Meet Hank.

That’s Hank.

Hank came home with me from Target yesterday.

I couldn’t leave without him.

I went in for bedding,  and came out with an outfit, nail polish, organizer bins, two pairs of shoes, and Hank.

I did buy some bedding though. I got this basic set.

I’m in a black and white type mood.

Needless to say, I spent way too much money.

Also, I”m super jealous of all those cool bloggers who are in San Fran currently.

Next year, hopefully I’ll be well-known enough in the blog-o-sphere to warrant a trip to BlogHer.

This, meaning the blog,  is something I’d really like to develop. I would like my little blog to get the kind of traffic that my lovely ladies Brandy and Jamie get. And Sizzle? That chica’s in her own category of blog-wesome.  And it’s not because it makes me feel “popular” or well-liked, I mean, that’s a part of it certainly, but mainly I LOVE finding other cool bloggers. I love developing these quasi-friendships through the waves/currents/whateverthehell the internet travels on of the World Wide Web. The connections are the best part of this whole thing.

I dream of NEPA blogger meet ups with MB and KP and who ever else is lurking on this side of the state. Maybe we could met center state and convince Eleanor to come out and play.

I need to figure out the ins and outs of how to get a cooler banner, maybe attempt to win one from the talented Secret Agent Josephine?

I want to be a better commenter. The lovely Annette is so good at it, she puts me to shame. As does Ang-la, I promise I’ll return the favor soon!

I want to one day jump over to being A Blog of Her Own Dot Net.

Because that’d be awesome.

I want bloggy cards to give to people, a more image laden site (this is definitely going to happen once I figure out what’s wrong with my camera), to be more active on Twenty-Something Bloggers.

Soon. Soon, I tell you, my blog-0-sphere dreams will come true.

Until then, say hi to Hank.

The Best Kept Secret In Fiction

Is Marisa de los Santos. Hands down. I picked up Love Walked In from Small Liberal University library during my 50 books in year event. I wasn’t expected much. I’m not usually one for any type of romantic fiction, anything even remotely chick-litish. And reading the back cover of the novel I thought I’d breeze through the novel, write it down as number 35 on the list and quickly forget I ever read it.

Little did I know de los Santos would have me in hysterics, tears, and plain old love with her story.

The basic run down is thus: Cornelia works at a coffee shop. She dropped out off a Ph.D. program in English literature because she did not want to spend her time dissecting and destroying the books she loved. She meets a Cary Grant look alike, and begins a romantic, seemingly perfect relationship. Then, CG’s daughter, Clare shows up.

That’s as much as you get.

Read. The. Book.

De los Santos has a wonderful way with words, a published poet she’s penned some of the most beautiful lines of prose I’ve ever read. As a student of literature I found myself laughing out loud at some of her allusions to great works.

Love Walked In is one of those books that demands you reread it. As I finished the last sentence on the last page, I sighed. I clutched the book to my heart in the best attempt to hug it as I could manage.

Imagine my joy when I found out that de los Santos second book, Belong to Me, was not only on the shelves but was in fact the sequal to Love Walked In.

I inhaled it.

I loved it.

I’ll be reading it again.

So, dear readers, do yourself a favor and pick up Love Walked In and Belong to Me.

You’ll thank me.

I promise.

Letter Series Vol. 4-ish

Dear Treadmill At The Gym,

I haven’t been avoiding you, per se. I’ve just been really busy. I know that’s no excuse. Relationships, friendships take time, they need to be cultivated like a garden, watered and Miracle Grow-ed and what not. I know this. I apologize. But chin up, I’ll be visiting you this evening. I’m sure it’ll be an awkward meeting, as those “I haven’t seen you in forever” meetings often are, but we’ll work through it. I know we will. We have to, because there are only a few months before Thanksgiving. And I intend to participate in the 9 mile trek around town with a bunch of other looneys who feel like a jog up a mountain is a great way to spend a day centered around food. And because I intend to complete the course without keeling over, our relationship will inevitably become strong. Just keep in mind, as race day approaches our meetings will need to be less frequent. I’ll need to spend more time outside so that my lungs don’t explode from the NEPA weather.

It’ll either be 60 degrees and raining or 30 degrees and snowing because NEPA doesn’t abide by the traditional 4 seasons. It’s rather much like France,

European Union “All of Europe you must do this!”

France: “Well, we’re not gonna. We’re gonna have a sandwich.”

-Izzard.

But until then, my electronic friend, we will work on reviving our relationship.

See you soon,

A Rather Fluffy-Feeling Shaba

Dear New Apartment,

I heart you.

You make me feel like a growned-up.

