Oh Little Women. Stupid, stupid, stupid movie. We spend the first half of the movie seeing Jo and Laurie together being best friends and (this is helped by Laurie being played by Christian Bale) I totally fell in love with Laurie. He's adorable, sensitive, and a musician. He and Jo just seem meant to be. But then, after the oldest sister gets married and Laurie makes his move Jo tells him she just doesn't love him. It's heartbreaking but I'm still there.
Then there's Beth going through the whole thing, the Scarlet fever, the dying...you know how the story goes.
So, long story short, here I am teary-eyed on the couch. First I'm tearing up because of Beth, then I'm tearing up because Beth gets better, then I tear up because Jo doesn't love Laurie, but then...Laurie falls in love with Amy. Amy! How can Laurie fall in love with Amy?!
It isn't that Amy isn't pretty, and it isn't that I don't think Amy deserves happiness, but not with Laurie. The worst of it is, the movie short changes the Laurie-Amy, Jo-Professor relationship so it is hard to buy that Jo and Laurie don't actually love each other. I'm told the book is more clear and better demonstrates the various love stories, but I'm totally not sold.
And, AND! Laurie tells Amy that he knew he was "destined to marry a March." I don't know about you guys, but if some dude tells me he knows he's destined for my family after having the hots for my sister I'm not going to quickly or easily believe his protestations of love. He says "hey I totally fell in love with your sister, but it's cool. I don't love her anymore. Besides, I always knew I was destined to marry into your family. Baby I love you." Me? I say, "Hmm...maybe not." Unless it's Christian Bale and then I just roll with it, but you know how it is.
So the question is: does Jo belong with the Professor or with Laurie? And why, if Laurie isn't her true love, does the first half of the movie spend so much time making it seem like it must be so? Perhaps it is simply that as childhood best friends I've been conditioned by Western literature to expect a romantic ending for the two of them. I am reasonably sure that is part of it. When I watch a movie or read a book I've been trained to recognize appropriate romantic pairings from the beginning. Ms. Alcott's story messes with my expectations in a way I was not properly prepared for. Why don't they ever give you enough screen time with the Professor so that you can bond with him? Why do they give me family tragedy and deny me acceptable true love?! I'm so frustrated by Louise May Alcott and her stupid trueish story.
So now I'm watching The Incredible Hulk because the best way to deal healthy with an overabundance of emotion is to watch crap blow up.
And, on that note, I think I have to add Bruce Banner to my list of men I love that might kill me why I sleep. After all, if you wanna talk about nice guy/bad boy dichotomy the Hulk is pretty much the archetype. Tender, sensitive scientist who turns into a monster of rage and emotion and doesn't mean to hurt you. Truth be told, I was never one to love the Hulk romantically myself, but I did always feel sorry for him. He loves Betty so much but his Hulkiness keeps them apart. It's tragedy worthy of Shakespeare I'm telling you. Not to mention we used to watch the old t.v. show every morning before swim practice--it was, perhaps, the most depressing show ever. It's a wonder I never drowned myself at swimming lessons.
So here I sit on my couch, empathizing with Bruce Banner and torn over my feelings about Jo, Laurie, Amy, and the Professor.
Little Women made me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
I just finished my latest trashy romance novel and I'm perplexed. The whole story revolves around the hero's big "secret." This is, of course, how almost all of these books work, but this one I found particularly confusing. His name is Jake and he's a rancher. Jake's father died when Jake was 12 and his mother died when he was 17 so he took over the ranch and raised his 3 younger siblings himself. He also turned the ranch around and made it prosperous. Thus far we've hit all the appropriate ingredients for an alchemic romance. When our heroine, the bright, cultured, college professor rolls into town Jake hates how much he likes her and spends the better part of two hundred pages dreading the inevitability of her leaving because she can never know his "secret." Our heroine, Amanda, even starts to suspect somewhere around page 150 or so and then she too worries about his dreadful "secret."
At this point I'm thinking this dude must have killed a baby or something.
All the thoughts he spends thinking he's a fraud--how she'll learn that he isn't the great, honorable, strong man he pretends to be. She worries and worries that he is strong and proud like her uncle who had the same "secret" and won't let her help thereby trapping him on his ranch and dooming him to loneliness and an early death. My mind is racing considering all the possibilities of secrets that would fulfill the seriousness described and still allow for a happy ending. For instance, if Jake was a secretly a serial killer that's going to make a long term relationship with Amanda difficult vs. he is actually a supernatural denizen that feeds off human blood but doesn't kill humans. Maybe, I thought, he did one horrible thing in his past and still feels horribly guilty about it. I could also accept this as a possibility. If he killed a kid while drunk driving at 16 that could cause Amanda to rethink his character; I'm not sure how I would feel about it as a reader, but perhaps it would be a nice commentary on loving someone with a past who has changed blah, blah blah.
Jake's secret was none of these things. Jake was illiterate.
I'm not knocking the seriousness of adult illiteracy, nor the mental baggage it creates in those who are hiding their illiteracy. As plot lines go I think this is a good one. Jake's dad started pulling him out of school at seven years old to help on the ranch. The dad was illiterate, now Jake was illiterate. It all made reasonable sense. But after Amanda "figures it out" we have this huge insurmountable problem--he's ashamed she knows and won't pursue the education even though he desperately wants it. At this point I'm once again reminded why I'm not a romance heroine.
To me, and I can be a cold, heartless, uncaring person, it's just not that big of a deal. Not that it isn't a big deal, but this is a totally fixable situation. Jake can see. Jake is smart. Jake does not have a learning disability that he is aware of. Jake has money. Learning to read would be frustrating, but when it comes to the illiteracy camp he's definitely way up there. And of course he would be ashamed of it, and of course falling in love with the writer/college professor/world traveler will make him feel inadequate, but it's changeable.
I imagine about the third time Jake flips out because I knew he was illiterate and refused to agree to learn I would probably have had enough. As serious as the situation is it isn't permanent and that's just such a big difference to me. Of course, my feelings of annoyance are exacerbated because the climax of the book revolves around our hero racing away in a truck to a small cabin out in the woods. Little does he know the bridge is washed out and there isn't a road sign only a small cardboard handwritten sign on the side of the road that he won't be able to read. Our hero and Jake's sister race after him and his sister stops him from plunging into the creek bed, but his truck spooks her horse and she falls into the creek bed suffering serious injury. As our hero and heroine sit in the emergency room he decides he can't hide anymore and must deal with this problem that has so ruled his life and nearly cost his sister hers.
Yeah, I was moved too.
A cardboard, hand written sign? Really? And in all the years of that bridge washing out he really has no way of telling? He can recognize the shape and color of road signs. And so the little sister must almost die for his great revelation--it seemed a bit over the top. And yes, I recognize the irony in calling anything in a romance novel over the top. Whatever.
So our question then is, does Jake's secret really fuel the plot? I've gotta go with no. Jake is an excellent hero, the romance aspect is great, but I wouldn't be crying if I found out the man I loved was illiterate. I would be crying if he refused to learn, especially if he couldn't learn, but just stubbornly refusing to do what he wants to do because he imagines it's futile? That's more tragically real, not romantically tragic.
