Wherever you go, whatever you do...

Did y'all know I can run a 5k in under 40 minutes?! That's slower than most people walk!

My time was 39:23.8.

Boo-yah!

Oh, my dearest darling. It's been seven years. Seven years of good times and bad. I didn't know when I first picked you up at the Sugar Land Barnes & Noble how large a part you would play in my life. Even when you hurt me, in the immortal words of John Cougar Mellencamp, it hurt so good. Because, you know what? Sometimes love don't feel like it should. You? Make it hurt so good.

Do you remember when I went back to the bookstore two days later just to get more of you? Or when I stood in a giant line in 2000, after spending a day at Six Flags, and I was gross and smelled like pond water, and it took me forever to get to you? But you didn't judge me! I took you in your arms, nuzzled you against my pond-water-smelling, heaving breast, where you could hear the staccato beating of my excited heart, drumming against my chest cavity, and you (in your taciturn way) let me know that it didn't matter what way I came to you, as long as I came at all!

Do you remember the loving scrapbook that Megan and I created, detailing our love for you? Quoting your words without benefit of you? Because I do! I still have that book, dusty and half-hidden in my bookshelf, not forgotten but ignored out of worldly shame of my former innocence!

Do you remember the creepy obsession I had about you? I may have moved on, but only superficially. In dim dark hours of early day, when the sun has not yet curled his fingers around the bountiful Earth's horizon, I still google you, my sweet.

Do you remember how I stood by you when you killed some of the men I admire most? I raged and cried and didn't sleep, just to know how you would end it! I echoed the bittersweet words of Anakin Skywalker at the end of The Revenge of the Sith when he has been reduced to the creamy nougat center of the crunchy plastic outer shell; I yelled "No!" to the heavens, my arms bent at the elbow, my hands lifted to the great and powerful Yahweh of the Old Testament, because of you! You! But I stood by you. I persisted. Because I am, if nothing else, loyal to YOU! To that which plunges a dagger into my heaving breast and does not look away when I weep!

We will have our last meeting soon. As July wanes, I will meet you once more. And you promise more death, and sadness, and destruction. But we will meet it when it comes, together. I am yours. You know this.

KILL RON, THOUGH, AND ALL BETS ARE FUCKING OFF.

Yours, FOREVER (UNLESS YOU KILL RON FUCKING WEASLEY)
Sara

Y'all. I'm not gonna lie.

I LOVE 80s music.

LOOOOOOOOOVE. It's sad. It turns me into a dancing fool. Possible emphasis on the 'fool' part, but I don't give a half a shit. I hear a cheesy synthesizer mix play, and I am the dance floor's bitch. Bitch, y'all. Boy falsetto? I'm there. Poppy beat? My feet can't help themselves. They just... go... do... this thing, and I'm helpless, and it's like The Red Shoes except much, much sillier. And then my arms are flailing, and I've taken down my pony tail and I'm shaking my hair out and wishing I were wearing something--ANYTHING--neon. And maybe leg-warmers.

Anyway, I was having a bad day on Sunday. Very bad. The kind of day when you're all thinking that life is pretty much okay, and then you're all, NO, it's fucking NOT, and then you start drinking wine at noon. Also, you're crying. HOWEVER, Kristina's friend told me about how she was going to an 80s dance party at Elysium that night, and all I could think was: well, how often does a solution to your sadness and self-hatred fucking APPEAR out of NOWHERE this often? Because, I'm for real, and I know (because I've tested it) that this is a for real equation: However shitty you are feeling + dancing + 80s music= equilibrium + FEELING AWESOME. I'm not shitting you. There is NO SUCH THING as a bad 80s dance party. There just... isn't.

So, Courty was awesome and agreed to go with me, and Kristina came, too. We got there, paid our entry fee, and hung out for a while. And then Kristina's friend showed up with two cute boys. And then, it got to a song I wanted to dance to, and I danced. And I drank gin. And then...

Send Me an Angel came on, and the cute boy I liked was just sitting there, so I walked up to him, and we began... a dance. It began so innocently! There was flailing! And big arms! And then... it became an interpretive dance! With sad spirit fingers! And lifts! With him picking me up while I made big arms and swan legs! And kicked people in the shoulders! And then he did flying bird arms! We ended our dance in a beautiful pose, staring meaningfully into the other's eyes! WITH SAD SPIRIT FINGERS! And everyone was looking at us as if we were fucking INSANE, but WE HAD TOLD THE BEAUTIFUL STORY OF SEND ME AN ANGEL WITH OUR GLORIOUS DANCING, AND THAT WAS THE IMPORTANT... MORAL.

Y'all, I'm not gonna lie. If there's such a thing as love at first sight (enhanced by... gin. And 80s music. And... flapping bird dancing arms) I experienced it that night. Because, as the final notes of the music twiddled off into the acoustic distance, and we looked at each other, and giggled, we then--

FUCKING MADE OUT.

That's right. Unapologetic face-sucking. With lifts.

Whatever, he lives in Baltimore and he goes back on Friday, and he got my number and told me he'd call me in February, when he's back in town, and if he does call me I'll shit puppies and crown myself Queen of England while I watch Hell freeze over as pigs fly above my head, BUT STILL. Lifts. And spirit fingers. And interpretive dances. And holy shit, he was cute. How many cute guys do interpretive dances with you and then look at you like you invented sour cream or something and start kissing you like... he's going to Baltimore on Friday and even though he KNOWS he won't get laid, he still likes you? Whatever, it was awesome.

