Quodlibets

From here on out, I'm

From here on out, I'm done with Clint Eastwood. Done. I never liked him anyway, and last night was ridiculous. I haven't seen the movie, but before you excoriate me for that, I'll have you know that I pretty much know the entire plot, have read multiple reviews, and listened to my Dad's opinion on it. And I'm pretty sure I'm right. It's trite, predictable, insulting shit. It's insulting to quadrapeligics (because it suggests that when a healthy person is paralyzed, there is nothing left worth living for--since I haven't seen the film, I don't know how insulting the tone of the film is, but I can guess), every plot point is completely predictable because of the last one or two or whatever, and for god's sake, could it be more trite? From all I've heard, the *gasp* shocking plot twist doesn't at all keep with the tone of the film, and it's hardly believable that someone as strong as Hilary's character would simply up and give up the will to live. I've read this multiple times on other blogs, and my dad told me this tonight.
And yet. Clint won the Oscar. So without further adieu, here is my suggestion for Clint's next movie:

Toilet. Clint shitting. Flush. OSCAR GOLD!!!!

Seriously. The man is so fucking revered for what? A mediocre directing legacy, for sure. For god's sake, he directed and starred in "The Bridges of Madison County." Now that was a crappy movie, based on a crappier book. I just looked at his record in IMDb, and he's no Scorsese--he's not even an Alexander Payne! And acting-wise, he's certainly no legend. Even Robert Redford makes better movies. And yet. Hollywood is literally falling all over itself trying to kiss Clint's feet. Just because he's old? Good fucking lord. Now, I'm not saying any of those movies was better than Million Dollar Shit....Oh wait, yes I am. If any of the other movies would have won (and I bet the Incredibles was 10 times better than MDB), I would have been fine. But Clint? Was this award just because Mystic River didn't win the best picture that year? Because even though I hated it, it has got to be better than the pap he put on screen this year. Man, I hate his movies. And he's doing Flags of Our Fathers right now, as we speak. Heaven forbid. God save us all. I'm scared. I'll boycott, I swear. I'm so done with any future Oscars ceremony that is trying to lick Clint's ass, I really am.

This might not be the

This might not be the most entertaining thing on the internet, but it sure comes close. I don't know if you've checked Gizoogle out yet, but I urge you to do so. And if you're not sure about what site to translate, try this link. The link is this blog translated Snoop Dogg style. Pretty funny.

If the Auto Show is

If the Auto Show is porn for car lovers, then the Oscars is porn for people like me. I don't really give a rat's ass about who wins, because as far as I'm concerned the Academy missed far too many good performances, but I looooove the fashion. No surprise there. I'm pretty sure that I might love the first two hours on the red carpet more than the next four hours of awards. It's not yet good, because Kathy Griffin is getting far more air time than she should, and no good stars are arriving. Actually, they're JUST beginning to arrive. I hate to say it, but I also wish they could just get rid of Star Jones. She's like a star-fucker, only without the fucking. If she gushes any more I'm going to throw something at the TV.
The best part of this whole thing is the dresses; I don't even care who wears them. If I was skinny and had lots of money, I'd be buying as much designer clothing as I could. And shoes. I bought two pairs today, one ugly as hell, but practical and needed (I've been looking for months now for something cute and needed, but no luck) and one super-cute, super-exciting pair of Steve Madden's. I'm not the biggest Madden fan, but these are soooo cute. (Okay, mine are slightly different--and way cuter than they look there. Mine have super-thin rainbow stitching on the insole, and the sole is all black. They're so perfect! And they fit perfectly.)

I have a shoe addiction. I need shoe addiction help--more money for shoes.

That photo was, of course,

That photo was, of course, taken by S. We were in California on a vacation, and I can't remember where--we spent time all over the place, from LA to San Francisco. Anyway, the first time he posted that picture on the internet, he got tons of complements: "Wow, that picture really embodies fear." "Man, you really capture her fear." "Man, that's a great illustration of being afraid."
Maybe I do look scared in the picture, horrified even. But not for any normal reason, no, I was scared that the camera was coming close enough to see the whites of the eyes of the alien on my lip. See, S and I were on vacation, and when I go on vacation, I grow aliens on my face. I'm telling you, this pimple was ginormous. I think it was three or four pimples all contained in the same square millimeter of my lower lip. At various points in the vacation, the pimple was red, white, and I swear green for the alien it was. It was ugly. And of course, I got the alien just in time for all the photos S was going to be taking of me. Vacation always means more photos.

