Saturday, July 26, 2008

Do the D-I-S-C-O (BB Fanboy post)

Here's the problem with me "revealing" myself as a fanboy of something: I am obsessed with essentially everything, and am also very vocal about said obsessions (Lauren just read that over my shoulder and immediately said "it's true!" so you know I'm not lying). Here is an abbreviated list of things with which I am publicly obsessed:

1. So You Think You Can Dance
2. Harry Potter
3. Shakespeare
4. Henry VIII and his four thousand wives
5. Bad movies (Like The Mummy, and P.S. I Love You, and The Phantom, and a bunch of others)
6. Dashes
7. Existentialist philosophy
8. Select people
9. Aromat
10. Slurpees

Okay, I think you get my point. I am an excitable person. So when I read this post I was like, "Crap. Should have played things a little closer to the chest. No one's going to be surprised now!" But then I remembered disco. Only Lauren really knows how much I love disco.


Now, before anyone gets too excited about how dorky this is, and starts making jokes about John Travolta, etc. I would like to point out that I mostly mean the style of dance. Here is an example of what I mean. Also, if anyone watches this and isn't immediately obsessed/immensely impressed, please don't tell me, because I will just be devastated.

So anyway, we all know that my current number one obsession is So You Think You Can Dance and that I value it over the property and overall happiness of all Spokane residents. (Juuuust kidding!) The people with whom I watch this blessed television event (Lauren and Ju-Ju-Ju-Julie and the Trouts) know that I get super stoked every time Dorianna Sanchez (the disco lady) choreographs something (even though the dancers this season haven't quite achieved the Sara-Neil perfection of the afore-linked video). I LOVE IT! It's so pink and shiny and smiley (which would be my chosen words if I ever had to write another one of those college admission essays about three words that describe yourself). Technical dancing skills are all very well and good, but approximately no one would be impressed or at all entertained if you busted out some contemporary dance in a club.

Need more proof that I love the dorky disco? Please reference my overwhelming adoration of Mamma Mia!


The Abba montage outfits were admittedly heinous (see above, from the broadway show), but how much fun was that movie? I've always had a soft spot for Abba, which I inherited from Jo. When we saw the movie, people were singing in the theater, which in my estimation is proof of a good time. Since I secretly wish life was more like a musical, I was super into the sudden musical outbursts. Here's one now:


Who wouldn't want to be friends with people like that? I have already informed Lauren that she will be expected to sing, and dress in ruffles, should I ever find myself wondering which of three incredibly attractive men is the father of my charming bastard child.

And here's something you probably didn't know, which further proves my commitment to disco: if you were to stop me any time in the next couple of weeks, I think you would find that my ipod is playing any one of about 8 songs from this movie. Oh, or the song from the SYTYCD disco routine. If you're really sneaky, you could probably find me dancing in the stacks at the library during work (because I like to provide a soundtrack to my book-finding efforts. It lightens things up, since I'm usually looking for books with pictures of dead bodies for the Stiff exhibit.)

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Danger, Will Robinson!

Do you ever have that moment, where all of a sudden, you realize that you have unwittingly put yourself in a totally non-negotiable position? You are bopping along and then you pause, come out of your fog, and think "Oh shit. If this were a movie, everyone in the audience would be saying 'yeah right, as if anyone would be stupid enough to get themselves in that situation.'"Like in horror movies, when they run upstairs, or wander into the woods at night.

I don't often find myself in these situations, but I am a little Pollyanna-ish about the world, so it's happened once or twice. I frequently imagine how mad my mum would be if she could reviewmy actions on film. Approximately half the things I did in France would have earned a "You silly bitch" from one (or both) of my parents. (Sidenote: that is an affectionate term in my family, I swear. It even sounds cute in my mum's accent. The Johnsons are very into using completely unsavory names as terms of endearment.) Spending the night in the Bordeaux train station in the company of a particularly un-charming, crazy homeless man (obviously not by choice) was admittedly not the smartest decision I've ever made. Wandering around a rough Parisien neighborhood at 4 in the morning, also not especially sound judgment. I was alone for most of my month-long Interrail experience, so I can tell you that some pretty suspect characters enjoy loitering around Italian and Belgian train stations.