So he had to go. BUT THEN! I met another cute guy! And preceded to dance with him! Through Come on Eileen! And Peter Schilling's rip-off of David Bowie's Major Tom song! And I made out with him, too! And now I have a date with him tomorrow, because he got my number, too, and he called me on Monday.

I am AWESOME, and apparently totally hot, but only because 80s music has made me so.

Lemon chicken with croutons.

I had the day off today (because I took a personal day), so I had fun with cooking. This was a totally easy recipe from the Barefoot Contessa that didn't take much preparation or cooking time. I'm recording it here for posterity because I have to return the library cookbook from whence it came soon, PLUS, you should try it. Here's the recipe:

1 (4- to 5-pound) roasting chicken
1 large onion, sliced
Olive oil
Kosher salt
Black pepper
2 lemons, quartered
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
6 cups (3/4-inch) bread cubes (1 baguette or round boule) (Whole Foods has pre-sliced mini-boules that will get the job done; they're 99 cents and cut the bread-cutting time in half. You still have to chop them into smaller pieces, but half the work is already done for you)

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Take the giblets out of the chicken (I thought this was going to be a big messy deal, but the chicken I bought at Whole Foods had all the giblets in a bag shoved inside the chicken... so... easy!), and wash it inside and out. Remove any excess fat and leftover pinfeathers (I only really had to check for pinfeathers around the interior wing/leg area, and around the area where the giblets were removed. They are very easy to remove). Toss the onion with a little olive oil in a small roasting pan (the pan I had, which was only a little bigger than the 4 and 1/2 pound chicken, was perfect. Make sure it's only a little bigger than the chicken you have; large enough to make about a uniform 1 to 1/2 inch bed of onions on the bottom of the pan). Place the chicken on top and sprinkle the inside of the cavity with salt and pepper. Place the lemons inside the chicken. Pat the outside of the chicken dry with paper towels, brush it with melted butter, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Tie the legs together with kitchen string and tuck the wing tips under the body of the chicken (this will sound silly, but in order to tuck the wing tips under the body, all you have to do is make the chicken look like it's trying to pissed-offedly cross its arms).

Roast for 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 hours, or until the juices run clear when you cut between the leg and the thigh. Cover with foil and allow to sit at room temperature for 15 minutes. (The onions may burn, but the flavor is good)

Meanwhile, heat a large saute pan with 2 tablespoons of olive oil until very hot. Lower the heat to medium-low and saute the bread cubes, tossing frequently, until nicely browned, 8 to 10 minutes. Add more olive oil, as needed, and sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Place the croutons on a serving platter. Slice the chicken and place it, plus all the pan juices (and the onions), over the croutons. Sprinkle with salt and serve warm.

Y'all, it's sooooooo good. The chicken is way good, and the croutons soak up all the juices from the onions and lemons and chicken and... good! And easy! Also, you can eat the lemons (well, not the peel), and it's way good as well. Seriously. Delicious. Go make it!

Baked Potato Recipe.

The best baked potato in the world? Totally easy. I used to live in fear of baked potatoes, because every single time I tried to make them I'd fuck up SOMEHOW. Anyway, this is the best, and it's a combination of my mom's and Alton Brown's recipes:

Potatoes
Olive Oil
Kosher salt

Preheat oven to 425.

Wash and scrub potatoes. Poke with a fork three times on all four sides. Coat with olive oil (I use extra virgin, and it's perfect), making sure to work it into the skin a little bit. Next, grab some kosher salt and rub it over the potato skin. [Sidebar: Don't be shy about the salt. I generally cup my hand, pour the kosher salt in, and then rub the potato all over. You'll want to shake of the excess, but not too much... keeping it salty makes the skin DELICIOUS, and probably totally bad for you, BUT STILL! Delicious. When I make the filet mignon with goat cheese and balsamic vinagrette recipe, I drizzle some extra vinagrette onto my filet so that I can dip my potato skin into it. SO GOOD.]

Put the potato or potatoes into the oven. Turn the potatoes over after 30 minutes; take out after an hour. If, for baking purposes, you have to have your oven at 350, just extend baking time for 30 minutes, flipping after 45.

I recommend lots of salt, pepper, butter, and sour cream to finish it off.

Stuffed Meatloaf

I just made a really good meatloaf that incorporated Thanksgiving leftovers. I got the recipe from Giada De Laurentiis, from her show Everyday Italian on Food Network. It was incredibly easy, and cheap, and delicious. Also, the different variety of meats, plus all the parmesan cheese, PLUS the stuffing, PLUS PLUS the marinara and provolone made me extremely happy that I have enough stuffing (made extra as a special present from my sweet Grandma who knew I was going to try this recipe) to make it again. It works well as leftovers. I have plans to buy some sourdough bread and just slap a slab of the meatloaf between two slices and eat lunch like a king, maybe with a little extra marinara as spread and another slice of provolone (yum).

Anyway, here's the recipe. It's so good that I would recommend, if you don't have leftover stuffing, to get some of that boxed stove top stuff and use that. Also, the grated onion is awesome because you get that great onion flavor without the huge chunks in the loaf. ALSO also, it's much easier to peel and mince the garlic if you just take the whole clove and, positioning your knife over the clove, press down hard with the heel of hand, smushing the clove. It immediately peels itself and chopping goes much faster (thanks to Courty for the cooking tip...). I'm sure y'all already knew this, but, just in case...

