Take That, Big Bird.

When my brother and I were little, there were always the special toys at Grandma's house. The toys that you couldn't wait to play with when you got there, because you never had them at home.

One of them was Candyland. There was just something magical about that old retro cardboard box held together with the brown packing tape that was smooth to the touch yet crunchy at the same time.

Yesterday, as I was volunteering like a good Samaritan at a toy drive, my brain stumbled upon this memory.

The memory of the little village.

It folded out to a full two blocks, with apartments, sidewalks, a little traffic light, and a hospital.

It was all very quaint and cute, if you didn't take into account the massacres.

Yes, that village was an instrument of extreme misfortune to the poor little people living in it. They didn't even have feet, just little stumps so they could fit into the cars, but they suffered nonetheless.

My brother and I could not wait to go get the village, set it up on the fluffy brown carpet in my Grandma's living room, and drop its inhabitants off of the traffic lights. We also pushed them out of windows, ran over them with cars, and staged massive automobile accidents.

But don't worry, there was a hospital. So it's all good.

Our favorite subject of attack was the ever-impeding, ever-annoying, ever-sappy ball of yellow feathers.

That's right. Big Bird.

If you thought that the rest of the village had it bad, then you may want to just stop reading now.

Or not. Because we inflicted the same hurt on Big Bird as we did all of the other unfortunate characters. He just was more experienced.

Try and make a happy lesson out of that, you stupid bird.

Christmas Senses

Christmas smells like trees and gingerbread. Like sweet vanilla. Like warm honey ham.

It feels like a crackling fire behind your back. Like the warm glow of a thermos of hot chocolate in your frozen hands. Like a cozy sweater, or a nice thick scarf wrapped in layers up to your chin.

Christmas sounds like bells, and choirs singing soft carols. Like the snapping and popping of firewood. Like the satisfying tear of a sheet of wrapping paper, or the long scrape of a piece of ribbon being curled.

It has so many tastes, it's hard to count. Christmas is cookies, and fudge, and candy canes, and hot drinks. It tastes like the bubble gum that you find in your stocking Christmas morning, or like soft mints from the basket on the counter.

It looks like people all bundled up against the cold, like snow settling gently on the tops of tree branches. Like silver and gold glitter, and Christmas movies, and reindeer, and the Zoo Lights. Like tall boots and long sleeves, and sweaters with little snowflakes stitched into them.

Christmas is a season all in itself. Everything about it is so warm and loving, and it's all about being cozy and cuddly.

It appeals to all of your senses, no matter where you are, and I absolutely love it.

Walking observations

The end of my street smells like laundry detergent.

I smell it every day when I walk to school.

I don't understand.

Peux-je parler francais? S'il-vous plait?

I wish that I was actually fluent in a language. So bad.

And unfortunately, I feel like the classes that I'm in are really a waste or  of time, and they will never let me achieve my goal. I always translate stuff in my head, to try and see how much I actually know, and after two and a half years of French, I still can't really carry on a conversation.

It makes me sad.

I understand some basic rules, but then others I've completely forgotten. The system of teaching is rather ineffective. We will learn something, like direct/indirect object pronouns and their placement, but then not do anything with it for a year. So when we need to go back and use them or the reflexive or another like concept, we no longer remember how to use it.

So, in most cases, I just end up altering what I really wanted to say to fit the simpler form of the things that I actually can say.

I wish that I wasn't in school, and that travel wasn't so expensive, so that I could just go live in France for a month and learn my French. Or the same with Italy.

I've been trying to teach myself Italian, and although I haven't been able to put as much time toward it as I would like to in the past few weeks, I feel like I'm learning much more efficiently than I do in my French classes. Which is pathetic.

I know that my teachers can speak French. I know that they know the rules and all of the different ways of saying things.

Now can they pass that on to me? Please? Because being incapable of carrying on a decent conversation with more than the basic language is driving me crazy.

J'aime les langues. Maintenant, apprends-moi à leur parler. 


Anybody know somebody who speaks another language? French? Italian? Send them my way.


I'm begging you.

Train of Conciousness

So, in case you hadn't noticed, my last post makes no sense.

That's because I used the wrong word.

The whole time.

Whenever I said yawn, it's actually supposed to be snore... Whatever. You knew that, right? I mean they're totally the same thing. Haha. Yeah...