My first thought for this post was to write about accidentally stumbling into a protest (with police, and tear gas) in Budapest. Now, I know what you're thinking. How is it possible to accidentally find yourself in a protest? Because there are a lot of people, and they are yelling, you might think they would be easy to avoid. Well. It just so happens on that particular day they were ALSO holding a candlelight vigil to mark the 50th anniversary of the Soviet tanks pulling in. So there were a bunch of people standing around, quite peacefully, when my friends and I went into the House of Terror (both the Nazis and the Soviet secret police occupied this building, at different points of time, and it's a museum now. God, it's horrible in there. But I will have to save that for another post.) We came out, and the masses were moving along, so we figured it was something of a parade. We went to dinner (Indian, and delicious, in case you're wondering) and when we came out again, there were more people! We assumed they were the same people, and they'd just wound their way back to that part of town, so we didn't really think anything of it. They were going our way, so we just fell in with the crowd as we made our way back to the hostel. Sure, they were way louder than before. I just kind of assumed it had taken them awhile to get into the full swing of things. Maybe like, phase three of the vigil? Obviously I don't speak Hungarian, so I had no idea what was going on UNTIL some man stopped me and asked for my pashmina. RUDE! I was completely confused, and tried to explain to him that a) it was freezing, so I was disinclined to acquiesce to that particular request b) it was brand new and c) pink was not really his color. After a very long pantomime between the two of us, and approximately two words of english on his part (which I think were "gas" and "police") we determined he wanted to use it in case the cops (who were apparently up a few blocks) decided to gas everyone. As you can tell, this guy was not especially concerned about my respiratory health. We decided that it was a pretty good time to find an alternate route to the hostel. Except for Ande, our resident Peace Studies major, who wanted to actually join the protest. Typical.

So that was probably one of the most dangerous situations I've been in. But I can't say it felt dangerous, because nothing happened. Except, I almost lost my pashmina. I mean, for most of the experience I had NO idea what was happening. I probably would have been more freaked out if I spoke Hungarian. But isn't that always the way? Ignorance is bliss? My friends were around me. I (probably rather stupidly) assumed everything would be okay. Strength in numbers, right? Besides, everyone loves Americans! (Just kidding.)

At any rate, it seems to me that it's not so much the place that's dangerous, but the people. When Hobbes said life is "nasty, brutish, and short," I think he meant that we make it that way. Except for some places like Australia, where every plant and animal is trying to kill you (another story for another post), mostly it's the people that make a place safe or dangerous. Which is perhaps why when I think about dangerous places, I immediately think of the crazyhead in Bordeaux, or creepers in the train station, or a mass of angry Hungarians. I also think of this guy I encountered on a bus once. I was going home from downtown Bellevue (the yuppie capital of the world). As I waited at the transit station, he came up behind me and repeatedly tapped on the glass behind my bench. Then he got on my bus. He smiled at me (in a not nice way) all the way home. After I got off the bus, he continued to smile at me, through the window as they drove away. And then he got off at the next stop, just down the road. I have never been more terrified, or more concerned for my overall well being, even though my house was less than 15 minutes away. I grew up in that neighborhood. We buy corn at the Red Apple market there, and last-minute birthday cards at the Hallmark. My dad and I used to go to the Dairy Queen after tee-ball games. My elementary school is just up the hill. But in that moment, it was the most dangerous place in the world to me.


As a happy p.s. though, I called my male friends and they quickly came to my rescue. Captain Creeper went away without much fuss.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

as lauren would say, nom nom nom

Julie and the Trouts are the best! Aside from turning us into big hippies and teaching me the purpose of a crisper drawer (as it happens, not where the butter is supposed to go), they also BAKE. And they bake very, very well. First, there were Julie's cupcakes:


How perfect are these bad boys? I think they are really highlighted by Lauren's considerable Vanna White skills. And even though these cupcakes look too good to eat, you eventually get over it and discover they are offensively good. There is a cherry center. It's like a gusher, but also a cupcake. Which makes this cupcake eating experience like, the best day of elementary school EVER. (Get it, because when I was in elementary school, Gushers were hot lunchtime trading commodities, and you got cupcakes whenever it was someone's birthday? Speaking of elementary school, did anyone else have that whole day where you brought a sleeping bag and snacks and just read all day? I LOVED that day. But that is entirely beside the point.)

And then Karen made banana bread for tonight's viewing of SYTYCD. With no nuts! (And noooo high fructose corn syrup.) She and Jim had all these fancy toasting/buttering tricks to make it a particularly bomb banana bread experience. I wish I'd thought to actually take a picture of Karen, since she's the one who actually made it, but instead I took a couple of awkward pictures of a half-eaten slice on a plate, and one of lauren eating her piece. And that picture includes Jim looking more comfortable in our kitchen than I do (but we're working on that).

Sunday, July 13, 2008

You Devil Syrup!

Well, yesterday we went to the farmer's market. We, in this case, is me, Julie and the Trouts. (In case you're wondering, I like saying "Julie and the Trouts" to the tune of "Bennie and the Jets". Try it. It's fun!) Anyway. I have always been pretty nonchalant about food. Like, I don't think about it too much, unless I'm hungry. Which technically is all the time, but then I'm not thinking about how it got in front of me, or what's in it. I know, I know. I am one of those Americans.