1 small onion, grated
3 garlic cloves, minced
1/4 cup chopped fresh Italian parsley leaves
2 large eggs
1/4 cup ketchup
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
2/3 cup dried bread crumbs
1 cup grated Parmesan
8 ounces ground beef
8 ounces ground pork
8 ounces ground veal
2 cups (packed) Ciabatta Stuffing with Chestnuts and Pancetta or your favorite stuffing
1/2 cup marinara sauce
3/4 cup grated provolone

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Whisk the first 7 ingredients in a large bowl to blend. Stir in the Parmesan and bread crumbs. Mix in the beef, pork, and veal. Pack half of the meat mixture into a 9 by 5 by 3-inch loaf pan. Spoon the stuffing over the meat in the pan, leaving a 1-inch border around the edges. Top with the remaining meat mixture, enclosing the stuffing completely and pressing firmly. Spoon the marinara sauce over the meatloaf, then sprinkle with the provolone cheese.

Bake, uncovered, until the meat loaf is firm to the touch in the center and has pulled away from the sides of the pan, about 45 minutes. Cut crosswise into slices and serve.

Wine Recommendation.

I'm a big fan of wine. I'm always on the look-out for a good Cab or Zin, especially one that is easy on the wallet, since, obviously, wines can be a little... expensive.

I've just found this great table wine by Francis Ford Coppola (yeah, the director... his Cabernet [although he calls it Claret, which I think is a tad pretentious for some reason] is excellent, but a tad over-priced, I think. It's more of a gift wine than something you'd buy regularly for sipping). Anyway, it's called Rosso Classic, and it's very good. It's a combination of Zin, Cab, and Syrah, and at Whole Foods (Whole Foods, mind you), it retails for 7.99. Also, it goes with everything. Check it out.

This week at work has been hard. Our high school is being redesigned, and in typical public school fashion, it’s being redesigned by people who have been out of the classroom for years, collecting graduate degrees like trading cards, and who like to bludgeon innocent and unsuspecting teachers with “revolutionary” teaching methods. I fear I may die from all this blunt object-enhanced educational advancement. I’ve been trying to teach this new literacy curriculum, but it’s a pain in my ass because my students are used to being spoon-fed information and formulas for writing (1+1+1+1 sentences= PARAGRAPH), and when you have to force them to think on their own, it makes you want to cry and kick puppies and drink the blood of the innocent, and also dream about an alternate universe in which you are a possibly dull but completely content investment banker.

I actually had a literacy “specialist” (who has an M.A. but two years less teaching experience than me... which, granted, I only have three years, but STILL) in my room for the past two days (at my request, because she’s a so-called ‘expert’ on this new curriculum), and I thought my kids were going to re-enact choice scenes from the Los Angeles riots (I’m exaggerating, but go with it). A crew in my fifth period actually produced a maxi pad, colored it with red marker, and stuck it to the floor. And when I asked them to throw it away, and made angry teacher eyes? And said, “I have no frigging clue who did this. So, I’m going to turn around, and a minute later, I want it gone” (this strategy works surprisingly well)? Some jackhole stuck it to a wall! I had a maxi pad, scribbled ineptly upon with a red Crayola washable marker, STUCK to my mother fucking WALL!

But everyone has tough teaching weeks. All I’ve done, after every day, is go home, drink a couple glasses of wine, and watch television.

And miss Garrison. Even if he never seemed all that sympathetic or interested in my teaching stories, other than a sort of dismissive “Oh, kids today,” remark, it gave me something to look forward to. Something annoying would happen, and I could say to myself, “Self, hang in there. You can tell Garrison about it later. And then, maybe there will be sudoku.” And although I know, in no uncertain terms, made painfully clear by the utter lack of communication I requested and then received, unequivocally, from him, that he does not think of, on, or about me, even for a fleeting moment on idle Wednesdays, well. I still miss him.

The boomerang, she bites.

I can't tell if I'm insane or AWESOME.

First, let me tell you a story about a girl. And a play. A wonderful, amazing play that this girl read once in Modern British and Continental Drama. She fell in deep lurve with this play. She read it in one sitting (not a big deal, people, it's a play), and, afterwards, went into a reading-induced hysterical fit because it was SO AWESOME. She may have gotten the vapors. Someone named Megan may have had to fetch her her smelling salts. Anyway, to be sure, it was a deep, deep lurve. This play was called Equus. She wrote papers about it. She yelled "EK!" obnoxiously to people in the know. She looked on Amadeus with renewed sentimentality because the same dude who wrote Equus wrote that.

Now, let me tell you another story about the same girl. This girl loooooooved Harry Potter. She went to the midnight unveiling of Goblet of Fire. And Order of the Phoenix. And The Half-Blood Prince. And, when she went, she would sometimes (okay, always), wear a Quidditch shirt, plastic Harry Potter glasses, and a lightning bolt drawn on her forehead with eyeliner. And maybe she got a lightning bolt tattoo on her back. And maybe she's twenty-fucking-five, but whatever. And then, the movies! The movies came out! And she loved a boy named Daniel Radcliffe, because he was Harry Potter. Like, for real. And she was a little creeped out because he was eleven. BUT! He got older... old enough to...

STAR IN THE LONDON STAGE REVIVAL OF EQUUS! NAKED!

And so this girl (okay, it's totally me), who loved Equus and Harry Potter in equal measure, BOUGHT A TICKET TO THE SHOW ON MARCH 31st!

