tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66709316960894590582024-03-13T00:44:43.822-04:00Cakes & AleAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-8002415893874549162017-03-01T17:48:00.001-05:002017-03-02T09:59:01.654-05:00We Need To Talk About Drinking And FlyingHey you. Yeah, I'm talking to you. You know who you are. You're the person pre-gaming your flight, trying to sneak booze onto my plane, doing your best to con free drinks off the flight attendant, and claiming that a Gin & Tonic "helps you sleep" on your day-flight.<br />
<br />
You.<br />
<br />
We need to talk about your drinking problem and the problem it's causing for everyone around you because you're doing it in a public place.<br />
<br />
Today's rant is brought to you by 2 incidents in so many weeks. First, a man getting off my flight was so drunk that he and his teenage son got into a physical fight on the jet bridge, one that I, your flight attendant, had to break up. One that caused me deep concern for your son because he was way too unsurprised when you shoved him violently against the wall of the jetbridge.<br />
<br />
Second, a woman traveling by herself was so drunk she literally could not put one foot in front of the other when she arrived at her destination. She was not capable of walking to baggage claim on her own, and I had to go so far as to order wheelchair assistance for her and use her cell phone to call her ride on her behalf because I was scared she might be attempting to drive wherever she was headed next.<br />
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After both incidents, I rounded on my fellow crew-members in horror and incredulously asked "How much did you give him/her?!" (As flight attendants, we are certainly authorized to cut someone off who has had too much and is becoming a safety issue.)<br />
<br />
The first time, they shrugged and told me "He got on the plane that way. He only had one or two."<br />
<br />
The second time "I didn't give her anything."<br />
<br />
So let's talk about that. Both of these people probably boarded the flight drunk and, especially in the second case, probably smuggled their own booze on the plane to continue drinking.<br />
<br />
I'm going to start with that: Smuggling booze onto the plane. I'm even going to say this in bold, all capital letters so that you can hear me in the back of the room.<br />
<br />
<b>YOU DO NOT HAVE TO "SNEAK" BOOZE ONTO YOUR FLIGHT. YOU ARE ALLOWED TO BRING YOUR OWN BOOZE AND IMBIBE IT IN FLIGHT IF AND ONLY IF YOU ALLOW THE FLIGHT ATTENDANT TO SERVE IT TO YOU.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Let me say it again more calmly in case you didn't understand my shouting. You're not being clever. You're not getting away with something. You're actually just being really dumb. You can drink your own booze on a flight as long as you allow the Flight Attendant to serve it, which typically entails us going "Sure!" and happily opening the bottle or can for you and then leaving you the hell alone.<br />
<br />
Now let me explain why this is important. Do you think, maybe, just maybe, if you become beligerent or violent, develop sudden illness, or fall unconscious during my flight, that it might be important for me to be aware of how much alcohol you've consumed during the flight and what kind?<br />
<br />
Exactly.<br />
<br />
I think we can all agree that that rule is not only completely reasonable but also more than justifiable. So let's move on to the next reason you're being dumb.<br />
<br />
"It helps me sleep."<br />
<br />
No, no it doesn't. As a matter of fact, it's going to keep you awake. I get it; you're a nervous flier, and you think a quick bloody mary or five is going to help calm your nerves. That <i>may</i> be true, but it's not going to help you sleep. Flying dehydrates you. It's just a fact. Guess what else dehydrates you? Alcohol. (And salt--have you looked at the label on a bloody mary mix lately? Yikes.) And finally, guess what makes it difficult for you to sleep? DEHYDRATION. -facepalm-<br />
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You know what <i>helps </i>you sleep? A nice tepid glass of water. Consider that next time.<br />
<br />
Now, there's something else I want to touch on here, that's a little more opinion-based on my part. But this is my angry rant, and I do what I want, so I'm going to talk about it anyway. Let's talk about social awareness. Do you <i>really</i> think an airport or airplane is a great place for you to get wasted? Do you? It's not a club. It's not a bar. It's not your frat brother's basement. It's pretty much the equivalent of getting drunk on a bus. The only difference (and I'll even concede it's a fair one) is yes, we do serve drinks here. But that's not an invitation for you to get hammered. Let's face it; most people are pretty obnoxious when they're drunk. Their emotions start running high, they get louder, clumsier, more touchy-feely, and less capable of controlling their impulses. Does that sound like someone you want to be stuck sitting next to in coach on a 4 hour 30 min flight to LA? I once almost threw a drunk man off my plane because he was being noncompliant before take-off and refusing to end his cell-phone call. You know why I didn't? I was feeling extra bitch-y, and I knew that he was on his way to the Caribbean to get married, and he was not going to use me as an excuse to screw that up for his future wife.<br />
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It's immature and it's impolite. No one else in the airport or on the plane thinks you're cute or charming for this behavior. Oh, and if you're the loser who's complaining about paying for drinks because one time on one other flight, a Flight Attendant was nice to you and did you the favor of giving you a one-time complimentary drink and now you expect that all the time on every single flight you go on, I'd like to formally request that you lie awake in bed tonight staring at the ceiling and thinking about your life choices.<br />
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In keeping with this theme of whether or not an airport/airplane is an appropriate place for inebriation, let's talk safety. I've said it before and I'm going to keep on saying it until people sit up and pay attention: We live in a post 9-11 world, and you can't just do whatever you want on a plane anymore.<br />
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We've all seen the YouTube videos of drunk passengers causing scenes, getting agressive with crew members, and generally instigating mayhem. How dare you. How dare you put all of us in a position that we are less safe, passengers and crew-members included? 3 times out of 5 when I have to deal with passengers getting into fights with each other or trying to start a fight with me, excessive drinking is involved. I have been cornered in my galley more times than I can count by drunk men who think they're hitting on me (problematic enough) but are actually scaring the hell out of me by violating my personal space. How dare you. Your mother would be ashamed of you. And if she wouldn't, then my mother would be ashamed of you AND your mother.<br />
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I'm not saying don't drink. I'm not saying that at all. I'm simply asking for maturity and self-control. You can drink without getting intoxicated. We don't have a lot of rules about alcohol on the aircraft itself, so please, follow the few that we do. Don't bring an open container of alcohol on your flight. If you do bring your own booze, ask the flight attendant to serve it to you. And if your flight attendant asks whether you're planning to drive once you reach your destination, take that as a very heavy-handed, very polite hint that you should consider slowing down and sparing us all.<br />
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<b>TLDR:</b> By all means, feel free to indulge in a little fun while you travel, but keep it in moderation.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-90595696482177083612015-02-28T11:27:00.003-05:002015-03-02T10:35:49.249-05:00Morning With DogsSome of you know that I recently had a change of address. Unable to continue affording my last apartment (or, rather, unwilling and unable to continue accepting financial assistance from my parents), I have recently moved in with a friend of my boyfriend's and am renting out her spare bedroom for a few months while I attempt to find a better solution.<br />
<br />
And I have not gone quietly. I'll admit it. I've been a giant baby about this move. Once you get used to living alone like I have been doing at my last two permanent residences (ignore the 2 months of Flight Attendant training and <a href="http://mashable.com/2015/02/24/how-much-do-flight-attendants-make/#:eyJzIjoiZiIsImkiOiJfZThzaXJxemcxNTk1YmsycyJ9" target="_blank">7 ensuing months of homelessness</a>), it is very difficult to reconcile yourself with the idea of having a roommate again. I am, of course, incredibly grateful to her for taking me in. She did not have to, but hopefully the next four months will be mutually beneficial. Meanwhile, my body is acclimating to the new surroundings. Experience (and being a generally deep sleeper) has taught me that in a couple of weeks I will no longer awaken at the sound of her 5:00 A.M. showers or the dogs following her around the house before she leaves for work. For now, if I'm lucky enough to be sleeping in that day (never a guarantee in my line of work), I stretch, roll over, and bury my head under a pillow.<br />
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…while silently thinking to myself how much I miss my studio.<br />
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Which is all good and well. For me, though, I think the worst part of having a roommate is my constant fear of being a nuisance. She is an extremely light sleeper so I am constantly cringing with each noise I make. Last night my new key hook fell off the wall with an awful crash. It scared the bejeezus out of me and I felt awful knowing it must have woken her. Even now, I can't help guiltily wondering if the sound of my keyboard is disturbing her.<br />
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But again, I have to emphasize how grateful I am to be here. If Jess hadn't been willing to rent out a room to me, my options were as follows:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Continue to live above my means in my old apartment and eventually either starve because I'm paying rent or get kicked out because I chose eating over paying rent.</li>
<li>Homelessness.</li>
<li>Move in with my boyfriend and bring scandal and disgrace to my incredibly old-fashioned family, earning me their eternal disapproval and banishment. Or something like that. Emphasis on the "scandal and disgrace" part. And the "incredibly old-fashioned" part.</li>
</ol>
Given that I kind of, y'know, <i>like</i> my boyfriend, I decided not to give my family a reason to hate him, and the other two options, well, aren't really options. So yeah, I'm grateful.<br />
<br />
BUT I MISS MY STUDIO. I miss having my own kitchen and appliances and dishes and making coffee on a Saturday morning without being scared I'm going to wake someone. I'm a selfish, spoiled brat and I don't care. I miss having room for my furniture and carpet instead of tile and not having to share a shower. Selfish. Spoiled. Brat.<br />
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Don't even care. I'm 25 years old with a full-time career. I find it depressing that I can't even afford a studio. I find it even more depressing that I'm still sleeping in a twin-size bed.<br />
<br />
But it could be worse. In addition to the fact that I could be living out any of options 1-3, I could also be back where I was when I first graduated college, living with 4 other people with whom I had volatile relationships at best (food on the floors and walls, the constant smell of marijuana, threats of violence, blah blah blah, etc). Additionally, in that residence my bedroom off of the kitchen in a very old Chicago townhouse was either once the maid's quarters or the pantry. Probably the pantry. I had a window that looked out on the live-in porch where one of my male roommates slept. Needless to say I invested in black-out curtains. There are things, friends, that you don't appreciate until you don't have them: windows, counters, bedroom walls. Just for example.<br />
<br />
So when I remember that, I start counting my blessings. I have a bedroom door I can close, but when I open it, my new roommate is incredibly sweet and friendly. She also picks up food if she drops it on the floor (shocking, I know), doesn't smoke <i>anything</i>, and has yet to threaten to punch me. All good things. She also has something that I have deeply missed but not allowed myself to have: dogs. As someone whose job requires her to leave home for days at a time and barely allows her to feed herself, having a dog, however much I might want one, would be straight up animal cruelty on my part. But I grew up with a dog in the house. My first dog, Jenny, a golden retriever, was such a faithful, wonderful companion who used to wait out at the bus stop with me in the mornings before I went to school. She wanted to be wherever the people were and was a constant presence of comfort and friendship. My parents' second dog, English setter Wendy, joined the family my sophomore year of college. I made sure to bring treats in my pockets when I came home and, more rebellious at 22 than at 12, I would sneak her onto my bed when my dad wasn't home (Dad does <i>not</i> approve of dogs on the furniture.). It was all part of my grand-master plan to make sure that I was Wendy's favorite. I like to think it worked, although I have no doubt that each member of my family would beg to differ. Still, I have a special relationship with Wendy, one that revolves almost entirely around cuddling. When I visit home she likes to sit on my feet while I put on my makeup in the mornings, or come down to the dock with me while I sip on my morning coffee. And of course, there's no point in my trying to sit on a couch or chair when I'm at my parents' house, as I will eventually gravitate to the floor so that Wendy can climb into my lap.<br />
<br />
My new roommate has three dogs. Two Boston terriers named Lucy and Penny, and one boxer named Ella. I can't describe what a pleasure it is to have animals around. Science has proven that pets reduce feelings of stress, anxiety, and depression. Having the dogs come scampering to the door when I get in and battle for my attention is amusing and endearing, and there is always a giant clattering of claws on the wood and tile floors as soon as I stir in the morning. (I usually try to stealthily sneak to the bathroom first—there's barely room for me in there right now, certainly not four of us!) Each of the dogs has a different personality, of course, but Lucy is particularly distinct. She is much more reserved than the other two, and as my roommate explained, "will be the last to greet you when you get in."<br />
<br />
"She's a little more cautious, huh?" I asked, amused.<br />
<br />
"Oh no, she's just a bitch," her mom laughed.<br />
<br />
Whichever one it is, it's true that Lucy is more quiet and stand-offish than her hyperactive sisters. But she has a way of making her presence known. On the day I moved in, she decided to curl up on a towel directly in the middle of the front door. With every box I carried in I had to make my best effort not to step on or trip over her. Now that I'm (more or less) moved in, when I get up in the mornings, Ella and Penny rush to greet me, and at first, Lucy will be nowhere to be found, until I return to the bedroom, of course, where I find Lucy sitting in the middle of the floor, staring at me expectantly.<br />
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<br />
I later discovered that Lucy sleeps wrapped up like a burrito in a sheet on the floor, and likes to burrow into blankets. I developed a suspicion that Lucy is hoping to claim my bed for her own.<br />
<br />
This morning, when I made my groggy trip to the bathroom to wash my face followed by a zombie-like trek to the kitchen for some coffee, I stepped over one of my bed pillows, which had been knocked onto the floor last night, not bothering to pick it up. I fussed over Ella and Penny in the kitchen for a little while while the coffee brewed, then returned to the bedroom to get my book. That was when I found Lucy, who was one step closer in her mission:<br />
