I babysat my two nephews, Tristan and Max, this evening. Max, the curly-headed imp, ran around shrieking and falling, leaving a trail of cheddar Goldfish everywhere he went. He kept throwing his favorite blanket over his head and then laughing hysterically when i would pull it off. He was like a little wide-eyed elf, in love with me and his toys and his house and everything he found.
Tristan, on the other hand, was unusually quiet. Typically boisterous and full of spunk, tonight he was content to lay down quietly and watch a movie, clutching his own blankie close. He was uninterested in his usual activities, like eating and stomping around the house roaring at everyone he sees. The fierce sharp-tooth was strangely sedated, perhaps as a result of his long and late nap. Sleeping too much can definitely bring an air of lethargy.
When bedtime came, and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod had sailed back home in their wooden shoe, and we had said our prayers, and had our milk, Tristan wanted to pray again. This time, though, he wanted to be the one talking. So he said, "Dear Jesus, please help Mama Laylee not to be scared, and to know that you are always with her.In Jesus name, Amen."
How is it that children always know just what to pray? Was Wordsworth right--is it because they have so lately come from Heaven that they still have memories of it that connect them to its heartbeat? Does their innocence give them a special insight that the clouded and jaded minds of adults can never see?
Whatever the reason, i am amazed that one simple prayer by a two-year old child can have more of an effect on me than all the eloquent prayers spoken by wise men.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
What Is Dew?
His little blonde head leans over my lap.
One hand clutches his milk, while
the other rubs sprigs of yarn, pale and fuzzy.
His eyes follow the sailors' moves as they travel
through a shimmering night and catch fish
made of ancient religions and fire.
He wants to know, what is dew?
How can i tell him that it is she who now sits with him,
murmuring soft words in his ear?
That it is i who can be seen in early morning, shining
and quiet on the green, green grass,
but gone
by noon,
utterly disappeared?
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod can never tell him
that i am the one clinging to the vine.
I am unseen, but faithful.
One hand clutches his milk, while
the other rubs sprigs of yarn, pale and fuzzy.
His eyes follow the sailors' moves as they travel
through a shimmering night and catch fish
made of ancient religions and fire.
He wants to know, what is dew?
How can i tell him that it is she who now sits with him,
murmuring soft words in his ear?
That it is i who can be seen in early morning, shining
and quiet on the green, green grass,
but gone
by noon,
utterly disappeared?
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod can never tell him
that i am the one clinging to the vine.
I am unseen, but faithful.
The Artist's Studio
This is a few years old, but i like it. I think it's one of my better essays, so i thought i would post it.
The Artist's Studio
My father's studio is small, but at least it is in the house. He used to threaten to put a studio in the garage, and I was always worried that he would get cold out there in the dilapidated barn that we used for storing shovels and rakes. The barn has a dirt floor and a terrible infestation of spider crickets—not a place I wanted my father to be spending his time. So I was glad when he finally was able to have a real studio to paint in, and it was inside the house.
The studio used to be my bedroom that I shared with my older sister, and later it became the bedroom shared by my younger brother and sister. We only had three bedrooms, and with six people in the family, there had to be a lot of sharing of rooms. But when people started growing up and moving out, my father finally had a room to use for a studio. He had waited fifty-five years to have a real artist's studio—I am so glad he finally has one.
The studio smells of oil paint and turpentine, the fragrances of my youth. When I was younger he had to paint in his bedroom, and I remember creeping in at night to watch him, listening to the classical music he always had playing. I felt so peaceful, watching him paint, smelling the mysterious smells of an artist.
There is still an air of mystery about my father's work, possibly because I inherited exactly none of his talent. I am fascinated by the huge books in the studio—books called The Artist's Handbook of Materials and Techniques and The Drawings of Albrecht Durer. There are boxes and jars filled with old and new tubes of paint, with names like Cerulean Blue Hue, Cobalt Violet, and Cadmium-Barium Orange. He has what seems to be thousands of brushes, and I think he actually uses all of them. There are scrapers and mixers and pastels and colored pencils, all tools of his trade. What is truly amazing is how he takes these things and creates pictures of lemons and haystacks and wineglasses. How do you use paint, a thing of color, to create something like a clear wineglass that has no color?
This is the mystery of my father's art.
I have been sleeping in the studio this last week because I had to give up my bedroom to my sister and her husband who are here visiting from Michigan. There is a small twin bed in the studio that is normally reserved for guests, but this week, I get to be the guest, and dream in colors of Cerulean Blue and Cobalt Violet, breathing in the smell of turpentine.
