June 22nd, 2009
Let it be known that the only reason I finally caved and saw Twilight was because my boyfriend wanted to watch it. I’m not kidding.
“I just want to see what it’s all about.”
“I know what it’s all about: bad acting and teen vampire love.”
“Snob.”
There just so happened to be nothing else On Demand in HD (because in this household we don’t WATCH programs in regular definition. Ahem.) that wasn’t entirely too serious, so I conceded. Fine. I would watch it. But I wouldn’t like it! And I didn’t. I didn’t hate it, but it very well may have been the biggest piece of cinematic cheese I’d ingested in years – and I watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers on a startlingly regular basis.
Also, VAMPIRES DON’T SPARKLE IN THE SUNLIGHT, THEY BURST INTO FLAMES AND EVERYONE KNOWS IT!
Last summer, I picked up the first Twilight book and within 30 pages, put it back down. It was bad writing and that’s all there was to it. Yeah, yeah, I understand that it’s a very story driven kind of series, and that you can become deeply invested in this forbidden blood-sucking romance, but it was bad and I felt insulted by it. So when I saw my friend Amy’s Facebook status reference her most recent read being about teen angst and vampire love, I immediately rushed to provide intervention. But before I could save Amy from herself, she dropped what has to be the most honest and compelling pro-Twilight review out there (and this shit should go on the book’s back cover):
I was just going to make an analogy about the difference between listening to a truly great band like the Rolling Stones and someone like Neil Diamond. Neil Diamond is very entertaining to me. I enjoy his songs. But he is no Rolling Stone.
Twilight is my Neil Diamond.
I called off the intervention. God knows I do love a little “Cracklin’ Rosie” every now and again.
June 18th, 2009
My friend Shiv, who is annoyingly photogenic (as well as in possession of many other good qualities like, creativity, generosity, wit, charm, etc), is applying for an amazing job via a video contest. If you’ve got nothing to do at the moment, I’d love to help you out by suggesting you hop on over, have a look-see at her video and, I don’t know, vote for her, if you feel so inclined. Again, Shiv is all of the aforementioned good things and then some, so if you DID vote for her, you’d be helping out a first class individual. And that’s nothing if not feel good!
June 16th, 2009
I woke up this morning exactly where I fell asleep but still, somehow, on the wrong side of the bed. Hoo boy, was I cranky! I was cranky with my sleeping boyfriend, whose GIGANTIC head was taking up half of my pillow. Cranky with the cat for (seriously, the nerve) wanting to be fed. And cranky all the way through my workout (between sets, I had intensely bitter, imaginary arguments with everyone I anticipated dealing with that day) until I caught my image in the mini-gym mirrors. Watching them reflect my cranky face – incidentally, strikingly similar to the expression my mother wore on her face for oh, two and a half years before The Divorce – was a kick in the sweatpants. On the list of things I’m glad to inherit from my mother (soft skin, ninja like organizational skills, very nice penmanship) mad face is not one of them. I will be spending this weekend renting beauty pageant documentaries so as how to learn to put on a pretty happy face when I don’t mean it even a little bit. Vaseline on my teeth and such.
Speaking of mad, I want to quickly address the last post and the number of you who are SO.UNHAPPY. about the last line. Friends, I cannot imagine any of you being around this long and still taking me so seriously that you’d get upset by that. Was it smug? Oh, yes. Overly so. Because it was tongue-in-cheek and meant to be silly. Jeez louise. Do I literally mean that my big-headed boyfriend is better than all the other men out there? Um, no. If your man is being a twerp, gimme a holler and we can talk about the time mine announced that marriage sounds like a really awful idea – right before the lights went down in a movie theater. At that moment, my boyfriend was not better than anyone’s boyfriend and I seriously questioned the dedication it took to sit through Terminator: Part Christian Bale for such a man. Or about the time we moved and I did all (ALL!) the unpacking while he futzed around with computer cords. Look, I’m in a human relationship. If some days I feel like crowing, there are plenty of days when I feel like issuing karate chops to sensitive parts. It’s funny, because I was in the middle of writing a big old essay about the harder, not-so-cheery parts of my relationship, but hadn’t posted it for fear it was too negative. Now I’m wondering if that’s really more up the collective alley.
Food for thought, I suppose.
June 15th, 2009
It was one hundred and two degrees outside and the air conditioning at the San Antonio airport wasn’t working. Every several minutes or so, I’d succumb to the heat and the long day of travel and meetings, nod off, jerk awake, and then scan the crowd to see if anyone had caught my latest performance. I am the picture of grace! But no one seemed to be paying any attention. The older, preppily-dressed couple to my right was bickering. It reminded me of my parents. The dark-haired woman to my left smelled so strongly of body odor and cigarette smoke, I thought I might choke, so I gave up my seat and limped toward the tiled corridor. I needed an ice cream cone pronto.
Oh, yeah, I limped. After what could have been as many as 75 trips down three flights of stairs and then UP three more flights of stairs, my quads and calves were a disaster, and after thirty minutes of not moving, they were pretty stubborn about getting going again. I promised them ice cream, and that seemed to do the trick.
En route to ice cream, I looked up at the boards and saw that my flight had been delayed again and set my jaw. I would not have at total breakdown at the airport. I just wouldn’t. But oh, how I wanted to. I was tired, in pain, and the five-and-a-half-hour meeting I’d sat through earlier in the day wasn’t what you’d call invigorating.
Heather: I just want to come home.
Dork Lord: I know, baby.
Heather: Now they’re saying there’s a crew change. I’ll never leave! I will have to live in the airport and eat McDonald’s. FOREVER.
Dork Lord: That’s not too bad!
Aw, loving a man who loves fast food. I should have suspected I’d get absolutely zero sympathy for a diet based on red meat and fake cheese (to him, it’s heaven in a foil lined wrapper). But that’s what I wanted. Sympathy. And a hug. And to be home with climate control and my shoes off. By the time I climbed into my car at the Dallas airport and headed home, the Boy was already gone for the evening, off to watch the Stanley Cup Finals. I was a little disappointed – that hug would have done the trick. But when I walked through the apartment door, I saw that in his place, he’d left behind a dozen long stem red roses and I thought, Who needs a stinkin’ hug, anyway?
My boyfriend is better than your boyfriend.
June 9th, 2009
The Cinderella watch I bought at Disneyland in the second grade. Teeth. Sleep. Weight. My way when driving to that hotel in San Jose, Costa Rica. Two grandparents. A scholarship. My luggage. Bets. The fifty meter dash at Hershey Track & Field day. My temper. My virtue, as it were. The tweezers to my Swiss Army Knife. Hope. My keys. My VHS copy of Top Gun. My religion. Friends. A pearl earring into the mystery slot at the bottom of an escalator. My place in line. Momentum. The stomach required to watch reality television. Receipts. My voice. The recipe for my father’s chocolate chip cookies. Phone numbers. My marbles.
My patience.
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