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Not bothered by having her on my pillow (again, I used to sneak my parents' dog onto my bed. This is no big deal), I decided to leave her be for the moment, and sit on my bed to read and drink my coffee. It wasn't long before Penny and Ella, who don't like to be left out, were standing outside my bedroom door, giving me plaintive looks and waiting to be invited in. Penny came first, nudging Lucy aside to share the pillow, and Ella, who is much bigger, came and put her big, slobbery muzzle on my bed until I scratched her ears. Eventually, Ella decided to curl up and catch some sleep like the Terriers, but minutes later she got up again and left the room. Curious, I looked to see if the other two dogs would follow. They didn't. I realized that Ella had hoped to go back to her nice bed in the living room which was far more comfortable than the bare tile floor, but when no one came with her, her face appeared in my doorway again, giving me such a pitiful look as you wouldn't believe.<br />
<br />
I'm a complete sucker.<br />
<br />
There was a small seat cushion that used to go on my desk chair sitting out of the way on a bookshelf. Shaking my head and knowing it was much too small for her, I dropped it on the floor. Delighted, entire body wiggling (Ella doesn't just wag her tail when she's happy. Her whole body wiggles back and forth.), she came and tried to fit her very large frame onto the very small cushion and promptly fell asleep.<br />
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I returned to my coffee and book.<br />
<br />
So I guess the moral of the story is that mornings with dogs is much better than mornings without dogs, and I'll get used to having a roommate again eventually.<br />
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ETA: Turns out my roommate has been gone all morning and I've been worrying about making noise for nothing.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-38604662647474352102014-11-18T16:22:00.000-05:002014-11-18T16:26:08.609-05:00Sixty Six Word StoriesSo I've been flipping through my notebook, looking for a little inspiration for something new, and I found this collection of Six Word Stories I wrote during a 3-day trip a couple of months ago. I think my goal was to try to write 100 of them, but I didn't make it quite that far.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'm gathering them all here for your amusement and to see if anything strikes me as being worth turning into a longer story.<br />
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<br />
<ol>
<li>"I love you," she said.<br /><br />"Yeah."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"It will cure what ails you."</li></br>
</br>
<li>Once he died, she stopped crying.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Don't go."<br /><br />"You can't stop me."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"I'll be dancing on your grave."</li></br>
</br>
<li>So she hunted her entire life.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"You wanted to!"<br /><br />"But I didn't."</li></br>
</br>
<li>They tried to smother my light.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Don't you give me that attitude!"</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Stop looking at me that way."</li></br>
</br>
<li>His lips fit. A perfect match.</li></br>
</br>
<li>Their hands were like puzzle pieces.</li></br>
</br>
<li>I want you to know me.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Drive," she begged. "Take me anywhere."</li></br>
</br>
<li>She could run, but she stayed.</li></br>
</br>
<li>Tangle me up in nervous knots.</li></br>
</br>
<li>She chose family over everything else.</li></br>
</br>
<li>She chose one thing over family.</li></br>
</br>
<li>They never once believed in her.</li></br>
</br>
<li>Yes. He hurt her every time.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"You'll fail."<br /><br />Tragically, he believed it.</li></br>
</br>
<li>I just want to try this.</li></br>
</br>
<li>He tasted like honey. And freedom.</li></br>
</br>
<li>It used to be my favorite.</li></br>
</br>
<li>So he came back every day.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"You should sleep in my bed."</li></br>
</br>
<li><i>Why</i> did she find that sexy?</li></br>
</br>
<li>He just couldn't help imagining it.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"So are you planning to—"<br /><br />"No."</li></br>
</br>
<li>She could help. But she didn't.</li></br>
</br>
<li>She chose to live, not survive.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"I'm going to leave one day."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"You'll miss me when I'm gone."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"When's the last time she smiled?"</li></br>
</br>
<li>"I'm opening the whiskey."<br /><br />"Cheers, friend."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Pick your poison."<br /><br />"Bottoms-up, then?"</li></br>
</br>
<li>We'll always remember the real man.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Bury him in a shallow grave." </li></br>
</br>
<li>'Almost' was her least favorite word.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Does it—"<br /><br />"Stop?"<br /><br />"Yeah."<br /><br />"Not really."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"You're not going to lose me."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"I almost loved you, you know."</li></br>
</br>
<li>There was no choice to make.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Clean yourself up."<br /><br />"Like you care."</li></br>
</br>
<li>No one will ever find me.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Do I die at the end?"</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Was that too—"<br /><br />"Harsh?"<br /><br />"Yeah."<br /><br />"Definitely."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Explain it one more time."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Dance with me, just once more."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Dance with me."<br /><br />"Just once more."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Is that a—"<br /><br />"Ring? Oh, yeah."</li></br>
</br>
<li>She waited. She would keep waiting.</li></br>
</br>
<li>I was going to be brilliant.</li></br>
</br>
<li> "I want you. Here and now."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Kiss me like you mean it."</li></br>
</br>
<li>"I'll fight you tooth and nail."</li></br>
</br>
<li>I had a dream like this….</li></br>
</br>
<li>Stop me if I'm scaring you.</li></br>
</br>
<li>"Don't stop."<br /><br /><i>"What?"</i><br /><br />"Just <i>don't stop!"<br /> </i></li></br>
</br>
<li>Pride was all she'd ever wanted.</li></br>
</br>
</ol>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-88710360739659287312014-11-14T14:53:00.002-05:002015-03-02T10:41:33.173-05:00"But You'll Never Be Strong"I am tired of being constantly on the defense. It's something that starts at my job and continues at home and has dogged my steps as long as I can remember.<br />
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As someone who works, ultimately, in customer service<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6670931696089459058#1" name="top1"><sup>1</sup></a>, I have found that the best way to handle attacks is by refocusing a customer away from whatever has upset them onto what I <i>can</i> do for them. At its simplest, for example, if a customer in coach is upset that the airline does not provide blankets, there's nothing I can do to suddenly change the policy that we <i>don't</i> do that. But instead of saying, "I'm sorry I just don't have a blanket for you. The company did away with those years ago to make ticket prices cheaper," I focus on what I <i>can</i> offer. "I'm sorry you're cold. Can I bring you some hot coffee or tea to warm you up?" A good majority of people will take me up on the offer. And an even greater majority are at least happier because they've been acknowledged and offered <i>something.</i> Only a very small percentage of them are still upset and, well, some people just like to suffer and you're not going to be able to make them happy anyway.<br />
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I deal with incidents like these, smaller and greater, all day long when I am working. Very few people want to speak to their Flight Attendant because they've achieved Nirvana. (I do get the occasional "thank you" and smile, but we're talking about <i>normal</i> circumstances.) Even my coworkers put me on the defense throughout the day. Gate agents get upset when I won't let them close the aircraft door because I'm trying to follow procedure. As a Purser, other Flight Attendants (especially those senior to me) sometimes try to challenge my decision-making. Even catering or maintenance occasionally tries to have a go at me. And when things go more seriously wrong, I have to fill out reports defending my crew and myself to the Big Guys Upstairs. It's exhausting.<br />
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But it's my job. I'm good at it, and I deal with it. And then I go home, where, if I haven't forgotten about it by the time my 45 minute drive from the airport is over, then I indulge in a bubble bath and a glass of wine and <i>then</i> I forget about it. Just like the majority of the world that understands the concept of compartmentalization.<br />
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When it hurts is when it comes from the people who love us. Nobody likes feeling attacked, but most of us find ways to brush it off or dismiss it…until it comes from someone whose opinion of you matters. I was thinking about this carefully over the past month. I've started dating someone new, which has meant meeting his friends, which has meant wondering how much I should care about their opinions of me. Of course I should want them to like me, but what happens if they don't? And if they don't, then <i>why</i> don't they? And how will my guy react to their disapproval or criticism? In one instance, he felt the need to mention something to me about it. "Hey, just so you know, when you do X, it's really not appreciated."<br />
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BY WHO? BY YOU? OR BY THEM? OR BOTH?????<br />
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It was something of a bombshell of a moment for me. I spent the rest of the day obsessively trying to recall exactly when I had unintentionally exhibited X behavior, and wondering which of his friends had said something or whether it was something coming directly from him. It hurt. A lot. And then I started judging myself for <i>being</i> so hurt. Why should I care if I did one small thing that someone didn't like, whoever that person might be? Am I really that insecure? Or would it make me hard-headed and unfeeling if I didn't care? Maybe I'm <i>right</i> to be worked up! Or maybe I'm just being pathetic and spineless! But which one is it?<br />
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Before I had a chance to recover from this incident and get my head screwed back on correctly, I received another blow. This time about my upbringing. Few people are aware of how sensitive I am to being seen as "judgmental." Particularly in high school, I received a lot of criticism within my closest circle of friends for being a conservative, Christian, upper-middle-class, white girl. Because if you're all of those things, then you must be judging everyone else who isn't.<br />
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…except not. Unfortunately, some of my friends couldn't seem to differentiate between my having security in my own values and my looking down on people with ones that differed. Just to clarify, I would <i>never</i> look down on someone purely because our opinions differed.<br />
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By the end of high school I was terrified of talking politics or economics or religion with anyone because it was a guaranteed way to end up being put on the defense. My beliefs were not the popular, stylish ones, and even though they have evolved over the years, I still wouldn't exactly call them mainstream. And one gets tired of having to say, "No, I don't think you're <i>wrong</i>, I just prefer <i>this</i> thought process personally! Aren't I allowed that?" over and over again, practically in five different languages.<br />
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College wasn't much better. Not helped by the fact that I dated—however briefly—a raging atheist who hated all Christians (please don't ask me to explain why he was interested in me, a girl who goes to Church most Sundays because I don't know either). I loved talking books with him, but as soon as the topic rolled around to religion and "The Church" [said with utmost disdain and bitterness, please], I did my best to either change the subject or flee, whichever was easiest at the time.<br />
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I am tired of being accused of being some sort of spoiled little Princess who dismisses others' opinions when, in fact, my own opinions are the ones being dismissed. I am tired of having it cast up to me that I grew up in a well-off family like it's a sin, as if that is something that prevents me from being a good person. Just because I was blessed enough to grow up privileged does not mean I am blind to the turbulence found elsewhere. I will not be sorry that I have been fortunate. I refuse to regret that. And do not be so foolish as to think that living in suburbia means that I have lived a charmed life. <i>No one's</i> life is perfect.<br />
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So when someone recently made this assertion, however unintentionally, I suddenly saw myself at 17, learning second-hand that my best friend had taken up smoking, lost her virginity to her P.O.S. boyfriend, and become bulimic in one semester and I hadn't known a thing about it. She hadn't told me because even though I was supposedly her closest friend, for some reason she didn't trust me. Apparently she'd thought that rather than trying to help her, I would simply stop being her friend. I was stripped of my power as a friend to care for someone I loved by ignorance. She assumed that I would judge her and abandon her. I have hated myself every day since that moment for not realizing on my own what was going on with her, for not seeing that things were so much worse than I realized. I have questioned constantly what it was I did or said to make her believe that I would turn my back on someone I loved.<br />
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Back in the present, the accusation of privilege left me feeling shaky, unsure of my footing in life. Because how, after 24 years, is that still all I am to the world? After all I have done and accomplished, how does it still come down to the fact that I grew up in a certain neighborhood? Is that really who I will be all my life? The subject of a Hall & Oates song?<br />
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I have defended myself and my choices to everyone from strangers to friends to family for all my life and I am tired of it. I want to stop. I want to say that I'm going to quit trying to justify myself, but how do you break a habit you were born into? I have existed in a constant mode of fight-or-flight for as long as I can remember and suddenly I find myself wondering whether this actually makes me insecure. I have always assumed that holding my ground is what makes me strong, but maybe that's a lie I tell myself to get to sleep at night. Is my need to defend myself a result of my own lack of character, some pathetic need for approval? Is the problem really somewhere inside me? I don't know. All I know is I keep running away, but I guess it's true that no matter how far away you go, there are some things you can't outrun.<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="1"><b>1 </b></a>A well-meaning bartender recently referred to me as a "Space Waitress," but most days of the week I still maintain that my primary function as a Flight Attendant is, in fact, safety.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6670931696089459058#top1"><sup>↩</sup></a><br />
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-68573498979678573662014-08-26T16:01:00.002-04:002014-08-26T18:02:39.114-04:00A Compilation of GingersEndless List of Awesome Red-Headed Women In Fiction<br />
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(i.e. people I want<strike>ed</strike> to be when I grow up)<br />
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Anne Shirley <br />
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Mary Jane Watson </div>
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Pepper Potts</div>
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Ginny Weasley<br />