Honestly, I was hoping he was going to be agoraphobic. At least that would be a new plotline.
At this point I'm thinking this dude must have killed a baby or something.
All the thoughts he spends thinking he's a fraud--how she'll learn that he isn't the great, honorable, strong man he pretends to be. She worries and worries that he is strong and proud like her uncle who had the same "secret" and won't let her help thereby trapping him on his ranch and dooming him to loneliness and an early death. My mind is racing considering all the possibilities of secrets that would fulfill the seriousness described and still allow for a happy ending. For instance, if Jake was a secretly a serial killer that's going to make a long term relationship with Amanda difficult vs. he is actually a supernatural denizen that feeds off human blood but doesn't kill humans. Maybe, I thought, he did one horrible thing in his past and still feels horribly guilty about it. I could also accept this as a possibility. If he killed a kid while drunk driving at 16 that could cause Amanda to rethink his character; I'm not sure how I would feel about it as a reader, but perhaps it would be a nice commentary on loving someone with a past who has changed blah, blah blah.
Jake's secret was none of these things. Jake was illiterate.
I'm not knocking the seriousness of adult illiteracy, nor the mental baggage it creates in those who are hiding their illiteracy. As plot lines go I think this is a good one. Jake's dad started pulling him out of school at seven years old to help on the ranch. The dad was illiterate, now Jake was illiterate. It all made reasonable sense. But after Amanda "figures it out" we have this huge insurmountable problem--he's ashamed she knows and won't pursue the education even though he desperately wants it. At this point I'm once again reminded why I'm not a romance heroine.
To me, and I can be a cold, heartless, uncaring person, it's just not that big of a deal. Not that it isn't a big deal, but this is a totally fixable situation. Jake can see. Jake is smart. Jake does not have a learning disability that he is aware of. Jake has money. Learning to read would be frustrating, but when it comes to the illiteracy camp he's definitely way up there. And of course he would be ashamed of it, and of course falling in love with the writer/college professor/world traveler will make him feel inadequate, but it's changeable.
I imagine about the third time Jake flips out because I knew he was illiterate and refused to agree to learn I would probably have had enough. As serious as the situation is it isn't permanent and that's just such a big difference to me. Of course, my feelings of annoyance are exacerbated because the climax of the book revolves around our hero racing away in a truck to a small cabin out in the woods. Little does he know the bridge is washed out and there isn't a road sign only a small cardboard handwritten sign on the side of the road that he won't be able to read. Our hero and Jake's sister race after him and his sister stops him from plunging into the creek bed, but his truck spooks her horse and she falls into the creek bed suffering serious injury. As our hero and heroine sit in the emergency room he decides he can't hide anymore and must deal with this problem that has so ruled his life and nearly cost his sister hers.
Yeah, I was moved too.
A cardboard, hand written sign? Really? And in all the years of that bridge washing out he really has no way of telling? He can recognize the shape and color of road signs. And so the little sister must almost die for his great revelation--it seemed a bit over the top. And yes, I recognize the irony in calling anything in a romance novel over the top. Whatever.
So our question then is, does Jake's secret really fuel the plot? I've gotta go with no. Jake is an excellent hero, the romance aspect is great, but I wouldn't be crying if I found out the man I loved was illiterate. I would be crying if he refused to learn, especially if he couldn't learn, but just stubbornly refusing to do what he wants to do because he imagines it's futile? That's more tragically real, not romantically tragic.
Honestly, I was hoping he was going to be agoraphobic. At least that would be a new plotline.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
It's the holidays, I toyed with several possible topics to share and I've settled on:
The Twelve Days of Christmas
12: I get off the plane from Las Vegas having not slept the night before to see my wonderful, adoring mother practically bouncing up and down in the airport waiting to scoop me into a tearful embrace and welcome me home. I haven't slept, and it's only been a month since I've last seen her so I'm not feeling the emotional reunion thing. What do I, the considerate, understanding, always patient daughter say first? "Mom, don't hug me and cry on me. I'm tired." I know. I hate me too.
11: I bake two pies.
10: I suffer panic attacks because I'm trapped in a house with my parents with no car, no cigarettes and a uterus that is poisoning my body with estrogen and progesterone. I survive panic attacks by stuffing my face with as much food as I can find. And there's a lot.
9: I attend party #1 as we celebrate my dad and my cousin's birthday. Family members shout at each other across the room because "inside" voices are a recessive gene in our genetics, my dad sticks a lighter next to my ear (and hair) and lights it because he's a pyromaniac, Christmas music plays on repeat in the background, while two dogs on the back porch bark and whine over it all.
8: I eat a cookie.
7: I attend party #2 where we celebrate the first family Christmas with one side of the family. We open windows because people on one side of the room are hot, while those in front of the windows freeze. Those who are hot never agree to switch seats with those in front of the windows. We then eat but pass food from the same ends so that those on the other end always get the dregs, but still have to find room for all the empty containers to sit.
6: I eat a piece of cake.
5: I attend party #3 where we celebrate the immediate family Christmas and my stocking includes cough drops. Expectant parents (my siblings) receive a DVD about miscarriage and a marriage that breaks apart. My father is no longer allowed to shop at the Dollar Store and assume responsibility for our stockings.
4: I eat a piece of pie.
3: I attend party #4 where we celebrate Christmas with the other side of the family. After lunch we have "choir rehearsal" and "band rehearsal" where chosen members of the family are given instruments they haven't played in five, fifteen, and twenty-nine years and we put on a bit of a concert for each other. My enthusiasm on the snare drum overrules the single flute and my dad quits after the flugelhorn defeats him. It's not a band until at least one person walks out. I sing soprano in the "choir" which is unfortunate for me, the family, and all passer-bys who travel down our block.
2: I travel through fog that has only been seen previously in The Mist--a horrible movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel. It completely surrounds my hometown blanketing the frozen fields and melts the ice enough so that a layer of water sits atop the remaining four inches. I slip and land on my shin for the first time since traveling home.
1: I eat another cookie.
Merry Christmas kids. It ain't over till you've celebrated it at least three times and gained ten pounds. Someday I will write a movie script off of this and make millions by shamelessly cashing in on all of my family's wonders, oddities, and personality. For now I simply share with you.
The Twelve Days of Christmas
12: I get off the plane from Las Vegas having not slept the night before to see my wonderful, adoring mother practically bouncing up and down in the airport waiting to scoop me into a tearful embrace and welcome me home. I haven't slept, and it's only been a month since I've last seen her so I'm not feeling the emotional reunion thing. What do I, the considerate, understanding, always patient daughter say first? "Mom, don't hug me and cry on me. I'm tired." I know. I hate me too.
11: I bake two pies.
10: I suffer panic attacks because I'm trapped in a house with my parents with no car, no cigarettes and a uterus that is poisoning my body with estrogen and progesterone. I survive panic attacks by stuffing my face with as much food as I can find. And there's a lot.
9: I attend party #1 as we celebrate my dad and my cousin's birthday. Family members shout at each other across the room because "inside" voices are a recessive gene in our genetics, my dad sticks a lighter next to my ear (and hair) and lights it because he's a pyromaniac, Christmas music plays on repeat in the background, while two dogs on the back porch bark and whine over it all.