You with your dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, and gasp, more than 2 rooms! I can not believe we found you. You are great. Soon, I shall be completely unpacked and you and I can exist in total harmony.

Much love,

Tenant Number 3
Dear Tenant Number 2’s mom,

Thanks for all the furniture. And the food in the freezer. And the flower arrangements.

Having you around is like having our own personal Martha Stewart. Every time I come in the door the couch in a different place and there’s something new and pretty to look at.

You even put real fruit in the fruit bowl.

And washed all the dishes.

I’m debating locking you in the closet and keeping you as our housekeeper/personal assistant.

I’m very much appreciative of all your help!

Sincerely,

Girl Who Knows This Is As Clean As Her Apartment Will Ever Be
Dear Little League Baseball Parents,

Do you remember being 10? Do you remember hearing adults bad mouth you in front of your teammates? Do you remember the pain of hearing your parent say with disgust and aggravation, “ I can not wait until Baseball is over. I’m SO tired of baseball,” and wondering why they hate the one thing you’re passionate about? Do you remember having the biggest passion in your life, the thing you eat, breathe, and sleep be chided and looked down upon by the people who’s JOB it is to support you? Do you remember having your parent side with your sibling over which sport is “better,” which sport is more “valuable?” Have you ever had to defend yourself to your family? Have you ever had to listen and sort through the mixed messages you’re receiving when your coach makes one decision and your parent loudly disagrees? Do you remember having to learn to respect your VOLUNTEER coach and his decisions while listening to your parent constantly assert that “that man has no idea what he’s doing.” Do you remember thinking that the game would be great if only the adults would disappear?

Maybe you should try to remember.

Disgusted and Saddened,

The Pitcher/Third Baseman’s Sister

Everybody’s Working For The Weekend

This weekend was spent in various states of “work”. I had a big project due in my sales class on Saturday (yes, Saturday. The Small Liberal Arts University MBA program hates my life and runs only night and weekend classes). I’ve actually enjoyed my MBA experience until recently, which is surprising. I only took one business class in my undergrad. I’ve found the classes interesting, relatively easy to pick up, and my classmates are stellar. The problem? It’s too easy.

I end up being overprepared when I study for exams. I’ve completely taken to slacking off because I can turn in work that’s subpar (in my opinion) and get an A. Which, in a way is great because lately I’ve not had time to really put forth a lot of effort, but in another way, I feel jipped. I don’t feel like I’m working at the graduate level.

Also, let me tell you, this current class is a complete joke. I spent 8 hours of my weekend sitting in uncomfortable chairs and learning what kind of “team building” activities to do with my non-existent sales team. Joy. Of. Joys.

When I wasn’t in class watching my professor take an hour to go over two power point slides and wondering if she realized her ensemble made her look like a 1970’s couch. I was either moving or working.

Because I only get paid a pittance in addition to tuition reimbursement from SLAU, I need a pay-the-bills job. Enter Small Town Hospital. I’ve been a “registration representative” since 2005. This means when you come to the hospital, I ask you those ridiculous, “who are you, where do you live, do you have any money to make our For-Profit Corporate Big Wigs Happy?” It’s either awful or not-so-bad depending on the day. I’ve just recently started working in the ER, which is fun because I can pal around with the nurses, but sometimes things cacn get crazy.

Like, say, the man who flipped out because I asked him for his name and birthday. Apparently he believes that the nurses and doctors don’t need to know anything about his previous medical history.

If nothing else, this job has taught me 3 things: 1) people are stupid, 2) the US healthcare system, especially those of For-Profit hospitals, is ass backwards, and 3) I don’t want to work in health care ever again. I really think I could be a better supervisor than my supervisor, I could probably run the whole sha-bang a lot more efficiently and with happier employees, and also bring in a lot more revenue. But I don’t want that job. And the suggestions I’ve made go unacknowledged, so I just do my job and keep my mouth shut.

Now, onto the moving. I’ve lived in a one-bedroom apartment for the last year. Somehow within that year I acquired 2 bedroom’s worth of stuff. That’s a lot to move with my little Aveo, so I called in my daddy to help. He moved the big heavy things (besides the couch and the table, which I moved with help from a friend) and put together my bed. He also asked me the question every college-aged person loves to hear a parent utter, “How are you set for cash?”

Do you know that until recently I’d assure my parents, my parents who were willfully offering me cash I didn’t have to sell my soul for, that I was “Pretty set” ?!?! Thankfully college smartened me up. Now the answer to any phrase that translates to “Do you need money” is always an enthusiastic “Yes, please!” International Bank of Dad transaction complete, and I’m a few bucks richer.