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Lily Evans-Potter</div>
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Nancy Drew (I don't care that she wasn't actually ginger, I grew up convinced in my mind that she had red hair. Just look at the illustrations. It's not my fault.)<br />
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Barbara Gordon<br />
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Dana Scully<br />
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Lydia Martin<br />
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Natasha Romanoff<br />
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Lois Lane<br />
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I'm sure one day I'll be able to compose a list of blonde women that I admired growing up just as much as I admired these women—oh wait no, no I won't. Because that just never happened for some reason.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-39834283301979110662014-08-26T14:25:00.000-04:002017-03-01T22:08:47.928-05:00The Girl With the Titian HairI'm having one of those days where I'm remembering all the reasons I loved who I was for the 3 years I was dying my hair red.<br />
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For those of you not keeping track, I dyed my hair a dark auburn red around February of 2011 while I was studying abroad and went from this<br />
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to this<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUdZFchdm0ZdqHBhzMnyZqyYgAEbatRrrcYaNweX1HHL_-rRwLoX4gTANQl0oGYisj6SI9l9TEzACVxhlf5AztMC6PF93K6M0XewgpOSHb71o-zs8tQxa4lWJNLxDa1mSw_xFziBorvq8/s1600/Photo+136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUdZFchdm0ZdqHBhzMnyZqyYgAEbatRrrcYaNweX1HHL_-rRwLoX4gTANQl0oGYisj6SI9l9TEzACVxhlf5AztMC6PF93K6M0XewgpOSHb71o-zs8tQxa4lWJNLxDa1mSw_xFziBorvq8/s1600/Photo+136.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
and then continued dying my hair as close to that shade of red as possible for the following three years. Again, for those of you not keeping track, I stopped dying my hair around October(?) of 2013, and actually hardcore bleached it in November 2013, leaving it strawberry blonde. I did a glaze in January that sort of toned it a bit, and since then have not colored it at all. Every day I get closer and closer to my natural blonde. My father and brother, who have been active leaders of the We-Hate-Rachel-With-Anything-But-Natural-Hair Club, are thrilled.<br />
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Why, you ask, should you give a crap? Well, you probably shouldn't; it's my business. But the real question is: "Why is this such an emotional thing for you, Rachel?"<br />
<br />
To quote one of my college professors, "Well, I'll tell you."<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
See, I dyed my hair at a time when I had just undergone complete emotional upheaval. My heart had been through the mill the preceding fall, and I was only just starting to recover. I know it's a cliché in the extreme to change your hair drastically after a "breakup," but in my defense, it wasn't a breakup. You'd have to actually be <i>with</i> somebody to have a breakup.<br />
<br />
I, however, was alone. As per usual. Only I had finally woken up to the realization that I was alone by choice. I was constantly choosing the hope of being with someone who didn't want me over the possibility of being with someone who did. Not that Mr. Right had come along. It was more about the fact that if he did, I was running the very real risk that I would turn him down in favor of this person who very decidedly did <i>not</i> want to be with me.<br />
<br />
He broke my heart for the last time in the late fall, and it was nearing the end of winter before I finally realized I didn't <i>want</i> him to come sweeping in on a white horse after all. It was a miraculous revelation, finally knowing that I had reached a point that even if he showed up on my doorstep and declared his love for me, I would absolutely say "Thanks, but no thanks." Because I deserve to be someone's first choice, not their backup plan.<br />
<br />
So here I was, in England for a semester, totally on my own, having just released myself from the emotional ball and chain I had been trailing around for <i>years</i>. I was like Christian finally relieved of the boulder in <i>Pilgrim's Progress</i>. I was free, unburdened. What, oh what, was a girl to do?<br />
<br />
It was like being a phoenix, reborn from my own destruction. I soared. I decided to be whoever the hell I wanted to be. Who was this new Rachel? Was she still as conservative and shy and (occasionally) prudish as the old one? I decided not. I decided that I could be a lady but still laugh at dirty jokes now and again.<br />
<br />
Did the new Rachel do shots and go out to clubs and dance with whoever she wanted? Absolutely. The new Rachel even got out on the dance floor when no one was dancing yet. But the new Rachel was also free to stay in and read a book and not feel guilty about it.<br />
<br />
What about schoolwork? The old Rachel obsessed over it, was determined to come first in everything. The new Rachel cared, but not enough to stop her from living her life. Sometimes, the new Rachel realized, "done is good." The new Rachel also realized that her sorority, the bonds between her and other women labeled her 'sisters,' was really important to her.<br />
<br />
The new Rachel was a force to be reckoned with. She was confident, she was carefree, and she didn't waste time on anyone who didn't make her feel worthwhile.<br />
<br />
And she had red hair.<br />
<br />
I had wanted red hair for as long as I could remember, most notably after my grandmother took me to see the play <i>Anne of Green Gables</i> when I was eleven. <a href="http://bringcakesandale.blogspot.com/2014/08/a-compilation-of-gingers.html" target="_blank">All the best characters, I knew, had red hair.</a> Anne Shirley, Mary Jane Watson, Pepper Potts, Ginny Weasley, Lily Evans-Potter…they were all fictional women I admired and adored. The list has only grown as I've gotten older and my fiction-intake has expanded, now including Dana Scully, Lydia Martin, and Natasha Romanoff, just to name a few.<br />
<br />
(Can I tell you how ecstatic part of me was when another of my fictional female heroes became canonically ginger when they cast Amy Adams as Lois Lane in <i>Man of Steel?</i>)<br />
<br />
So the new Rachel flipped through a magazine until she found the perfect shade, took herself downstairs from her apartment, and stopped to ask the girl working the front desk, "Your hair is cute—where do you get it done?"<br />
<br />
And then new Rachel followed that woman's directions to a salon a five minute walk around the corner. A few hours later, new Rachel's outsides now matched her insides, and she was damned happy about it.<br />
<br />
Just look<br />
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at how<br />
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freaking awesome <br />
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it looked. <br />
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<br />
So why the return to my ordinary blonde locks? A number of reasons. Dying my hair (especially as thick as it is) has gotten tedious and expensive. It was worth every last penny in my humble opinion, but I can't afford to keep up with it. One of the reasons I did so for as long as I did is because as an actor, I was more marketable as a ginger. Blonde actresses in their 20s are a dime a dozen. But gingers? Gingers are in style. Everybody loves a ginger. And I was more likely to get interesting roles as a red-head, rather than just the cheerleader (if that!).<br />
<br />
<br />
So again, why stop? Because when I went to work for American Airlines, I stopped acting. There was no longer a justification for spending that much money on my hair. Especially not when I live paycheck-to-paycheck.<br />
<br />
The problem? I hate myself again. I hate that I gave up on one of the only dreams I had left, walked away from it for a job because I thought I wanted stability and health care. I despise myself for being the actual definition of a sell-out. It's been over a year since I accepted the job and I <i>still</i> have days where I cry because I remember that if I ever get out of this, I'm already too old to play Juliet. I cry because I remember that I walked away from multiple acting opportunities to be here. I <i>weep</i> because I know that in this industry I am quickly leaving my most valuable acting years behind. There is a very short window of marketability for an actress who wants to be the ingenues and it doesn't extend very far beyond the late twenties. Sexist and wrong? Sure. But it's still true.<br />
<br />
So here I am, every day finding new reasons to support my self-loathing, and my hair is getting blonder. I'm fully aware that it's a coincidence. Rationally, I know that the color of my hair has nothing to do with my personality or self-worth. But it also reminds me of who I was before I dyed my hair, another version of me I have grown to despise completely and utterly. I'm finding it more and more difficult to look in the mirror because it's like my hair has become this absurd symbol for who I am, and I <i>hate</i> blonde Rachel. Blonde Rachel let herself be used. She let herself be scared of <i>everything</i>. It's all I can do not to run to the store and buy a box of hair dye and hope that magically, by coloring my hair, I will turn myself into someone I can respect again. <br />
<br />
Again, rationally, I know that this is not the root of my problem. I know that the only way I will find happiness and self-worth again is by pursuing my dreams. So why not get off my lazy ass, quit my job, and start auditioning again?<br />
<br />
"Well, I'll tell you."<br />
<br />
Fear.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-51823377205733341702014-07-30T17:43:00.000-04:002015-03-02T10:40:16.392-05:00Fifty Shades of Grey Drinking Game<i>Fifty Shades of Grey: </i>The Drinking Game<br />
<br />
Because at this point, booze may be the only way to get through the rest of this book.<br />
<br />
<b>One Drink:</b><br />
<ul>
<li>"Oh my"</li>
<li>"Double Crap"</li>
<li>"Mighty _____," particularly "mighty fine." (Who even says this?)</li>
<li>Christian's "long fingers" are mentioned</li>
<li>"My subconscious."</li>
<li>someone gasps (no seriously you will be amazed by how often this happens)</li>
<li>absurd product placement (cars, tea, computers, etc. mentioned in excessive brand detail)</li>
<li>Ana "flushes" or "blushes"</li>
<li>Grey's pants hang "in that way"</li>
<li>gift-giving disproportionate to the relationship</li>
<li>unnecessary lists of three (one adjective or metaphor is more than sufficient most of the time, E.L. James)</li>
<li>Ana refers to her roommate by her full name, Katherine Kavanagh, rather than simply "Kate."</li>
</ul>
<b>Two Drinks:</b><br />
<ul>
<li>Ana is painfully ignorant to the point that you have to forcefully suspend your disbelief</li>
<li>"Inner goddess"</li>
<li>"Laters, ____."</li>
<li>Grey does something so pretentious/ridiculous you have to stop reading to laugh.<b> </b></li>
</ul>
<b>Bottoms-Up:</b><br />
<ul>
<li>You are actively offended.</li>
<li>Unnecessary ellipse ("…")</li>
<li>Someone refers to sex as "doing it."</li>
<li>Someone refers to a part of the anatomy ambiguously as "…<i>there."</i><b> </b></li>
</ul>
<b>Round for the Whole House:</b><br />
<ul>
<li>A sexual act feels non-consensual to you.<b> </b> </li>
</ul>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-80258207630437364952014-07-28T16:27:00.000-04:002015-03-02T10:39:36.825-05:00Rachel Reads Fifty Shades of Grey MasterpostAs most of my facebook and tumblr friends know, I have been cataloging my reactions to reading <i>Fifty Shades of Grey.</i> I've decided to go ahead and collect all of those reactions and dump them here.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Day 1:</b> <span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">"This book is fifty shades of fucked up is what it is."</span><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Day 2: </b> <span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">They have now fucked and called it making love. I feel extremely uncomfortable.</span><br />
<br />
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<b>Day 3: </b></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>part I:</b> <span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Main
character reveals that in spite of having attended university for four
years, she does not have regular access to the internet or a computer of
her own.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"> I frantically flip through previous reading to determine what year this is set in. Thought it was 2010s.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>part II: </b><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"> I have read "The Contract." I have also vomited in my mouth at least 4x.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>part III:</b> page 151—concept of a "safeword" is finally introduced. It is not confirmed before the shortly following sex scene occurs.</blockquote>
<b>Day 4: </b> p. 169—Ana is finally appalled by something, <i>anything</i>, that Christian Grey has done.<br />
<br />
<b>Day 5:</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b> part I:</b> "I will watch the movie on the sole condition that it is done Lizzie
McGuire style with little cartoon characters voicing Ana's 'inner
goddess' and subconscious."</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>part II</b>: The rape-y, non-consensual aspect of this book is starting to really show itself. Ana has stated several times that she is not comfortable with certain things (I won't specify what because I promised to try to keep these posts PG-13), and Grey has insisted on doing them anyway, insisting that she will like it. I suspect this will only get worse over time.<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><b></b></span></span></blockquote>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><b>Advice
to both men and women</b>: Insisting your partner participate in a sexual
act because you "just know he/she will like it," is not acceptable. If
you really want to try something with your partner that they are not
comfortable with, DISCUSS IT. TALK ABOUT WHAT THEY <i>ARE</i> COMFORTABLE
TRYING. Perhaps they will be willing to try it later on, but if and
when they are, let THEM tell YOU they are ready.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><b>Day 6: </b>I have created a <a href="http://bringcakesandale.blogspot.com/2014/07/fifty-shades-of-grey-drinking-game.html" target="_blank"><i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i> drinking game</a>. You are welcome.</span></span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-44493355911178475832014-05-24T09:21:00.003-04:002014-05-24T09:21:38.081-04:00Angrily Eating M&Ms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-18110906589007936282014-05-14T10:16:00.002-04:002014-05-14T10:16:20.319-04:00Questions I've Heard 100 Times<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Newest installment in the video edition of Cakes & Ale.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/5nhzkPkyBa8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-14379136616114373972014-05-11T09:17:00.001-04:002014-05-11T09:17:57.347-04:00Come Have a Nosh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://i1.ytimg.com/vi/jtcl64w_0yY/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="https://www.youtube.com/v/jtcl64w_0yY?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/v/jtcl64w_0yY?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
The first ever Cakes & Ale video blog! WATCH IT! And feel free to give me some suggestions for next time. This is pretty maleable in its current state, and I haven't really decided where it's going to be going.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-80585387247948263072014-01-28T11:33:00.003-05:002014-01-28T11:37:07.608-05:00Deadly Donuts and Peter Pan<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
My hobbies: Convincing the natives
that I actually speak Spanish/Portuguese even though I have absolutely
no idea what's going on. My wakeup call for instance:<br />
<br />
"Buenas Días! Jibberish gobbledegook speaking speako thingo tu no understando."<br />
<br />
"Buenas Días."<br />
<br />
"Furthero wakeo up-o call-o Señorita somethingo somethingo."<br />
<br />
"Sí. Gracias."<br />
<br />
And
then they say something else, and I just keep saying "Sí. Gracias,"
until it seems appropriate to say "Muchos gracias. Adíos," and hang up. The only time I