8: I eat a cookie.
7: I attend party #2 where we celebrate the first family Christmas with one side of the family. We open windows because people on one side of the room are hot, while those in front of the windows freeze. Those who are hot never agree to switch seats with those in front of the windows. We then eat but pass food from the same ends so that those on the other end always get the dregs, but still have to find room for all the empty containers to sit.
6: I eat a piece of cake.
5: I attend party #3 where we celebrate the immediate family Christmas and my stocking includes cough drops. Expectant parents (my siblings) receive a DVD about miscarriage and a marriage that breaks apart. My father is no longer allowed to shop at the Dollar Store and assume responsibility for our stockings.
4: I eat a piece of pie.
3: I attend party #4 where we celebrate Christmas with the other side of the family. After lunch we have "choir rehearsal" and "band rehearsal" where chosen members of the family are given instruments they haven't played in five, fifteen, and twenty-nine years and we put on a bit of a concert for each other. My enthusiasm on the snare drum overrules the single flute and my dad quits after the flugelhorn defeats him. It's not a band until at least one person walks out. I sing soprano in the "choir" which is unfortunate for me, the family, and all passer-bys who travel down our block.
2: I travel through fog that has only been seen previously in The Mist--a horrible movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel. It completely surrounds my hometown blanketing the frozen fields and melts the ice enough so that a layer of water sits atop the remaining four inches. I slip and land on my shin for the first time since traveling home.
1: I eat another cookie.
Merry Christmas kids. It ain't over till you've celebrated it at least three times and gained ten pounds. Someday I will write a movie script off of this and make millions by shamelessly cashing in on all of my family's wonders, oddities, and personality. For now I simply share with you.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
I haven't shared any "from home" stories yet, and I do apologize for that lack. Fortunately (or unfortunately) I haven't been blessed with the opportunity to iron the carpet or be bowled over trying to move the couch again this year. But...that doesn't mean I'm without tales.
My mother, bless her heart, has a tendency to ask questions when she already knows what she wants and what she will do. For instance, when I'm home I tend to travel to various different places seeing friends--this has been a tradition since I moved far away four years ago. Saturday, I believe it was, my mom asked me, "are you going to go see your friends?" I told her yes and she asked, "do you mind if your father and I tag along?" You would think after all this time of being her daughter I could have recognized this question for the statement it was. She wasn't asking what I wanted you see, she was being polite in telling me what was going to happen. In hindsight it all makes so much sense. "I'd rather not," I told her--I gave up indirectness with my parents years ago. "Oh," she said, "well, I have some shopping to do so I thought we would." Uh-huh.
Generally I don't care if my parents travel with me, and I'm long past the age of "I have to be cool with my friends" business, but I get a little claustrophobic in my home town. There's nothing here. Really. And not having a vehicle of my own (what with the flying home and everything) I can't just drive. I can't leave town without first asking to use my parents vehicle, or in this case, with my parents. That means that when I have a particular plan--shop, see friend, see Australia--I have to modify said plan because they have insisted on coming along.
It should also be noted that I'm premenstrual and experiencing nicotine withdrawal since I smoked too much before coming home and not smoking at all. This is not a good combination when dealing with one's mother. Under the circumstances I did my best to perform admirably (I think).
My day starts off with my mom, moments after I awake asking, "do you know what I'm doing today yet?" She had attempted to plan when we would travel since winter weather was supposed to come through and apparently I was supposed to do the planning for all of us. Those of you that know me know I don't wake up well under the best of circumstances--to be awoken with a question requiring I plan a day I don't particularly want to plan...it was almost too much. I decide we should go in the end, so we take off for the great wonderland with a mall and everything is going fairly well. I think perhaps it won't be so bad after all; I'm still feeling claustrophobic and wishing I could have just gotten out of the house by myself, but my parents are good people and it's nice to make them happy. We arrive at the much larger city, though, and it quickly becomes apparent that there is a lot of traffic. My father, whom I share many traits with, does not do well in traffic or in crowds. He starts to grumble excessively and drive just a little crazy because he wants/needs to be out of the crowd. I respect this need since I need to go to the bathroom badly, but I also had a plan for my day and I'm feeling a bit sensitive to my father thwarting that plan because it's crowded.
We make it to the mall, we shop--everyone's a bit short-tempered, but that's Christmas right? We head back to the car and the real fun begins. I want to see Australia. I've wanted to see this movie for almost a month. When I agreed to travel with them it was so that they could take me to said movie. First no one can decide where they want to eat dinner. I'm on the phone with my friend in town who has just gotten out of work and he can't decide when he'll be free, if he'll be free, how he'll be free, or what the esoteric concept of freedom is. Were I by myself I would just go hang out until he was done with all his post-work nonsense, but I wasn't. So we're back in traffic, dad is grumbling, mom is pouting, and I'm on the phone trying to get an answer about where to direct us. An executive decision is made and we head up north--through more traffic, more grumbling--and go to dinner at a place right next to the theatre. The entire time my father is saying he doesn't want to see this movie. We should go see another movie. We won't make the movie in time if we eat at this place. It wasn't so much the pms or the nicotine withdrawal that made me snap. No, really it was my parents love, smothering me like a plastic bag over my face.
I told him no one said he had to come and he invited himself so he could stop complaining. He shot back he never had a choice and had to come. I have sympathy, it's true. Mom probably "asked" him if he wanted to come as well. Mom tearfully asked us to get along. I immediately felt guilty which only made me more angry, but somewhere along the way I decided I should probably repress like any good adult and did my best to even out my temperment. My dad, probably because there's no more room for him to repress after 38 years of marriage, told her we (he and I) were doing just fine and were getting along. The sad thing was, it was true. Regardless he and I cheered up and stopped picking at each other. I told them we could go see another movie--I would always rather see a movie people want to see and the movie I want to see later, then sit through a movie I like with people that don't want to be there. But now we had to go see Australia.
My friend even showed up eventually once he found his freedom and we all went to the movie together. It was a pretty frickin' spectacular movie.
When the movie was over my dad complained again. I yelled at him again. We all piled in the van for the drive home and my friend left for the blissful quiet of his own apartment. So goes another family Christmas.
I love being home. And sometimes home loves me so much I can't breathe. Awesome.
My mother, bless her heart, has a tendency to ask questions when she already knows what she wants and what she will do. For instance, when I'm home I tend to travel to various different places seeing friends--this has been a tradition since I moved far away four years ago. Saturday, I believe it was, my mom asked me, "are you going to go see your friends?" I told her yes and she asked, "do you mind if your father and I tag along?" You would think after all this time of being her daughter I could have recognized this question for the statement it was. She wasn't asking what I wanted you see, she was being polite in telling me what was going to happen. In hindsight it all makes so much sense. "I'd rather not," I told her--I gave up indirectness with my parents years ago. "Oh," she said, "well, I have some shopping to do so I thought we would." Uh-huh.
Generally I don't care if my parents travel with me, and I'm long past the age of "I have to be cool with my friends" business, but I get a little claustrophobic in my home town. There's nothing here. Really. And not having a vehicle of my own (what with the flying home and everything) I can't just drive. I can't leave town without first asking to use my parents vehicle, or in this case, with my parents. That means that when I have a particular plan--shop, see friend, see Australia--I have to modify said plan because they have insisted on coming along.