The Artist's Studio
My father's studio is small, but at least it is in the house. He used to threaten to put a studio in the garage, and I was always worried that he would get cold out there in the dilapidated barn that we used for storing shovels and rakes. The barn has a dirt floor and a terrible infestation of spider crickets—not a place I wanted my father to be spending his time. So I was glad when he finally was able to have a real studio to paint in, and it was inside the house.
The studio used to be my bedroom that I shared with my older sister, and later it became the bedroom shared by my younger brother and sister. We only had three bedrooms, and with six people in the family, there had to be a lot of sharing of rooms. But when people started growing up and moving out, my father finally had a room to use for a studio. He had waited fifty-five years to have a real artist's studio—I am so glad he finally has one.
The studio smells of oil paint and turpentine, the fragrances of my youth. When I was younger he had to paint in his bedroom, and I remember creeping in at night to watch him, listening to the classical music he always had playing. I felt so peaceful, watching him paint, smelling the mysterious smells of an artist.
There is still an air of mystery about my father's work, possibly because I inherited exactly none of his talent. I am fascinated by the huge books in the studio—books called The Artist's Handbook of Materials and Techniques and The Drawings of Albrecht Durer. There are boxes and jars filled with old and new tubes of paint, with names like Cerulean Blue Hue, Cobalt Violet, and Cadmium-Barium Orange. He has what seems to be thousands of brushes, and I think he actually uses all of them. There are scrapers and mixers and pastels and colored pencils, all tools of his trade. What is truly amazing is how he takes these things and creates pictures of lemons and haystacks and wineglasses. How do you use paint, a thing of color, to create something like a clear wineglass that has no color?
This is the mystery of my father's art.
I have been sleeping in the studio this last week because I had to give up my bedroom to my sister and her husband who are here visiting from Michigan. There is a small twin bed in the studio that is normally reserved for guests, but this week, I get to be the guest, and dream in colors of Cerulean Blue and Cobalt Violet, breathing in the smell of turpentine.
Phone Calls
The strangest part was that somehow, i already knew. On the train from New York the day before i had felt strangely distant as i watched the trees flash by, and that night in bed at my grandparents' house, i cried because of an unexpected loneliness.
I shouldn't have felt lonely. I had just spent a crazy fun week in New York with my two closest friends, Katie and Jeremy, and now i was at my grandparents' house in Bethesda where i spent much of my childhood. I used to eat orange popsicles and play marble games with my cousins there. I should have felt fine. Instead, i was crying.
At first i didn't know why i was crying, and the sudden realization that i was crying from loneliness startled and unnerved me. Loneliness has always made me nervous.
Jeremy never seemed lonely. You know how some people always seem alone, no matter who is around, like they're stuck in a sadness they can't, or don't want to, get out of? Jeremy was the opposite. He couldn't stay sad for long because he knew there was always more fun to be had.
We were both living in Chapel Hill when we met, and he had the most dreadful roommate. When she kicked him out of their apartment for no good reason and he had nowhere to go, he just called her names like "that tawdry witch," and laughed about her horribleness. I was probably more upset than he was.
Jeremy's presence just made you feel content, happy just to be with him, and laughing, always laughing. I don't think i was ever around Jeremy for more than five minutes before i began laughing. If you went to a party and he was there, the party was perfect; if he wasn't, then you wanted to leave. He was someone you always wanted around; with him, there were never any feelings of competition or inadequacy, as so often happens among friends. He made you feel like you were the very person he wanted to be with at that moment, no matter where you were, and no matter what you were doing. He was the best friend anyone could ever hope for, and i had hoped for such a friend for a long time.
He had seemed different that week in New York, though, in an almost imperceptible way. When i arrived in the city with Katie i called him, and he sounded anxious and unhappy. He was devastated over the deaths of Gianni Versace and Princess Diana. During the conversation, he said, "You know, these things always come in threes--who's next? Madonna?!" I wondered at his strong emotion-- it was unlike him. He seemed unfamiliar, like i was talking to someone i didn't know and who didn't know me. I just assumed it had to do with the influence of the bitter old drag queen, Montana, that he was living with. Montana had an air of death around her. I hated that Jeremy lived there.
When i received the phone call, i was in the shower. I couldn't believe that my grandmother hadn't taken a message, but was actually handing me the phone through the shower curtain. Todd, my boyfriend, was on the other end, calling from Chapel Hill where we lived.
"Hey honey, what are you doing?"