THAT'S RIGHT! I'M GOING TO LONDON FOR A LONG WEEKEND TO SEE A DAMN PLAY! IT'S AWESOME! AND TOTALLY INSANE!

YAAAAAAY!

Well, I knew it was going to happen eventually. I bet y'all are starting to love love love my break-up posts.

You heard it here first. Garrison just wants to be "friends."

I don't really have anything else to say about it. As break-ups go, we were only dating, so it won't be that bad. But my goodness, I did like him quite a bit. I wish I had initiated it. Now not only do I suffer the indignity of being The One With Bigger Feelings, I'm also The Dumped. DAMMIT. GODDAMMIT. At least I held it together and didn't cry on the phone. I lasted about one second AFTER I got off the phone, but I consider that to be a very important second.

And I did the whole "I'm deleting you out of my phone/email/instant messenger; please do not contact me for a period of time between one to three months;" which he apparently was not expecting. But I can't do that immediate shift from romantic-type-person to friend. He asked me if we could start talking again on January 1st. But the thing is, I don't know. I don't think he wants to be friends so much as he wants to feel like an okay person even though he dumped me (not that he isn't an okay person, but break-ups sometimes have a guilt-inducing factor), and having me? Immediately there? To still call whenever he feels like it and I'm still friendly on the phone even though it's killing me (and how could he POSSIBLY understand because it's not hard for him because I was The One With Bigger Feelings)? That right there seems like good positive proof that he's not bad bad; I mean, see? He's such a stand-up guy that even the girl whose heart he dinged with a golf club (I didn't say break!) can't help but still be nice and friendly with him. And... no.

I'm not going to lie, though. The part of me that loves kittens hopes he'll call or somehow get in contact with me and be all, "I made a mistaaaaaaaake!" But I know Garrison, not perfectly well but well enough, to know that Israel and Palestine would have a slumber party and paint each other's nails and buy the world a coke (erm... all that metaphorically) before THAT particular scenario would play out. Probably by the time I don't care anymore, I... won't care anymore. And he'll have stopped caring long before that. So that might be the last time I talk to him ever. I just made myself sadder than I was before I wrote that last sentence.

I can't sleep.

I deserve someone who gets excited about seeing me, though. And he couldn't do that after a while.

When I was a wee lass, I liked to play Barbies with Jill. We'd do murder mysteries most of the time, with Ken playing multiple roles because, like every other girl in North America, we had about two hundred Barbies and only one Ken. We even had one of those Barbies that was all flat-footed and flat-chested, but we hated the shit out of her and she usually got killed off first. We'd generally kill our Barbies after they had 'sex.' Sex, in this context, consisted of banging the naughty flesh-colored nubs of one of the legion Barbies and the solitary Ken together.

Anyway, so, after the 'sex,' Barbie would die. Ken might have died too, I don't remember. Jill and I had various favorite situations we'd enact. In one, which I like to call "Extra Special After School Special," Barbie and Ken (not that we ever actually called them 'Barbie' or 'Ken'... Barbie was usually 'Brianna,' a name I adored and pledged to use for my own someday daughter, although I have now THANK GOD acquired some taste, and Ken was whichever poor fourth grade boy I'd set my eyes on that week. Jill never got to pick names, because she was YOUNGER and THAT'S THE WAY IT IS, PRAISE YAHWEH), anyway, yes, long digression, so... 'Brianna' and 'Michael' would have just been imbibing a few beers following their raucous naughty-bit-bumping, and have decided to drive home in the Barbie (or 'Brianna') Ferrari. Brianna would always insist that she was 'FIIIIIiiiiiiiiIIIIne' to drive. And then, I think that all I have to tell you further is that we had a two story house. With stairs (I know! Stairs? In a two story house?! Inconceivable!). Stairs which, after being the tragic setting for so many Barbie/Brianna and Ken/Michael fatal alcohol- and sex-induced cliff-falling-off-of accidents, would eventually become the site of the catastrophic Jill-stepping-on-the pet-gerbil-and-fatally-killing-him-dead incident. Y'all, no lie? The gerbil was named Splat. Non-posthumously, too. Aaaaaaaanyway.

There was also "Ritual Sacrifice Barbie." In that, after a giant orgy (which consisted of one Ken doll and about ten Barbies, and Ken would have to make the rounds to each individual Barbie--is that even an orgy? Whatever), four Barbies would be placed on individual ceiling fan blades. Then, after Jill and I donned the ritual helmets (Plastic tupperware bins), we'd turn... the fans... on! I think we got the idea from that one Beatles movie in which Ringo was supposed to be sacrificed.

Back to "Murder Mystery Barbie." In this, there was one crazy Barbie who would kill everyone, but we never decided whom it was until everyone else had been killed off (flat-chested Barbie was never the culprit... unless she had initially faked her own death!!!). There was much sex, and libations, and DEATH! Not that we had any small plastic knives. Or plastic guns. Too bad. We had to resort to strangulation too many times. Sigh. Not very exciting, right right?

Jill and I also played dress-up. She always had to be the boy.

We ALSO played on the levee. Now, I know y'all know about levees in this post-Katrina world and bloop-blah-bloo, but in MY day, levees were the fun hill thing on the other side of the backyard gate. So, whatever. Levees are fun. Jill and I would pretend we were running away from an orphanage, but really this was all an excuse to make food out of mud, sticks, and leaves. This is what happens to young minds after too much Little Orphan Annie and Little House on the Prairie.