And guess what? We leave for our vacation in three weeks, and my face is starting to get nervous. It's red and blotchy today, a new development that must have sprouted overnight. I imagine that on March 18, right before we leave for my much anticipated Disney vacation. And since S thinks there will be nothing of interest to photograph at Disney, I'm sure that means more camera time for me. Which means there's an alien in my future. Where do you think it will sprout? My nose? Chin? Forehead? I think one on the right cheek and one on my chin. It's the great alienwatch of 2005.

I'm a planner, and so

I'm a planner, and so every day when I wake up, I begin to think about what I will blog about that day. Sometimes I have a great idea and go with it, and sometimes it takes me all day/night to get there. And sometimes, I have a great plan that has to be scrapped because a better topic comes along. Today is one of those days. I was planning on blogging about the photo on the right, because there's kind of a funny story behind it, and with a vacation coming up, it seemed like a plan. However, I read a post today about blogging and judgement in the context of mothering, and I think there is more to say about it, outside of the mother/infertility topic. Because I think it is a very universal thing, judgement.

First of all, because judgement is universal, that means that we all do it. And I really do believe that no matter how non-judgemental you think you are, unless you are a strict moral relativist, you're judging someone. If you're thin, you may judge fat people, and vice-versa. If you're Christian, you may judge non-Christians, and vice-versa. If you're liberal, you may judge conservatives, and vice-versa. Does that mean it's right? Well, yes and no. We judge some things to be wrong all the time--rape, incest and genital mutilation come to mind for me as being absolute wrongs. You can't not sit in judgement of someone who rapes people, whether it be a man or woman being raped, or doing it. You can't remove the judgement; you can't justify that action. And if you can, I'm scared of you and go away.

Of course, some actions are almost always judged to be wrong, but someone may be able to convince you that the action wasn't wrong--murder can be self-defense and theft can be done to eliminate hunger of children. I'm pretty sure that if you kill someone in self-defense, you'll get in trouble--but you'll not be put to death, and the US will recognize that self-preservation is okay.

And then there are things that become strictly gray area--having 14 kids, for example, or being a homemaker (which is what my mom, at one point, called herself--which is why I use the term. If you prefer differently, Moodge, let me know and I'll change it.) are actions and choices that have no real right or wrong answers. We may think that we know the best choice in this instance, but that's about all we can say. Do I think that choosing to have 14 kids is wrong? Do you? Do you think that choosing to stay home with kids is wrong? Do I?

And here's the thing, people. We're allowed to answer these questions. I'm allowed to say that I think having 14 children in the 21st century is irresponsible parenting, no matter how much time you spend with each kid. And I'm allowed to say that I think that being a homemaker is a wonderful and fantastic, and that I'm thankful every day that my mom did it. Is it the right choice for me? Hell no! But I'm allowed to write on my PERSONAL website what I believe. And you can say whatever the fuck you want about it, but at the end of the day, if you disagree with me, and I disagree with you, we're judging one another. You think I'm wrong, and I think that you're wrong, and that's fine. I've always liked this quote (I think it's Voltaire): "I may disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."

We judge because we're human, and frankly, we judge more piddly things than life choices. Hair, clothes, attitude--it's all fair game, isn't it? I'm not saying that we should be cruel to one another--but telling your best friend about that lady you saw on the way to work who had bangs that were three inches high, well, that's not so bad to me. Would I think it was cruel if you said it to her face? Absolutely--which was the point Akeeyu was making. You're allowed to come home and write on your blog: "Man, her hair was ugly." or "I can't believe that woman was talking about the joys of motherhood with ME in the room." You're allowed to say, "Hey, I'm pro-abortion." or "Hey, I'm anti-death penalty." And yes, you're allowed to say, "And the fuckers who are anti-abortion and pro-death penalty make NO fucking sense to me." Doesn't matter if you're being judgemental or rude--because frankly, I find the idea that I have to be "nice" all the time insulting and irritating. But that's another post: about how as women we're supposed to suck it up and be nice to everyone, all the time, and provide validation wherever it is needed. Unh-uh. Not gonna do it.

So all of you that are preaching on that thread about tolerating every woman's choices--unless you're really tolerating every choice that every woman is making, shut up. Just shut up. Because it is virtually impossible to tolerate every choice--it just is. We're really not built that way. All of us have a line beyond which things are intolerable, and for all of us, that line is different. I can't accept or condone a woman choosing to have 14 kids, I just can't. But other people don't accept or condone women loving women, and that's fine. BUT. It's only fine if we do nothing to LAWFULLY stop these things in the gray area from happening. I'm not making a law saying "WOMEN CAN'T HAVE 14 KIDS." And there can't be a law saying that "WOMEN ARE NOT ALLOWED TO LOVE WOMEN." That's what we're talking about here. I can say whatever the fuck I want about whatever the fuck I want until my words become actions like hate crimes, or injust laws. Okay? Though I hate that people preach intolerance against homosexuals, I understand that I have to allow it to make sure that I am allowed to say that homosexuals are fantastic and in fact I really adore gay men.