I answered, in my most annoyed voice, "Taking a shower." What was wrong with him? Couldn't i take a shower in peace? I remember so clearly his next words:
"Honey, i have some bad news. Um, apparently, Jeremy has died."
Apparently?
What a strange thing to say--"apparently, Jeremy has died."
"What? What are you talking about?" I said, as i stood there under the water, getting soap all over the phone. Why was Todd telling me this ridiculous and obviously wrong information? I had been with Jeremy just two days before in New York, and Todd was all the way in Chapel Hill--what could he possibly know about Jeremy? Jeremy wasn't dead--what a silly thing to say and what a silly way to say it! "Apparently" his sources were wrong. I just knew that someone like Arthur, who liked to call himself Beven, had created this story just for some drama. He always made up stories that were completely ludicrous and yet expected people to believe them. This had to be his doing. And anyway, what does "apparently" mean? "Apparently" is a word you use when it seems as if something might be a certain way, but you're not quite sure. Todd must not have been sure--he must have heard this story somewhere but not been sure of its truth.
I thought to myself, "He sure jumped the gun in telling me this. He should have waited until he found out what was really going on. Why is he saying this? Why is he trying to upset me?"
I must have said all of this out loud to Todd, because he softly but persistently told me the whole story and tried to convince me that it was really true. He said that Jeremy had died early the same morning that i had left New York for Maryland. I remembered suddenly the strange distant feeling that day on the train and the loneliness that night. At that moment I hated Todd for telling me this horrible absurd news that couldn't possibly be true. But with every second that passed the news was seeming more horrible as i realized that perhaps it was true, and yet still just as absurd.
I felt completely unreal as i got dressed, like i was suddenly a character in a movie in which i didn't know the plot or even the language everyone was speaking. Very slowly, though, i began to understand the plot, as well as the language. It was the worst plot ever concocted and the most complicated language i'd ever heard, with no formulas for conjugations or tenses to help it make sense, but a language with meaning just the same. I kept expecting to hear the phone ring again and to hear Todd telling me that i was right--it was just a mistake and Jeremy was fine and Arthur/Beven was just up to his old tricks again.
When the phone rang a few minutes later, i knew it was Todd.
But it wasn't.
It was my Aunt Lisa, who was thrilled that i was there visiting and started talking very fast right away and asking all sorts of questions. I suppose i answered them all sufficiently because she kept on talking and never seemed to notice the fact that the world in which we all live had just fallen entirely apart.
I didn't have any idea what we were talking about as i sat at the top of the orange shag rug stairs, holding the old black rotary phone receiver to my ear.
Suddenly, i heard Lisa say, "Well, you know what's wrong with most people's cheesecake, don't you?"
Startled, i said no, i didn't.
She said, "It's flour. Most people put flour in their cheesecake and it just ruins it."
I was in shock. I had just found out that Jeremy, my best friend, was dead at twenty-four years old, and my Aunt Lisa's deepest concern is that people stop putting flour in their cheesecakes. Jeremy is dead--he is never coming back and i will never see him again and he will never get up and walk around again and he will never make me laugh again--don't you know we can't talk about cheesecake? This surreal conversation told me something i did not want to know about how the world reacts to tragedies it is unaware of. It does not react at all. How can it if it is unaware? So the earth was still turning....
I don't remember my response.
Later that day i went for a walk and tried to cry, but i couldn't. If i had known how much crying i would end up doing that next week, perhaps i would not have been so anxious to start. As i walked, i remembered how Jeremy looked the last time i saw him. He was running into a hotel wearing only a t-shirt and a friend's coat, which he had wrapped around his legs instead of actually putting on, and it kept slipping, showing peeks of his white underwear. He had waved at me and Katie hysterically, knowing he looked ridiculous, and Katie and i had waved back, laughing, from the car.
Maybe if he had lived longer, some of what i saw as his perfections would have changed into realism, and i would have had a chance to see his flaws. I suppose I could be grateful that this way he will remain perfect forever.
At some point during the next week before his funeral, while i was trying to convince myself that i would somehow have to go on living, someone said something about the death of Mother Teresa. Suddenly, i remembered that conversation on the phone with Jeremy when he talked about these things always coming in threes. Isn't that strange, i thought, that everyone thinks that Mother Teresa was number three?
How could they not know that it was Jeremy?
But i think the strangest part is that, somehow, he already knew.
I shouldn't have felt lonely. I had just spent a crazy fun week in New York with my two closest friends, Katie and Jeremy, and now i was at my grandparents' house in Bethesda where i spent much of my childhood. I used to eat orange popsicles and play marble games with my cousins there. I should have felt fine. Instead, i was crying.