And then there's the kick ball and four square competitions. Did you know that Tropicana orange juice goes by another name? Which is "Power Juice"? Or "Tropicana Orange" (that's what its friends call it)? Yeah, I thought not.

Okay, and the best handshake ever? All right, I'll tell you. Find a friend and touch elbows. Make a fist. Then, say, "Chicago's HOT HOT HOT," while bumping your fists together each time you say 'hot.' After that, pretend to lick your finger, touch fingers with your friend and make a 'sizzle' sound, then dramatically pull your hand back and end it all with a high five. This handshake only works after you've bested someone in four square or gotten a home-run in kickball. Or, after you've just shared a Power Juice moment with your friend. Puh-puh-Power Juice!

Just to quickly return to Barbies, are any of y'all really shocked that my friend Cara and I once attached a skateboard to a bicycle so that we could ride around carting a bunch of naked Barbies just to see if we could be arrested for public indecency? We totally weren't arrested, by the way. Just in case you were on the edge of your seat. Don't lie. I know you were.

Jill and I also used to herd the ducks. This was a summer activity. We'd wake up at the butt crack of dawn after sleeping in the guest bed together, have a Toaster Strudel apiece, and then go herd ducks. Which consisted of chasing the ducks into a man-made lake, and making them STAY THERE. And every time they'd try to get out? WE'D CHASE THEM BACK IN. Yeah, we showed those ducks what for. This is what suburban girls do for fun. And then Jill hatched a duck in my home-made incubator which I'd made for a seventh grade science project, in which I proved which mouthwash worked the best. Y'all? It's Listerine.

I know you all are dying to know about my imaginary friends now. I had four. Beseat, Ganga and Jomi lived in my belly button, and had to be vomited out to say hello. I outgrew them, and then discovered Sally Skeleton. Sally Skeleton I think was actually a mummy, but I didn't know what mummies were then so she had to settle for an ignorant yet charmingly alliterative name. Yes, I was that girl who sang softly to herself on the playground and drew pictures of horses during the math lesson. Shut up.

THE END.

Y'all? I love cooking. LOVE it. I luff it, I lurve it. I love it so much I have to make up new words for it (yeah, that's a line from a movie. What?)

So this summer I got tired of eating crap all the time, so I told myself I'd learn how to cook. Now, in Schwager family lore, I'm the, like, black sheep of the family. Everyone is a good cook. My mom? Amazing. My dad? Incredible. My sister? Like she exited the womb cooking. I? Was the girl who couldn't tell if the water was boiling. Plus, I'm a perfectionist and cooking and perfectionism do not so much mix. But now!

I CAN COOK!

Seriously, my mom sent me, like, thirty recipes and I've steadily worked my way through them. They're easy recipes, but shit! Delicious! I'm not gonna lie. They're easy enough that even I, the goddamn black cooking sheep, can pull them off.

Tonight was Matt's sending off party, so I made filet mignon with goat cheese and balsamic vinaigrette and twice baked potatoes. And it was so easy! Plus, Court's girlfriend made this seriously delicious salad that we had with it, and Matt got this perfect pinot noir that paired nicely with the steak (shit, I sound like Steven the pretentious sommelier from Top Chef). It was, like, the perfect team effort. IF ONLY MY MEGANS HAD BEEN THERE!

Anyway, now I want to take a cooking class. And do any of y'all want me to make you dinner? I will.

Alternate title: Life Lessons Learned on Moving Out of the Talisman Townhouse Complex of Fascism and Stupidity

Friday

You may believe that painting a room dark blue is a good idea. But when you're moving out and on your second coat of primer and the blue is still yelling hello to you from beneath it, you realize you were wrong. Dead wrong.

Saturday

You may believe that painting a dark blue room back to white will only take you two days. But you'd be wrong. Dead wrong.

Sunday

You may believe that painting a dark blue room back to white could only, possibly, take three days. But you'd be wrong. Dead wrong.

You may not believe in a person's ability to inhabit two bodies at a single time. But when your roommate's girlfriend drives a truck into a balcony, and the omniscient, omnipresent, apparently above-the-law and obviously demigod Homeowner's Association decides that your roommate was, is, and always will be solely responsible, you realize you were wrong. That your roommate must have briefly inhabited her girlfriend's body as well as her own, and, somehow, the HOA knew about it. So, you were dead, horribly, flung-into-an-existential-crisis-in-which-you-question-your-perception-of-reality wrong.

You may believe Homeowner's Associations have to abide (or 'obide,' if you're talking to theDotP--which, barf, and Dorothy Parker WOULD NOT approve, and be angry that she shared the same first name and last initial) by the same insurance laws that apply to everyone else in Austin, the state of Texas, and the United States of America, but you'd be wrong. Or are you? Where's your reality now, jackass?!

Also, you may believe that after moving the entire contents of your apartment across I-35 you would only require a short rest before returning to the endless toil of converting blue to white. But you'd be wrong. Dead wrong.

As well, you may believe quite strongly in your own will to live. But after staring at the walls, still slightly blue, and then the ceiling fan, and then back and forth real fast between the two, you might also believe very strongly in the sweet release of death. You might imagine yourself hanging silently from the ceiling fan, enfolded in the gentle arms of gentle death, traveling over Lethe so that you NEVER REMEMBER SPENDING THREE DAYS SO FAR PAINTING WALLS WHITE. Sweet, sweet, forgetful death, in which your arms will no longer threaten to detach themselves from your shoulders in favor of finding another person who was not dumb enough to paint her fucking walls fucking BLUE.