It should also be noted that I'm premenstrual and experiencing nicotine withdrawal since I smoked too much before coming home and not smoking at all. This is not a good combination when dealing with one's mother. Under the circumstances I did my best to perform admirably (I think).
My day starts off with my mom, moments after I awake asking, "do you know what I'm doing today yet?" She had attempted to plan when we would travel since winter weather was supposed to come through and apparently I was supposed to do the planning for all of us. Those of you that know me know I don't wake up well under the best of circumstances--to be awoken with a question requiring I plan a day I don't particularly want to plan...it was almost too much. I decide we should go in the end, so we take off for the great wonderland with a mall and everything is going fairly well. I think perhaps it won't be so bad after all; I'm still feeling claustrophobic and wishing I could have just gotten out of the house by myself, but my parents are good people and it's nice to make them happy. We arrive at the much larger city, though, and it quickly becomes apparent that there is a lot of traffic. My father, whom I share many traits with, does not do well in traffic or in crowds. He starts to grumble excessively and drive just a little crazy because he wants/needs to be out of the crowd. I respect this need since I need to go to the bathroom badly, but I also had a plan for my day and I'm feeling a bit sensitive to my father thwarting that plan because it's crowded.
We make it to the mall, we shop--everyone's a bit short-tempered, but that's Christmas right? We head back to the car and the real fun begins. I want to see Australia. I've wanted to see this movie for almost a month. When I agreed to travel with them it was so that they could take me to said movie. First no one can decide where they want to eat dinner. I'm on the phone with my friend in town who has just gotten out of work and he can't decide when he'll be free, if he'll be free, how he'll be free, or what the esoteric concept of freedom is. Were I by myself I would just go hang out until he was done with all his post-work nonsense, but I wasn't. So we're back in traffic, dad is grumbling, mom is pouting, and I'm on the phone trying to get an answer about where to direct us. An executive decision is made and we head up north--through more traffic, more grumbling--and go to dinner at a place right next to the theatre. The entire time my father is saying he doesn't want to see this movie. We should go see another movie. We won't make the movie in time if we eat at this place. It wasn't so much the pms or the nicotine withdrawal that made me snap. No, really it was my parents love, smothering me like a plastic bag over my face.
I told him no one said he had to come and he invited himself so he could stop complaining. He shot back he never had a choice and had to come. I have sympathy, it's true. Mom probably "asked" him if he wanted to come as well. Mom tearfully asked us to get along. I immediately felt guilty which only made me more angry, but somewhere along the way I decided I should probably repress like any good adult and did my best to even out my temperment. My dad, probably because there's no more room for him to repress after 38 years of marriage, told her we (he and I) were doing just fine and were getting along. The sad thing was, it was true. Regardless he and I cheered up and stopped picking at each other. I told them we could go see another movie--I would always rather see a movie people want to see and the movie I want to see later, then sit through a movie I like with people that don't want to be there. But now we had to go see Australia.
My friend even showed up eventually once he found his freedom and we all went to the movie together. It was a pretty frickin' spectacular movie.
When the movie was over my dad complained again. I yelled at him again. We all piled in the van for the drive home and my friend left for the blissful quiet of his own apartment. So goes another family Christmas.
I love being home. And sometimes home loves me so much I can't breathe. Awesome.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I don't know if my storytelling skills are up to the task of relating my last week to you. I'm going to try, but probably I won't do it justice.
It all started with a camping trip. My roommate, her boyfriend, another friend and I decided to celebrate the end of the semester with a visit to the beach. So it was we left the somewhat dubious haunt of Las Vegas and traveled over the great mountains to the west. It became quickly apparent, however, that it wasn't going to be an easy trip. A storm had rolled in--some might call it the storm of a century, I simply referred to it as an inconvenience. The rain slickened the roads and as we traveled up the mountains traffic was slowed and frustrating. It didn't put me off, though; what's a little rain and snow after all? After lunch, however, I realized just what a little rain and snow could mean when one is traveling over the mountains. The El Cajon pass was open, but you were only allowed to travel with a police escort; thus it was that we waited dutifully in line for our turn to go. We made it to the campsite and our four hour trip was only extended by maybe an hour and a half--not bad.
The campsite was all sand and dirt--it had been raining all day. Sand and dirt plus water makes mud. A lake had formed around our fire pit, but, this not being a big camping week, we were able to switch sites. All seemed to be falling into place. Our camp set up I set up my bed for the night and was pleasantly surprised to discover how warm I stayed. Dinner was tough, the wind howled and it started to rain again, but once I was bedded down I thought it all quite nice. Sometimes my naiveté is astounding.
When I awoke in the morning having slept off and on (rain is surprisingly loud in a tent and our poor little covering shook us as much as it protected us) I touched my pillow and felt moisture. No big deal, the walls of the tent were a little moist, but probably the pillow was just pressed up against it. Then I looked at the floor of the tent. My tent mate had already exited for the morning and I realized the jeans and sweatshirt by my head were soaked as was the other sweatshirt by my feet. The edges of my blankets were all also wet. Resigning myself to the knowledge that we were camping and sometimes these things happen, I dutifully hung everything up to dry. As I uncovered my air mattress I realized that the plastic had gratefully kept me dry, but my bed had been floating atop a small body of water. The day was bright and shining, though, so what did it matter? Everything would dry and be ready for the night.
Tuesday was glorious. I walked on the beach, read a book on the beach, and we had hot dogs and smores. Everything camping is supposed to be. That night I crawled into my newly dried bedding and settled in for the evening. I woke a few hours later to the sounds of rain gently pattering on the tent. I went back to sleep. I woke again when my head was lifted up--by the tent that was blowing in the wind. The rain was no longer gently pattering, it was pounding down like a vengeful street fighter. Our tent was held down only by the weight of our bodies inside it. The edges would blow up in the storm, lifting whatever part of the body was closest, in this case my head, before slamming back to the ground as the gust of wind passed. If Monday had been a storm of the century, Tuesday night was a storm of the millennia.
Wednesday did not dawn bright and sunny. Our tent was flooded. Everything in it was wet, including me. I was done. Vacation is no supposed to make you miserable. It had been a fun trip. I was glad I went. Now it was time to go home.
I lit off for the shower, but all the showers were locked. No big deal, I would shower when I returned to Las Vegas. My fellow campers and I ate breakfast and returned to pack myself and my tent mate into my car. We packed up in the very cold rain, shoved as much in my trunk as we could and he and I took off for fairer skies. It was 11:05 am.
I don't believe I could have anticipated what awaited us.
El Cajon was closed. My navigator quickly plotted an alternate course and while going around would doubtless take extra time, we were resigned to the necessity. We headed south and attempted another pass. No signs indicated that said pass was closed, until we were halfway up the mountain then suddenly, with nothing more than a small sign on the side of the road, we were told to find an "alternate route." It was now 1:30 pm.