At first i didn't know why i was crying, and the sudden realization that i was crying from loneliness startled and unnerved me. Loneliness has always made me nervous.
Jeremy never seemed lonely. You know how some people always seem alone, no matter who is around, like they're stuck in a sadness they can't, or don't want to, get out of? Jeremy was the opposite. He couldn't stay sad for long because he knew there was always more fun to be had.
We were both living in Chapel Hill when we met, and he had the most dreadful roommate. When she kicked him out of their apartment for no good reason and he had nowhere to go, he just called her names like "that tawdry witch," and laughed about her horribleness. I was probably more upset than he was.
Jeremy's presence just made you feel content, happy just to be with him, and laughing, always laughing. I don't think i was ever around Jeremy for more than five minutes before i began laughing. If you went to a party and he was there, the party was perfect; if he wasn't, then you wanted to leave. He was someone you always wanted around; with him, there were never any feelings of competition or inadequacy, as so often happens among friends. He made you feel like you were the very person he wanted to be with at that moment, no matter where you were, and no matter what you were doing. He was the best friend anyone could ever hope for, and i had hoped for such a friend for a long time.
He had seemed different that week in New York, though, in an almost imperceptible way. When i arrived in the city with Katie i called him, and he sounded anxious and unhappy. He was devastated over the deaths of Gianni Versace and Princess Diana. During the conversation, he said, "You know, these things always come in threes--who's next? Madonna?!" I wondered at his strong emotion-- it was unlike him. He seemed unfamiliar, like i was talking to someone i didn't know and who didn't know me. I just assumed it had to do with the influence of the bitter old drag queen, Montana, that he was living with. Montana had an air of death around her. I hated that Jeremy lived there.
When i received the phone call, i was in the shower. I couldn't believe that my grandmother hadn't taken a message, but was actually handing me the phone through the shower curtain. Todd, my boyfriend, was on the other end, calling from Chapel Hill where we lived.
"Hey honey, what are you doing?"
I answered, in my most annoyed voice, "Taking a shower." What was wrong with him? Couldn't i take a shower in peace? I remember so clearly his next words:
"Honey, i have some bad news. Um, apparently, Jeremy has died."
Apparently?
What a strange thing to say--"apparently, Jeremy has died."
"What? What are you talking about?" I said, as i stood there under the water, getting soap all over the phone. Why was Todd telling me this ridiculous and obviously wrong information? I had been with Jeremy just two days before in New York, and Todd was all the way in Chapel Hill--what could he possibly know about Jeremy? Jeremy wasn't dead--what a silly thing to say and what a silly way to say it! "Apparently" his sources were wrong. I just knew that someone like Arthur, who liked to call himself Beven, had created this story just for some drama. He always made up stories that were completely ludicrous and yet expected people to believe them. This had to be his doing. And anyway, what does "apparently" mean? "Apparently" is a word you use when it seems as if something might be a certain way, but you're not quite sure. Todd must not have been sure--he must have heard this story somewhere but not been sure of its truth.
I thought to myself, "He sure jumped the gun in telling me this. He should have waited until he found out what was really going on. Why is he saying this? Why is he trying to upset me?"
I must have said all of this out loud to Todd, because he softly but persistently told me the whole story and tried to convince me that it was really true. He said that Jeremy had died early the same morning that i had left New York for Maryland. I remembered suddenly the strange distant feeling that day on the train and the loneliness that night. At that moment I hated Todd for telling me this horrible absurd news that couldn't possibly be true. But with every second that passed the news was seeming more horrible as i realized that perhaps it was true, and yet still just as absurd.
I felt completely unreal as i got dressed, like i was suddenly a character in a movie in which i didn't know the plot or even the language everyone was speaking. Very slowly, though, i began to understand the plot, as well as the language. It was the worst plot ever concocted and the most complicated language i'd ever heard, with no formulas for conjugations or tenses to help it make sense, but a language with meaning just the same. I kept expecting to hear the phone ring again and to hear Todd telling me that i was right--it was just a mistake and Jeremy was fine and Arthur/Beven was just up to his old tricks again.
When the phone rang a few minutes later, i knew it was Todd.
But it wasn't.
It was my Aunt Lisa, who was thrilled that i was there visiting and started talking very fast right away and asking all sorts of questions. I suppose i answered them all sufficiently because she kept on talking and never seemed to notice the fact that the world in which we all live had just fallen entirely apart.
