Pondering

I have been doing that a lot lately.

First pondering: After reading the lovely Erin Browne's microblog, which you can find here, I kind of want to start one. That way I can just put up all of my random blurbs that somehow pass through my brain in the course of an average day without all of you needy people demanding some sort of explanation.

Second pondering: I think I should get rid of the view-counter I added to my profile yesterday. I'm pretty sure I'm addicted to it.

Third pondering: Why the hell are my feet so cold when I want to sleep?

Romantic Void

Chick flicks.

They are a money-making mind game.

And even worse, I know this, yet I continue to watch them.

I think it is a serious addiction and should be treated as such.

But, you will all be glad to know, after much careful thinking, I have decided what it is that makes chick flicks so irresistible to us girls.

Now, you men reading this may not understand, but I can practically guarantee that every single girl will know exactly what I'm talking about.

These movies, these instruments of torture, these evil disks of joy, they lead us on and make us believe that guys like that actually exist.

They entice us with cute pictures and romantic DVD-case summaries, get us completely infatuated with the story line so that we're on some sort of weird high from the joy of somebody else's fake romance, then leave us so depressed at the realization that men like that don't actually exist that all we want to do it watch another one. It's quite the vicious cycle that they've created.

And they work hard at it. They make the most average, every-day heroine, who is completely riddled with flaws. She talks too much, she's a control freak, she is a reclusive hermit, whatever. They're all the same. In some way, they feel like less than stellar individuals, in consequence making them, hey, join the club. Just like every single one of us.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking right now. Trust me, I'm thinking it too. I'm special. And I'm nothing like that normal, average, blend-in-with-the-crowd individual of which you speak.

But we all have flaws. And it is my personal belief that merely because these incredibly attractive movie stars are now given flaws as well, we think that they're just like us. Which then makes us think that our chances and their chances are equal.

Unfortunately, also not true. Because we don't have a team of writers working on our side.

Regardless. They create easily relatable characters, therefore securing us in our oddly trance-like fascinations for the remainder of their movie.

Not that I'm complaining, of course. I'm just saying.

So then, they introduce this fabulous guy. He's cute, or hot, or sexy, or whatever adjective they choose to go with. Any way, we're all drooling. He has a real character, with enough sides to it we think that he could actually be walking down the street right now, not just down lines of a script. Of course, he has a fabulous body, and a keen sense of which fashions will suitably flatter it.

In short, they make him so much like somebody that we all believe we could know, only better. Essentially, he is like the real-life version of all of our perfect man fantasies. Because let's admit it ladies, we all have one. So this guy... he may have flaws, but only enough to make him real, but not enough to actually make us dislike him at all. That would be completely counterproductive to their attempts at hypnosis.

Now here's the kicker. Once we're properly salivating, we get to watch as the flawed girl rejects the dream guy. Not only does she reject him, she legitimately dislikes him. When he makes his completely adorable attempts at flirting, the point at which the rest of us would be jumping into his arms, she laughs in his face and tells him to get lost.

Granted, I will admit that this particular scenario doesn't play out in every single movie. It's not always total rejection. Sometimes she flirts back instead of laughing, and then tells him to get lost.

By this point, we're completely attached. And as we watch him try to win her over, we only ever see his good side. Movie boys never have huge personality flaws. And if they do, they always have completely sweet intentions behind them. It's the perfect plan. What better way to get people to like an attractive man than to give him an attractive personality as well? Essentially, they play out the scenario so that we see out of the eyes of somebody who is in love; No flaws, at least none that can't be completely overshadowed by the large, glorious form of the big picture.

And that leads me to my real point. We all think that there is never going to be a guy like that out there for us. We want one so bad, and yet everybody knows that movie boys are not real boys. Real boys are stinky and you should throw rocks at them if you get the chance. Everybody knows that.

But I've decided that it's all in the eye of the beholder, just like beauty. We love these movie men so much because we see them as a person who was in love with them would. We see them as perfectly adorable, and don't even take into consideration the tiny flaws that may surface from time to time, because we care too much about them.

It has always been said that there is someone out there for everyone. And it is because to everybody, there is one other person who they can see in the same way that we see boys in the movies. True, they may not always be movie quality, and 99% of the time they probably aren't. They aren't carefully calculated inventions, they are real people, and real people are flawed. But flaws are what make us beautiful. So to each of us, there will be somebody who we find completely and utterly adorable, just like the boys in the movies.

There will be somebody who is so beautiful to you because of their flaws, who may not be perfect but who is perfect to you, and who you will be able look at the way you look at the boys in every one of those chick flicks you've spent many a guilty Friday evening watching.

So girls, don't sit there and get all depressed thinking that you will never find love. Because you will. I mean come on, if the ugly kids at school can do it, you can too, right?

Now for those of you that know me, this is uncharacteristically romantically optimistic for me. I'm not a romantic. For those of you who know me fairly well, you should be able to say that I'm actually pretty cynical when it comes to relationships, especially ones in high school. But oh well. That's a different story.

And don't think that I'm hating on chick flicks. Because for those of you that really know me, I love romantic comedies. Love them. Love. Them. Love. 


I'm just saying. We love these movies so much because we are legitimately in love with them, and so every time you sit down to watch a cute romantic comedy starring your favorite actress and a new but quite attractive male lead, you're actually teaching yourself what it's like to fall in love. Just think about that next time.

Just try to pick a good movie. Otherwise that will be one bad relationship for you.

Slap shot!

Pardon my limited arsenal of hockey speak, but that's about all I know. Although I learned a few more tonight at the AV'S GAME!

