England Countdown: Three Months

Tomorrow is the beginning of my countdown to England. We'll start in Glasgow, walk 200 miles to London, and then I'm going to kick it for an extra week with Lady Jane before coming home. Eight weeks in the UK.

Now I just need a really great idea for my countdown.

Or I could just do this: I'm going to England! I'm going to England!

I promise to bring you back a present.

Gertrude Stein

I sure as hell better be hormonal right now because I don't like feeling this way without an excuse.

I just posted and then deleted a very Gertrude post. It felt good to just go, just write, but it opens me up way too much. At about the same time I was chatting with Saule and I'm afraid the poor boy got an overdose of editorgirl. I know I did.

So why am I posting now? I don't know. I haven't been writing much lately. Reading a lot. Thinking about writing a lot. Thinking about submitting to journals. Kim suggested Quarterly West. I think I'll look into it tomorrow.

I'm overwhelmed. Not with school so much as what I feel school should be. And subsequently what my life should be. Which isn't the best way of thinking. I know this.

I know this.

I know this.

poor little rich girl

I have come to the conclusion that I have been incredibly spoiled the past two years of my life. Two years ago, I was part of april (that's aa in the pic). And last year I was adopted into Fob. In addition to playing the part of both muse and critic, these groups were my friends.

This isn't to say that I am no longer friends with these people--in fact, I consider them some of my best friends. And this isn't to say that I don't have other friends--I feel the need to single out Lady Jane in particular. But I am feeling my loss rather acutely this semester. Last semester was so crazy--teaching and classes and the gallery exhibit and my thesis. This semester is teaching and my thesis, which I don't feel much pressure over (yet). I also don't have those hours of both learning and socializing booked into my schedule for me.

I'm scared to say this, but I need to make the commitment somewhere: I am going to make friends. I already love the Study Abroad group--there is more than one kindred spirit there, and I don't think I'm too much the teacher yet (Bennion is excellent at making a class a class rather than a hierarchy). And there's one gentleman in my ward who seems a likely candidate for friendship. I'm afraid this means I will be muching and mingling today, but it's a small price to pay. . . right?

I'm no good at seducing

so I'm back to blogging.

I was recently (about ten minutes ago) sitting in my car rocking out to The Weepies ("Painting by Chagall"), Faith Hill ("The Way You Love Me"), and REO Speedwagon ("Keep On Loving You") waiting for my Taco Bell Grilled Stuft Burrito. It's moments like these when an editorgirl has time to really consider life and all its intricacies, including (but not limited to)

• I wonder if the guy in the car ahead of me can see me dancing. Oh well. (Shakes hair seductively and continues dancing.)
• Would it kill them to spell "stuffed" correctly? Probably. (Shakes hair saucily and continues dancing.)
• Do I know all the words to this song? Who is this anyway? Faith Hill? Rock on! (Shakes hair twangily and continues dancing.)
• Hmm. I still need to decide on Pride and Prejudice clips for class tomorrow, although there's no way we're getting to them. Can I justify showing the Bollywood dance number simply because Naveen Andrews is hot? (All hair shaking and dancing ceases in light of this all-important truth.)
• Naveen Andrews is hot.
• Still on Naveen--wait. Wait wait wait. Is this? It is! "I'm gonna keep on lovin' you-ou 'cuz it's the only thing I wanna do-oo!" (Flashbacks of Adrian Grenier and Melissa Joan-Hart in Drive Me Crazy, before the romance, but in that all-important returning-to-how-things-were-before-his-mom-died moment. Dancing commences again.)
• Remind self that that was a movie, not real life.
• Momentary depression over how boring real life really is.
• Contemplate return to the blogging world, just to say "Hi" to everybody.
• Momentarily stop tossing hair and dancing in the car to pay for burrito. Ignore the strange looks from the drive-thru window operator as dancing recommences.
• Five minute serious reflection considering how if I really liked a guy and he was in the car, I would not be dancing, which would be a shame, because I love this song and dancing just feels so good sometimes.
• Turn up Backstreet Boys song which--yes--I know all the words to. Rock on!

why no man will ever love me, take 3

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

Sven's I-don't-know-what-to-call-her-so-I'll-just-say-"girlfriend" came over tonight to retrieve her birthday present.