Monday

You may have believed Sunday that you hit rock bottom, that contemplating suicide must be the ultimate low. But, as you stare at your walls, still slightly blue, and you begin to see blue everywhere, and then you start giggling madly and crying, you realize that you were wrong. Crazy wrong.

Monday Night

You may believe that you've accomplished things in life. That graduating magna cum laude, being nominated for student of the year by your department, and working two jobs while maintaining a basically A average meant something. But as you stare at your finally white walls, you realize that every accomplishment in your life was prologue to this shining goddamn moment.

FIN

So, today I actually worked for the first time since... I dunno, late May, whatever. I was at a Pre-AP conference (and! Weird! They had an example prompt from the 1999 test about the Okefenokee swamp that I totally remember answering badly!, which made me think of and miss Ms. Guest and that class--Megan, are you with me?! Remember that huge argument we got into with Ashley Frank about The Awakening?!), learning about how to teach Pre-AP crapola to 10th graders (apparently, this thing called "tone" is important). I was bored for most of the day, but I learned a lot, which even got me a little excited for next year (!!!), PLUS, I felt totally validated in my choice of profession when we took a sample test and I got every question right (I did jazz hands upon completion, but very small ones so as nobody would think I'm too weird on the first day. Tomorrow, they may think I'm weird, but not today).

Anyway, the weird thing. I went outside during break to enjoy some nice, refreshing air, and then all these people from the conference congregated around me, but I didn't talk to them because I'm shy, which prompted one girl to say, "You're a quiet one, aren't you?" (to which I grimaced in response because I couldn't think of a witty retort, and, also, am shy). But as we're all sitting around, this squirrelly looking guy with bleached hair who was not part of the conference sidles up to us and just sort of... inserts himself into the conversation. And he has nothing to say, because the other people are waxing poetic about rhetorical devices and I'm just sitting there and vaguely nodding along, so he just stands there with his mouth half open. And I felt kind of bad for him, because one of the other people was all, what are you doing here, homeslice?, to which he didn't have any sort of response whatsoever.

So we all make to head inside, and the guy sort of watches us go, and then stops me and says, "So what are you doing now?" And I, being the bastion of grace and kindness and love for my fellow man that I am, said, "Going back to the conference. WHY?" And I don't know why I said 'why' like Giovanni Ribisi's stuttering woman-child cousin, but I did, and it sounded more like a belch than like a question, and the whole thing made the poor bleached hair guy jump and then scurry away.

So, my questions: How unfair is it that after that whole thing, I was branded 'the girl who got hit on by the weirdo with the silly hair'? Also, why am I such a spaz? Also also, why is anyone ever nice to me when I act like such a jerk to total strangers?

Obviously, this whole thing has put me in an existential crisis. I'm going to go lie down and pretend my room has painted itself white.

... An entry in which I respond to a review of The Lady in the Water that I read over at pajiba.com (which is an excellent place to get your movie reviews. But if you're looking forward to The Lady in the Water... um, skip this).

Okay, I love movies. Anyone who knows me, knows this. Right? I hope so. Otherwise, you don't really know me, and that just makes me sad. ANYWAY.

Good movies, good movies... I love good movies. Almost as much as I love a good book, but not as much as that. Um, hmmmmm... what am I even trying to say here? I don't know. Maybe I just think that a good movie does what a good book does. It's interesting, engaging, has good characters, a good plot, and leaves a lot of things up to the viewer or reader. That isn't a perfect comparison, because if I'm honest with myself, it's much easier to read a book, and only read it and force myself to imagine everything, and accept the suspension of disbelief that the author requires to tell the story. But when the whole thing is in a movie? Not so easy.

Maybe that's why my favorite movies are by Woody Allen (early Woody Allen, although Match Point is brilliant, and if you haven't seen it already you should), and Noah Baumbach, and Wes Anderson. They tell realistic stories but they fuck it up a little bit. It's not normal or life-like; it's stylized and different. But it's easier to relate to while still being all movie-ed up, if that makes sense. Maybe what I mean is that it's identifiable enough to relate to, but unidentifiable enough to enjoy. If you can't identify with it on a much more sensory level than stories (and honestly, a movie demands that), then what's the fracking point? I mean, I love science fiction, when I read it. I love watching it for fun (hellloooooo, Mystery Science Theater 3000!), although it often sucks at a level that most other things can't touch. But the Alien movies (barring 3 and 4), are excellent movies! The thing is, though, I wouldn't necessarily want to see a good sci-fi story turned into a movie. Harlan Ellison is amazing, but I wouldn't want to see I Have No Mouth, But I Must Scream in a theater, and Margaret Atwood (when she does science fiction, and she's done it twice, and she does it better than most anyone) is great, but when it comes down to it? I'd much rather see Cat's Eye or The Robber Bride as a movie than The Handmaid's Tale or Oryx and Crake.