*don't* try this? When it involves food. I learned my lesson after
the Great Whole-Wheat Donut Debaucle of '14. For the record, although I
was hoping that perhaps "Glaseado Integral Con Amaranto" meant
some sort of glazed amaretto donut, it does, in fact, mean glazed with
whole wheat (er…technically the Amaranto [or Amaranth] plant is some
sort of weed, and they put the ground up seeds in their whole wheat
flour). -shudders- Never again.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVdWgY-GH8f8YVh6fKgerIt73C2HDrgOBb3wZ6vz-OIpa9myeovR_phEPz4fzDxOT6_4c04ra2Zp1bI5nowudxfXLacDM_r2A9F9Bj8cModswbpKnXPUy86F8yLXgiENQJm1U3SRjTzA/s1600/2014-01-28+09.03.46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVdWgY-GH8f8YVh6fKgerIt73C2HDrgOBb3wZ6vz-OIpa9myeovR_phEPz4fzDxOT6_4c04ra2Zp1bI5nowudxfXLacDM_r2A9F9Bj8cModswbpKnXPUy86F8yLXgiENQJm1U3SRjTzA/s1600/2014-01-28+09.03.46.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CAUTION: EXTREMELY POISONOUS DONUTS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
That
aside, I've been getting lots of e-mails from the family, but not really
sending any myself, so I thought I'd return to the good ole blog and give everybody the run-down. I'm in Mexico City today, and seeing
as (even though I am a great pretender) I don't speak Spanish, and I
have no one to go with me into the city, I am simply hanging out in the
hotel today, which is very nice but attached to the airport, so it's not
in the best neighborhood.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mexico City from my hotel room right now. It's a pity because there are lots<br />
of beautiful things to do and see here. I'm just in the wrong spot.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My schedule for this month
involved all 3-day trips, the first night in Jamaica and the second
night in Mexico City. This wouldn't be so bad, but both hotels are in
lousy neighborhoods, so I haven't been able to get out and do much (read: any)
exploring. And even if I could, I'd get bored flying the same trip all
month, so I traded around and managed to get myself a whole week off at
my birthday (a very nice birthday, I might add. And yes, I turned 6
this year. So grown up. Sniffle.) Better still, as some of you know, I traded one of these trips to go to London a few days after my birthday. It was absolutely fantastic and I can't wait to go back again. I met a couple of other new hire flight attendants, Rory and Rita, on the flight there, so the three of us went out and hit the city by storm. Although they found it a little chilly, it was actually very mild for England in January, and we had a wonderful day. Rita was extremely camera-happy, which means I have <i>tons</i> of photos from our one-day visit. We traipsed along Kensington Gardens and made a pit-stop for photos in front of Kensington Palace. Then we continued a little more north on my personal mission to finally see the statue of Peter Pan. Bless these girls for not minding tagging along. But I told them the story of Peter Pan (the Rachel Krueger abridged version, of course) and of how J.M. Barrie (the author) had the statue of Peter Pan erected overnight so it would seem to the school children who passed by the next morning that it had appeared by magic. So we were all able to fully appreciate it.<br />
<br />
After an entire photoshoot in front of Peter Pan (which some little kids obliviously wandered into at one point, which just made it even better), we headed up to the Tube station and made our way over to Downing Street. On the way, I told Rita the story of Paddington Bear, which she had never heard of and soon became obsessed with. We wanted to get her a souvenir bear, but they're so expensive in the bookstores and tourist shops that we all agreed she'd be better off ordering one online sometime.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ6iqkwrIe2gW9t3MxytFhV_ryP35K_Xp9DTp_iYrb3G5s43Pgobzj18RsBhuIwAGoDwYVTNU35DpcUWMQYi1NJrH6kHyFf2Z3iK2K2u5Mc51PHkYGYVJZOp4EhfB4pblq-k0M4pg_WdU/s1600/2014-01-18+15.14.37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ6iqkwrIe2gW9t3MxytFhV_ryP35K_Xp9DTp_iYrb3G5s43Pgobzj18RsBhuIwAGoDwYVTNU35DpcUWMQYi1NJrH6kHyFf2Z3iK2K2u5Mc51PHkYGYVJZOp4EhfB4pblq-k0M4pg_WdU/s1600/2014-01-18+15.14.37.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rory, me, Peter Pan, Rita, and small adorable child with bicycle helmet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was Rory's first time in England, so Rita and I agreed that we <i>had</i> to get her the traditional photos in front of Big Ben and the London Eye and Westminster Abbey. We wanted to do a tour of Westminster, but unfortunately the place closed to the public at 3:00 on Saturdays, so we had to satisfy ourselves with standing outside looking in.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlYfv2SCUvpG5jBRYT6jDV4_3svdbo27l2ILw-cVcmVKGJHy9g6a9lDSmA3y7LlQ2-OqsX0Z41bpQd5aAt4IPDYUN5Fi7joIN0_tWX0AxY2uMYAlFJAwT-6gyvJn-7i4bOMSCprPG0l4/s1600/2014-01-18+15.54.20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlYfv2SCUvpG5jBRYT6jDV4_3svdbo27l2ILw-cVcmVKGJHy9g6a9lDSmA3y7LlQ2-OqsX0Z41bpQd5aAt4IPDYUN5Fi7joIN0_tWX0AxY2uMYAlFJAwT-6gyvJn-7i4bOMSCprPG0l4/s1600/2014-01-18+15.54.20.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rita taking a photo of Rory in front of the Eye</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2pZ6NJILHBY3MVCDPSmTtXkcuHpoWOd7YEQy9ap31myqZSnOcfJD9oVencW_4AxtqmDMlf_i_XNkiKwkdQb5-Q6-SCaz4lWcv7tiGZ7oig6cVxMoU73AxPKArHrzfjfwPpIxVv3JD1cU/s1600/2014-01-18+15.58.38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2pZ6NJILHBY3MVCDPSmTtXkcuHpoWOd7YEQy9ap31myqZSnOcfJD9oVencW_4AxtqmDMlf_i_XNkiKwkdQb5-Q6-SCaz4lWcv7tiGZ7oig6cVxMoU73AxPKArHrzfjfwPpIxVv3JD1cU/s1600/2014-01-18+15.58.38.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selfie in front of the London Eye, which I have still never ridden.<br />
Found out you can make reservations, though, so that's the plan for next time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQ0PUIOVw5oA5jnlgnuNWrmomdhjjOE7N9RA4SUuQjXbTxe1tKphQgZ3iu5mJcoMNh57xKr4cmaCM4fqUI9aflZKqPe8IL7xqwyoegUGMcJ9tMVDh1ZnbrKqf8Pfm_JAwDIiMitDjbmI/s1600/2014-01-18+16.26.03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQ0PUIOVw5oA5jnlgnuNWrmomdhjjOE7N9RA4SUuQjXbTxe1tKphQgZ3iu5mJcoMNh57xKr4cmaCM4fqUI9aflZKqPe8IL7xqwyoegUGMcJ9tMVDh1ZnbrKqf8Pfm_JAwDIiMitDjbmI/s1600/2014-01-18+16.26.03.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Westminster looking all pretty and stuff.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZu0W4rsMrFUMdsFcAaFL7O2MOvKRobcCq6bMuFEXGd92m1vq907AUx2N3pXfLkCQ6Y-HToV93JUnWYeAEYNn6EkzdadMiGQQaX35OlMWMoyAusAkO_LAePU6IMWp0y8bJ2pnXvy2bo9U/s1600/2014-01-18+16.15.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZu0W4rsMrFUMdsFcAaFL7O2MOvKRobcCq6bMuFEXGd92m1vq907AUx2N3pXfLkCQ6Y-HToV93JUnWYeAEYNn6EkzdadMiGQQaX35OlMWMoyAusAkO_LAePU6IMWp0y8bJ2pnXvy2bo9U/s1600/2014-01-18+16.15.12.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sheer beauty. Oh look, Parliament's there, too. (just kidding, just kidding)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By this time we were all starving, and I remembered that there were several pubs around Trafalgar Square, so I led us all up that way so we could get food (Rory and Rita had their first ever Fish & Chips, and I had Bangers & Mash with onion chutney). Afterwards we climbed around on the lions in the Square and took still more photos. (I nearly ran out of memory space on my phone!)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUJVwRmgqVjnwjx5pETslzaePxrviuvvG4YJB5L-WZuttUQQBXyOMmkjvaEx3C-1NhEsK7wRGZN30tY-x1kyYcavPgjeTm8H8YW82J9Isd5ec2Z7Q3MGOuIXjG3ea96Cxi8jMDx07uHk/s1600/2014-01-18+16.42.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUJVwRmgqVjnwjx5pETslzaePxrviuvvG4YJB5L-WZuttUQQBXyOMmkjvaEx3C-1NhEsK7wRGZN30tY-x1kyYcavPgjeTm8H8YW82J9Isd5ec2Z7Q3MGOuIXjG3ea96Cxi8jMDx07uHk/s1600/2014-01-18+16.42.40.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Staple London Phone Booth Photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghUMelpVoxeHmU0zfJOt9FnPMdYW2RsXRoX9Lyl9B1PsNiuQohVqcfsk79G1HFK0nuEbmdB8SgNHWdf-TmefvjKoynzGysac_fjjbCeDpNbPcpyQtuKlUdvsmAslELduWuRgKMGf-ACeo/s1600/2014-01-18+16.45.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghUMelpVoxeHmU0zfJOt9FnPMdYW2RsXRoX9Lyl9B1PsNiuQohVqcfsk79G1HFK0nuEbmdB8SgNHWdf-TmefvjKoynzGysac_fjjbCeDpNbPcpyQtuKlUdvsmAslELduWuRgKMGf-ACeo/s1600/2014-01-18+16.45.56.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snapped this gem on the walk to Trafalgar Square.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ePY42TCUEEMrEE5GrzKy4j91TyW42J6rY72BhSGTHQtvCatTzEIs4DXr3Oeo2TgELiEHJv6IopfNvc9JAtkVLqvv2qL15izQ__yVU-04mJG7X1xqygUQD1mxQRDvQZm688TMINAl2uQ/s1600/2014-01-18+19.12.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ePY42TCUEEMrEE5GrzKy4j91TyW42J6rY72BhSGTHQtvCatTzEIs4DXr3Oeo2TgELiEHJv6IopfNvc9JAtkVLqvv2qL15izQ__yVU-04mJG7X1xqygUQD1mxQRDvQZm688TMINAl2uQ/s1600/2014-01-18+19.12.32.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think Rita got the better photos of Trafalgar Square<br />
once we figured out a good setting for the night-time exposure.<br />
But look! ASLAN!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Basically it was an absolutely perfect day in London and I can't wait to go back. As much as I enjoy going out on my own in some places, Rita and Rory were excellent company. <br />
<br />
For those of you, like my grandparents, huddled in your igloos in the -26 ℉ weather, I'll send some tropical thoughts your way: Immediately after my London trip, I flew to Salvador, Brazil. Where it is summer. And hot. So hot that when our crew van was an hour late picking us up from the airport I nearly had a heat stroke. There was no air conditioning in the airport, and outside the air was thick with noise and dust from construction. In my long-sleeved shirt and wool and polyester uniform, I actually had to chew a pepto bismol to keep from vomitting at one point. I don't do heat. I will gladly trade with any of you currently sitting in the tundra any day.<br />
<br />
After that, though, Salvador was very nice. The hotel wasn't anything too special, but it was all inclusive, which meant I spent my first day flopped down on the beach (slathered in SPF 70—don't worry, Mum.) watching the surfers on the water. The Portuguese Speaker on the flight, another new hire, took me to the grocery store nearby where I got some local food, and we stopped for some coconut tapioca from a little vender like an ice cream man. I decidedly do <i>not</i> like tapioca, but the bits of fresh coconut mixed in were delicious. On day two, I got myself a hammock from the concierge, hooked it up on my balcony, and plopped my butt in there for virtually the entire day, reading <i>Lost Lake</i>, the newest book from my favorite author, Sarah Addison Allen. [Bernadette, if you're reading this, don't spoil the ending for me. I haven't finished it yet.]<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyrAtfBbOwhSf9C3pVc9CBASrZq81uKLJ3kTXqtt6Jf51dbb8hR9-xk9GqVRp8uMJKHFEJTHDAhL7ZayQOV82I0R0HcpqENw69yCcaZA2RfSzm5O5xHp3Cu05n4iFZnCYo-lvyKq5wkI/s1600/2014-01-21+08.21.31-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyrAtfBbOwhSf9C3pVc9CBASrZq81uKLJ3kTXqtt6Jf51dbb8hR9-xk9GqVRp8uMJKHFEJTHDAhL7ZayQOV82I0R0HcpqENw69yCcaZA2RfSzm5O5xHp3Cu05n4iFZnCYo-lvyKq5wkI/s1600/2014-01-21+08.21.31-2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very extensive fruit variety at the breakfast buffet in Salvador.<br />
Did anyone else have NO CLUE this is what a cashew comes from???</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81yN1vYjAwTVT2ewOpZY39GHOYAMXNWfsKqJXYTYFa0gx44FLcvTFTFFDvKWVXbkIlIawJQHLn5GaJZ6NjBebPhbGP32WhEuiPdt5riJoL1sbwaAgYkwRmEF0mGtDThxorBMziRO4sOk/s1600/2014-01-22+11.28.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81yN1vYjAwTVT2ewOpZY39GHOYAMXNWfsKqJXYTYFa0gx44FLcvTFTFFDvKWVXbkIlIawJQHLn5GaJZ6NjBebPhbGP32WhEuiPdt5riJoL1sbwaAgYkwRmEF0mGtDThxorBMziRO4sOk/s1600/2014-01-22+11.28.26.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My butt happily planted in that hammock, wearing my diva sunglasses,<br />
which are reserved for just such occasions.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In between all these excursions, I am still in the process of both car shopping and apartment hunting. There have been a few hiccups, particularly with apartment hunting, but I hope to be moved in <i>somewhere</i> by the end of February, and I think we have been narrowing down the used cars. I regularly feel like I am spending money I don't have, but Mum and Dad have helped me lay out a budget for the next couple of years, so as long as I stick to that pretty closely, it will all work out.<br />
<br />
One thing is for sure: Any money I have, I will be spending on books. If I have any left over, I'll be getting <strike>food</strike> coffee.<br />
<br />
<br />
(P.S. Yes, Dad, I know my little bio still says "Chicago based actress" but I am lazy and don't feel like trying to remember how to change it. Later.)<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-73965563748259143962013-11-12T12:00:00.004-05:002015-03-02T10:37:47.374-05:00We Need to Talk About Glee (Yes, Again.)So, we need to talk about <i>Glee</i> again. Because I am getting extremely frustrated with the messages this show is sending to relatively impressionable audiences. Now, I know the show's average audience is 18 and up, but an 18 year old is still impressionable, and I strongly suspect that there are plenty of people younger than 18 avidly following this show.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Let me also just add that no, I don't know why I still watch this show. It's one of those things I do when I'm bored. I like listening to the music. I like Lea Michelle and her character, even though sometimes her character is an idiot. (That's part of what makes her interesting.) Also I'm self-admittedly living out my personal fantasies through her character, because Rachel (yes, we have the same name) has now landed the lead role in her dream Broadway production even though she hasn't even been in college for a year. Yes, I have issues. I know.<br />
<br />
That said, this time, we're not here to talk about Rachel or her unhealthy relationships with EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER COME INTO CONTACT WITH HER. No, this time we're here to talk about Marley, and more importantly the teachers in this show, Mr. Schue, and yes, Finn Hudson.<br />
<br />
If you've ever talked to me about this show, you know that I have anger management issues with Finn Hudson because of the way he treated Rachel. However, I want to make it clear that that loathing does not extend to the actor Cory Monteith. I disliked his character, but I thought the actor who played him was a lovely young man who overcame a lot of hardship in his life, and it is nothing short of a tragedy that he died so young this summer. May he rest in peace. This, however, does not prevent me from having issues with his character.<br />
<br />
It starts with Marley, a young lady in high school who has some serious body issues. Her mother is dangerously obese, and Marley is terrified of one day having the same serious weight problems as her mother. These weight issues were intensely magnified by villainous cheerleader Kitty, who first convinced Marley to become bulimic and then secretly sewed all of Marley's show costumes smaller so that Marley would think she was gaining weight.<br />
<br />
The result? Marley passed out in the middle of a show choir event, causing the New Directions to lose the competition. But did Kitty get in trouble? Did anyone show actual concern for Marley who just <i>fainted on stage from mal-nourishment?</i> No, her friends ripped into her for causing them to lose. Because obviously winning is far and away the most important thing to a bunch of high schoolers. As it should be.<br />
<br />
In other words, there were absolutely no consequences for Kitty, who still got accepted as one of the gang and idolized by thousands of fans. When she finally did confess to Marley on the show what she had done, months later, it was in a setting where we were begged to feel pity for her. Even Marley forgave her instantly. Never mind the fact that best case scenario, bulimia could destroy her voice and therefore her dream of being a singer/songwriter. Worst case, bulimia could hospitalize or even kill her. But lol no worries. Kitty's a popular character so we all like her anyway. No harm, no foul. She's just instilled traumatizing fears in another character, scarring her for life and on-setting a dangerous disease. It's all good.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, in the land of absurd lessons to instill in young people, all of the students in show choir disbanded and joined other clubs because show choir wasn't going to nationals, so they wanted to find other things to do with their lives for the rest of the school year. Some joined sports teams, and others joined clubs and groups. Sounds healthy, right? Find other interests to excel in and don't let losing one competition destroy your entire life. <i>WRONG. </i>According to the world of <i>Glee</i> and Finn Hudson, the student teacher leading the show choir at this time in the show, moving on and not dwelling on your losses is horrible and unacceptable. He actually yelled at students for giving up. How dare they have healthy, well-balanced lives.<br />