So that's what I think. I think.

I am SO angry. S

I am SO angry. S and I saw the mega-sized Brita my sister has and decided that it would be perfect for us, since we've been buying water since we moved here in July. (I'm a bit picky about water.) So I bought one yesterday, and last night we washed it, cleaned the filter, filled it up and noticed a big crack in the bottom that was leaking water. The plastic on those things is pretty hard; it's not something we could have done in the washing process. So tonight, we went back to the place we purchased it (Target), only this time a different location (since I bought the last one at the other location), and purchased another (the last one on the shelf again). I took it out in the store, made sure that the hard (clear) plastic part wasn't cracked, and we brought it home.

It's fucking cracked. S thought I was joking when I said, "It's fucking cracked!" but I wasn't. This time, it's the white inside part that is cracked--something we couldn't have done either since it was like that when I took it out to wash it. S thinks it might be because of the way Brita ships the things--without any padding to cushion any hard blows during shipping. Either way, I'm pissed off because I don't fucking have time to go to Target every day. And since we keep buying the last one, I now have to go to another fucking Target store and exchange the damn thing.

Here I thought we were doing such a good thing, saving money, and instead we've upped the price of the fucker in gas money. And I'm beginning to think that maybe this is a sign. We're also running out of water, since we didn't buy any this week due to the fact that we planned on the Brita. Grrrrrrr.

Maybe not twenty, but however

Maybe not twenty, but however many I can think of. I'm obviously still in the midst of this existential crisis, because this sort of thing doesn't get cured overnight. (But to my friends C and T--I know you get it, and thanks. Sometimes I forget that the reason I'm friends with you guys is because we're not really cubicle people, and non-cubicle people often end up together just by the fact that they all end up working in the same jobs [ie Borders]. And sometimes I forget that we're kind of all in this boat together. Funny story--when I was a freshman in college, I was pretty miserable, and my dear Dad, with best intentions, kept telling me everyone was in the same boat. At first, it seemed he was right, but all around me, it looked like people were jumping out of the boat and swimming to shore. But not me. I was stuck in the boat. It became kind of a joke among my friends freshman year--we were only friends because we were all still stuck in the boat. And that was true, because I didn't stay friends with them, and easily ended up hating about half of them before college was over. So yeah, the boat thing--I know that we're all sort of up in air about what we're doing--and T, I heard through the grapevine that is my sister that you got a job, so congrats. I'm pretty sure that it might be like my librarian costume, in which case, you do what you have to do, right? Anyway, I'm glad for you.)

On to the questions:

• Am I the only person in the world who constantly fights with herself about which version of Layla is better: the rockin' version or Clapton's acoustic version?
• Can we designate people as National Treasure? If so, I nominate Robin Williams.
• Have you ever eaten green beans out of the can cold?
• Or am I a freak?
• Is it shameful to admit that I really, really like Avril Lavigne's new single?
• How do Brita filters really work? Aren't you slightly suspicious of them?
• Does everyone who does WW have extreme reactions to real food? For instance, last night I ate a steak and french fries and now I can't be without easy access to a bathroom, if you know what I'm saying.
• Why do libraries and bookstores provoke the poop reflex?
• Am I still addicted to cigarettes if I can't get enough of the smell of them?
• Why does S buy magazines that he will never read?
• Was it a mistake to offer to help with the favors for my cousin's girlfriend's baby shower? If the favors involve butter mints, the temptation to eat them will be the most exquisite form of torture ever. Me and butter mints, we have a history. That's another story though.

I guess that's all. Eleven questions. But S and I have to go cook dinner, and I really should (regretfully) get back to my piles of homework.

I'm having some sort of

I'm having some sort of existential crisis. It's not really related to my pre-Christmas depression; I don't feel the same weight I felt then. I can't even really relate it as an explanation; it's an on-going thought process that isn't bearing any fruit, if that makes any sense. Here's how a typical thought process works (and imagine this strung out over five days or so; we're not talking about rapid quick-change five minute thoughts):

-"I'm so happy. I live with the man I love, we have good times, we're bumbling along with laughter and a healthy sense of what we want and where we're going...