I think it takes a very specific type of director to make a really fucking great suspense or horror or science fiction movie. Alfred Hitchcock, for example. Why was Lifeboat so good? Because he played on the topical fear of Nazis and the very real fear of alienation. Also, Tallulah Bankhead. Why were Shadow of a Doubt, and Strangers on a Train, and even, dammit, The Birds (minus Tippi Hedren, because GOD, she sucked) so good? Because he played on the idea of trust within a particular environment (relatives you inherently trust and think well of, new friends whom you meet and immediately relate to, the actual, goddamn environment), which was an idea he perfected in Psycho. And why was Psycho so good? Because it played on ideas of trust within, basically, the anonymous world that we spend a large part of our time in, and the vulnerability that goes with that (just to be entirely literal: how often do we stay at various motels without knowing the character of the person who runs it? The person who has access to us at our most helpless moments... like, the shower?), and absolute curiosity and fear of the unknown (in this case, the insane); also, it had a spectacular twist, and I'm sad that I never got to experience that twist on my own without it being spoiled. The idea of violation just goes so far here. And Alfred Hitchcock is amazing, because he focused on one specific idea (most obviously, the idea of violation) and fucked the hell out of it. I think a director has to understand, like Hitchcock did, that the product he/she is making can comment on a very specific part of society, or a specific type of idea, whatever. You can also see that in George Romero's zombie movies, and Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later, or the whole idea of the Alien movies (the idea of violation, whatever). I mean, even Shaun of the Dead had something to say, right?

But then, there's M. Night Shymalan. Or, if you're me, M. Night Shite-malan.

M. Night spent a lot of time watching Hitchcock as a kid. And, really, who didn't (don't answer that)? Hitchcock was saying big things in fun movies! Why not let him be your mentor, right? And his movies have twists! Good twists! So every good scary movie should have a twist! Right?

However.

M. Night doesn't want to just be your quirky friend who loves Hitchcock movies. He wants to be your prophet. And your friend. But mostly your prophet. So he's going to say a lot of bullshit in his movies about faith and belief and blah blah blah, but mostly, he wants your cash, and your faith in him, which is why he cast himself as the man whose writing will--no lie--save the mother fucking world. Just... whatever. And then he makes the ONE person who gets killed a movie critic?! Just, again--whatever, Shite-malan. You're dead to me. You're not Hitchcock, stop putting yourself in your own movies, and stop making your movies a goddamn wailing wall for how you are or were or will be mistreated because, hello, Unbreakable sucked, and I'm betting The Village sucked, so, just... cram it. Do the work and stop thinking of yourself as the second coming of movie writers, because?

YOU'RE NOT.

And, shut up.

I did a really shitty job of painting my room. At this time last year, when I was actually painting it and my tiny little girl arms got really tired reaching up real high with a roller to cover everything, I thought I did an effing bang up goddamn job, but now the things I see are the stupid mistakes on the ceiling and the little spots on the carpet I have to take care of, not to mention the fact that parts of the wall are much bluer than others (oops, I think I may have gotten a little tired of the FIVE HUNDRED COATS OF PAINT NECESSARY TO PAINT A GODDAMN ROOM GODDAMN BLUE. Never again, I tell you. Never again).

But there's a part of me that's really happy that I can live for a year in the midst of such imperfection and still consider it perfect.

Oh, blah, whatever. I can't Pollyanna my way out of the fact that I STILL haven't painted my goddamn walls back to a neutral color, and I have a week of Pre-AP conference staring me in the face. Shit! SHITSHITSHIT!

Maybe this will work: Gee, guys. I'm painting mah room, shucks. Painting sure is fun, consarnit. I could paint all day and never notice, golly gosh. Paint paint paint, gee. The hours fly by like hours, and you'd never know. Shucks. I could paint for the rest of mah life, gee-willy-whizz-bang.

Oh, fuck it.

The fact that I am not now being inundated with phone calls to take over my room painting for the fun of it makes me think that Tom Sawyer was an asshole and that Mark Twain is a tool. I even used Mark Twain language! Dammit!

But I am so young. And I feel alive. And one day I will live on my own (although I do have the power now to never paint my room blue again, which I won't. Whatever, I just wanted to quote that song. Which you should all listen to. It's Voxtrot, and it's excellent. If my recommendation isn't enough, Garrison introduced me to it, and he's got excellent musical taste. Go buy it! Now! You really should...)

Anyway, if you're looking for me, for the next week, I'll be painting. Or killing myself. I don't know which; call it in the air.

I hate packing. I really hate packing 300+ books. Stupid books.

And yes, I'm procrastinating, so that's why I counted all of them. Shut up.

Does anyone want some free books?

I'm in Waco. It's Waco. You know, right? Simultaneously the armpit and the asshole of the planet? And don't ask me how one city can be two bad smelly things at once. Ask Waco. It knows. Hopefully. Otherwise, it will be a mystery for the ages. THE AGES! The bad, smelly ages!

This weekend has been excellent. I missed Anna and Denise's party on Friday, BUT! I got to see Garrison, and he's like a party concentrated in one Garrison person. We didn't actually do anything that would be interesting to you, whoever is actually reading this (besides Megan), but it was fun. It involved Thai food and Garrison dancing to the music of an actual four-year-old (yes, he owns a four-year-old's CD. It's an artistic statement!). But the silly music was secondary to this amazing fact: Garrison can really dance. In a car. He's talented at car dancing. Just so you know. It involves much head bobbing. Charming head bobbing, but head bobbing all the same. Maybe someday I'll see him actually dance instead of car dancing. But I won't hope for it. Maybe he's only hilarious and charming in his car. But I doubt it.