Turning around I headed back to a major freeway and we headed east, planning to follow the Colorado river valley north. We were now driving the legs of the triangle instead of the hypotenuse, but these things couldn't be helped. I was dead set on making home. At 5:30 I took the jog to begin the final stretch and the lo and behold--a policeman sat on the exit ramp, blocking it. This seemed untenable.
I rolled my window down and he curtly informed me that all ways into Las Vegas were closed. All ways. How can you quarantine a major metropolitan area? I mean, I suppose if the zombies do attack it's good to know the small town police staff of Nevada, California, and Arizona will keep them from escaping, but I was trying to get in. The policeman turned me away and my navigator and I bunked down in a small town in California for the evening. The Black Gates were closed and there was no sneaking into Mordor that evening.
We awoke this morning and headed out. The roads were open and I hoped, knowing that it would be a slow trip, that it would still be a painless trip. We had 90 miles to travel and it was 9:05 am. 45 miles out from Las Vegas we approached a little town called Searchlight. Traffic slowed, then stopped. I sat in the car for as long as I was able before the coffee I drank for breakfast insisted on being relieved. There were no bathrooms. There was no privacy. I couldn't countenance the idea of urinating on myself in my car. Surely no one deserved a day that bad. The fog lifted for a second and a Terrible's gas station/McDonald's shined at me over the horizon. It took very little debate before the only possible solution presented itself. I left my car in the hands of my navigator and took off up the road. It was probably only a half mile, maybe 3/4 of a mile, but the Rocky theme song was playing in the mountains. I could hear the trumpets echoing off the rocks as I slipped and slid my way across the snowy icey parking lot to a giant sign that pronounced "CLEAN RESTROOMS."
This was, perhaps, the most dangerous part of my trip. Dangerous, because if I slipped on the ice and went down, there would be no more restraining the coffee that insisted on leaving my system.
I made it, though, and walked back to the car. The "town" of Searchlight was removing ice and so traffic was still stopped. We sat for over two hours before they let us through and the trip through Searchlight was less than exciting. This "town" is all of two blocks long. That breaks down to approximately an hour of ice removal per block. I don't get it either.
So it was that 500 miles and 26 1/2 hours later my tent mate/navigator/friend and I rolled back into Las Vegas from Los Angeles. Google maps places the trip at 4 hours 16 minutes and 279 miles.
Best camping trip EVER.
It all started with a camping trip. My roommate, her boyfriend, another friend and I decided to celebrate the end of the semester with a visit to the beach. So it was we left the somewhat dubious haunt of Las Vegas and traveled over the great mountains to the west. It became quickly apparent, however, that it wasn't going to be an easy trip. A storm had rolled in--some might call it the storm of a century, I simply referred to it as an inconvenience. The rain slickened the roads and as we traveled up the mountains traffic was slowed and frustrating. It didn't put me off, though; what's a little rain and snow after all? After lunch, however, I realized just what a little rain and snow could mean when one is traveling over the mountains. The El Cajon pass was open, but you were only allowed to travel with a police escort; thus it was that we waited dutifully in line for our turn to go. We made it to the campsite and our four hour trip was only extended by maybe an hour and a half--not bad.
The campsite was all sand and dirt--it had been raining all day. Sand and dirt plus water makes mud. A lake had formed around our fire pit, but, this not being a big camping week, we were able to switch sites. All seemed to be falling into place. Our camp set up I set up my bed for the night and was pleasantly surprised to discover how warm I stayed. Dinner was tough, the wind howled and it started to rain again, but once I was bedded down I thought it all quite nice. Sometimes my naiveté is astounding.
When I awoke in the morning having slept off and on (rain is surprisingly loud in a tent and our poor little covering shook us as much as it protected us) I touched my pillow and felt moisture. No big deal, the walls of the tent were a little moist, but probably the pillow was just pressed up against it. Then I looked at the floor of the tent. My tent mate had already exited for the morning and I realized the jeans and sweatshirt by my head were soaked as was the other sweatshirt by my feet. The edges of my blankets were all also wet. Resigning myself to the knowledge that we were camping and sometimes these things happen, I dutifully hung everything up to dry. As I uncovered my air mattress I realized that the plastic had gratefully kept me dry, but my bed had been floating atop a small body of water. The day was bright and shining, though, so what did it matter? Everything would dry and be ready for the night.
Tuesday was glorious. I walked on the beach, read a book on the beach, and we had hot dogs and smores. Everything camping is supposed to be. That night I crawled into my newly dried bedding and settled in for the evening. I woke a few hours later to the sounds of rain gently pattering on the tent. I went back to sleep. I woke again when my head was lifted up--by the tent that was blowing in the wind. The rain was no longer gently pattering, it was pounding down like a vengeful street fighter. Our tent was held down only by the weight of our bodies inside it. The edges would blow up in the storm, lifting whatever part of the body was closest, in this case my head, before slamming back to the ground as the gust of wind passed. If Monday had been a storm of the century, Tuesday night was a storm of the millennia.
Wednesday did not dawn bright and sunny. Our tent was flooded. Everything in it was wet, including me. I was done. Vacation is no supposed to make you miserable. It had been a fun trip. I was glad I went. Now it was time to go home.
I lit off for the shower, but all the showers were locked. No big deal, I would shower when I returned to Las Vegas. My fellow campers and I ate breakfast and returned to pack myself and my tent mate into my car. We packed up in the very cold rain, shoved as much in my trunk as we could and he and I took off for fairer skies. It was 11:05 am.
I don't believe I could have anticipated what awaited us.
El Cajon was closed. My navigator quickly plotted an alternate course and while going around would doubtless take extra time, we were resigned to the necessity. We headed south and attempted another pass. No signs indicated that said pass was closed, until we were halfway up the mountain then suddenly, with nothing more than a small sign on the side of the road, we were told to find an "alternate route." It was now 1:30 pm.
Turning around I headed back to a major freeway and we headed east, planning to follow the Colorado river valley north. We were now driving the legs of the triangle instead of the hypotenuse, but these things couldn't be helped. I was dead set on making home. At 5:30 I took the jog to begin the final stretch and the lo and behold--a policeman sat on the exit ramp, blocking it. This seemed untenable.
I rolled my window down and he curtly informed me that all ways into Las Vegas were closed. All ways. How can you quarantine a major metropolitan area? I mean, I suppose if the zombies do attack it's good to know the small town police staff of Nevada, California, and Arizona will keep them from escaping, but I was trying to get in. The policeman turned me away and my navigator and I bunked down in a small town in California for the evening. The Black Gates were closed and there was no sneaking into Mordor that evening.
We awoke this morning and headed out. The roads were open and I hoped, knowing that it would be a slow trip, that it would still be a painless trip. We had 90 miles to travel and it was 9:05 am. 45 miles out from Las Vegas we approached a little town called Searchlight. Traffic slowed, then stopped. I sat in the car for as long as I was able before the coffee I drank for breakfast insisted on being relieved. There were no bathrooms. There was no privacy. I couldn't countenance the idea of urinating on myself in my car. Surely no one deserved a day that bad. The fog lifted for a second and a Terrible's gas station/McDonald's shined at me over the horizon. It took very little debate before the only possible solution presented itself. I left my car in the hands of my navigator and took off up the road. It was probably only a half mile, maybe 3/4 of a mile, but the Rocky theme song was playing in the mountains. I could hear the trumpets echoing off the rocks as I slipped and slid my way across the snowy icey parking lot to a giant sign that pronounced "CLEAN RESTROOMS."