Over the past week I’ve slowly moved all the storage boxes myself, including end tables, pots and pans and many, many books. I now have Herculean biceps.

Unfortunately during the move my daddy broke my bookcase, so I went to WallyWorld and bought a new one. I walked out with a bookshelf, a desk, a chair, multiple office supplies (I love back to school time! And office supplies! Almost as much as I love shoes. Almost.). Last night I put all three big items together. It took me 3 hours, which is what the instructions predicted, and I only managed to put one piece on backwards. I am a woman of the 90’s, and my momma is proud.

Of course I had to bribe myself a little bit over the weekend to keep myself from doing the things I really wanted to do (update the blog, make a new blog banner, watch Sex and the City, read and comment on other blogs…notice a trend?). I bribed myself with Thai and Wall-E. Both of which were awesome.

And I agree with Jamie, the short at the beginning of the film was one of my favorite one’s Pixar’s ever made.

So, what did you do this weekend?

Clip of Last Week

I like this movie.

I don’t particularly LOVE it.

It bothers me that everyone calls Frances “Baby”. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. But then again, my name’s not Frances. Maybe if I had to deal with that name I’d prefer “Baby” as well.

But I do love this scene. Because everyone wants their life to end up like that at some point, in a fun dance party where everyone knows the moves.

And just because I think this is the cutest wedding idea ever…

Enjoy!

Clip of Two Weeks Ago

Yea, I know.

But come on! We’re talking about Grease! Grease has been one of my favorite movies since I first saw it in elementary school. My best friend and I watched every time I came over to play. I’d usually come over once or twice a week. I saw Grease A LOT. I can probably recite it verbatim. I know some people think it’s silly, but I will forever and ever hold a special place in my heart for Grease.

I really wanted to play Rizzo in a Grease production. Too bad I can’t sing. Strangely enough, New Boy played Kenickie in a high school production. How cool.

My favorite piece of Grease trivia? ONJ had to be sewn into those pants.

Simmer Uncovered?

I drove to Virginia and back this past week, which meant I shared a lot of quality time with my car. When Ava the Aveo and I get together we have great discussions. Great, one-sided, self-involved discussions. Ava is a good listener and the silence usually answers all my questions for me, better than any living, breathing person ever could (besides White who knows me too well and often answers my questions with , “you think too much, dear.”)  Anyway the subject of this autotherapy session was, of course, relationships. Love. My history. My future.

Frankly, I was attempting to figure out why I always seem to find wonderful guys who love me, who want to have a future with me. I thought marriage minded men were supposed to be hard to come by, is that normally true? Because my experience is just the opposite. All of the men I’ve dated, every. Single. One. Have expressed sincere (at least to my knowledge) desires of settling down with me in the future. Which in a way is wonderful and amazing, but it’s also a little troubling. I’m always a little hesitant, a little suspicious of the men I date who, within a month’s time, are using the L-word and dropping “M-bombs”.

I can’t figure out if they think it’s expected of them, or if they truly feel that way. And then there’ s the “perfect” thing. It always makes my skin crawl a little when some guy calls me “perfect”. I immediately doubt their sincerity because I KNOW no one is perfect. We all have our flaws and the ability to love someone regardless of their imperfections is really what makes a relationship work. Having someone tell me, a woman who is constantly trying to improve herself, that I’m already “perfect” and “don’t ever change” seems contrite and stifling.

Hand in hand with being told I’m perfect comes the worry that maybe this person is into me more than I’m into them. I hate rushing the L-word. I hate feeling like I have to swoon and constantly affirm my affection. But I know I’m a hypocrite, and for as much as I dislike having to reassure someone that I like/love them, I prod my Significant Other to tell me the exact same thing.

During my time in the car I wondered, out loud, to myself, what I’m looking for. I’ve had relationships that seemed almost perfect. I’ve dated smart, handsome, funny, kind, romantic, (and other positive adjectives as well) men who on paper, looked perfect for me. These men loved me. And I loved them. And yet, there was always something missing. Something I wasn’t completely satisfied with. Something that allowed me to leave. I can’t help but wonder*, am I ever going to be satisfied with the man I’m with?

Will I forever be searching for the mystical Perfect Man for Me?

What’s the difference between “settling” and “compromising?”

My mother has this saying, “There’s a lid for every pot.” And I agree with her, in theory. But I also think there are some pots that are made by Tupperware, and have multiple perfect fitting lids. And there are some pots and lids that get warped in the dishwasher and never find a partner that fits. And then there are those pots that you lost the lid for, and you find a lid that just about fits, but won’t completely close unless you struggle with it and end up spilling half the contents on the kitchen floor.