<br />
And would you look at that? Magically, weeks later, two students, Sam and Blaine, found a way to prove that one of the other local show choirs had cheated during the competition. So hooray, hoorah, the New Directions get to go to Nationals after all. Yay. Never mind your balanced lives, kiddies. We've got more winning to obsess over. But don't worry, there's still plenty of time to treat Marley like crap for letting the team down at that last competition.<br />
<br />
In the most recent episode of <i>Glee, </i>"Katy vs. Gaga" although Kitty has finally undergone some reasonable character growth and generally been treating Marley better, the onslaught from the general public continues.<br />
<br />
The premise of the episode is that if you are an artist you are either a Katy Perry or a Lady Gaga (a flawed theory in and of itself, but whatever, <i>Glee. </i>We'll roll with it.), i.e. a girl-next-door type versus an edgy performer. Never mind that when I think "girl next door" I think Michele Branch, Sara Bareilles, or even Taylor Swift, <i>not</i> Katy Perry. But like I said, we're rolling with it.<br />
<br />
Although the week's "assignment" is for the Gagas of the group to do a Katy performance, and the Katys of the group to do a Gaga show, there is a clear emphasis that anyone who's anyone should want to be a Gaga. Marley's boyfriend, Jake, puts her down for being "such a Katy" and telling her there's no way she's going to be able to pull off a Gaga song. Why? Because she won't have sex with him. I'd like to applaud the show for having Marley throw Jake out of his own bedroom during this episode because he's pressuring her to do something she doesn't want to. But alas, having seen this show in its entirety, I know that it's only a matter of three or so episodes before Marley suddenly realizes that because she loves Jake, of course she should have 16-year-old sex with him. It's true love, bitches.<br />
<br />
To make matters worse still, when the group assigned a Gaga performance finally does their number, all of them are decked out in elaborate, bizarre Gaga-style costumes, except Marley, who comes dancing out on stage in an elaborate, bizarre Katy-style costume. At the end of the number, one of her fellow classmates, a senior with impeccable abs who used to be a stripper, demands to know why she isn't wearing "the seashell bikini."<br />
<br />
Stammering out that she just wasn't comfortable in something so revealing, Marley is attacked not only by her fellow students, but also by Mr. Schue, the alleged voice of reason in the show. The allegedly mature, caring, responsible adult figure. <br />
<br />
"Marley, we're all trying to win a championship here, as a team, but you put your personal agenda above that. I'm sorry, but you're suspended for the rest of the week."<br />
<br />
I almost threw my laptop at the wall. I know that <i>Glee</i> is not the real world, in which a high school show choir would not have the funds for elaborate costumes only to be used for one week of practice in the first place, let alone in which a teacher would probably get thrown in jail for suspending a student for refusing to come to school in a seashell bikini. It's not the real world, but it consistently tackles real-world problems. And I'm sorry, but there is nothing, I repeat, NOTHING wrong with not wanting to wear a skimpy outfit, especially as a minor.<br />
<br />
Should Marley have worn something that fit the confines of the assignment, arguably yes. But did it have to be a bikini? I think not. Lady Gaga herself would probably advocate Marley being true to herself and wearing what she feels good in. Although I want to see the character overcome her body issues, she can be just as comfortable with herself in a turtleneck as she can in a bikini for all I care.<br />
<br />
Gettin' real tired of your shit, <i>Glee.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-32087696513901402032013-02-02T00:33:00.001-05:002015-03-02T10:38:44.778-05:00Dropping the Fluffy Pink RobeWell, once again, Glee proudly exhibits its complete inability to portray reasonable or moderate view points. (Please don't ask me why I watch; it's a combination of enjoying the music, and loving the drama in a train-wreck-can't-look-away sort of way.)<br />
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<a name='more'></a> For those of you who don't follow the show, in the most recent episode, appropriately dubbed "Naked", one of the show's protagonists, Rachel Berry, is faced with the great question: To strip or not to strip? The episode centers around body issues, a popular theme on Glee, from male image pressure to emotional "nudity" (or vulnerability) to Rachel's very literal nudity. As an aspiring actress attending the New York Academy for the Arts, she is offered an opportunity to star in a student film, with one string attached: she has to do a topless scene.<br />
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As an aspiring actress myself, it's an issue that hits home very deeply with me. And I was completely dismayed by the viewpoints offered up in the episode.<br />
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In one corner, we have Brody, Rachel's charming, confidence-boosting boyfriend. His stance? She should do it. But I'm sorry, Brody. No, you do not have to "show your boobs to get an Oscar." Wow.<br />
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And in the other corner, ladies and gentlemen, we have Kurt, taking the how-dare-you-not-be-ashamed-of-your-body approach. Kurt is Rachel's closest friend and her roommate, often serving as her moral guide and support system. Obviously, Kurt says Rachel shouldn't do the film. But his implication that "serious" actresses don't do nudity is something I find disturbing. <br />
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What
saddens me the most is that these are both characters I love, and who I see as truly caring about Rachel and
having her best interests at heart. In fact, typically they come off as some of the more down-to-earth characters in a very tongue-in-cheek show.<br />
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You're probably wondering how I can disagree with them both at the same time. I'll tell you. None of them asked the right—or any—questions. 'What is the context?' for example. 'Is it a scene or film that you will be proud to have in your repertoire?' 'Do you care about the project?' 'How does your nudity contribute to the storyline?' 'Is it necessary or just trying to shock the audience?'<br />
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I don't think the human body is something to be ashamed of and I do believe that in the right films (or stage plays) at the right times, it can contribute to the story in a powerful way. But at the same time it can also be degrading or tasteless, and it's not a choice that any actor should take lightly. Do I think that Rachel should do the specific project in her situation? Personally, no. It's so early in her career that she doesn't necessarily know how to pick the right projects yet. Doing something like a nude scene is a huge decision that will not only follow her for her entire career, but also affect her personal life. More importantly, it was some random student's art project with an absurd-sounding plot line. And in my opinion, the director/writer came off as exactly the kind of girl who would put a nude scene in her film just so it would be shocking or "avant garde" or blah blah blah. Not something you would be proud of later in life.<br />
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-Spoiler Warning-<br />
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In the end, Rachel, right on the cusp of dropping her fluffy pink robe in a bizarre dream sequence, got cold feet. But I worry that her character made her choice for the wrong reasons. Did she choose to do it because she knew it wasn't worth it and not something she could be proud of? Or did she do it because all of her friends shamed her out of it, and she was embarrassed of her body? Or, as she herself stammered, did she only back out because she wasn't "ready?" It's a fair reason, but I think it would have been more powerful if she were confident in her body and her ability to do the scene, but chose not to because the film was artistically beneath her. Instead, the writers of Glee chose simply to say that she shouldn't get naked because she simply can't yet. Not very inspiring.<br />
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It worries me knowing that in an increasingly desensitized world, so many people in my industry are faced with this decision or some variation of it. But I hope that if and when that moment comes for my friends, they will face it with both confidence in their craft and in the beautiful bodies that God gave them. I sincerely hope that they will be able to make a choice based on the value of the story being told and not on whether or not they're too scared to do it. I also hope (somewhat futilely, I know) that society will learn the difference between gratuitous exhibitionism and powerful storytelling. One has integrity and one does not.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-29062661799440070622013-01-11T21:23:00.002-05:002013-01-11T21:23:23.519-05:00A Birthday BlogI meant to write a Christmas blog, but life had other intentions, so I'm making this a birthday blog instead. Regardless, it is a blog of celebration (and it has an alliteration, now, which automatically makes it better.) No, not because of Christmas, or New Year's, or even my birthday, really. It's a blog of celebration because I made it one whole year in Chicago as of last week.<br />
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And to think: this time last year, I was sitting by myself in an ice cold town house completely friendless within the city, home from an internship where I blended in with the wallpaper, and microwaving one of those Betty Crocker "Warm Delight" cakes. Not to mention my housemates and I didn't care for each other all that much, so I was pretty much like<br />
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And just look at me now! …okay, well, I'm not all that impressive if we're being honest. But life has definitely made vast improvements. I think. Y'know, I'm not going to spend too much time thinking about it. The important thing is that I have my own apartment, two new jobs, and friends. Yay friends. Not just the old ones, whom I love more and more every day, but also new friends in the city, who keep me from becoming a shut-in and/or crazy cat lady. Thank you, Chicago friends. I love you.<br />
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The new jobs? Well, last year, I worked at a Noble Charter School teaching an after school Shakespeare program. Thanks to that position, which my teacher-friend Chad got me, I got hired in November to be an on-call substitute teacher for that school system. I actually had my first day subbing yesterday, watching over a couple of periods of a band class, which was somehow fitting and quite memorable. The other job is really not entirely new; it's more like extra work at the YMCA. I'm going to be helping out with the summer camp this year, which will get me a few extra hours and some valuable job experience. I'm excited about it, and if you've ever given me a chance to go off on my spiel about how wonderful the Y is, you know that I'm glad to be doing more work there.<br />
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In other news, I got sick. Again. Twice. First a nasty cold over Christmas, and then the flu when I got home. Lovely. Yeah, yeah, I know. I bought a bottle of multi-vitamins today.<br />
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Anyway, I spent Christmas up in Wisconsin with my family, and in spite of being sick, I still managed to play in the snow, attend church on Christmas Eve, and eat altogether more than can possibly be good for me. Thank you, family. Ugh I miss the food just thinking about it.<br />
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As for New Year's, my brother Dan came down to Chicago with me and spent the next couple of days on my air mattress. Although he can be a bit of a pain at times (we are siblings, let's be honest), it was really nice to have him here for a short visit, especially since the Air Force is sending him to Anchorage, AK at the end of March. We spent New Year's Eve at friends Anna and Ben's home, where they threw a little party. There were party games and noise makers and champagne, all the usual fare, and it was nice.<br />
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As for everything else, well, I've had a few…shall we say, "adventures" lately, not all of them especially fun. But the big story I'll save for when it has a conclusion. Yes, I know. How will you survive the suspense? But I'm nothing if not dramatic. Can I help it if I enjoy building tension?<br />
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Meanwhile, my 23rd birthday is tomorrow, and I've just been berated for the second time in 24 hours for failing to mention the fact to the majority of my friends. Okay, <i>all</i> of my friends. But I made myself cupcakes! They're…fine. Well, actually they were a bit of a disappointment. I used a cake mix and it was just so-so. Also I think I overcooked the first batch by about a minute. But on the other hand, for possibly the first time ever, I got the consistency of the icing <i>perfect</i>, and was able to frost the cupcakes without tearing them apart or having the icing drip off the edges because it was too runny. If you don't bake, you don't realize what a remarkable accomplishment that is. So I'll tell you. That is a remarkable accomplishment. Anyway, I bought a box of birthday candles and was going to sing happy birthday to myself, but I realized that I never bought any matches. Whoops. However, someone mentioned that I could light one using my stove, and I think I might do that yet. We'll see. Because that's how I plan to differentiate between my 23rd birthday and my 22nd birthday. This year had <i>candles.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baking while wearing the absolutely smashing apron my Grandparents gave me this year.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slightly disappointing but exceptionally well frosted birthday cupcakes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful birthday card from my parents.</td></tr>