Sven better marry her, because I don't think Mom will ever be happy with any other woman in her life. We'd spend the next however-many-years listening to "She doesn't talk about quilting the way _________ did" or "She's not as pretty as __________ was."

Which leads me to the purpose of this post: _________ needs a nym. And tonight I found the perfect one for her.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mary Poppins.

Practically perfect in every way and all that.

Although I don't think she has flying down yet. Oh well, give her a few years. I'm sure she'll figure it out.

antsy

The time has come for me to return to Provo. This is not due to my being driven crazy by my family--in fact, I've quite enjoyed myself this break. Sleeping and walking and quilting and reading. . . rather fantastic.

But the fantastic-ness is waning. And I am antsy. I rewrote my syllabus and created a calendar for 150. And then I read the first twelve chapters of Pride and Prejudice. And then the February issue of Lucky. Made dinner for Marzipan and her gaggle of friends. Shoveled the driveway. And so forth. And this is all tonight. Tomorrow I get to play with K (I hope) and by Sunday I will be in Provo and by Monday I should be stressed out of my mind again.

At least, let's all hope so.

Wii!: a(nother) photo essay

The novelty of my digital camera hasn't worn off yet. Give it a week or so. . . Last night K called me around 9:00, we met at 5300 south around 10:00, found out Mimi's had closed early, spent an hour at IHOP, and then headed back to K's (parent's, not Indiana) for an hour of Wii. Which, I admit, I thought sounded and looked a little riduculous. And it was. But just a little.

K in bowling stance.

my bowling stance.

the lanes

Mii.

the victory dance of K

so this is the new year: a photo essay

I have thrown and I have been to some fabulous crazy parties, but ultimately I prefer a small group of friends, and for New Years, Tolkien Boy and co. gave me just that. Good friends, good food, good fun, and just a strong enough dose to make me wish for one more game of anagrams.

Melyngoch and Ginsberg (check out the beard!)

[Insert photo of unsmug marrieds here]

Brozy and Bawb, the best marrieds to hang out with ever

Pretty sure Tolkien Boy is laughing at Melyngoch. Brave, brave TB.

Melyngoch demonstrating how she would quiet a crying child. And Ginsberg wondering if this really is the future mother of his children.

In the game of Curses, there is no cursing. Just Bassercussionist (TB's brother) scratching himself like a gorilla while giving himself bunny ears, hiccuping, clucking like a chicken, and delivering Mr. T's catch phrase. . . in falsetto.

And finally, because it's only fair, a self-portrait. Although, if anyone knows how to upload movie clips to Blogger (or another program), I have a great clip of Ginsberg demonstrating the Lon Cheney approach to werewolves.

start your engines

Zero once astutely observed, as he is wont to do, that nothing frustrates me more than a slow internet connection. This is the case tonight and I've almost lost the blogging spirit, but now here I am and here you are, so it just seems like fate.

Christmas break/holiday finally started today. I've been waiting and waiting and waiting for it. I even cheated last weekend by coming up to Bountiful and quilting and sleeping and going on walks with Mom. And then I had to return to Provo for finals, both taking and giving, and found myself too tired to celebrate anything. Or clean my room. But that's another post.

So today K and I set out to do some happy Christmas-ing, april style. And no, that sentence wasn't supposed to make much sense. First stop, KJ's residence to drop off Christmas presents and then run back to the car in an awkward glee. KJ wasn't there, but she called K as we were on our way to the King's English. (I am not jealous of K because K has better ringtones, so I would call K instead of me too.) We decided to meet up later for refreshment of some kind.

K and I spent the next two hours in paradise (the King's English), buying each other's Christmas presents and loads of other books. (They should put a warning on English majors.) I bought K Green Squall by Jay Hopler; she bought me six girls without pants by Paisley Rekdal. She also bought a Galway Kinnell. I didn't manage quite as much restraint: The Unlikely Romance of Kate Bjorkman (Louise Plummer), Proofs and Theories (Louise Gluck), Miracle Fair (Wislawa Szymborska), little tree (e.e. cummings picture book), and The Mitten (Jan Brett picture book). For the record, the picture books were for my mom, the Gluck is for my thesis, and the Plummer is for English 333. We could have spent more time (and more money), but we were late to meet KJ and son Bennett at Paradise (Bakery and Cafe), where I guiltily ordered a chicken panini in front of the vegetarians and was charmed by Bennett and gifted a glorious cheeseball by KJ.