This was, perhaps, the most dangerous part of my trip. Dangerous, because if I slipped on the ice and went down, there would be no more restraining the coffee that insisted on leaving my system.
I made it, though, and walked back to the car. The "town" of Searchlight was removing ice and so traffic was still stopped. We sat for over two hours before they let us through and the trip through Searchlight was less than exciting. This "town" is all of two blocks long. That breaks down to approximately an hour of ice removal per block. I don't get it either.
So it was that 500 miles and 26 1/2 hours later my tent mate/navigator/friend and I rolled back into Las Vegas from Los Angeles. Google maps places the trip at 4 hours 16 minutes and 279 miles.
Best camping trip EVER.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Stephanie Meyer book is being billed as the "only love triangle with only two people." There's an alien inside this lady's body, but the lady doesn't abandon ship like she's supposed to, so her memories affect the alien and they both end up loving the same guy. It doesn't matter. I'm never going to read it.
What does matter, is that the reviewer has made an egregious error. Obviously, Jem, Jerrica, and Rio from Jem and the Holograms is the first two-sided love triangle. And that one is far superior because Jerrica seduces Rio to cheat on her with herself! I knew you would appreciate it as much as I have.
My former partner-in-crime and I have put much thought into this situation. For example, is it cheating if he cheats on you with your alter-ego? Are you allowed to hold it against him if you seduce him with yourself? Are you cheating if you change identities and sleep with your boyfriend cheating on yourself? These are very important questions that are never addressed in the cartoon series. I don't know how they completed three seasons of that show and never once tied up the Jem-Rio-Jerrica plotline.
But here are my thoughts on the situation: Jem is only a hologram projected over Jerrica's body, so Jerrica's body chemistry would still be the same. This means that whatever physical markers that attracted Rio to her, her scent, her pheromones, etc., would still be in place. I would put forth, therefore, that his attraction to Jem, while possibly not wholly innocent, must be understood because he is still attracted to Jerrica. This makes extra sense because Jem's personality is still that of Jerrica's--they are the same person. Jem is just the much cooler, much funner rockstar version. Heck, I would be all over Jem too if I were Rio.
Unfortunately, at one point in their association Rio does pull away when Jem is making her move (see: is it cheating when you seduce him with yourself?) and states that he can't hurt Jerrica. Now--there are a couple of disturbing parts to that comment. The first and certainly not the least is, who wants a guy who doesn't cheat because he doesn't want to hurt us, not because he doesn't want to? You see the difference there? I'd say it's a fairly major one. Now, again, Rio could be granted a pass because even though he might want to, Jem is Jerrica so how could he not want to? Right?
And what if Rio actually didn't find Jem attractive at all? What happens when the cooler rockstar version of yourself is a turnoff to your boyfriend? Was Jerrica driven by this crazy world we live in to seduce Rio just to make sure she could?
This is a very serious situation here people. When dealing with a two-sided triangle all known laws of math and physics break down and even Ann Landers doesn't know what to offer for relationship advice. (For anyone born post 83? 84? Ann Landers predates Dr. Phil as a newspaper columnist relationship person.) And let's say, for argument sake that Rio did sleep with Jem. As Jerrica do you get mad? And why let it go to the point of sex to begin with? Why not tell him you're Jem? But if you choose not to tell him and sleep with him how does that work in the morning? You offer a "Show's over Synergy" and then when you flash back to Jerrica in front of him start screaming and hitting and accuse him of being a no good cheating boyfriend? Seems like that reaction might be a bit hypocritical. It's hard to tell because you know, you cheated with your boyfriend on yourself, but still....there's got to be some ethical problem in there somewhere.
These are just a few of the problems that arise when there are only two of you, but a love triangle is formed. Think about that the next time you buy a pair of fancy pink star earrings and plot the seduction of your boyfriend with your alter-ego. It could all end badly.
What does matter, is that the reviewer has made an egregious error. Obviously, Jem, Jerrica, and Rio from Jem and the Holograms is the first two-sided love triangle. And that one is far superior because Jerrica seduces Rio to cheat on her with herself! I knew you would appreciate it as much as I have.
My former partner-in-crime and I have put much thought into this situation. For example, is it cheating if he cheats on you with your alter-ego? Are you allowed to hold it against him if you seduce him with yourself? Are you cheating if you change identities and sleep with your boyfriend cheating on yourself? These are very important questions that are never addressed in the cartoon series. I don't know how they completed three seasons of that show and never once tied up the Jem-Rio-Jerrica plotline.
But here are my thoughts on the situation: Jem is only a hologram projected over Jerrica's body, so Jerrica's body chemistry would still be the same. This means that whatever physical markers that attracted Rio to her, her scent, her pheromones, etc., would still be in place. I would put forth, therefore, that his attraction to Jem, while possibly not wholly innocent, must be understood because he is still attracted to Jerrica. This makes extra sense because Jem's personality is still that of Jerrica's--they are the same person. Jem is just the much cooler, much funner rockstar version. Heck, I would be all over Jem too if I were Rio.
Unfortunately, at one point in their association Rio does pull away when Jem is making her move (see: is it cheating when you seduce him with yourself?) and states that he can't hurt Jerrica. Now--there are a couple of disturbing parts to that comment. The first and certainly not the least is, who wants a guy who doesn't cheat because he doesn't want to hurt us, not because he doesn't want to? You see the difference there? I'd say it's a fairly major one. Now, again, Rio could be granted a pass because even though he might want to, Jem is Jerrica so how could he not want to? Right?
And what if Rio actually didn't find Jem attractive at all? What happens when the cooler rockstar version of yourself is a turnoff to your boyfriend? Was Jerrica driven by this crazy world we live in to seduce Rio just to make sure she could?
This is a very serious situation here people. When dealing with a two-sided triangle all known laws of math and physics break down and even Ann Landers doesn't know what to offer for relationship advice. (For anyone born post 83? 84? Ann Landers predates Dr. Phil as a newspaper columnist relationship person.) And let's say, for argument sake that Rio did sleep with Jem. As Jerrica do you get mad? And why let it go to the point of sex to begin with? Why not tell him you're Jem? But if you choose not to tell him and sleep with him how does that work in the morning? You offer a "Show's over Synergy" and then when you flash back to Jerrica in front of him start screaming and hitting and accuse him of being a no good cheating boyfriend? Seems like that reaction might be a bit hypocritical. It's hard to tell because you know, you cheated with your boyfriend on yourself, but still....there's got to be some ethical problem in there somewhere.
These are just a few of the problems that arise when there are only two of you, but a love triangle is formed. Think about that the next time you buy a pair of fancy pink star earrings and plot the seduction of your boyfriend with your alter-ego. It could all end badly.