So the weekend was nice. Court and I have a place to live. We're going to move in to our east side house in early August. The bad news? I have to repaint my room next week. I'm never painting again. But on the other hand, if you want to help we'll get it done really fast AND I'll buy you a drink. I was thinking of inviting all of my friends over while I painted, pulling a Tom Sawyer, and trying to convince them that painting was the most fun you could have with your clothes on, but then I remembered I am shits at selling crap, so then I decided to just look pathetic until someone volunteered to help me. ANY TAKERS?! I'm all alone, aren't I? Fuck. It's my own fault.

Hope everyone is having a good night. Lovies to everyone!

I'm back! And I'm a little punch drunk mixed with actually drunk. Because if there is one thing you do after living in basically one room with your entire Schwager immediate family for ten days, it involves buying a bottle of wine and drinking all of it by yourself, while crying, and possibly eating your own hair. Anyway.

I did have fun! For reals. I also gained several thousand pounds, because everything in Hawaii has rum in it. Mai Tais? Obviously. Pina Coladas? Of course. There was this delicious drink I coveted called the Lava Flow. It was a pina colada with strawberry puree. Delicious! Anyway, I think there was rum in the coke. And the water. And the gin. But, delicious!

So, anyway, I should begin at the very beginning. We first went to Kauai. Jill and I flew from Austin to Minneapolis to Honolulu to Kauai (flight count: 3). Everything smells good. The litter? Plumeria blossoms. It's that idyllic. AND! There are stray chickens! It's cute until you wake up at five in the morning and hear a rooster crowing. Then, not so much with the cute.

The ocean is beautiful, and it's good for snorkeling. I saw several tropical fish, and they were pretty, and--I'm sorry. Do you want more fish information? Do I look like an ichthyologist? Some of the fish had big lips. That's as descriptive as I get. What? ! They were fish!

So, we stayed in Kauai for a while. All the roads are fucking twisty. Learn from my mistake and pack non-drowsy formula dramamine for the trip.

After Kauai, we flew to Maui. But first we had to fly to Honolulu, and THEN to Maui (flight count: 5). Maui had nice beaches, too. Seriously, Hawaii is nice. I don't know what else to tell you, because my ideal vacation consists of being as immobile as possible for as long as possible. We did go to a luau! Our waiter was hot, but none of the natives want to get with haoli trash (like... me. poop).

And then we left. We left yesterday at seven (there is a five hour difference), and I got in today at 3:30. I'm tired, for reals. We flew from Maui, to Honolulu, to San Francisco, to Memphis (?!), to Austin (flight count: 9). So, in short, what I learned from my Hawaiian vacation:

The beach was good for tanning. I'm brown!

Also, good for reading and relaxing! I read an excellent collection of Edith Wharton novellas. It's called Old New York, and it's brilliant. It's great for those people who read Ethan Frome and hated it so much that they have no patience for her other novels. Seriously, guys? She's great. This is going to sound stupid, but I swear to Jehovah that whenever I read her books, I feel that she's whispering the whole thing into my ear while we watch a dull fucking show through our opera glasses. I feel the same way about Jane Austen. And then I talk in this overly mannered method of speaking and I feel embarrassed. I'm also still working on my Alexander Hamilton biography. It's good, but a little dry. I'm about to start Lolita, and it's Garrison's fault (and he knows why... not for nasty reasons! Get your mind out of the gutter, for Christ's sweet sake!). But, the one thing that made my vacation was...

SUDOKU! Ok, so, when I visited Garrison in Plano, we went to see Wordplay, which was excellent, by the way. After we saw it, we were all excited about trying the crossword puzzle. The problem? It was a Sunday. I think we got five words between the two of us. Anyway, that whole silly process made me realize that puzzles are fun! So one day on our vacation, I decided to try sudoku. And Will Shortz is right. It is the crack cocaine of puzzles.

Don't let the numbers deter you! I am shits at math! SHITS! And yet, sudoku and I have overcome our differences and, you know what? WE LOVE EACH OTHER. AND IT IS A PURE, SWEET LOVE. Okay? Seriously. Try it. Deceptively simple, but it makes you want to tear every hair out of your head a hundred times over. I've been doing them non-stop for four days. TRY IT! I'M A PUSHER!

I'm off to Hawaii for ten days! Try to contain your jealousy! I know you'll miss me! I'll miss you, too! I promise I won't come back with a bunch of pressed flowers and insist on saying 'aloha' instead of hello and goodbye! Hawaii WILL NOT break me!

I'm trying not to sleep very much, because Jel and I have a marathon flight tomorrow (she's picking me up at 5), in which, in order to go to Hawaii, we first fly to Minneapolis. Because, just, of course, right? I always fly north to head south. Anyway, I want to sleep on the plane. Because if you're asleep, you're not conscious. So, in order to stay up as late as possible, first I hung out with Chris until about 1:30, and then I puttered around, and then Garrison was nice enough to talk to me on the phone for a while and accuse me of killing the entire puppy population of Albuquerque with my laugh. Isn't he sweet?

I have to get myself away from this effing blog, or I'm going to babble for an hour and make an ass of myself. BYE EVERYONE! Please to pray that I won't get: eaten by a shark, partially eaten by a shark, assaulted by Hawaiian cockroaches, burned by le sun, stung by a jellyfish, or persuaded by adventuring sister and/or father to do something adventurous and stupid (like... surfing, swimming in waist deep water, peeing in the ocean, jumping off of large and picturesque cliffs, snorkeling, and getting drunk and hitting on cabana boys (or Havana boys, if you're Garrison)).

Okay, for real, bye.

And oh! Reply with your address if you want a goddamn postcard! Or a coconut bra! Or a cabana boy!