Fortunately, I am also a rower. Or at least, I was for seven years. The main function of a rower is to sit in the boat and do whatever the coxswain/coach tells her to do. Anyway, my point is that I'm good at following directions. I just need someone to directly give them. For example, I always turn the lights off when I leave a room, because I once went to see the Dalai Lama speak and that's what he told us to do. I'm very obedient.

So when Jim and Karen explained that high fructose corn syrup is the devil, and that I probably should stop eating it approximately 3464710308231 times a day, I thought "No way dudes, I am sure I don't eat it that much."

Um, false.

So this is what I've been doing all weekend: I eat, and then I think "I wonder if THIS has hfcs." Then I find out that it does. Then I wander around the apartment swearing, and try to find something to recycle (to make up for it). Holy crap, people! It's EVERYWHERE. This high-fructose thing has officially rocked my white bread world. And that white bread is probably laced with...well, you know.

Friday, July 11, 2008

BB post 7 - "fireworks"

If you're looking for a way to seriously mess up my Thursday night, fire works.

Last night, Jim, Karen, Julie, Lauren and I were settling down to watch So You Think You Can Dance. We were greeted cordially by Cat (the host) and the dancers started performing the opening number, which involved tracksuits and black lights. It was kind of weird, to be honest. But, I'll never be able to form an educated opinion about the performance as a whole, because RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DANCING, fox news (those bastards) interrupted to present "breaking news" about the fire in Spokane. A fire which I'd like to point out is only moderately larger than that produced by a zippo lighter. Ok, that's a lie. But someone should tell Fox news that a "breaking news" segment does not last OVER AN HOUR LONG. We got interviews, about twenty minutes of the same STILL picture, and several particularly riveting segments in which a woman read her email. Or rather, gestured to it as if we could read the screen ourselves.

Thank God for my mother, who focused all her texting energy on providing a blow-by-blow account of the action. It was pretty cute, actually. She was abbreviating left and right (though I'm not sure if that was intentional or the byproduct of technological frustration).

So, I'm mad at Fox news and Spokane in general. Oh, and if you're wondering if I called the news desk to bitch about it...I did. I was ready to give them what-for too, except they didn't answer the phone. Typical.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Bloomsbury Post 6.2 - Hand

I figured, since I put forth two prompts, I should at least do both of them. I'm not really sure what possessed me to open the palm-reading can of worms, as I (like Lauren) am a little iffy on the whole thing. I recall once at a company picnic they brought in a tarot card reader. I was just about to leave for France, and had a whole round of grad school applications on my horizon. I asked the woman about my career - that is, I asked her about my intention to become a professor. She said - I still remember it verbatim, which is funny since I JUST said I don't really buy into this kind of stuff - "I'm sorry, sweetie, but I just don't see that working out for you". First - rude - don't call me sweetie. Particularly when you've just casually shrugged my future off. Secondofly, maybe she just knew the job market for professors sucks. Maybe she herself was a failed PhD! So maybe ten years from now I'll be reading tarot cards at company picnics. Which means I'd better take this palm reading post pretty seriously.

I picked my left hand, even though it's my dominant hand. Because I like being left-handed, and also because I like being a girl.

The Heart Line: 
Begins in the middle: Falls in love easily.
(Not sure I agree with this.)
Smaller lines crossing  through the heart line: emotional trauma. 
(Oh hey! Faaaaabulous.)

The Head Line: 
Curved, sloping line: Creativity! 
(That almost makes up for the crappy heart line)

Deep, long line: Thinking is clear and focused. 
(Fantastic. Except, I think anyone who has ever had a conversation with me would likely disagree. Ben, for example, spends most of our conversational time trying to tie up the loose ends I leave scattered all over the place.)

Multiple crosses through the head line: momentous decisions
(Doesn't everyone have momentous decisions to make?)

The Life Line: 
Long, deep: vitality
(here's hoping.)

Swoops around in a semi-circle: strength and enthusiasm
(I think this is true. I mean, anyone who sits near me during So You Think You Can Dance can plainly see I have oodles of enthusiasm. Possibly too much enthusiasm, considering it's a tv show. But I am enthusiastic about other things too, like Socrates, Shakespeare, and buying DVDs.)

The Fate Line: 
Ok, none of the descriptors matched my fate line. It breaks, but does not continue in different directions. So maybe that means I'm prone to many changes in life from internal - rather than external - features? But really, I just made that up, because it seems to be more accurate. 