Monday, December 08, 2008
So I had a thought--generally a dangerous thing for me to do. It's not about Twilight, but it may or may not have stemmed out of my recent vampire utopia/dystopia identity. I was thinking about women (and girls) and how many of us, no matter how jaded, carry hope that we'll find "the one." I would garner this is true for many men in the world, but I don't know them so I won't speak for them. My point in this case is about women's perception of "the one" anyway--I think most women still imagine this guy somewhat like Prince Charming. He'll know what to say; he'll know what to do, and when he doesn't it will be so adorable that it will only make us love him more.
This idea has been percolating in my head for awhile as I've observed another couple close to me get to know each other and settle into a relationship. In one instance she wanted him to go dancing at the club; he really, really didn't want to go, and this made her very, very mad. I realized in that moment, watching these guys figure this out, that he was her boyfriend. He was supposed to dance dirty with her and be all James Bond. Even though logically she knew he wasn't any of those things and the club wasn't his sort of romance she still wanted that in him, the ability to be "that guy" for her when requested.
Where I'm going with this is that I think many women, in a well meaning, romantic, hoping for love sort of way, objectify men in a slightly destructive manner that is unfortunate for both parties. I sigh as I say this because this means the last vestiges of my hopeless romanticism are going down the tubes as I type. I'm not saying true love doesn't exist, I've seen it in action, but rather many women go through life unhappy because their constantly holding reality up to imagination--they think that someday "the one" will appear and he will make them feel...well, the way we all feel when we watch our favorite romantic movie. You'll feel alive and excited and not sure you can control yourself even though you've always been in control. The love will be so overwhelming, at least in the beginning, that you'll both want to be together all the time. He'll look at you and you'll know he couldn't possibly love anyone more than he loves you. So on and so forth. By this age we all know the drill.
But in this modern society of constructed romance, I wonder how often men are held up to an invisible standard that they can no longer fill anymore than women can fulfill the Madonna/whore complex. It's already seen in the way young boys worry about their physique almost as much as young girls do. But I think it's also apparent in the cliché "nice guys finish last." It was mentioned recently that women don't want "nice guys" and I don't think that's it at all--no one seeks out abuse except a very few, but many seek out adrenaline; women want the rush of love and the excitement of whirlwind romance. We want to be loved so much our guy is driven beyond his rock solid control. It's one romance novel cliché after the other. There are minor differences in everyone's fantasy of course, but the basic kernels are there.
But here's the rub: men are people too. That means as unsexy as I am at times in all my independent gaseous righteousness, there's a guy out there who just doesn't have it in him that day to hold you while you cry because he's had a hard day too. A guys isn't always capable of pursuing you until you give in because maybe he was hurt too bad in the past and has developed a sense of self-preservation (something all romance characters seem to decidedly lack). Or, maybe, just maybe, on occasion my crazy is more off-putting than adorable. Instead of loving me inspite and because of it, I might succeed at a skill I honed in my earlier years--pushing people away and being generally unpleasant.
And so I consider all those possibilities, and I think about all the times I've watched/read romances where the heroine absolutely debases herself to win her love and how I've thought each time I watched/read it "I'm screwed" because I know I never would, that perhaps--I'm only saying perhaps--social constructions of love, romance, and prince charming have caused me and other women to judge men in a way we were previously unaware of. And that sucks. It sucks for a couple of reasons; the first is that it would be really, really sweet to have some crazy romantic story that ended up with unbelievable happiness for the rest of my life. And second, if I acknowledge the possible archetypes I've been holding men up to, then I have to realize what I've done to judge the men I've known by those archetypes. As I need another abstract, ideological debate going on in my head examining my motivations. One would think I would tap out at some point.
I've always known that I'm irritated by women who talk about "training" men as if they were some sort of puppy, and women who vacillate in committed loving relationships because they aren't sure of they guy is "the one" irritate me too. But it has never occurred to me that part of the problem is that there is no prince charming any more than there is a femme fatale waiting to marry. So women are either bitter that no guy will ever be the fantasy because the fantasy doesn't exist--which is true, but not for the reasons they think--or the woman holds out on her own relationship thinking there might be something better.
It's a thought. I would guess there is a male equivalent as well.
In any case, I leave you with this hoping that maybe I'll stumble across real love tonight at Barnes and Noble--I figure it's a bonus if he's a vampire.
This idea has been percolating in my head for awhile as I've observed another couple close to me get to know each other and settle into a relationship. In one instance she wanted him to go dancing at the club; he really, really didn't want to go, and this made her very, very mad. I realized in that moment, watching these guys figure this out, that he was her boyfriend. He was supposed to dance dirty with her and be all James Bond. Even though logically she knew he wasn't any of those things and the club wasn't his sort of romance she still wanted that in him, the ability to be "that guy" for her when requested.
Where I'm going with this is that I think many women, in a well meaning, romantic, hoping for love sort of way, objectify men in a slightly destructive manner that is unfortunate for both parties. I sigh as I say this because this means the last vestiges of my hopeless romanticism are going down the tubes as I type. I'm not saying true love doesn't exist, I've seen it in action, but rather many women go through life unhappy because their constantly holding reality up to imagination--they think that someday "the one" will appear and he will make them feel...well, the way we all feel when we watch our favorite romantic movie. You'll feel alive and excited and not sure you can control yourself even though you've always been in control. The love will be so overwhelming, at least in the beginning, that you'll both want to be together all the time. He'll look at you and you'll know he couldn't possibly love anyone more than he loves you. So on and so forth. By this age we all know the drill.
But in this modern society of constructed romance, I wonder how often men are held up to an invisible standard that they can no longer fill anymore than women can fulfill the Madonna/whore complex. It's already seen in the way young boys worry about their physique almost as much as young girls do. But I think it's also apparent in the cliché "nice guys finish last." It was mentioned recently that women don't want "nice guys" and I don't think that's it at all--no one seeks out abuse except a very few, but many seek out adrenaline; women want the rush of love and the excitement of whirlwind romance. We want to be loved so much our guy is driven beyond his rock solid control. It's one romance novel cliché after the other. There are minor differences in everyone's fantasy of course, but the basic kernels are there.
But here's the rub: men are people too. That means as unsexy as I am at times in all my independent gaseous righteousness, there's a guy out there who just doesn't have it in him that day to hold you while you cry because he's had a hard day too. A guys isn't always capable of pursuing you until you give in because maybe he was hurt too bad in the past and has developed a sense of self-preservation (something all romance characters seem to decidedly lack). Or, maybe, just maybe, on occasion my crazy is more off-putting than adorable. Instead of loving me inspite and because of it, I might succeed at a skill I honed in my earlier years--pushing people away and being generally unpleasant.
And so I consider all those possibilities, and I think about all the times I've watched/read romances where the heroine absolutely debases herself to win her love and how I've thought each time I watched/read it "I'm screwed" because I know I never would, that perhaps--I'm only saying perhaps--social constructions of love, romance, and prince charming have caused me and other women to judge men in a way we were previously unaware of. And that sucks. It sucks for a couple of reasons; the first is that it would be really, really sweet to have some crazy romantic story that ended up with unbelievable happiness for the rest of my life. And second, if I acknowledge the possible archetypes I've been holding men up to, then I have to realize what I've done to judge the men I've known by those archetypes. As I need another abstract, ideological debate going on in my head examining my motivations. One would think I would tap out at some point.