Maybe I was just so excited about the fact that I got a music player on my page that I wasn't really thinking clearly.

Yeah, that must have been it.

But really. My music player is nifty. Now you know just a little bit more about me, because you get to listen to all of my favorite songs while you read. Lovely, no?

Anyway. Not the point.

We're reading The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner in my english class right now. It's really confusing, and kind of boring merely because half the time you have no idea what's going on because it follows the thought process of a thirty-three year old mentally deficient man.

Who has absolutely no concept of time.

Italics may indicate a time change. Then again, they may not.

And I'm not talking hours or days here. I'm talking years. Decades, even.

And as if that wasn't confusing enough, then they throw in two characters named Quentin. One is a boy. The other is a baby girl.

But they don't specify.

And when you have no clue what is happening, and whether you're in 1924 or 1896 or 1910, it's really confusing.

You read half of the page thinking that Benjy is talking about his brother, and then your whole sense of reality is shattered when you realize that really, he's talking about his sister's child.

Moral of this story: People are random. Thought processes suck. And Quentin is a hermaphrodite.

Yawn.

I don't yawn, for the record. But that's beside the point.

The other night I was pretending to be sleepy, because yes, I do that a lot, and I yawned.

And my mom started laughing at me.

I didn't understand. What was so funny about my yawn?

All I did was say honk-shoo.

Doesn't everybody yawn like that?

Apparently not. 

Apparently that's something I made up when I was little.

And my mom thinks it's funny.

Don't worry, I know what you're probably thinking right now.

Honk-shoo.

Was I right?

Braaaaiiiiins

Mine don't work.

No, seriously, I think I have issues up in the noggin.

That would explain why I forget to post on here for weeks at a time.

Other than that, my brain just randomly puts thoughts into my head that don't really relate to what I'm doing. Or where I am. Or anything, for that matter.

Lately, there's been a surge of notes on facebook where people share thirty random facts that you never knew about them, and probably never wanted to know.

And because sharing this kind of unnecessary information happens to be my specialty, I shall do so here.

1. I want to be fluent in as many languages as possible. Namely French, Italian, and Russian.

2. I always think that grass is softer than it actually is. Therefore, my special little fantasy of laying in a field of grass and looking for bunnies in the sky is never actually going to be as glorious as I would like it to be.

3. I hate crying. If there was one human trait that I could train myself against, it would be that.

4. When I grow up, I want to drink wine. Mostly because of all the cute stuff you can put on the bottles.

5. I think I have a mini philosopher living in my head. He likes thinking deep thoughts at inappropriate times,

6. I really wish I could have plain, straight-across bangs. But with my hair, it never works out.

7. One of the hardest things for me to do is not make plans. I would love to just take a year and travel, go places without any destination or plans, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to bring myself to do it.

8. I want to be in movies. Not for the fame or the fortune, but because I'm fascinated by the whole system.

9. I'm constantly comparing our modern world with that of the past.

10. I'm a terrible artist. Yet somehow, I can do decent hair and makeup. I wonder how that is?

11. I want to be a journalist when I grow up. Although I'm fairly convinced that given a cape and a tiara, I could save the world.

12. Jewelry makes me happy. Therefore, I have massive amounts of it.

13. Robes are the most frustrating piece of clothing ever. They never stay were you want them to.

14. I wish my life was a musical. Then, when I broke out in song, people wouldn't give me funny looks.

15. I love my brother. I like to make fun of him, and write things like "I smell like poopy butt" in his notes, but I still love him.

16. I'm not an excruciatingly social person. If a relationship is taking more energy than it's worth, I don't bother with it.

17. I could fill my wardrobe with lace, pearls, and vintage and be happy for an eternity.

18. Audrey Hepburn is one of my favorite actresses, even though I've only seen a couple of her movies.

19. I thoroughly enjoy brutal video games. In a world as selectively sheltered as today's, everybody needs a little harmless violence.

20. Only my true friends have seen the full spectrum of my emotions and still love me for it. And trust me, that spectrum is broad.

21. I hate sell-outs. As soon as a book or movie or something gets too ridiculously popular, I don't like it anymore.

22. Historical fiction is my nerdy pleasure. I just spent a whole weekend doing nothing but playing historical fiction video games, reading historical fiction books, and watching historical fiction movies. Don't judge.