-"Wait. Where are we going? I'm 25 and my life's going nowhere! I'm screwed! The classes I'm taking now aren't useful, I don't have any money, I can't support myself, S has no direction; MY BOYFRIEND HAS NO DIRECTION, we suck at life, we're totally not successful....

-"Well, fuck success anyway. What the fuck is success? I'll be damned if I have to sit in a cubicle someday just to make enough money to buy a huge house for kids I don't want so that I can buy an SUV that I don't want. That's not me. This is definitely more of my style, even if it means I'm not successful by society's standards....

-"Oh god, I'm definitely not successful. I'm not successful at anything. I couldn't get into grad school, I can't figure out what the hell I want out of the next few years, except for things that I can't have, and it seems like all my family my age is lapping me in the race of life....

-"Hold on, this isn't a competition. I refuse to let other people define what I should be, and how I should behave, and how I should live. This is where I am now, and even though I don't want to be here in two years, it's served its purpose quite well. I don't need to follow any schedule other than my own."

And back and forth and back and forth. On the elliptical machine the other day, I realized that I was, if not where I necessarily want to be physically, doing better emotionally than I have been for a long time, and that alone was okay. But then I was thinking about what S and I could realistically hope for after our lease is up here, and I don't have a clue. I don't have an inkling of where we can go, or what we can do. We're both sort of non-cubicle people, and this world is set up for cubicle workers. He has less ambition than me, and that's saying something, because I have slightly more ambition than my sister's cat. Do cats have ambition? Me neither.

Sometimes I think that I threw myself into the library thing because everyone has something, but not me. Because I know I'll be good at it, and it's marginally more interesting than anything else I could end up doing. But really, I don't want to be a librarian. I don't know what I want; I'm 25 now and I think I'm supposed to know. Or at least that's what I think other people think. How concerned am I about it? Maybe less than I should be. I worked happily in retail, with no ambition of moving up for almost three years, and I left because I thought I had the idea that would save me from this moorless life, and it didn't. I still don't want anything like that; my ambitions lie elsewhere. I want to read good books and eat good food (complicated by the diet, no doubt about that) and travel to interesting places. I want to love well, and be loved well. I want to be able to think about more than if the bills got paid and if we can afford this or that; I want to think abstractly and idealistically, to think outside of the box and avoid the box. There doesn't seem to be a place for someone like me in the pantheon of workers. There is no job on the planet that sounds like a good job to me, and if you think I'm exaggerating, I'm not.

This isn't really a new thing for me. I've felt this way since high school and before, even as far back as eighth grade. We had to write "career reports" in eighth grade and I made up a career that I wanted (journalist, ugh) just to write the damn thing. Everyone seems to know what they want to do, at least the people that I know. And if they didn't know, they got a job anyway. I find myself unable to make that concession. It's deeply unrealistic, I totally know that, and it's sadly idealistic and weird to not be able to compromise yourself just to make money. I always tell people that you know, you do what you have to do to make a living, but I feel really disconnected from those words, like I don't know how to make them work in my own life. It's frustrating and scary to be here, but at the same time, sometimes I feel like I have freedom that no one else not in this position has. And sometimes I feel like a big loser.

And right now, apparently the war between the big loser side of me and the freedom rules side of me is being fought at the front of my brain, because it's all I've been thinking about for about, oh, I don't know, 6 months. For a long time, I think the big loser side of me was winning, propelling me to school and a "career", but now I don't feel happy. I don't feel anywhere near as happy as I was at Borders, and I can't say why. I feel deeply unfulfilled, and I'm scared to spend money on a Masters degree that won't make me a better, more fulfilled person, and I'm afraid to say that I think that the degree won't help. I sometimes get on S because he doesn't know what he wants to do, but it's the pot calling the kettle black. I feel like shit, typing that. I'm going to finish up this post and hug him all night, and apologize until I'm blue in the face, because I'm such a hypocritical bitch.

I'm sorry, S (and world). Because I don't fucking know either, and that feels better than wearing a librarian costume right now.