K and I said good-bye to KJ and son (who, by the way, are nothing like Dombey and Son), gushed at each other over how adorable son is, and made our way to Old Navy, where once again I lost the restraint contest (K: shirt; eg: shirt, shoes, pj pants). I'm really bad at that game. Really bad. K also introduced me to a great little shop of sorts called "got beauty," for which there are no words, just facial expressions. And then our evening ended at Barnes and Noble, where once again I found a book. Big surprise. But, once again, it's for my thesis: Breaking the Alabaster Jar, a collection of interviews with Li-Young Lee.

I said good-bye to K who was whisked away by her family to a steakhouse (and I felt bad for eating a chicken sandwich?), drove home singing Christmas carols along with the Barenaked Ladies, and arrived in Bountiful to be greeted by a Very Tired Family. The soporific effect overwhelmed everyone, including the dog, and I cuddled up in my bed with Kate Bjorkman and her love-hero Richard.

That is, until Marzipan decided she wasn't tired and that I couldn't be tired and attacked me with a pillow. She's little, so I let her win. (Translation: I covered my face with my hands until the hitting stopped.) We just watched some Radio Disney concert videos, and then I decided to officially announce Christmas on my blog. That, I think, brings us up to date.

With the exception of the Very Tired Schnauzer who was just dumped on my bed.

Xanadu

Tonight was a night which, if I could, I would frame.

Or is it too little, too late? (Updates in grey. Or gray. Whichever you prefer.)

Due to the fact that my blog is my homepage (how narcissitic am I?), I've decided to follow in the venerable Melyngoch's footsteps after all. I need a reminder of everything I have to get done, and I need it now.

1. Finish reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
2. Write twenty-five 20 10-ish 3 pages on E.L. Doctorow's The March.
3. Read 630 assignment on Hayden White.
4. Make salsa and buy chips for last day of 630.
5. Grade twenty-three rhetorical analyses.
6. Grade twenty ten short stories and any lingering poems.
7. Teach four three two classes.
8. Give two one finals.
9. Host 519 final at my house.
10. Write a (very long) paper on my poetics.
11. Compile a collection of my poems to complement the paper on poetics.
12. Apply to Utah.
13. Apply to Houston.
14. Apply to Ohio.
15. Wonder why I'm not applying more places.
16. Finish letter of intent.
17. Clean up critical writing sample.
18. Arrange creative writing sample.
19. Order GRE scores. !!! (19a. Pray that I didn't order them too late to get to Utah.)
20. Schedule time with Lady Jane and Virginia before they leave.
21. Avoid shopping and eating out as much as possible. 21a. Forget that.
22. Read Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet.
23. Grade twenty-three research papers.
24. Grade twenty creative writing portfolios.
25. Finish quilt for Grandma.
26. Clean my house.
27. Clean it again, post parties.
28. Make a list of books to read during Christmas break (none of which will be read, beginning with Doctorow's Book of Daniel).

impossible men of the month club

I wasn't going to write this tonight. I was going to go to bed, think about writing this, and then promptly move on to more important things.

But really, can anything be more important than this?

Probably not.

Tonight I am submitting the following nominees to eg's pantheon of impossible men: Graham (Jude Law) and Miles (Jack Black), both from The Holiday, which is of course a chick flick in the worst way. (Please note that there should be more nominees, namely David what's-his-face of Bones and Buffy fame, Seth Green (if he isn't already there), and Sufjan Stevens, but I'm too busy drooling over tonight's candidates. Their time will come. Perhaps over the Christmas break when I have nothing better to do than drool over impossibles. Much like now. . . )

Graham (spoiler alert) is sexy and British. Which means a sexy British accent. Also, he majored in lit and is a book editor. Widowed with two adorable daughters with adorable names and adorable British accents. Honestly, by the end of the movie, he was just a little too perfect for words. To quote Virginia, "He can't be hot and sweet. He has to choose one." Agreed.

Miles, for the record, is also sexy, but unfortunately American. I felt justified when LadyJane admitted that he was adorable (although definitely not in the way the British girls were adorable. . . hmm. . . considering a change of adjective. . . ) and a great leading man. Go Jack Black. And when he busts out with both the frozen drinks and the singing of movie themes at Blockbuster, be still my heart. Even if that would kill me.