23. Judgers be haters. Naw, I'm just kidding. I judge all the time.

24. Snow globes are my pride and joy.

25. I laugh to myself in public. I can't help it.

26. I have a box in my room called "Le boite de penser". I have vowed to never put anything in it, as I have painted the words "don't you wonder why it's empty?" on the inside.

27. As much as I sometimes want to punch people in the head and banish them to Iceland, I don't really hate anybody.

28. I have slight o.c.d. about things being even.

29. I've seen each of the Lord of the Rings movies at least 25 times.

30. I'm a star whiner. Just ask my family. I am Emma, the Queen of Whining.

31. Yeah, I'm cool, I'm doing thirty-one.
             I'm kind of a jerk sometimes, because I find it more virtuous to simply share what you're thinking and be truthful than to search too hard for an overly tactful way to share your thoughts, and in effect not actually share them.

There. I bet you know way more about me than you ever needed to. Either that, or you are deeply intrigued and are now seriously contemplating being my stalker. If the first, I apologize for using up your ever so precious time. If the second, I don't blame you. I would too.

Do I Need Counseling for That?

I have a problem.

I have separation anxiety.

Not from people, though. From movies. Or T.V. shows.

I have this nasty little habit of watching every single special feature on the last disk before I have the heart to take the bloody thing out and put it back in its case.

It's not such a bad habit, actually. I rather enjoy it. One can gain so much insight into the actors and the workings of the show by watching the behind-the-scenes interviews.

And behind-the-scenes documentaries.

And previews.

And gag reels.

And deleted scenes.

And bonus content.

There is so much to be learned and so much appreciation to be gained through watching these special features. Trust me, I would know.

I just finished the first season of Chuck, which my lovely brother was kind enough to get me addicted to. And even though I only had one episode left when I sat down to watch it, I didn't get back up until about two hours later.

My butt fell asleep.

And even when I finished them all, I still couldn't take the disk out.

Instead, I watched the gag reel a second time.

What? It was funny.

Watering the... Snow?

It's finally turning into winter in lovely old Colorado.

Mind you, I'm not complaining. I much prefer the sunshine to the frosty wind.

But the fact remains that the temperature has indeed dropped.

All I heard in the hallways today was "Snow?"

"Hey, did you know it's gonna snow soon?"

"Man, I hope it snows today."

"I can't wait for the snow. SKI SEASON BABY!"

So why was it that when I left my house for the show tonight, I heard the sound of water pounding on the pavement?

It wasn't rain. And it certainly wasn't snow.

Judging from the fact that only one area of the road even appeared to be wet at all, I would say that the mysterious precipitation wasn't even coming from the sky.

And that's when I realized.

The buildings across the street were running their sprinklers. In 30 degree weather.

What exactly were they hoping to accomplish?

And judging by the outdoor situation that will be descending on us in the next few days, the only reasonable goal they could possibly hope to accomplish would be to freeze up their pipes.

If that was in fact their goal, then bravo, ladies and gentlemen. The ETA for your accomplishment should be about three days, tops.

Congratulations. You're an idiot.

Talent

I often find myself wondering if I actually have any talent. It's almost impossible to tell for yourself how convincing your acting really is. So many times I find myself doubting.

And then I watch somebody who is truly bad.

And my faith is restored.

Like last night. I went to Mines to see my bro in a play, which, by the way, he was fantastic in.

But that cannot be said for all of them.

Like the girl with the poofy ponytail.

Umm, hello? It's the 1940's. Or something like that. Maybe 1930's. Or 50's. Whatever.

Point being, NO PONYTAIL. Especially not for you. Because your hair is ugly.

But I'm being petty. It wasn't just her appearance that was painful to the senses. Allow me to ellucidate.

She sucked.

I mean, awful. Bad, bad, bad. Poo.

For one thing, she was always smiling. So as soon as she came on stage, you saw her weird little smile lurking on her face, like it knew it wasn't really supposed to be there but it didn't have anywhere better to go.

Sometimes, though, her smile disappeared. 

It was replaced by her butt.

Here's how a typical scene would go: She would come onstage crying about the dead body or whatever (I mean come on, everybody else can hold it together, you silly maid), and while she was making these awful noises, the awkward little smile on her face would twist the noises until they sounded like she was crying into a vuvuzela.

A soon as she got the front of the stage, she would turn to face the actors. Meaning turning away from us.