And I wonder what kind of lid I should be looking for, or if, maybe, I’m that simmer-uncovered kind of pot. The one without a lid.

*I’ve been watching a lot of SATC, can you tell I’m channeling Carrie Bradshaw?

Manic Monday

The last few days have been crazy. I spent the 4th of July weekend visiting a boy, a boy I have yet to decide on a blog-appropriate name for,  a boy who is now more than a friend. We ended up getting our fireworks rained out, but we did have some tasty margaritas, totally kicked ass in Trivial Pursuit, and shared a good bottle of wine at a fancy-dancer restaurant. I had a great time hanging out with him and his roommates and I’m crossing my fingers that everything works out well. Of course I’m still not completely comfortable with a new relationship, being so fresh out of a long term relationship, but in that way it’s almost better that we’re 400ish miles apart. I can take my time and do my own thing most of the time.

Driving back to NEPA today brought all the pain back to the situation, being in Virginia was like being on vacation from the rest of my life. Driving through town and seeing all our old haunts is hard. Not knowing how he’s doing is hard. Having such a large chunk of your life vanish is hard. But the great thing about being 22, and seasoned* in the business of relationships is knowing that it gets better. It does get easier. I know because I did it all before, back when I was sixteen and my world felt like it ended every other day for a year. And I lived. Because, as Ms. Spektor says, “everyone must breath until their dying breath.”

Speaking of Regina, did I mention I’m seeing her AND the fabulous Ani Difranco TOGETHER on WEDNESDAY?!

Can you tell I’m excited?

It’ll be kickass.

I spent this evening packing up my apartment as much as I could and moving shit over to the shiny new apartment on the other side of the river. I’m hoping to be completely moved in by the end of the week. I’m also hoping to catch up on all the work I put off over the holiday break. So if you don’t see me around the internets don’t worry, I’ve not fallen into a ditch, I’ve just re-entered that damn “real world” thing everyone keeps talking about.

I’ve got some youtube goodness lined up for you later this week, I owe you two and one for Friday and they’re all banked in the draft session just waiting to be published….oh the suspense!

Now I’m off to shake the sand from every item of clothing I have…why does that always happen when one visits a beach? Sand everyone for weeks afterward. Once I had sand in my ear a month after I came home, but I think I was 8 then and really, 8 year old aren’t the epitome of clean.

Happy Back-to-work-Monday!

*as well as a 22-year-old can be when she’s had less than 5 actual relationships

Happy 4th!

Just a short note:

• Happy 4th! Eat a burger and watch some fireworks, I’ll *hopefully* be watching some explosions from a boat in the bay. Good times.
• I’m currently in Virgina Beach, rocking out and getting sun burnt.
• I’m a little distressed that no one either a) noticed or b) decided to try and point out the HUGE error on the “Metaphor” post…..basically the fact that “Men are like jeans” is actually a simile. Ya’ll got burned.
• I’m a yankee in the south (apparently Virginia is the south, I always thought it was pseudo-south, but there are definitely people saying “ya’ll”)
• I will be back, with much to say and at least 2 more “Clips of the Week” on Monday.

Have a great weekend!

News Blues

Did you ever have one of those mornings where news headline after news headline makes your stomach feel like it’s falling out of your body? This morning is one of those mornings. Now, I admit I don’t watch the local news (no interest). I don’t watch the national news (no time). I don’t even catch the Daily Show more than once a week, (no cable, and now no boyfriend’s cable either. Damn.).

I get the majority of my news from Feministing, because women-centered news is up my alley and they always cover the big stories I’m interested in. I enjoy feministing with a passion, I think Jessica Valenti is a genius and I can only hope to be as inspirational and well-informed one day.

As is it is the nature of any news to be depressing and solemn I’ve gotten used to reading four horrible headlines for every one uplifting one, but today it seemed like the proverbial shit hit the fan.

Why? Well, this. And this. (’raped’ as if an 11 year old could legally consent.)

Annnndddd this.

It makes my stomach turn.

It makes me wonder why, when these things are happening every day, do people I know, do WOMEN I know still refuse to acknowledge that women are not equal.

It makes me heartsick to think that if I become a women’s studies professor, which I want to do, I’ll have to fight a constant battle. I’ll have to defend my theories, my philosophies to chauvinist students looking to trip me up, to catch me in a hypocritical statement. Women’s studies is not like teaching math. There is no irrefutably correct answer. There is no way to tell if a student “gets” it or is just telling you what you want to hear to get an A.

It’s a hard business to be in, the business of changing opinions; but when one student has that moment, that moment where they finally “get it,” it’s worth the aggravation of teaching all the sheep.

And that one, s/he could make all the difference.