I've always known that I'm irritated by women who talk about "training" men as if they were some sort of puppy, and women who vacillate in committed loving relationships because they aren't sure of they guy is "the one" irritate me too. But it has never occurred to me that part of the problem is that there is no prince charming any more than there is a femme fatale waiting to marry. So women are either bitter that no guy will ever be the fantasy because the fantasy doesn't exist--which is true, but not for the reasons they think--or the woman holds out on her own relationship thinking there might be something better.
It's a thought. I would guess there is a male equivalent as well.
In any case, I leave you with this hoping that maybe I'll stumble across real love tonight at Barnes and Noble--I figure it's a bonus if he's a vampire.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Okay, I'm writing about Twlight again. I know...I hate me too.
But here's the deal. I watched the movie, sort of liked it in a way I will never admit to in public, and now I'm trying to read the book again. The last time I tried I ended up putting it down because it was just so...well...high school. The angst, the drama, the everything--I long outgrew that mode of yearning. But, as the movie taught me in a rather harsh and unforgiving way, I have not outgrown it as much as I would like to think. I am, unfortunately, not dead inside. Who knew that realization would make me sad.
The point, however (and there is a point), is that this book, while more fun then I remember it being, makes me want to throw it across the room. I know I overreact sometimes, and anyone who knows me in any casual way knows that where vampire's are concerned I'm most likely not to make healthy relationship choices, but every now and then there is a sentence in this book that makes me want to throw it across the room. Edward is just so, well, proprietary. And Bella is just so incompetent. She's a magnet for trouble which is okay really, makes for good drama, but he saves her again and again from things she could conceivably save herself.
I think that is the part of the book I had formerly written off as too "high school" and that I found untenable as a romance. I'm long past the age of damsel in distress, mostly cause I learned long ago that you can't count on someone else to save you, but Edward's behavior makes me want to punch him the balls! He tells her what to do, manhandles her , stalks her, obsesses over her--these are all behaviors that in real life would not be hot. I want you to know that I know that's not okay. But somehow, in this stupid melodramatic mess of a teenage love story, it works.
I hate everything. And I hate myself for loving it.
I remember once, a long time ago, I was teasing my very best guy friend because he always seemed to date crazy girls. We're talking does-the-way-you-sneezed-mean-you-don't-love-me-anymore crazy. Time after time I would watch him walk into the same situation over and over again. Eventually, instead of just laughing at his inability to see the crazy for the trees, I attempted to offer helpful advice: advice like--don't date her, she crazy.
But in our ensuing conversations about dating crazy girls as a repetitive behavior I finally asked him, "Why do you keep dating obviously crazy, obviously unstable women?" Surprisingly he answered me honestly. He said simply, "Because it's more fun." Now, there are any number of ways to dissect that answer, and I'm not interested right now in considering possible addictions to drama, white knight syndrome, or possible feelings of being threatened by stable, independent women (I don't think he suffers from the last one at all, though the other two for sure) but I have to admit, openly, honestly, and not a little bit ashamedly--I agree with him. Crazy is more exciting.
As I say that, though, I'm painfully aware of two things: 1) crazy makes you miserable in the long run because, like sky diving, there's always the chance your chute won't open and you'll die from it. 2) me being crazy makes me miserable--I'm just not a dramatic person--well, not about anything outside of comic books and movies anyway. I'd rather be happy than sad; what can I say?
But you see, I watch stupid movies like Twilight and I read stupid books like Twilight and then I think...maybe I could have just a little drama? I mean, it wouldn't totally destroy my happiness to maybe be a little miserable over a vampire that may, or may not eat me right? And to be faced with giving up everyone I love and care about so that I can live eternally off animal's blood while loving him might not be that bad of a choice to make right? Right?
It's a stupid book. I only wish my very logical and very knowledgeable awareness that such an existence with such a pushy vampire would bring me great sadness and angst would allow me to not want to read said book. This is not promoting healthy gender roles!
My sexuality would be so much healthier if it weren't for the undead.
But here's the deal. I watched the movie, sort of liked it in a way I will never admit to in public, and now I'm trying to read the book again. The last time I tried I ended up putting it down because it was just so...well...high school. The angst, the drama, the everything--I long outgrew that mode of yearning. But, as the movie taught me in a rather harsh and unforgiving way, I have not outgrown it as much as I would like to think. I am, unfortunately, not dead inside. Who knew that realization would make me sad.
The point, however (and there is a point), is that this book, while more fun then I remember it being, makes me want to throw it across the room. I know I overreact sometimes, and anyone who knows me in any casual way knows that where vampire's are concerned I'm most likely not to make healthy relationship choices, but every now and then there is a sentence in this book that makes me want to throw it across the room. Edward is just so, well, proprietary. And Bella is just so incompetent. She's a magnet for trouble which is okay really, makes for good drama, but he saves her again and again from things she could conceivably save herself.
I think that is the part of the book I had formerly written off as too "high school" and that I found untenable as a romance. I'm long past the age of damsel in distress, mostly cause I learned long ago that you can't count on someone else to save you, but Edward's behavior makes me want to punch him the balls! He tells her what to do, manhandles her , stalks her, obsesses over her--these are all behaviors that in real life would not be hot. I want you to know that I know that's not okay. But somehow, in this stupid melodramatic mess of a teenage love story, it works.
I hate everything. And I hate myself for loving it.
I remember once, a long time ago, I was teasing my very best guy friend because he always seemed to date crazy girls. We're talking does-the-way-you-sneezed-mean-you-don't-love-me-anymore crazy. Time after time I would watch him walk into the same situation over and over again. Eventually, instead of just laughing at his inability to see the crazy for the trees, I attempted to offer helpful advice: advice like--don't date her, she crazy.
But in our ensuing conversations about dating crazy girls as a repetitive behavior I finally asked him, "Why do you keep dating obviously crazy, obviously unstable women?" Surprisingly he answered me honestly. He said simply, "Because it's more fun." Now, there are any number of ways to dissect that answer, and I'm not interested right now in considering possible addictions to drama, white knight syndrome, or possible feelings of being threatened by stable, independent women (I don't think he suffers from the last one at all, though the other two for sure) but I have to admit, openly, honestly, and not a little bit ashamedly--I agree with him. Crazy is more exciting.
As I say that, though, I'm painfully aware of two things: 1) crazy makes you miserable in the long run because, like sky diving, there's always the chance your chute won't open and you'll die from it. 2) me being crazy makes me miserable--I'm just not a dramatic person--well, not about anything outside of comic books and movies anyway. I'd rather be happy than sad; what can I say?
But you see, I watch stupid movies like Twilight and I read stupid books like Twilight and then I think...maybe I could have just a little drama? I mean, it wouldn't totally destroy my happiness to maybe be a little miserable over a vampire that may, or may not eat me right? And to be faced with giving up everyone I love and care about so that I can live eternally off animal's blood while loving him might not be that bad of a choice to make right? Right?
It's a stupid book. I only wish my very logical and very knowledgeable awareness that such an existence with such a pushy vampire would bring me great sadness and angst would allow me to not want to read said book. This is not promoting healthy gender roles!
My sexuality would be so much healthier if it weren't for the undead.
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