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P.S. If you want to send me a present I accept emeralds and pearls, but I think diamonds look tacky on a woman under 40. (Name that film!)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-9788342602241721192012-12-08T00:10:00.004-05:002012-12-08T00:21:06.615-05:00A Toast to Your Health<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">There are a lot of things going on, some that I'm simply not okay talking about at the moment, but here's what I can tell you. I have been sick for going on two weeks now. Every time I think I'm doing better, I discover I was wrong. Last week I came down with a nasty sore throat for maybe the sixth or so time this year. Whatever. I popped a throat lozenge and sucked it up like I usually do. I cancelled one private lesson and expected to be back to work the next day. Except that some way that I can't explain, I managed to throw out my back. Again, I can't be sure exactly what happened, but there was a muscle in my back that simply decided that it wasn't getting enough attention, so it did what any mature, reasonable person would do. It threw a temper tantrum. Again, I tried to brush it off. I have, on occasion, dealt with some muscle pain from work before, for which I used a heating pack, maybe popped a pain killer, and went to bed, tender but otherwise fine the next day. So I delicately went to bed that night convincin</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;">g myself that it would be fine in the morning. It <i>had</i> to be fine in the morning. I had to go to work.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">Alas, Horatio, not so. I woke up in even more pain than the day before, now barely able to turn my head from side to side. I called my boss, trying not to cry. Between the pain and the sore throat making me hoarse, I couldn't have sounded more pathetic than if I'd just fallen out of a Charles Dickens novel. Bless him, he was completely understanding, and even more fortunate was that someone got back to my request for an emergency sub almost immediately.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">But now what? I was working on a Frankenstein's monster audition that would give Boris Karloff a run for his money. I started dialing numbers, looking for someone to take me to the urgent care clinic, because of course I don't have a personal physician here in Chicago. Fortunately, I eventually found a kind soul, old family friend Anna, to drive me. At the doctor's I dismissed my sore throat, far more concerned about my ability to, y'know, <i>move</i>. I needed to get back in the water, after all! I had lessons booked every day for about two weeks.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">The doc set me up with some pills that could keep even Lewis Carroll interested, and I returned home to sleep for nearly 14 hours. A blessing indeed. I was elated the next morning to find that my back was nearly back to normal. A few stretches, I thought, maybe one more night on the happy pills, and I would be good as new. Minus my sore throat.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><br />Well, I went back to work and taught one lesson on Thursday, eager to get home and crawl in bed afterwards. Friday, though. Oh, Friday.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">I could feel it happening at the beginning of the day already. My hoarseness from teaching even the short shift on Thursday hadn't gone away, and all the Halls cough drops in the world couldn't have saved me from Friday at the YMCA. As Monica likes to point out, by the end of the day on Friday, you can see the vein popping in my neck because I have to shout so loud to be heard. I was straining my voice and in serious pain every second as my ability to actually speak waned. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">But this was not the first time I had lost my voice this season. It's actually happened a number of times now, much to my dismay (as an actor, I normally try to take very good care of my voice), but was always better with plenty of water and a good night's sleep. So I stopped by the clinic again and had the doc poke and prod me a few more times. Instead of the happy pills for my back like last time, this time I was rewarded with a nose spray.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">Saturday. Day 2. I awaken. I expect my voice to have returned like always. At some point over the course of breakfast, I remark something aloud. No sound. I freeze. I open my mouth and try again. I can manage a harsh squeaking sound. My eyes proceed to pop out of my head.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">I spent the entire day resting, drinking tea, gulping down chicken broth. I went to the holiday staff party because like hell was a going to miss it, and proceeded to make jokes at my own expense about how I sounded like a Disney cartoon. Officially concerned, however, I skipped out on the various invitations I received for "pre-gaming" and "after-partying." Alcohol, I knew, was a no-no for a damaged voice. Besides. I clearly needed sleep.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">Day 2 with no voice. I am beginning to panic. In spite of my best attempts—tea, cider, chicken soup, throat lozenges, steamy showers—my throat is showing no signs of getting better. I have never had actual laryngitis before, but I know that it can last for weeks, even a month or more sometimes, and I have an audition in a week that I now cannot rehearse for.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">Day 3 with no voice. I call in friend Johnny to sub for me and sit at home trying not to weep because when I can't teach I start questioning the validity of my existence. I promptly remind myself that I am not allowed the luxury of crying because crying will hurt my voice. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">Day 4. I cry anyway. I also line up Johnny to teach for me for the rest of the week because there has been absolutely no change. I buy a humidifier because life sucks.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">Day 5. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">I gain about half an octave of speech ability and nearly have a heart attack from genuine relief. I go to the clinic for a TB test for a new job and discover I still have a fever.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">Day 6. Another half an octave returns. I sound almost normal to the untrained ear. I attend orientation for the new job as a substitute teacher and alienate various germaphobes when I mention having "recently" been sick. I also accept an invitation to go out in the evening because I have been living like a monk all week. "I'm feeling better, though!" I insist as I order mulled grape juice instead of wine. I had a good time in spite of the fact that mulled grape juice is exactly as good as it does not sound.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">Day 7. Today. My voice is completely returned. Now, with that trauma out of the way, I am free to be alert to other things. Like the fact that my throat is still sore and I'm still coughing. I am still sick. Still. Sick. I return to the clinic to have my TB test read and carefully avoid all thermometers, no longer wanting to know. I prefer denial.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">I'll be honest. I don't really handle being sick all that well. Most of the time, I try to power through it, i.e. pretend it's not happening and accidentally make myself wor<span style="font-size: small;">se</span>. When I'm actually sick enough to admit it, I generally go into hiding because I don't want people to see me like this. It's not about looking unattractive or something silly like that. It's that I'm genuinely depressing and unpleasant to be around because I get whiny. Especially when I've been sick and couped up this long. Until going out last night, I was going (pardon my language) batshit crazy not being able to work or go anywhere or, most of all, TALK! Do you know what it is like for someone like me to lose her voice? I'm well aware that it's not pleasant for anyone, but when you use your voice for your job, it is seriously incapacitating. And then on top of that, being pent up in my apartment, I started panicking about how it would affect my life and my future as an actor if I never get my voice back or if I have permanently damaged my vocal cords. Melodrama and high blood pressure ensued! If I hadn't caved in and gotten that humidifier after some well-placed advice from friend Hope, I might still be squeaking out my words and typerventelating on facebook. Hell, I got my voice back and I'm still typerventelating on facebook because I have now been sick for two weeks and that's just unreasonable! I am literally coughing as I write this. I am also only writing this entry because I was waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in on my sore throat so I could actually go to sleep. It has now, so I will.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">But see? Do you <i>see</i> what I am talking about? Listen to how whiny and self-pitying I sound! This is unacceptable and stupid! I need to be healthy again or I am going to have a genuine meltdown! AAARRRRGGGGGHHHHH!</span></span></span></span> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-72723321535949644442012-12-01T11:42:00.001-05:002012-12-01T11:42:43.897-05:00No Last RepAnother Blog Boost, but this time, it's a health blog. I know what you're thinking: Me? Reading a health blog? Don't be ridiculous. And I'll admit that if it wasn't run by a friend of mine, I probably wouldn't have even bothered to skim it. Honestly, though, I'm boosting it because the author is really good at sharing information that is accessible and useful for a wide audience, from the hard-core gym rats to those of us with a more moderate interest in health and fitness.<br />
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He shares a lot of great tidbits ranging from basic knowledge for first-time gym-goers to helpful (but realistic) eating tips. I highly recommend giving his page at least a quick browse. You're sure to learn something.<br />
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<a href="http://nolastrep.wordpress.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVWY4qiAzmn9XnEtoZVv9NQ0LM-KL31GNGqytd8PvPrTL5xA_SYSpjoHhfZEsIEpyygCsy_kI7uE6YOntpruXzUMlgaIsdM5cqsuaSrfDAi0Mctt9XODXDcSVg27dtJmst-FQDUuC19A/s1600/Picture+3.png" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-79036399861843172922012-11-24T19:09:00.003-05:002012-11-24T19:16:22.379-05:00I Should Be Drinking CoffeeI should be drinking coffee right now. More importantly, I should be pulling a homemade pumpkin pie out of the oven right now. But sadly, neither of those things is happening.<br />
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Instead, I am writing to you, dear family and friends, because other than go to bed at 5:00 in the evening, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I am genuinely too tired to do anything more productive than sit on my computer and type. In all fairness, this could, from a certain perspective, be considered productive, particularly given that I could also be sitting on my computer scrolling through endless posts on Tumblr, or else watching an unlimited supply of television shows on Netflix.<br />
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But why, you ask, am I not drinking coffee? Why, oh why, is there no pie? (I did <i>not</i> mean for that sentence to rhyme….) I will tell you. First and foremost, there is no coffee because for the past <i>week</i> there has been no coffee. What madness is this? What depraved soul has stolen my coffee maker? What utter and hopeless poverty has reduced me to avoiding Starbucks? Well…it's all on me, actually. There is even a bag of whole coffee beans sitting in my cupboard, right this very moment, waiting for me to take it to the nearest Starbucks to be ground. The fact is, I am convinced that I get too much caffeine. It is causing my skin to look like that of a pubescent teenager, and it is making me as jittery as my sophomore geometry teacher, a woman who could draw a nearly perfect circle on the overhead with positively <i>quaking</i> hands (a fascinating creature, truly). So. For the foreseeable future, no coffee.<br />
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BUM <span style="font-size: large;">BUM</span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">BUM<span style="font-size: x-large;">!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I know; I know. How will I ever go on? The cravings are killing me, and I am unquestionably sluggish </span>throughout the day. But for now, it is for the best. To curb my cravings, I opt for other delightful winter beverages, such as hot apple cider or hot cocoa. <br />
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But what about the pie? May I just say, I have been intending, even trying, to bake a pumpkin pie since I returned from the tour a month ago? No really. I quite honestly have been. But for a while, I was too depressed to bake. Then too busy. Then too tired. Then I was going home and had other things to worry about. This week, nearly every day, I have intended to bake that blasted pie, but there has been one thing stopping me: ingredients. Every time I have had time to go to the store, I have checked for those last remaining, ever elusive final ingredients. They shouldn't even be difficult to attain, but I suppose you can't really say that about anything the week of Thanksgiving. Good luck to anyone trying to find ground Cinnamon or ground Ginger this week. 't ain't gonna happen. Or at least it didn't happen for me. But I shall continue trying, if only because I have EVERY OTHER INGREDIENT EXCEPT THOSE TWO! It is absolutely maddening, I tell you. It is like being Super Mario and beating your way through every castle only to discover that Bowser has kidnapped Princess Peach<i>—again—</i>and moved her to a different castle. <i>Again</i>. I will make that dratted pumpkin pie and rescue the princess if it is the last thing I do!<br />
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Tomorrow, I shall cave in and go to the expensive grocery store to see if <i>they </i>have cinnamon and ginger. (Also, before anyone suggests it, yes, I have been scouring the shelves for the convenient jars of "Pumpkin Pie Spice" as well, which you would be correct in claiming as a valid substitute.)<br />
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But meanwhile, even without pie—and still more shockingly, <i>without coffee</i>—life goes on. And trust me, no one is more surprised to learn that than myself. I have been working at the YMCA since my less-than-grand return from the tour. It was a blessing to be able to return to a job I love as much as this one, and even though I am perpetually worn out and perfumed with chlorine, it is worth it. The Y has been such a blessing to me this year. Besides being the job that keeps my life stable, it is also where I made my first real friends in Chicago, something for which I am continually grateful. (Yes, that was my little, "What I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving <i>is</i>…" moment.)<br />
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And that's all I've really got to say right now. I miss coffee. I'm probably going to start drinking it again in a couple of weeks. Until then, let the exhaustion continue.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-24852786586114396322012-10-25T10:07:00.003-04:002012-10-25T10:07:44.798-04:00Why I Hate PoliticsOther than the uninformed idiots running loose on facebook, convinced that they, and only they, have a full grasp of the way our country should and shouldn't be run, the thing that really bothers me about politics is the complete lack of respect it seems to promote.<br />
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Political talk show hosts are bashed as biggots, racists, and yes, "The Anti-Christ," but only by those people who don't share the host's political views. People fail to realize that these people are entertainers, not politicians and certainly not representative of an entire party. I hear people condemning these entertainers constantly, one offense after another, but failing to realize that not only is it that person's *job* to try to get a rise out of you, your own party has entertainers just like that batting for the opposite side. I'm tired of hearing about how, "Oh those Democrats/Republicans are so evil, just look at what right wing/left wing host said on his/her show last week. They're all prejudice/self-absorbed/promoting hatred/the embodiment of evil/etc." No. No. I'm sorry, but no. A <i>talk show host</i> does not represent the views or personality of an entire party, and it is that person's job to be as outrageous as possible. Do not run around sharing trending facebook statuses demanding apologies from a talk show host on behalf of their political party. Do. Not. Do. This. It is absurd and silly. It is called freedom of speech. That person can say whatever the heck he wants to on his own show because we live in the bloody United States of America and if I want to have a television show about how much I hate cats and cats should all die, then I can bloody well do it and there's nothing you can do except change the bloody channel. Stop trying to silence people or force them to apologize for having their own opinions. If you don't agree with that person, you don't have to watch/listen to their show. You can just ignore them.<br />
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This is the beginning of the problem with politics: thinking that one person's ideas represent the entire group's exactly. I will tell you something: being a libertarian, I lean towards the right when voting, but that does not mean that Mitt Romney is a walking mouthpiece for everything that goes on in my head. Whoever I choose to vote for, there are plenty of things that I may not necessarily agree with that that person does or says. I will vote for the person that I agree with the most and who I think is what the country most needs at the present moment. Stop assuming that one person can reflect what half the country is thinking. That is impossible. We get two choices. Chances are, there isn't going to be someone that we are blindly and hopelessly in love with as a candidate. <br />