If you're looking for a review, well, you're not getting it. But I say go see it. I'll come with you. And when I sigh audibly, well, don't say I didn't warn you.

time for something new

Today I have managed to bascially waste a lot of time. I going to go ahead and self-diagnose and say it's nostalgia. For April. For Fob. For last Friday. All those stupid moments that I didn't know they were something until they were over.

I attempted to medicate via blog surfing, which usually makes me happy. And it did make me happy, but in this very odd, nostalgic-for-the-future (if that's possible) kind of way. I'm ready for it to be next year. Or at the very least, Christmas. I want to talk to Sven and hang out with Miss K and tease Tolkien Boy. I want I want I want. . .

This is getting to be a bad habit. I need to focus. And so, to focus myself, I have installed a new avatar. This is the new representation of eg. I'm not sure if I'm editorgirl anymore. Maybe I'm egg again. You tell me.

My new remedy: get dinner with LadyJane and Virginia, grab the new Poetry, and then hit the books and the writing until Saturday, when I'll take a break for the firm Christmas party, The King's English, and hopefully some music shopping with the Jester.

Ready? Break.

Do I deconstruct your segues?

I considered making a list of all the things I need to get done in the next three weeks, but then I saw this and decided it was more than enough for one goddess to think about. Instead, I'm going to list all the things I want to do in the next three weeks. And yes, there is a difference. Contrary to popular belief, I don't want to take my Theory Discourse final.

Sleep.
Feel better, coldwise.
Firm Christmas party.
Shop.
Shop.
Shop.
Visit The King's English over and over and over again.
See The Holiday.
Continue to discover the wit of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (see post title).
Eat sushi with K.
Hang out at Gallery One Ten and admire the collective brilliance.
Start writing my thesis.

Okay, that last one isn't so much a want as a really, really, really need to, to the point of wanting to. Just like I "want" to write my article-length paper on E.L. Doctorow's The March, and apply to PhD programs. How did I reach this point in my life? I'll tell you.

I don't know.

merry christmas to all

and to all a Little Debbie Christmas Tree Snack Cake.

I'm serious. The past few years, I've gone out of my way to be the grinchiest of Grinchs. I believe it brings order to the universe. But nothing says Holiday Spirit to me like a box of Christmas Tree snack cakes. I don't know if it's the vanilla cake or the vanilla frosting or those green sprinkles on top. And maybe it's just a little more than my usual dose of pathetic that I can get happy over such a small thing when Christman carols make me consider cutting off both ears (take that, Van Gogh). Christmas just isn't Christmas without them, though. And since my Macey's run last night produced the first box of the season, the season can officially begin.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

I always care. I don't always know.

Warning: Do not listen to Death Cab for Cutie when you are extremely prone to nostalgia and any degree of melancholy.


I like Thanksgiving. I like turkey and family and stuffing and organized leaf jumping. But I went so willingly to Hurricane this year because I knew it was time to visit Ivins again.


Ivins is where Trent is buried. The last time I went was over a year ago, just a few months after he died. They didn't have a headstone yet or any marker and I didn't know where his grave was. I walked from plot to plot, finally stopping at the west end of the cemetery. There were things there that made me think, but I didn't know.


This year there was still no headstone, but I had directions and pictures from K. I went to the grocery store in Hurricane the night before for flowers--small pink and burgandy roses with a few alstromeria. Not bad for small town Utah. (I consciously chose the girliest wrap available.)

My dad drove me out to Ivins on Thanksgiving morning. (I don't like driving the family suburban and he needed a break from family together time.) Thirty minutes there. Dad thought I should leave a poem or something. I did leave something--just a few sentences, copied from my Christmas present from Trent. I took the flowers out of their wrapping (because it wasn't girly, just ugly), and left them at the side of the large red rock that marks his place. The note was underneath. I was only there for maybe ten minutes.


And then thirty minutes back to Hurricane and family and organized leaf jumping.


Hey Trent: I love you.

In Hurricane, we celebrate Thanksgiving

by allowing small children to launch their small bodies into a large pile of leaves (aka organized leaf jumping).

blog Q and A

For some reason I felt compelled to do this.

Q: And me? (Because remember, it's all about me.)
A: It is all about you.

