is a good old fashioned review. So I did. Consider it a gift to my highly talented performing artist friends. And then I posted it to the group's website. Enter poinards. Although the bulk of my review was positive, I did offer a few gently phrased criticisms. Which is apparently all anyone reads. Since posting that, I've been attacked from all sides, including by one individual who pointed out that I was highly critical of the female portion of the cast. Maybe it's because they're the weaker part. But oh wait, I complimented the majority of the girls and only a few of the guys by name.
I am working myself into an unhealthy frenzy, but I just want to throw this out to the now two people who read this blog. Criticism is what keeps the arts alive, whether it's a sonnet or a comedy show.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Clean Flicks

My down-the-stairs neighbor just mentioned that they're watching Amelie tonight. She also (rather hastily) added that it's from Clean Flicks. Now I can understand why people choose not to subject themselves to porn or other offensive things, but why do you have to tell other people? I'm not going to damn you for watching a movie not from Clean Flicks. I don't care if you're watching a movie not from Clean Flicks or edited and I don't care if you fast forward "the bad parts." My question is, why does a society that frowns on offensive/disturbing material in movies condone 18 year olds dating 30 year olds? And where can I find a 30 year old? Male, PhD. I'm taking applications.

Saturday, November 13, 2004

The origins of editorgirl

You see, when a mommy and a daddy love each other they. . .

Kidding, kidding. This is not about my conception. At least not my physical conception. More a spiritual frame of reference. Basically it's telling the, oh, one person who looks at this blog where my nickname comes from. It won out over many others, including the Crippling Wrath, Victims 1-100, and Captain Spanky. Actually, Captain Spanky is still in use in remote areas of the world, like Vernal.
So editorgirl. I am, gasp, an editor by trade and education. I also am a writer, specifically a poet when I'm really on a roll. I took a workshop at the beginning of 04 in which I was dubbed editorgirl because I would point out ungrammatical or inconsistent elements in the other poets' work. Consistency is key, people. Grammar is important. It facilitates communication. And when you've mastered those skills, you can break them for effect. Can I get an amen?

Nice guys finish first

After an abnormally lengthy dry spell, my dance card suddenly seems to be full. Which is making me rethink about a million statements I've made regarding the not-so-fair gender. Granted, being female, I'll naturally change my mind again in a few months, but for now, let's chat about what makes (or breaks) a great date.
1. Talk to me. I hate nothing more than someone who avoids conversation. What is the point of going on a date if it only consists of an event where talking is not an option? Do dinner before or dessert afterwards, but take the time to talk to me. Of course, at the same time, know your etiquette. Don't talk to me during a movie or play or classical concert.
2. Do the dishes. Odd, I know, but I'm going to be much more impressed with a guy who keeps his place clean. Bonus points if after I've made dinner for him, he helps with the dishes.
3. Open the door. But don't kill me to do so. It's polite, and I will let you get that door for me, but don't push me out of the way or pout if I happen to open the door first. After doing it for a good couple of decades, it becomes a habit.
4. Talk about me or you, not your old girlfriends.
5. Don't belittle my opinions and I won't belittle yours. I admit that I'm not the nicest person around, but I'm not going to swing until you do.

I've worn myself out thinking about these things. Now it's your turn.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

"Bitter diatribe" is redundant

Ten points for anyone who can name that movie. Twenty points for anyone actually reading this blog. Despite the fact that I write for a magazine, I am apparently destined to spend my days writing captions and tracking down impossible divas (which is redundant as well), so I decided to experiment with new outlets for my writing, diatribes or otherwise.
By way of introduction, I am a twenty-one year old female, blonde. English major. Editor. Writer. Pseudo-poet. In the past week I have been informed that being 21 does not qualify me for the next Methusaleh (sp? don't want to look it up). The informant was shocked that I agreed with him. Fact: I have yet to qualify for the quarter century club. I don't think I'm in line to bump any Biblical patriarchs from their record-setting birthday.
Other random thoughts about myself, which in truth is a dreadfully boring subject. But I suppose it must be done every once in a while. I've also been compared to Molly Ringwald, in various stages of her brief yet illustrious career. I'm flattered by such comparison, although I don't necessarily concur.
I've run out of patience with myself. Stay tuned for tomorrow when I throw myself a party. Truly.

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