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Meanwhile, it is my #$@!&%* choice to vote for who I want, and I know you think you're being cute when you tell me not to bother voting, but you're actually seriously pissing me off and making yourself look like a jerk. I have, in fact, recently been told by two separate people, the following:<br /><br /><b>Person #1</b>: "You need, to vote Rachel. We need your vote. [pause] You're not voting for Obama, are you? Okay, well in that case, don't vote at all. It's not like you have an understanding of politics as an unemployed 22 year old, anyway."<br /><br /><b>Person #2</b>: "If you vote, you're voting for Romney? Oh my God, never mind, please don't vote. That's the last thing this country needs."<br />
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Excuse. Me.<br />
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Look, I know both of these people were [sort of] joking. They both happened to be very intelligent people, and very nice, kind people. And yet this. What is this? I know you think it is a joke to ask someone not to vote if they don't agree with you, but do you not see how messed up that is? If my candidate (whoever that may be) doesn't win, then you can bet I'm going to respect the fact that the greater majority (hopefully—sometimes our voting system is seriously screwed up) of Americans believed that that person was what was best for the country. I may not always agree with the tactics. I may not always like what that President/political rep. does, but I can respect the fat that they were voted into that office by the people and for the people.<br />
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Meanwhile, I'm sick and tired of political ad campaigns. If I see one more commercial talking about all the things that are allegedly wrong with the opponent, rather than talking about that candidate's strengths, I'm going to scream. When? When did this become an acceptable way to run for office? What did they teach you in #$&%)@ elementary school? Why is it that as soon as people get into politics, respectfulness and admirable behavior become a second priority? And even worse, why do these campaigns supposedly work? That absolutely terrifies me for the American people, that we are apparently so malleable. The moment I see an ad bashing a political opponent, my instinct is to not vote for the candidate running the ad, because they've resorted to mud-raking.<br />
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And then these candidates get into office, and it doesn't stop. No matter who wins, they will spend the next 4-8 years claiming that anything that is wrong with the country or that they are unable to accomplish is the fault of their predecessor. There's nothing Obama can do. Bush screwed us all over. There was nothing Bush could do. He was cleaning up Clinton's mess.<br />
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I've had it. I've bloody had enough of the excuses. If you are elected to an office, it is because YOU convinced US that you could do something to help the situation. If I hear one more time that "it's not so-and-so's fault. They're still cleaning up such-and-such's mess," then all I'm going to say is, "Well then why the hell did you vote for someone who wouldn't be able to get anything done?" You have 4, sometimes 8 years. Do not tell me that you can't get anything accomplished because of the opposing party. Your job is now to work with both parties. Don't tell me you can't get anything done because of the "mess" someone else left you. Your job is to move forward, not hide behind excuses.<br />
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I'm tired of people bashing each other and getting into heated arguments on facebook and even in person because they seem to be incapable of respecting the fact that someone else's opinion might be different from theirs. I've got news for you. You're wrong. I'm wrong and you're wrong and everybody else is wrong some of the time. Just because I believe in capitalism does not mean that socialism is wrong. It means that some people have a different view on what the ideal way to run the country is. Politics is all about opinion, and in case you've forgotten what you learned in first grade, an opinion is different from a fact. You can't prove it. You can argue it, you can back it up, but an opinion can still not be defined as right vs. wrong. It is, simply, your opinion. So stop pretending that anyone who doesn't agree with you is evil, inept, unintelligent, etc. Or I will personally come and duct tape your mouth shut.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-39819208409792121582012-10-19T14:47:00.001-04:002012-10-19T18:22:25.019-04:00Things I Don't Understand1. Brides who bring their fiances wedding dress shopping<br />
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2. Mark Rothko<br />
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3. Joel Schumacher<br />
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4. Popcorn balls<br />
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5. Those little silicon packets<br />
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6. Jim Carey's face<br />
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7. Mondays<br />
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8. Pizza with pineapple<br />
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9. Pomegranates<br />
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10. "Do not remove under penalty of law."<br />
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ETA: I also don't understand chihuahuas. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-46567134106801602562012-10-15T19:17:00.002-04:002012-10-15T19:28:23.261-04:00Chlorine ExcerptsOver the course of the past 7 weeks I have been on-and-off working on my novel. I'm not prepared to share everything about it except that I first started it about 3 years ago, promptly got distracted from it, and then picked it up again at the beginning of my tour, having been freshly inspired to rework it.<br />
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Originally, it was written experimentally in first person, each chapter switching between the perspective of 6 different characters: an idea I got from <i>The Poisonwood Bible</i>, one of the best books I read during all of high school. I still love <i>Poisonwood</i>, but for various reasons, I have begun to discover that in spite of my tendencies to begin novels in the first person, I really prefer 3rd person. It is less constricting and there are so many more options. What can I say? I probably have a God complex and like to feel like I know <i>everything</i> going on in my characters' universe. Anyway, while transferring the written manuscript to a typed one on my computer, I have been translating everything into third person, while also adding scenes, completely uprooting the setting, and changing the genre. It's possibly the most dramatic upheaval I've ever given a previous project, but I feel like this one is worth it. The characters, if I do say so myself, are amazing. If they were real, I would want to be friends with them.<br />
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Who are they? An assortment of (wait for it) lifeguards working at a country club. Once upon a time, I was going to set the book at a YMCA, but for a number of reasons, first and foremost at least one rather seedy character whom I wouldn't want people to associate with an organization I love so much, I decided against this. Also, by making up a fictional setting, I gave myself far more creative liberties. That said, the pool in the book is identical in structure to the one at the Schilling Farms YMCA where I first began lifeguarding. I can't help it. Every time I tried to envision it, that was what kept cropping up. The pool <i>wanted</i> to be like the one at Schilling. That said, it is the <i>only</i> character in the book based on someone in real life.<br />
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Oh yes, the pool is its own character. It has a personality.<br />
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Anyway, I had told a few people about this project, and a few people have been <i>asking</i> me about this project, so I decided, while I'm trying to get my creative juices flowing again, I thought I'd post a few of my favorite passages I've come so far.<br />
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Please bear in mind, this is all a very rough draft. This book isn't finished, and it's going to go through a lot more editing long after it final gets an ending. Also, I'll keep the excerpts brief. I trust my friends, but it <i>is</i> the internet, and one hears so many sad stories about plagiarism.<br />
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Without further ado:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Chlorine<br />
by Rachel Krueger </div>
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<b>1. A brief background on the pool itself.</b><br />
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"Tony stood hidden behind an oak tree, clutching his chest in pain, and the man who had never cried a day in his life, shed two agonized tears. They fell to the ground and mingled with the roots of the oak tree, and that oak tree has never forgotten Tony Porter. <br />
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[…] The Mulder Country Club carried on just fine. A few decades passed and an indoor and outdoor swimming pool were built, although there was a small miscalculation when building the outdoor pool. They dug a bit too close to a particular oak tree, and cut a few of its roots. There was fear that the oak tree might die, but it struggled through hardily. Construction workers warned that if the roots continued to grow in this direction, though, it would seriously damage the cement poured to build the pool. <br />
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But the odd thing was that that never happened. No one ever questioned it; they just assumed they had gotten lucky. What no one knows, except maybe Grace—because no one knows that pool quite like Grace—is that the oak tree still remembers those two tears even today, the sorrow and sadness mingled into its heartwood. How could it ever forget such sorrow? It loves people, after all, and the pool brings it joy, all those happy sounds of laughter and screams of delight. The oak mingled a few roots into the groundwork of the pool, surrounding every inch that it could reach. And every day Grace notices subtle changes in the pool that no one else seems to be in tune to. Fountains will be facing different directions. The deep-end has a different slope to it. And wasn’t the shallow end wider yesterday? Some days she notices that old oak tree almost seems to be leaning over the rod-iron fence surrounding the pool, a branch or two reaching out in a way that is so life-like she has to blink twice to be certain she hasn’t imagined it. The tree is usually in a cheerful mood, although on certain days, she notices that the happiness is strained, or that it has sunk into a bit of melancholy. The water often shares its mood, though how she knows that is more difficult to explain. Something about the way it ripples or gets choppy or whether the water level has risen or sunken. She keeps these things to herself, of course. Because after all, who would believe her if she said she’d actually known the water to spit a drowning toddler into her arms?"<br />
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<b>2. Tina and Greg, a couple rookie lifeguards. [Greg refers to Grace as 'Blondie.']</b><br />
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"[…] But poor Tina. Greg could see the guilt and misery written all over her face. He kept hearing Coldplay in his head every time he looked at her. Grace had put her on cleaning duty for the rest of her shift, which Tina probably viewed as some sort of punishment. She hated cleaning of any kind. Grace knew better, though. There was nothing more cathartic than a little manual labor. <i> Scrub your sins away, y’know?</i> So really, even if Tina thought she was being punished, it would still make her feel better. It was a way of doing penance, paying for her mistake. <br />
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[…] Greg wondered for the millionth time why Tina stuck with this job. She’d made no secret of the fact that she hated it. It occurred to Greg for the first time that perhaps Tina’s parents were forcing her to keep a summer job. It wasn’t exactly an unconventional idea. <br />
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A smile played at the corner of his mouth as he watched her now. She was like some sort of disgruntled Cinderella, tossing Comet on the tiles around the pool and scrubbing them until her knuckles turned white. <br />
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Eventually she felt his eyes on her and looked up, meeting Greg’s gaze with defiance. 'What?'<br />
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He frowned at her. 'What are you doing?' he asked. <br />
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She rolled her eyes and went back to scrubbing. 'What does it look like?' she muttered. He could tell that she was secretly embarrassed, wondering what everyone else thought of her after the incident that afternoon. Tina had always been concerned with what others thought of her. <br />
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'I meant why are you working here?'<br />
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She spared him a vicious glare. <br />
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'Just curious. You know, whatever you’re thinking, Blondie doesn’t think you’re worthless. Yeah, she would have stood up for anyone. But she also would have had you working way fewer hours or even fired you by now if she didn’t think you were worth her time.'<br />
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She was quiet for a moment. Then, 'I started working here because my parents threatened to take away my car. Now I come because it means getting out of the house and away from Mother.' She didn’t look at him, and he didn’t expect her to. <br />
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She was human after all. "<br />
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<b>3. Grace Porter, a seasoned lifeguard in her 20s, reflecting on her romantic life. Grace's family is very unusual. Her great aunt has a sixth sense for other people's food cravings and can't sit still until she's provided that food, be it a pop tart or escargot. Grace's twin brother can see people's souls or characters in their shadows. Grace, to her dismay, has a more public "curse," her fingernails and toenails were born changing colors. Each change of color reflects a change in her emotion. Finally, none of the women in Grace's family have ever left their hometown, Mulder.</b><br />
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"Grace laid herself out on the dock. She liked her Aunt Miranda's corner of the lake better than the Bright's lake house. The Brights had a beautiful view, but the small bay that her great aunt lived on was so peaceful and undisturbed. When Grace was a little girl, she used to think the spot was enchanted with its perfectly smooth water mirroring the Heavens. At night, it reflected the stars, creating a sea of fairy lights.<br />
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This evening Grace knew there would be very few stars out. The sky was overcast, almost solid white all day, and now slowly turning a smoky, dusty pink as the sun dipped lower, wetting its toes in the lake.<br />
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She glanced at her fingernails, trying to figure out how she felt. They were the same color they'd been all day: a strange, iridescent mother-of-pearl like the inside of an oyster. It wasn't particularly attractive. She also had no idea what it meant, but she supposed she must be happy. This was good, after all. She'd always liked Bobby, and she'd known for some time that his feelings for her went well beyond friendship. She wasn't sure that Bobby was what she wanted; romantically speaking, every girl grew up with some unrealistic ideals about the sort of man she'd like to be with one day. But just like we fantasize about being swept away by pirates, of riding off to become cowboys and girls, or of running away on the backs of motorcycles, our dreams aren't always what's good for us. Like how badly Grace wanted to leave Mulder, for instance. She knew it would kill her if she did. As a girl, she used to sneak out at night and walk all the way to the edge of town, right to Mulder's boundaries. She'd been able to feel the curse boiling in her blood, making her head spin as she struggled not to vomit or collapse. She always ended up throwing herself back, gasping uncontrollably for Mulder's life-giving air. It had become clear enough early on that the outside world would kill her. Mulder was a safe-haven, her protection from drowning.<br />