So not only did we get to listen to the pathetic noises coming out of her inappropriately expressive mouth, we got to look at her backside as well.

Talk about best of both worlds, right?

Oh wait, wrong expression. I meant worst.

Thank god I'm not that bad.

Oh, I forgot to mention...

She lisped.

Them Crazy Russians

So I really should be doing homework right now, but this was just too good to pass up.

Thanks to Xbox LIVE's new partnership with ESPN, I have been opened up to a whole new world of entertainment.

I am talking, my friends, about Russian hockey.

If you thought that American hockey players were angry, just wait until you see the Russians.

They're angry genetically. Then add the fact that they're playing hockey, and, well...

It's entertaining. To say the least.

But that's not the best part.

It's in Russia, right? So all of the dialogue boxes are in Russian, the sportscasters are speaking Russian, it's all so very, well, Russian.

But what do they play during the time out breaks?

Lady Gaga and Katy Perry.

In their Russian little world, they blast from their speakers none other than the classic representation of the American pop world.

Oh, you silly Russians. We thought you were just angry, but it turns out you have a soft spot for eccentric female pop singers, even though you can't understand a word they're saying.

I guess we really couldn't read your poker face.

"Hey Mom, can you make me a..."

On the night before, mothers usually hear this phrase followed by:

"A science project?" "A treat for class?" "A poster for my presentation that I have to give tomorrow and completely forgot about?"

But from me? Oh no. My mother heard "Hey mom, wanna make me a Greek goddess costume?"

And surprisingly enough, she agreed.

Not only did she agree, she even went shopping with me.

What a mother. She indulged my last minute Halloween costume ideas, and made me quite possibly the most kick-ass homemade goddess costume. 

In under an hour and a half.

Hell yes, Mother. Hell yes.

Never Growing Up

We had an interesting lunch hour today. It seems that word is able to describe most of the lunch hours that involve me and my neighbors.

In short, we spent the whole time laughing at poop jokes and pushing each other into various forms of oncoming traffic. It was good.

And when I think about the lunches we've spent together, two words come to mind. The first word is fun. Rightly so. We do have quite a bit of fun.

The second word is childish.

I know that's what comes to other peoples' minds, surely. Just seeing the looks that we get while walking in from the parking lot, I would say that childish is definitely the word that others might use to describe us.

But isn't immaturity, in a sense, what makes fun? Some people have fun making your mom jokes and turning Disney song lyrics into sexual humor (yes, I am guilty as charged). So for them, immaturity is fun.

Acting childishly is what could be considered immature as well. And I for one can almost never think of a time where I was being immature with my friends and did not get a good, fun memory out of the deal.

So why is it that being immature is so much more fun than just doing normal fun things? There are plenty of games you could play or things you could do, like see a comedy show, that would be fun, but not immature.

Although, now that I've said that, I'm thinking back, and it seems that there was a component of childish behavior laced into all of the fun that I've had.

My thought on that is this: Children are capable of having the most pure, innocent, unbridled fun of any age group.

They have so much fun because they're not worried about what other people might think of them, or the way that it may be considered socially acceptable for them to behave. They just do whatever feels right at the moment and go with it.

The people who can laugh at anything, whether it's appropriate or not, and do the weird little jig that pops into their head during a moment of awkward silence because they just felt that it would be a nice time to do it are truly the most gifted of us all. They're not gifted with brains or skill, necessarily, but they're gifted with silly. Somebody who can laugh anything off and make a joke out of socially crippling situations deserves some applause, in my opinion.

So where other teenagers might want to have more "adult" fun by going out on a Friday night and playing beer pong until they can't see straight, I want to have the most childish fun that I can have until the day I can no longer laugh.

Because that pure joy that comes from the most honest and natural form of humor that is not synthesized by words or controlled by the world that we live in. It comes from the little kid that lives in our hearts, and when we make him happy he skips around and throws confetti into our blood and pumps goofy through our bodies. No matter how old I get, I want that little kid to keep frolicking around.

That being said,

Go poop on cheese and put it on a cracker.

Squirrels

There was a massacre at the dinner table tonight.

We were eating drunken noodles. The poor bastards were lying limp on the plate, when I spotted an intruder.

A water chestnut, with his accomplice, the baby corn, had tried to infiltrate the fortress of my drunken noodles and chicken.

