Felicity

“I’ve discovered the most horrible thing: by giving up who I am, I’m getting exactly what I want.” –Felicity

The Million Dollar Question

Girl on TV: Why I did it? How the hell I’m supposed to know why I did it? Not like I sit here and analyze myself like some kinna freak.

Nick: How does she not?! I wish I was that lucky.

It’s the million dollar question, my dear.  I wish I could be that lucky for a day, too.

Let’s Get Rowdy!

Katharine: Did your gift arrive yet??

Me: I dunno, let me check. (walking to front door). Holy crap, there’s a box the size of a small pony at my door.

Katharine: Open it!! Open it!!

Me: Let me mail this thing to you first, geez.

Katharine: No!! Open it NOW!!

Me: (dragging box across floor) Good God this is big.

Katharine: It’s not as big inside.

Me: I’m getting the scissors.

Katharine: Good.

Me: (opening box) Oh. My. God. (squeeling) YOU GOT ME A ROWDY!! YOU GOT ME A ROWDY!!!

Katharine: Happy birthday, Jossie!

Me: You are officially the best friend EVER!!!!

Tights Are Not Pants

Kelsey: I didn’t realize.
Blair: That tights are not pants?!?! Honestly!

Tights aren’t pants. Even Gossip Girl agrees.

I Get it Now

My town just got a new Home Depot. Boy am I glad, because otherwise I’d be forced to shop at a store whose name isn’t plastered over the entire nation. I’ll admit, I’ve been there already to buy more stain for the bookcase I’m refinishing.

But the whole thing has gotten me thinking. We live in a country that not only desires conformity but practically drowns us in it. I have yet to live in a town without a Home Depot, a Starbucks, a McDonald’s. Even the small IA town where my dad lives, population 5,000, has a McDonald’s. We’re told that we’re supposed to hit the gym after work, fear getting old, hate wrinkles, work to prevent global warming, eat burgers but want to be vegetarians, stay thin at all costs, let our jobs be our lives, give each of our children their own bathrooms, attend a top-tier college, and like reality TV.

Even our rebellion is full of conformity. When we rebel we paint our fingernails black, pierce our eyebrows, wear fishnet gloves, smoke pot, skip class, ride skateboards, play the guitar, listen to hard music, and draw skulls on our Chucks.

Every part of my life is full of pressure for me to be just like everyone else. I’m told to straighten my curly hair, wear trousers with less of a boot cut, pluck my eyebrows to a particular shape, desire a job in the corporate world, and name my dog Max.

Fundamentally, I’m not against any of these things. I don’t mind straightening my hair or buying new trousers and whatnot. But the fact that people in my life are actually telling me that I’ll never get anywhere in life if I don’t do these things is simply wrong. If I’m going to get a promotion based on whether my hair is straight or curly then I don’t want it. Keep your good job title and increased salary. I want nothing to do with a culture where my dog’s name can make or break friendship opportunities.

I get it now. I get why people jump out of planes, bungee jump off bridges and do other mildly insane things. You have to. If you want to feel alive or like you’re not just another drone in this place where you can’t tell one Banana Republic sweater from another, you have to do something to escape.

If you’ve never read Brave New World or A Wrinkle in Time, do it now, before they go out of print or something.

Confessions of a Literophile

Literophile. Its not in my dictionary. In fact, right now Firefox is telling me that I ought to change it to either necrophiliac or audiophile. It might not be my most ingenious concoction of my linguistic knowledge, but I like to think it would make Jasper Fforde proud. I like language. I love words. I am obsessed with the written word.

I adore wandering around libraries and bookstores, but used bookstores are my personal favorite. There’s something sacred about books that have already been loved looking for new homes. I find my desire to buy used books is pretty much equal to my desire to take home the homeless puppies outside the pet store on adoption days. And that’s pretty bad, just ask my boyfriend. I find it impossible to get rid of books. What if I want to refer back to something in them…someday?? I broke this code when I was moving a few years ago, and every once in a while I set off in search of one of the two dozen or so books I gave away and, when I come up short, kick myself all over again for letting those books go.

If you’re not a book nerd, you probably haven’t made it this far. Although I’m never able to quite put my finger on it, there’s something amazing in the way a good book smells, the rustle of pages in a quiet room, the texture of a spine under your fingers. So I would like to offer my sympathies to those of you out there who don’t experience what my friend Sonya once termed bookgasms.

Literophelia does have its drawbacks, though. Namely this: books are expensive. And heavy. I move a lot, which means that I rid myself of everything unnecessary each time this happens. Furniture (save bookcases) goes, kitchen appliances go, clothes go, TVs and DVDs go, books stay. I think its safe to say I have a problem.

In a modern culture that values literature (and reading outside the computer in general) much lower than ever before, what’s a literophile to do? I have so few friends who read, and I mean really read. I’m not talking Nora Roberts here, I’m talking actual literature. I took my dog to the clinic where my boyfriend works a few weeks ago, and had a disheartening talk with the vet about books. He asked my what I wanted to do with my life (a loaded question to an aspiring professor who works in a bank) and I said I was going for my MA in Comparative Literature. He then proceeded to expound on the greatness of James Patterson. All I could think to say is that Patterson has, indeed, written a great many books. I’m sure this did nothing to make me look intelligent in his eyes, but that’s ok. What strikes me is how common this reaction is, so many people pulling their B-rated movie version of book knowledge out when I say that I want to be a literature professor. It makes me wonder, if I met someone who wanted to be a film professor, would I expound on my love of Scrubs?

To be honest, I don’t think so, but I’m not altogether sure. Lately, I’ve started to feel as though I’m very different. And I don’t mean in the cool I-love-her-awesome-haircut kind of way, but rather in the is-there-something-wring-with-that-girl kind of way. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m pretty sure I’m not exactly average either.

Scrubs

Scrubs is my favorite show.  Stupid, I know, but its just so funny…So there are all these rumors going around that last week’s episode was the last Scrubs ever, but then I read this article on Wikipedia that says its moving to ABC for an eighth season.

Regardless, all I have to say is that, if “My Princess” is the series finale, I’m sorely disappointed.   Although they do get my props for making Todd a fairy. But seriously, making the series finale a poorly done fairy tale flashback was less than ingenious.

Here’s to them making an eighth season.