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And that was Bobby, too. He was her safe-place. He was good and strong and he would always love her. He might not be what she thought she wanted, but he was what was good for her."<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-8676861748457388812012-10-13T08:30:00.000-04:002012-10-13T08:30:39.584-04:00This Itinerary Has Never Made Much Sense<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuwqbBWmByM8msI4ekV9ojenqixfxJDkIqIZhRVtp4VbrEyIfxSZj432lxveWnIH84qwEnWY-na1vy7wRN-Wi6Ip73B8I85-aDiCNf47nCjA25NBumGw3MeFnA7NM9hl6Cj1dnYe6VyAk/s1600/map7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuwqbBWmByM8msI4ekV9ojenqixfxJDkIqIZhRVtp4VbrEyIfxSZj432lxveWnIH84qwEnWY-na1vy7wRN-Wi6Ip73B8I85-aDiCNf47nCjA25NBumGw3MeFnA7NM9hl6Cj1dnYe6VyAk/s400/map7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If I try to explain to myself why we go to these cities in the order that we do, I get a headache.</td></tr>
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*Sturgis, MI: home of the Country Hearth Inn, a.k.a. the world's most unfathomably horrendous hotel imaginable<br />
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**Muncie, IN: drop-off for Jack and where Jenn and I turned in our 17 days notice<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-37807427256903846362012-10-12T12:29:00.000-04:002012-10-12T12:29:11.886-04:00Looper—A Film ReviewFlashy cars, loud explosions, a beautiful woman…and let's don't forget Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Bruce Willis. Combined with a gripping story line, it all adds up to one thing: darn good cinema. I recently had the opportunity to see Rian Johnson's new action-thriller <i>Looper</i>, which lived up to its hype. Naturally and unsurprisingly, Joseph Gordon-Levitt was spot on as Joe, a hired gun or "Looper" in the not-too-distant future, a world where time travel does not yet exist, but soon will. Joe works for the mob, killing off targets sent from thirty years in the future with his "blunderbus," a shoddy weapon that is only effective in close range. In an era where action heroes, from James Bond to Jason Bourne always seem to be equipped with the best of the best, it was an exciting twist having the film's hero as poorly armed as possible.<br />
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The film heroically avoided many of the usual pitfalls so commonly seen in this genre. Emily Blunt, as Sara, the film's leading lady, was neither helpless nor on screen simply to show off her cleavage. (There was more than enough of that to be had elsewhere in the film.) She played a smart and relate-able character who was even easier to root for than Joe himself.<br />
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Perhaps more importantly, the special effects work to enhance the film, rather than distracting from it. In a crucial scene in which we find out what happens to a Looper who fails to kill off his future self, a.k.a. "fails to close his loop." Rather than dwelling on gore and screaming, the film combines impressive specials and the wise tactic of leaving most of the brutality up to the imagination—one of the most effective scare tactics known to man.<br />
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There were perhaps only two major flaws with the film. First, the CGI alteration of Gordon-Levitt's face to look more like Bruce Willis, his 30-year-older self. While it was very well done, if they were going to employ this device, it would have been more sensible to cast two unknowns, rather than Gordon-Levitt and Willis. Because the majority of the audience is so familiar with these actors' faces, the alterations felt superfluous and even had the counter-effect of throwing the audience <i>out </i>of the film, rather than convincing them that Gordon-Levitt will one day look exactly like Bruce Willis.<br />
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The second problem was the pseudo-science of the film. While on the one hand they didn't waste time with expositional explanation of time travel—which was neither needed nor missed—the final conflict resolution for the film (which don't worry, I won't spoil for you) involved a massive paradox. While it worked brilliantly story-wise, it was such a gaping scientific flaw that it left you having to actively work to silence an insistent voice in your head, trying to point out to you, "But that <i>couldn't</i> work! It doesn't make sense anymore!"<br />
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But it's worth the effort to squelch that voice, as paradox or not, the movie doesn't disappoint.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-74806636333741242562012-10-12T00:19:00.001-04:002012-10-12T00:28:10.328-04:00Spiders, Panic Attacks, and My On-Going Love Affair with FoodI'm afraid that all the while I'm writing this and you're reading this, there's going to be an elephant in the room, and that's because I don't want to talk about the tour. I really don't. And I won't until my contract officially ends with the — — Players. But I will take this moment to officially announce to my friends and family that last Friday I delivered my 17 days notice. I'm coming home early. And yes, I see this as a very good thing. I am counting the days with desperate longing. As I jokingly said in a facebook status lately, "I am <i>so</i> over any city in this country that isn't Chicago."<br />
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So for now, I am simply biding my time. The past few weeks have been particularly stressful, and they have been having an interesting effect on me. Not unlike my bouts with depression in the past, I find that I am unable to sleep well and exhausted all the time. I occasionally find it difficult to keep my eyes open, even in the middle of a performance, and when I do sleep, it has been only to return to familiar nightmares of long ago, of being trapped inside my own body, unable to move, unable to scream or cry for help, paralyzed and helpless and painfully conscious of everything surrounding me.<br />
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Unfortunately the nightmares seep into my waking life as well. I have begun having small panic attacks. Yesterday morning, I was changing clothes in a bathroom stall at one of the schools, and all of a sudden an old memory came flooding back to me. I remember when I was very young, about 6 or 7, my mother and grandmother and I went to a Mother/Daughter tea at our church. I was wearing a pretty dress and purple nail polish that made my mother purse her lips. And I excused myself to the ladies' room at some point. Then, just as I was about to leave the stall, a group of women walked into the restroom, all of them talking very loudly—I couldn't tell you what about—and one of them stood in front of the door of my stall, not realizing she was trapping me in there. <i>No matter</i>, the little me thought, <i>they'll leave soon and then I can go</i>. Except that they didn't leave. They stayed there. And the longer they stayed there the more I irrationally felt that I <i>couldn't</i> just make my presence known. Something in me felt like it would be bad manners, like they would think I had been hiding or listening in. I remember starting to silently cry because that woman stayed standing in front of my stall for such a long time. And then, to my horror, I heard someone else open the bathroom door. My mother had come looking for me, worried because I had been gone so long. I heard her ask if I was in there, and before I could answer, the women told her there was no one else there. I remember feeling like I would <i>never</i> get out of there. And I was scared because now I knew my mother was scared, and why didn't I just <i>say something…anything!</i> Ages went by. I don't know how long, but to my child-mind, it felt like hours, before my mother returned again, and finally I found my voice and managed a plaintive little, "Mom!" Those poor women! They were so shocked to realize I'd been trapped in there that whole time, and I was just so relieved when my mother got to me. I felt awful.<br />
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So here I was nearly two decades later, hyperventilating in a bathroom stall because this memory had just washed over me so vividly I started to cry. And naturally, as if summoned into occurrence by my memories, when I tried to open the door of the bathroom stall, the lock got stuck and I had to force it to get it open. For one moment I was convinced that after all this time, it had come back to this: being trapped in a bathroom stall. Of all the undignified messes to get oneself in. God thinks He's so funny.<br />
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So to preserve my sanity I have begun distracting myself with new projects. I am exploring Shakespeare's <i>A Midsummer Night's Dream</i>, taking my own personal notes on how I would stage it and designing costumes, which has also led to experimenting with watercolor paints. Which I simply love.<br />
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I'm trying to write, but I don't have the heart for my journal, and motivation for my novel is fleeting. But I'll get back to that place soon enough. I always do, one way or another. It just might take being back in Chicago to get the words flowing.<br />
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In other news, I have found that being under constant emotional duress has had a positive effect on my bravery. Many are aware of my crippling fear of spiders, whether they view this phobia with disdainful mockery or sympathetic understanding. Either way, both sides can rest assured that in the past, I have been reduced to a huddled, sobbing mass in the fetal position of my apartment, rocking back and forth because a spider got in somehow. Oh yes. I'm talking about a legitimate phobia here, not just "Ew spiders are gross."<br />
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And yet, in spite of my self-respect-robbing fear, in the past month, I have killed 3—yes, count them, <i>three</i>—spiders of my own accord. Maybe it took getting angry to get me there. I'm not sure, but I think it's helped. Mind you, I still have a mini-heart attack at the mere sight of one, and I have to spend the next twenty minutes recovering from the near-fatal encounter with these hideous beasties. But the fact that I have actually been able to kill them, no matter how small, is progress nothing short of a miracle. Let me tell you, there are few things more chill-inducing than being seated at a restaurant and having your entree delivered, then reaching for your fork, only to see an 8-legged murderer lowering itself from the ceiling directly in front of your nose. God, I'm having convulsions just thinking about it.<br />
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But this brings me to the restaurant, which was a positive note in a currently bleak existence. It was just a Carrabbas, but I sat by myself at the bar in front of the kitchen, where I got to watch the chefs work and was given a small sample of one of the pastas while I waited for my waitress. I love food. I really do. I have a <i>relationship</i> with food. And I know that people frown on that and tell me not to eat my emotions and "Oh, Lord, Rachel, you're going to end up so overweight," but I don't care. Because you know what? In spite of everything you've ever been told, food <i>does</i> make you feel better.<br />
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Now I'm not saying you should go crazy and eat ten pounds of blueberry pie. No, no. I'm saying that food…it has magic. Think about it. There isn't a bad situation that doesn't look better from the other end of a hot meal. Food comforts, it reaches out, it stays with you in your memory so that you can't forget it. Sometimes it even speaks to you. Don't ask me what it was about, but I've had an entire dialogue with a particular Eggs Benedict recipe involving salmon. I can't tell you how much joy I get out of cooking for other people, too. You know I love you if I've baked for you. I either love you, care about you, or want you to like me if I bake something specifically for you. Which is probably why I once got so irrationally angry at someone who declined a cookie he didn't know I made for him. Granted, there was a lot of other provocation leading up to that point, but the cookie was definitely the last straw.<br />
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And in spite of what some people seem to believe, giving into your food cravings does not mean you will eat nothing but marble cake and coconut macaroons. I've found that by listening to exactly what my body is craving in a moment, even if it's not necessarily out of hunger, I often get something I really need. I do, in fact, crave a salad sometimes, or a piece of fruit. Or pickles. I crave pickles all the time. No idea why, except maybe that I don't get enough sodium in my diet and it's one of the few salty foods that I really like. (I don't go for chips or salted nuts or even french fries most of the time.) Cravings are not bad. Cravings tell you what you need. Comfort food does not have to come smothered in sauce.<br />
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Besides all of that, there is something intrinsically beautiful about seeing a recipe come to life. About trying a new food for the first time and the way the flavor is unlike anything you have ever had before. About the smell that fills your whole building when you do something as simple as place a pot-pie in the microwave. Or just about the look of uninhibited delight in someone's expression when you surprise them with brownies. Food sustains life, and I celebrate that. It sustains life and friendship and love.<br />
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I have known many people who can't seem to let themselves truly enjoy food and I pity them. I am all for being healthy, but if splurging on fettuccine Alfredo means spending the whole meal fretting about (or claiming not to fret about) the calories, then you are missing out on something. I would be so sad if I felt I had to justify my right to eat something with, "Well, at least I worked out today." Or God forbid I have more than my allotted number of calories per day. Of course you should be careful not to overdo it, and I adamantly promote both healthy eating and activity—I mean, come on. I work at a YMCA—but it should not come at the expense of having to think about it all the time.<br />
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I suppose I've been thinking about food so much recently because I'm not able to cook for myself lately, which is like being in college, which is like being in prison. …okay, not quite that bad, but it does distress me when I can't manage a balanced diet and I can't get the foods that my body is craving. For the past few weeks I have been daydreaming about all the wonderful food I want to make and shop for when I get home. I've plotted the people I plan to bake for, and the excuses I will use to do so. I positively salivate when I start thinking of Thanksgiving and sweet potato casserole, brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, and smoked turkey. This holiday cannot come fast enough for me, and not just because I will finally get to see my family.<br />
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And I guess that's all I needed to get off my chest at the moment. I'm going to go to bed now, and try to dream of food instead of claustrophobic restroom stalls. Then again, if I do dream of food, it will make it even more difficult to get up tomorrow and do my job.<br />
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Just a little longer. Just a few more days…<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6670931696089459058.post-71164590400495389862012-10-03T22:39:00.003-04:002012-10-03T22:39:14.758-04:00Also…I got rid of the hideous pink and orange tie-die theme and managed to find something that suits me a little better.<br />
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Eventually I'm hoping to personalize this page a bit more, but we'll see.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03622173091772293585noreply@blogger.com0