But Seriously, This Week

This Onion article* has it right.  This week is yet another time where my country has been put through the wringer.  Boston, my future town, in fear and upheaval.  A city-wide lockdown.  Rumors flying around, unsubstantiated claims.  Talking to twenty sixth-graders about current events has proven the existence of mob mentality, has been the face of the vulture media, desperate to feed on the flesh of sensationalism.  Might sound like overkill, but the amount of enjoyment these kids get out of telling a story that their uncle told them where this dark-skinned, accented guy was seen walking on rooftops and was taken into custody, well.  That kind of makes me ill.

And it's not just the kids.  It's the journalism this morning, the masses of people hankering for sound clips from estranged uncles and random classmates, touting high school students (who willingly say that they didn't know the suspects well!) as "friends of the suspects."  Networks bringing in terrorism experts--experts who, to their credit, have been trying to diffuse any shocking Al Qaeda and jihadist claims--just so that they can dedicate hours to discussing this intense Islamic plot.  It's more than depressing, it's frustrating.

Add that on top of events like the explosion at Waco, and the failure of the Senate to vote on gun control (not so much a because of the legislation not passing [even though come on], but because it exhibited the extent of our corrupt government, especially when you factor in quotes like this one from Richard Feldman), and you could say my faith in this nation has been shaken.  Suddenly, this world isn't a complex sphere full of sorrow and happiness, it's just a straight up scary place.

So yeah.  I spent most of this week feeling sad, and then indescribably angry, and now I'm just exhausted.

Just like the first article said, this week is done.  I'm done.

As a collective, can we agree to sit on the couch, cry, and watch happy videos until the world goes away?

Sounds good to me.

*Incredibly strong language.  Be ye warned, sensitive souls.  But if you like, the Onion has rocked it with their coverage this week.  Find all the Boston articles HERE.

Golden Years

If this isn't in your head right now, you are fired.

My birthday is coming up.  Not just any birthday.  My GOLDEN birthday.  The one where I turn 24 on the 24th.  And maybe it's the youngest child in me, but I'm excited for it.  I love occasion.  I completely relish feeling special.  Maybe that's childish, and maybe it shows a lack of humility, but dang-it-all, it's my birthday! If not now, when?  When else is there an excuse for circumstance and pomp?  Especially on this, the one and only Golden Birthday!

So, just in case you feel inclined to celebrate in the joy with me, here are some things to spark gift-giving inspiration.  I'll just leave this here:

This took me a while, and I'm inordinately proud of it.  I should take a class to be artsy and design-y.

1- Relish: My Life in the Kitchen, by Lucy Knisley

2- The City of Owls and Night of the Owls, by Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo

3- The Revolution was Televised, by Alan Sepinwall

4- RKives, by Rilo Kiley

5- Hands of Glory, by Andrew Bird

6- YOU.  I don't care if it's letters, cards, Facebook messages, carrier pigeons, whatever-it-is, I want to hear from you.  Since moving to Seattle I've learned to value friendships on a deeper level.  And I'm trying to be a better friend, and to show those people that I care.  Because guess what?  I know a ton of incredible people.  And often, I miss them (by the way, those people? It's you. It's definitely you).  I've carved out a great little niche here in Seattle, and I'm optimistic for Boston, but that doesn't mean I sometimes ache with all the missing of my gangs, roomies, crews and pals.  My homies, if you will.  With everything going on right now, and today in particular, I just want to hold you close, hold those magical connections near and dear.  And while these books and musics have been bouncing around in my head for a while, what would really make my Golden Birthday super golden is hearing from the people I love. 

So. 7101 Roosevelt Way NE, #206.  Seattle, WA 98115.

Nine days and counting.

Trying my Heart Out

Yesterday, the official School Spelling Bee was held in my classroom.  All three participants were there.

Clearly, it was thrilling.

Afterwards, I sat and watched the third place girl with the shiny eyes and the quivering lip. A nine year old at a school desk, body shaking with the pressure of holding back sobs.  Elementary life is awful.  To a child, life is black and white.  How can they understand losing not because they were bad, but just because someone else was better?  To them, it's only interpreted as one thing: ultimate failure.

One co-worker went up to her. Instead of sympathetic hugs and empty words of "you did great!," this teacher offered a firm handshake and some wise words:

If we don't try, then we don't know what we can do.

Never trying is as tempting option. No criticism.  No defeat.  No disappointment.

But there's the other side of the coin. No admiration.  No victory.  No success.

My own decision to try has led me here:

There might be tea in that harbor!*
*note: that is not "Boston Harbor."  There is no tea.  Don't be ridiculous. 

Behold.  As of this August, that dreamscape of history and culture will be my home.  And this lovely institution will be my new alma mater:

Boston University, baby!

It's exhilarating.  It's terrifying.  I'm gearing myself up for the greatest failures, criticisms, and embarrassments I've ever had.    But I'm also ready to work harder, be more passionate, and experience the fruition of my dreams more than I imagined possible.  It's all going to happen.

In preparing for the world of Boston, I've started making a Boston movie playlist, something I can chip away at over the summer months.  It's surprising how many Boston-set movies revolve around crime and despair.  Is there something in the water?  Does the Revolution-inspired air of freedom encourage people to flout societal laws?  I mean, I know that I'm planning on joining the Irish mob and causing some mayhem once I get there, but I didn't think that was the norm.  I just thought Boston was full of preppy Harvard types and tweed-clad intellectuals.