I didn't have any idea what we were talking about as i sat at the top of the orange shag rug stairs, holding the old black rotary phone receiver to my ear.
Suddenly, i heard Lisa say, "Well, you know what's wrong with most people's cheesecake, don't you?"
Startled, i said no, i didn't.
She said, "It's flour. Most people put flour in their cheesecake and it just ruins it."
I was in shock. I had just found out that Jeremy, my best friend, was dead at twenty-four years old, and my Aunt Lisa's deepest concern is that people stop putting flour in their cheesecakes. Jeremy is dead--he is never coming back and i will never see him again and he will never get up and walk around again and he will never make me laugh again--don't you know we can't talk about cheesecake? This surreal conversation told me something i did not want to know about how the world reacts to tragedies it is unaware of. It does not react at all. How can it if it is unaware? So the earth was still turning....
I don't remember my response.
Later that day i went for a walk and tried to cry, but i couldn't. If i had known how much crying i would end up doing that next week, perhaps i would not have been so anxious to start. As i walked, i remembered how Jeremy looked the last time i saw him. He was running into a hotel wearing only a t-shirt and a friend's coat, which he had wrapped around his legs instead of actually putting on, and it kept slipping, showing peeks of his white underwear. He had waved at me and Katie hysterically, knowing he looked ridiculous, and Katie and i had waved back, laughing, from the car.
Maybe if he had lived longer, some of what i saw as his perfections would have changed into realism, and i would have had a chance to see his flaws. I suppose I could be grateful that this way he will remain perfect forever.
At some point during the next week before his funeral, while i was trying to convince myself that i would somehow have to go on living, someone said something about the death of Mother Teresa. Suddenly, i remembered that conversation on the phone with Jeremy when he talked about these things always coming in threes. Isn't that strange, i thought, that everyone thinks that Mother Teresa was number three?
How could they not know that it was Jeremy?
But i think the strangest part is that, somehow, he already knew.
Monday, October 26, 2009
The Devil Wears Prada Wasn't Fiction?!?
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Running in Heels, the new reality show about three interns at Marie Claire, is so horrifying, so cringe-inducing, so nightmarish, that i may never be able to read the magazine again. Seriously.
The first day the interns are given some "words of wisdom" by one of the assistant fashion editors, or directors, or consultants, or something...; don't wear spaghetti straps or anything too tight, no chewing gum, and oh yeah, don't speak unless spoken to.
!!!!!!!!
Er.....isn't this supposed to be a magazine for women to help them feel beautiful and powerful and liberated and all that crap? And these girls can't even speak unless spoken to?! If i had been one of those girls i wouldn't have been capable of speaking for at least two hours out of pure shock. I have been reading fashion magazines for years, but i have never run across any advice like this. Somehow i just can't see Marie Claire having an article entitled "Silence is Golden: Why You Should Just Keep Quiet at Work." It's just beyond ludicrous that these people would have such huge egos that they would actually say this to someone with a straight face.
So then, after this enlightening conversation, one of the interns, Ashley, is reprimanded by the aforementioned you-hush-your-mouth assistant/editor/director/consultant blah blah blah because she repacked some clothes from a fashion shoot incorrectly. She was told that if she didn't know how to do something, i.e., pack clothes, then she should ask. Wouldn't that be a little hard to do what with the duct tape over her mouth to ensure she doesn't accidentally speak? Now, granted, this Ashley person is an insufferable prig, but still--how was she supposed to know that she should have removed the duct tape for long enough to ask about Marie Claire's preferred method of trouser-folding?
Also, as it turns out, the famous Nina Garcia has come to Marie Claire to be the new fashion director, and everyone is falling all over themselves in order to impress her. She accepts all of this doting with a smug half-smile. One of the things the magazine is doing in a desperate bid to become Nina's bff, is throwing her a party during Fashion Week. Joanna Coles, the editor-in-chief, who seems like the most decent person in that hell-hole, is so so so stressed because what if enough celebrities don't show up?! What, oh what, shall we do?! But the thing she is most stressed about is that the gift bags for the starving, destitute celebrities have September's issue of Marie Claire and not October's, and the huge poster of the October issue that was supposed to greet everyone as they entered the party is absent. This is a major crisis because Lindsay Lohan is on the cover of October and she is supposed to be attending the party, but, as Joanna says, "she may be offended" if she does not see herself blown up 9000 times, not to mention the fact that people may forget who she is if they don't take her home on the cover of their magazine! So Joanna has Ashley run out and buy every copy of October she can find and bring them back so they can switch it out in the gift bags. *Whew!* Crisis averted that time!