Q: What grad programs (and young men) have you decided on?
Utah, Ohio, Houston, Michigan, plus one or two. As for the young men. . . they exist.

Q: Yeah, you owe us all some info. . . men that exist in real life???
A: A girl has to move on. Especially when Jake Gyllenhaal turns out too short.

Q: Was number seven directed towards me and recent occurrences?
A: No. Number eight.

Q: I guess I'm out of touch, but what was your brother supposed to be?
A: Well, I asked for either a sister or a dog. They came later.

Q: Did you wear your sexy Velma glasses with your dirt costume?
A: No. But I was still sexy.

Q: Did they play their patented TV theme song medley? Did I spell "medley" right?
A: Yes. Unless you meant M-A-D-L-Y.

Q: You think I trust you to decide for yourself what you're watching and feeling?
A: You don’t trust me to do anything.

Q: But surely there are exceptions?
A: There are always exceptions. Except when there aren’t.

Q: Isn't this a flavor at pudding on the rice?
A: Isn’t everything a flavor at pudding on the rice?

Q: How does one grade poetry, anyhow?
A: One closes one’s eyes and randomly marks the page.

Q: Can you bump up the release date?
A: I could, but then I’d have to kill you.

Q: What's wrong with your last post?
A: Many many things.

Q: Where did you go?
A: Where no wo/man has gone before.

Q: Did I spell "elaborate" right?
A: Yes.

Q: Are you living in a theory world?
A: Against my will. . . I am sent to bid you come into supper.

Q: Is that Diet Nepenthe with Lime? What Hitchcock movie was it? Are you serious about the seven-yr.-crush? My heart throws itself into a garbage disposal in empathy for you. Isn't it strange how the people who are so wonderful to you and who you care so much about are the ones who make your life so crappy?
A: Is there any other kind? I hope it was Psycho. Yes. And yes.

Q: Is "treats" a Utahism?
A: Yes. And apparently so is everything else that comes out of my mouth.

Q: Poetry?
A: What else is there?

Q: Do you look disapprovingly at people over the top of them?
A: Isn’t that why one wears glasses?

Q: Does this mean you're going to fob all night tonight?
A: And party every day.

Q: The real world is scary, but so what?
A: So you ignore it and read lots of things that replace the real world. Try it. You’ll like it.

Q: Did I mention you're beautiful?
A: No. Say it again, Sam.

Q: Is it a poem? For if it isn't, will you make it one?
A: It is a poem. Now. Look at me being all obedient and stuff.

Q: Can I please join your support group?
A: Email me with a statement of intent. Preferably one I can use for my grad school apps.

Q: Is that too sappy?
A: Yes.

Q: Isn't it cute when they try to make sense of these things?
A: Cute isn’t the word I’d use to describe it.

Q: Can't you come up with better reasons than that?
A: Apparently not.

Q: And can we mention she's played by the incomparable Emma Thompson?
A: She’s played by the incomparable Emma Thompson.

Q: How exactly does one simultaneously account for an event that *did* occur and several events that could have?
A: The Fob Pantheon. That and Zizek.

genius

Attention: Prepared to be ranted at. Or to. At or to. Whatever you/I/we decide, it will be a rant.

My family is unusually brilliant. Take, for example, me. Or Sven, LaLa, the Jester, Marzipan. Plus the parents. Oh, and the dog. All very very smart, talented individuals. Emphasis on the very.

Tonight's subject is the Jester. He earned his nickname four-ish years ago when he played the Jester in Once Upon a Mattress. The year before that he was in the barbershop quartet in Music Man, and the year after he was Will Parker in Oklahoma! And then he was Baby John in West Side and the Genie in Aladdin. Not only is he a good actor, but the boy can sing.

For some reason, all of his talent and success has not translated to his high school musical theatre program. I know high school programs are political, but this one goes above and beyond. And after being cast in the chorus for the second year, we (the family) expected him to get a good role in the Broadway revue. Tonight I found out he pulled one small solo in a song called "It Sucks to Be Me" from Avenue Q. And while censoring annoys and frustrates the hell out of me, I don't think Avenue Q is appropriate for high school students. And that my little brother should not be required to sing "It sucks to be me." He's one who listened to the "don't swear" from our parents. He's the one who is super sensitive about language.