"Happy" Boston Movies

Fever Pitch

Legally Blonde

Ted

"Depressing, Gritty, often Crime-related" Boston Movies

The Departed

The Social Network

The Town

Boondock Saints

Gone Baby Gone

Mystic River

Shutter Island

Does my quest to watch Boston movies mean I'm relegating myself to a summer of drama?  Or are there quality offerings that make the city sparkle?  You know, other than things like 1776, because I seriously cannot handle any more Revolutionary War songs.  Leave our Founding Fathers and their vocal chords alone.

My Kind of Valentine

Behold, the fruits of my morning's labors:

To you, dear blog world, with all the sincere love I can muster.

Butterfly Wings

According to chaos theory, even the slightest diversion off a course can spiral, leading to completely unforeseen results.  I'm no mathematician--far from it, with my love of words and fear of numbers--but the theory makes sense.  I've had too many math problems go awry depending on where I put a negative, or whether I inverted such and such fraction.  After that, it becomes a matter of carefully hunting, tracking down the one moment that set it all off.

Too confusing?  Try history.  One of Ben Franklin's maxims states that, "little strokes fell great oaks."  What seems like a small start can blossom into something magnificent.  While it may feel inconsequential at the time, sooner or later that tree will be felled.  The mighty task will be finished.  Those results?  Bigger than thought possible.

Two years ago today, I unknowingly tested those theories.  Like the proverbial butterfly in Brazil, I fluttered my wings.  Thirteen months and six days later, a tornado happened.  In a small white room in Bountiful, that tornado picked me up and transported me to the Oz-like wonderland I now inhabit.

I didn't know that this is where my life would lead.  If I had known, I probably wouldn't have made that phone call, watched that movie, or let my heart move on.  How was I to know that the vastness of the world was so comfortable?  How was I to know that I would be safe and warm, as long as he was there?

But now.  Now I know.

I Don't Date Often...

...but when I do, it's a smashing success.

Nothing like wool pea coats, the perfect drink from Starbucks (raspberry white hot chocolate with soy), Queen Anne, and Groundhog's Day at the Uptown with guest Stephen Tobolowsky to make a girl feel special.  Oh, and the perfect date, of course.  Taylor is pretty rad.

BING!

"That's what film is--a visual poem."  -Stephen Tobolowsky

Shut it Down!

30 Rock is not the show it once was.  In fact, it hasn't even been a ghost of the show it was.  Season six was downright cringe-worthy, and while season seven has been slightly better, it's still only provided a few weak smiles instead of the belly laughs of old.

But I have to admit.  That finale.  It blew me out of the water, sucking me into the Rock hilarity of olden days.  

For the first time in a while, it didn't feel forced.  The show didn't feel like they were trying to betray characters, or build up to something, or change focus.  It felt honest.  They touched on all the greats--the crazy catch phrases, the dynamic in the writer's room (something I have sorely missed over the past couple of seasons), Jenna's insecurity and Tracy's insanity, the sudden reappearance of Pete (PETE!  How I've missed thee), and a return to NBC power dynamics, this time with Kenneth in a new role.  30 Rock was always at it's finest when it was grounded in reality, and somehow, inconceivably, it regained that dynamic in this last episode.  Whether it was dealing with the difficulties in negotiating with networks or the struggles in producing a workable show, Fey was at her best when the madcap moments had a logical jumping off point.  But that same madcappery took over the show as of late, making it almost a chore to watch.

And I felt that way through most of this last, fateful season.  I could not have cared less about Jenna's unwindulaxing, or if Jack was going to tank NBC.  There was no reality in it, so there was no investment.  And of all the insane plot devices, nothing was more irksome than Liz's relationship with Criss.  As played by James Marsden, Criss came off as a completely false character.  It was difficult to believe that his relationship with Liz even happened, and not only because Tina Fey and Marsden had absolutely no chemistry.

And then they got married.  And for the first 75% of the episode, I was a seething ball of rage.  This made no sense!  What a lazy way to get a point across!  What betrayal, to take the depth that was once Liz Lemon and make her into this harp-tastic poster model for the worst kind of feminist, the kind who kicked against all typical gender roles in an attempt to make the playing field more even.  And as I rolled my own eyes at her sweatshirt wedding, with it's overly-conscientious rebuttal against tradition, something unexpected happened. 

Liz softened, bending to the fairy tale, but wishing to make it uniquely hers.  She realized that she wanted something that spoke to her, that didn't celebrate her as a bride, but her as a wonderful beautiful person that was making a significant change in her life.  She looked at Criss with questioning in her eyes, until he said, “Liz, it’s okay to be a human woman!”  I cheered.  I might have teared up a little bit.  I definitely was won back over to the 30 Rock side of life.  Finally, after too long in the world of the bizarre, it was back with some truth.  Some plain, unforced truth that made me fall in love with Tina Fey all over again.

After that, it was easier to say goodbye.  There was no longer bitterness about the show that had once been, but only fond memories of what it was and how it ended.  Perfectly, drifting on a boat to find itself, but back again in those last few moments.  Wrapped up neatly, but with loving nods to what came before.  Just like Fey herself, the finale carved out it's own niche while retaining a respect for the medium, but all while acknowledging the things that made it great--both in the greater TV sphere (snow globe, anyone?) and in it's own unique mythology (Rural Juror!).  Well done, 30 Rock.  I'll slow clap that ending out.