My hand seems to be a Fire hand: 
Square or rectangular palm, flushed or pink skin, and shorter fingers; length of the palm greater than the length of the fingers.
-Spontaneous, enthusiastic, and optimistic
-Sometimes egoistic, impulsive, and insensitive
-extroverts
-do things boldly and instinctively

I...kind of agree with this. I wouldn't particularly consider myself an extrovert, since I am kind of ridiculously shy. But the rest of it I think is pretty accurate. 

So that's it. Also, I would like to mention that as I sat here in the AML writing this post, Jim was laughing at me pretty much the whole time. I would say something like "Never let it be said that I don't suffer for you guys" but this whole thing was my idea. So it's my own damn fault. 

Sunday, July 6, 2008

delicate

I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I'm pretty girly. I have hot pink pants, for pete's sake. I like to paint my nails, and read about celebrities, and buy shoes. I heed Mindy Kaling's blog the way some people heed the Bible. So you would think I would have very little trouble finding something overwhelmingly delicate in my life. Nevertheless, I am struggling. I can find a lot of indulgence, perhaps. A significant amount of fluff, but nothing particularly delicate without getting into some stuff I'd rather not discuss on the internets. However, since some of my blogging compatriots have been so generous with themselves this summer (ie, since I essentially tear up every time I read Rachel's blog) I would like to offer something a little more substantial than just some bullshit story about how my bones are more delicate than I realized (hence the metal plate in my arm) or the lace bobbins in my grandmother's house or my eyeballs (as I am currently peering at this computer screen through new glasses).

I started off with the dictionary entry for delicate, since that seemed as good a starting point as any. And you know what? I was surprised. I was expecting the first definition to address the easily wounded, or the intricately designed. But the first definition was:

Pleasing to the senses, especially in a subtle way.

Fascinating.

The very first thing I thought of was air. The smell of the air has always been oddly important to me, which seems kind of like a bizarre characteristic of some sort of Disney villain. Can't you see it now? Cruella DeVil, teetering down the street in sky-high stilettos and baby seal fur, bitching about the smell of the air? I can see it, at least. And I'm not talking about when you're driving along the highway and you catch a whiff of skunk, or when you drive into Moscow. I'm talking about a subtle scent, so subtle that it seems less like a smell that's bothering you, and more like the place itself is just giving you the creeps.

The inverse of the creepy-air smell, of course, is warm and inviting - just a generally content smell. Real estate brokers will tell you that it's baking bread, or something like that. But again I think that's a little too obvious, don't you? My favorite is the smell the air takes when it's about to rain. Or, the odor right before a big electrical storm. These scents are almost imperceptible, but so lovely. These smells are a quiet assertion of presence, and in those moments before the storm I feel like I too am more present. Those are wonderfully calm moments, and I love them for their quiet dignity.

Ok, that's probably more on my love affair with smelly air than any of you really needed. But, it kind of sets the groundwork for my larger, original point (also known as the point I was going to make before I actually looked "delicate" up in the dictionary).

There is something subtle in the way the air changes as you move from place to place. My home in Bellevue, as I've mentioned, pretty much always smells as if it's going to rain. The air in my temporary home - Pullman - smells like heat and humidity (at least, it seems to these days). The air at Jo's house - yet another home - has the weird, tingly current you inhale just before a really powerful sneeze. (I don't think it smells like this for most people, but I am, tragically, really allergic to Bampton. It is like Pollen Land there.) So I suppose it's fair to say that I've collected this weird affinity for delicate shifts in air scents because I have this impulsive need to keep moving. I've been thinking about my pack-up-and-move bug a lot recently, because I've been here in Pullman for a year now. That means it's time for me to get antsy again. I'm like Juliette Binoche in Chocolat, but not in any of the cool mistress-of-chocolate ways. Just in that move-every-time-the-wind-changes way. I've only got a year of this chunk of my life left, so now my vision of the future is once again kind of an inchoate, shifting image. Generally speaking, this is the way I like it. It's exciting to think about the way the air will smell in my new home (wherever that may be). But, in this case, what is exciting is also incredibly selfish. I leave. I leave all the time. It was recently pointed out to me that I have about a billion best friends. The English student in me recognizes, immediately, that "best" is a singular superlative. But Lauren, who in fact is the one who pointed out this "best friend in every port" situation, is totally right. I can in fact, off the top of my head, think of seven people I'd classify as best friends. Best friend from high school. Best friend from college. Best friend from my sorority. Best friend from the crew team. Best friend from Scotland. Best friend from France. Best friend from Pullman. And I adore these people so, so much. And what I'm wondering is, when will I stop leaving these people? Isn't the ability to stay put a mark of adulthood. And if it is...when will that bug...bite?