Ahem. Sorry. A little excited there. As I'm sure many of you already knew. I've sort of been... you know... talking about it nonstop for the past week. Whatever.

Yes, it was the best Christmas present from the best older brother ever; We went to see the Avalanche play tonight.

Now, I'm not sure exactly what it is about the Av's, but I love 'em. Always have. I think this love may have found its roots when I was a child. I remember crowding around my parents tiny little t.v. in their bedroom on the night of the Stanley Cup, watching in excitement as one of the players skated around the rink with the trophy held high in his hands.

It was magical.

Not to mention, I got to stay up past nine. Woah, man.

Anyway, the Av's have been my favorite Colorado team for as long as I can remember. I don't really have anything against the other teams, but they're just not as nice, you know?

No, wait. Scratch that. I have never liked the Nuggets. There's just something about when I think of a team and the first thing that pops into my head is an ego the size of a moon that makes me put up a mental barrier against them.

Besides, hockey is such a fun sport to watch. Unlike football, it doesn't have more down time than actual play time, and it's pretty easy to follow.

And anyone who pays any attention to the players' feet should have no question at all in their mind as to whether or not hockey is an awesome sport. They are just so damn graceful. I mean, in what other sport can a player be moving backward, slide down onto their knees to block a shot, and get back to a perfectly stable vertical position without once breaking motion?

Sadly, the Av's lost to the Phoenix Coyotes, a 0-2 shutout. But they played well. And I got a t-shirt.

Life is good.

And You're Being Educated?

Oh, school. Nothing like a good long two and half weeks off to make you really appreciate the wealth of stupidity contained within its walls.

I mean, seriously. Some of those people... I wonder how they function.

And it's not only the people who ask stupid questions in class. Granted, there are quite a few of them too, but I'm talking about the people to which common sense is apparently a foreign concept.

Exhibit A: The girl wearing her cheerleading uniform in honor of (and excitement for) the boys basketball game tonight which, may I say, was quite ecstatically publicized. Now, school spirit is great and all. I personally don't really partake in it, because let's admit it, most of the time it makes you look like a fool. But hey, if that's what floats your boat, go get 'em tiger.

But the problem that I had with this girl was that her outfit made me stop and wonder: Why? In the thoughtful way of the cheer coach, cheerleaders all have a cheer sweatsuit for those days when it is not actually mini skirt weather. However, today apparently did not make the grade of "not mini skirt weather." Because this particular cheerleader was proudly sporting a short skirt.

I mean short.

Like, cheer short.

You could practically see her big ol' cheer granny panties.

There is snow on the ground, and yet this girl found it necessary to show her school spirit by sacrificing the outer layer or her skin, and probably coagulating the better part of the blood in her extremities.

Of course, I would be lying to say that I was altogether surprised by this behavior. The cheerleading population at Niwot does not leave the rest of us with very high expectations.

Exhibit B of, shall we say, "challenged" people at Niwot: The ones who don't realize that when they talk and the whole class laughs, it's not because we think what they say is funny. Actually, we just think they're morons.

Now these people are not new. They have been these people, and will continue to be these people, throughout their entire high school lives. I have only been graced with the presences of the most obnoxious specimen this year, however, in my A.P. classes.

You know, just because they're advanced placement classes, I didn't know that having enough obscure trivia about the presidents stored up in your brain that you can answer practically every question on a worksheet that is intended to be a joke in government class was suddenly considered cool. In fact, I'm pretty sure that it's still just an unnecessarily dorky showcase of how little of a social life you actually have. Oh, and the history lesson on the origin of the S in Ulysses S. Grant's name was . . . well . . . yeah. It was nice.

Don't take this the wrong way though. As much as I may want to punch those people in the throat when they start talking, they definitely spice up the lecture material by adding inappropriate peals of giggles to the otherwise sedate and lethargic mumbles and bumbles of the rest of the class. So don't stop with your social inadequacy, please. It's really quite entertaining.

Unfortunately, no matter how many good internal laughs you get out of them, there are some voices that make you go:

"Gee, aren't you glad to hear that voice again?"

Beginnings

It's a new year. But, unlike some people, I don't see it as a saving grace. New years shouldn't be a last-ditch effort to forget the past year and start anew. Because that's not really healthy, is it?

I'm excited for this to be a new year. But not because it's different than the last. More like because it's a whole new section of my life that's now laid out in front of me.

Years are like journals. You have one, you use it all up, fill every page with thoughts and memories and occurrences. And then when you're all finished, you get a new one. That doesn't mean you have to go throw the old one into a bonfire, or read back over it and cry until the words are no longer discernible. It just means that you have a whole journal full of blank pages to fill as a continuation of the last one.

I don't really know if anything new will happen in this next year. It may not be all that exciting or big, and it may just be little things. Little changes, like in years past. I might find a new way of looking at something, or discover a great new hobby or unearth a talent that I never knew existed. Even if they're not huge, I'm sure the pages of this year's journal will be filled with new little accomplishments and anecdotes and discoveries.

And while I've never been huge on making New Year's resolutions, I've decided that this year I'm just going to shift my thinking. It's not really a resolution, because it's not a finite goal that you can write down on a piece of paper with a box next to it, to be filled with a check when the it has been accomplished.

I just want to start thinking more freely. The best things about life are the ones that aren't planned or plotted or conspired. I just need to open up my thoughts to the winds of fate, and let them take me wherever they decide I should be.

But I'll be sure to leave my umbrella and wide brimmed hat at home. Wouldn't want to get swept away, now would we?

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.