But worry not, kind readers, I squashed the infiltrators with one foul smush of my fork.

Only when they lay in pieces upon my plate did I return to the contented munching of my unfortunate intoxicated noodles.

And before you ask if I'm five years old, may I take this moment to tell you that I'm six, actually, I'm six.

And before you also ask what the title has to do with anything, "Squirrels?" you say, "squirrels are not relevant here," I will take this next moment to tell you that they are quite relevant, because my six year old attention span seems to have reverted to that of a squirrel on this fine fall day.

Maybe it's the leaves. Who knows.

As a completely unrelated side note, my turn signal matched up perfectly with the bass drum beat of the Rise Against song that I was listening to today on my way to rehearsal.

There was a precious moment shared at that stop sign between the turn signal, the music, and I.

It was tender.

Why so serious?

So, for those who don't know, I do theatre. I'm definitely a geek. Some might even call me a junkie.

Regardless of the title that you decide to apply, the fact remains that I do a damn lot of theatre.

And I often hear of those who think that it's all serious up on stage.

I can't even count how many people have commented on how much we must practice, or the amount of focus that it all must take, or how serious we all are.

The truth is, shenanigans happen.

Quite often.

In fact, every day.

We love shenanigans.

Giggle fits are not uncommon during preshow, for a number of reasons.

Reason one: Stand too close to the curtain at your own risk, my friends.

There is a very good chance that if you do, you will either get poked, pinched in the butt, or have your pony pulled.

Then there's always the people who enjoy standing behind the curtain saying silly things because they know you have no power to make them stop.

Reason two: We're teenagers.

It's like How to Train Your Dragon; "You just gesture to all of me."

We have dirty minds. If any song lyrics can be turned into a sexual joke, you can almost guarantee that they will be. And as soon as one of us thinks of that onstage, the giggles spread.

It's like a giggle monster has taken over the stage. We can't stop. And for those of you who don't know, it's very hard to sing while giggling.

Very, very, hard. Aka, we don't sing.

Oh, shenanigans. What would theatre be without you?

Gleekatron

Whoever thought that a show about a large group of singing, dancing misfits would become so popular? But nonetheless, Glee has been approved for its third season already, or so I hear.

Although it seems when it comes to becoming a fan of this show, there is no middle ground. It's all or nothing, my friends. You must join the cult or be forever ridiculed. 

Those who choose the first path don a new name: the "Gleek". Before long, they begin to break out in a terrible case of the dancies, which can be fatal to those who are not prepared for it.

Before long, I expect some of them to come to school in wheelchairs just to prove their dedication... or insanity. Whatever floats your boat.

But there are those of us who prevail over the oncoming infection and drama revolving around Jewish people and cripples. Not many of us, but there are some.

It seems that the show has become so reliant on its habitually obedient fan base of Gleekatrons that it no longer cares that the story has lost close to all sense of reality. The Lady Gaga episode has carved that point into stone.

Now, maybe it's just my high school, but I don't typically see people making costumes worthy of a high fashion photo shoot. Around here, the best homemade costume combines your mom's old yoga clothes from the 1980's and some assortment of cheap clothing made in a sweatshop in China and covered with fabric paint of similar origins.

There are no Gaga costumes covered in bubbles in a high school, nor do men wear dresses.

Now, I will admit, I haven't started the new season yet. And I must also admit that the lack of reality only really became disturbing when it added skirt-wearing men and awkward attempts at seduction between the most unlikely of couples to its repertoire.

In their constant attempts to try things that are new and exciting, the writers have crossed over to the dark side. The show now more closely resembles a bad tabloid rather than a high school.

The real question is, who wouldn't find that disturbing?

Oh, of course. The robots.

To Write, or Not to Write... That Is the Question

Today, I was told to create a blog. Pomranka said "Emma, you need a blog."

Okay, well, maybe she didn't say that. But it was close.

So I spent the rest of the day thinking about what I would write about. And here's the long-awaited ultimatum.

Nothing.

Yep. I'm going to write about nothing. Because in doing that, it will give me the freedom to write about whatever I want.

So congratulations, you lucky readers, you have now become a follower of a blog that writes about nothing.

But even nothing is something, so hang in there, and something may come your way. As the great philosopher Socrates once said... Oh. Just kidding. Socrates never said anything about bad bloggers.

I really need to get better at this quoting thing.