I'm going to indulge in

I'm going to indulge in a little OCD-type behavior and talk again (AGAIN!!) about Project Runway. I think I'm actually obsessed now. I'm not the only one, of course, as it seems that millions of Americans now hate Wendy Pepper and won't buy her dress. She deserves it, of course, even though I usually reserve such hate for people I know. If you haven't ever watched the show, Dan Renzi (who, yes, was on the Real World Miami, but now has a very entertaining blog, and also appears to be obsessed with Project Runway) has written a handy-dandy guide to the show, entitled: "Straight Guy's Guide to (this fuckin' show that their girlfriend really likes) the Project Runway Finale." Frankly, the explanation is entertaining even if you have seen the show (which S has, because I make him watch it with me; or rather, I watch it regardless of whether he is around or not because it is non-negotiable) and the title pretty much explains what you really need to know about the show: it is not so much for straight men unless for some reason they particularly like design in which case maybe on the continuum of sexuality, they're not so much straight as somewhere in the middle. No judgements. S maybe doesn't love the show, but he's into design and he might a little bit like seeing the clothing designed, and he just isn't the prototypical man's man. I love that about him; I could care less if he was straight as an arrow as long as he likes me.

But I digress. I was really talking about the wonderfulness that is Project Runway. Tomorrow night, me and the TV have a date, and it's called Project Runway. I can't wait. If Wendy Pepper wins, you can bet you'll see some sort of post about that, because she clearly isn't the most talented designer. I want Jay to win. I hope Jay wins. Because Kara Saun is talented and all, but um, hello? She's already working as a designer. It's more fun if Jay wins. (And we all know that I really wanted Austin Scarlett to win, because at heart, I'm a fag hag and Austin Scarlett was FABULOUS and I would be his bitch right now if he would let me.)

And one more thing, before I forget. S and I usually watch Saturday Night Live, even though it's horrible, but for the last two weeks, we've sort of lagged on the show, figuring that the show's crap anyway, so who cares? Well, look what I missed: A PROJECT RUNWAY SKETCH. I'm heartsick just thinking about it. From now on, I'll be watching reruns (dammit) until I see it.

PS--I'm pretty sure that this is full of run-ons and sentences that don't make sense is because I'm typing and thinking so fast, and I'm doing that because I'm listening to my workout mix and that includes songs like "Crazy in Love" and "Milkshake" and I really just couldn't be bothered to change it after my workout. In case you were wondering. Also, the title on this post is the title of a super yummy Moby song.

Just to warn you. First

Just to warn you.

First of all, I'm still excited about my Reader's Advisory class, though I think I got a taste of reality today. In my Acquisitions class, we had sort of a book "discussion" based on our selection assignment. We were supposed to find four books, find two reviews about each of those books, and talk about whether they'd be a good acquisition. For the class portion, we were supposed to share the books and our genre. Oh yeah, all the books had to be in a certain genre.
I was fairly excited about this. I think that you can sometimes find new books in situations like this, and I did come home with a list of 10 or so books that I might look to see if my library has. So I went into class mostly looking forward to what was going to happen. Within the first ten minutes of the book "discussion" I wanted to bludgeon my brain out or rip my eyes out or puncture my ear drums. One of the three.

You see, people don't know how to talk about books. I don't need to know every plot point in the book; that's what reading it is for. I don't even really need to know what it's about, save for one sentence or two. Telling me the plot isn't helping me analyze whether or not to read the book. Was it good? Was it bad? Were the reviews good? Bad? Should my library purchase it? Should I read it? Saying this is not good: "So there's this boy and he's kind of nerdy but then this girl decides to play a joke on him by dating him and that's kind of mean of her, but the other kids think it's funny and make fun of him and then the mean kid is mean to this cat and the other nerdy kid wants to rescue the cat but doesn't know how and has all these schemes like wearing different clothes or eating gross food and then the girl realizes she's been mean and sticks up for the nerdy kid and they end up dating which makes the mean kid mad and so he acts meaner but it all works out, sort of."

Um, no. And it was like this all morning. It took 6 women an hour to talk about these books, and only because 2 of the six understood how to keep it to a minimum. It seems like these are people who simply don't read a lot, or don't talk about what they read, at the very least. Because part of talking about books is NOT recounting the plot. Part of talking about books is showing some comprehension of what the book is aiming for; part of talking about books is putting the book within some sort of context. And part of talking about books is knowing what information is pertinent and what information is useless. And a blow by blow account of the plot of a book doesn't work for me. I looked at the clock during one woman's turn, and she took 5 minutes alone to talk about a 32-page kids book. She basically read us the story, but in her own words. It wasn't story-time! It seems to me that maybe these women didn't understand the purpose of what we were doing.

So you can see why I might worry. Still, I have a lot of faith in the instructor of my RA class; and I don't think that class will in any way resemble what happened today. Which is why I'm still mostly excited with a tinge of worry, instead of worried with a tinge of excitement. I still can't wait to rip into sanctioned romance reading. It might be the best ever class just because I can finally say that my romance reading helped me in my career.