The whole thing is just so unbelievable that i just.......can't believe it. It is literally exactly like The Devil Wears Prada, only without Meryl Streep. The importance these people place on themselves and their jobs is waaaaay over-inflated. I like fashion as much as the next girl, but honestly--where does this sense of importance come from? It's a fashion magazine--they're not curing cancer! If this is the type of attitude the people working at Marie Claire have, i may have to rethink my whole stance on Vogue. I mean, Vogue is a real fashion magazine! I can't begin to imagine what their interns are told to do. Probably get that unpublished copy of the latest Harry Potter book for the editor's kids.
What's that?
J.K. Rowling isn't writing any more Harry Potter books?
Well, if you value your job and want a career in this industry, then you will find a way to make her write another one, you useless piece of trash!
Now go fold my trousers! The right way this time!
0 comments
The first day the interns are given some "words of wisdom" by one of the assistant fashion editors, or directors, or consultants, or something...; don't wear spaghetti straps or anything too tight, no chewing gum, and oh yeah, don't speak unless spoken to.
!!!!!!!!
Er.....isn't this supposed to be a magazine for women to help them feel beautiful and powerful and liberated and all that crap? And these girls can't even speak unless spoken to?! If i had been one of those girls i wouldn't have been capable of speaking for at least two hours out of pure shock. I have been reading fashion magazines for years, but i have never run across any advice like this. Somehow i just can't see Marie Claire having an article entitled "Silence is Golden: Why You Should Just Keep Quiet at Work." It's just beyond ludicrous that these people would have such huge egos that they would actually say this to someone with a straight face.
So then, after this enlightening conversation, one of the interns, Ashley, is reprimanded by the aforementioned you-hush-your-mouth assistant/editor/director/consultant blah blah blah because she repacked some clothes from a fashion shoot incorrectly. She was told that if she didn't know how to do something, i.e., pack clothes, then she should ask. Wouldn't that be a little hard to do what with the duct tape over her mouth to ensure she doesn't accidentally speak? Now, granted, this Ashley person is an insufferable prig, but still--how was she supposed to know that she should have removed the duct tape for long enough to ask about Marie Claire's preferred method of trouser-folding?
Also, as it turns out, the famous Nina Garcia has come to Marie Claire to be the new fashion director, and everyone is falling all over themselves in order to impress her. She accepts all of this doting with a smug half-smile. One of the things the magazine is doing in a desperate bid to become Nina's bff, is throwing her a party during Fashion Week. Joanna Coles, the editor-in-chief, who seems like the most decent person in that hell-hole, is so so so stressed because what if enough celebrities don't show up?! What, oh what, shall we do?! But the thing she is most stressed about is that the gift bags for the starving, destitute celebrities have September's issue of Marie Claire and not October's, and the huge poster of the October issue that was supposed to greet everyone as they entered the party is absent. This is a major crisis because Lindsay Lohan is on the cover of October and she is supposed to be attending the party, but, as Joanna says, "she may be offended" if she does not see herself blown up 9000 times, not to mention the fact that people may forget who she is if they don't take her home on the cover of their magazine! So Joanna has Ashley run out and buy every copy of October she can find and bring them back so they can switch it out in the gift bags. *Whew!* Crisis averted that time!
The whole thing is just so unbelievable that i just.......can't believe it. It is literally exactly like The Devil Wears Prada, only without Meryl Streep. The importance these people place on themselves and their jobs is waaaaay over-inflated. I like fashion as much as the next girl, but honestly--where does this sense of importance come from? It's a fashion magazine--they're not curing cancer! If this is the type of attitude the people working at Marie Claire have, i may have to rethink my whole stance on Vogue. I mean, Vogue is a real fashion magazine! I can't begin to imagine what their interns are told to do. Probably get that unpublished copy of the latest Harry Potter book for the editor's kids.
What's that?
J.K. Rowling isn't writing any more Harry Potter books?
Well, if you value your job and want a career in this industry, then you will find a way to make her write another one, you useless piece of trash!
Now go fold my trousers! The right way this time!
I suppose i've always been a rebellious sort
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Maybe that is why Super Christians just piss me off.
In my family we have a saying--"Oh, don't worry--they're just a Christmas card." This is used whenever one of us runs into someone and, after speaking with them for about 5 minutes, we begin to feel like crap in comparison to their perfect, charmed existence. But of course, no one actually has a perfect, charmed existence, so it's obviously all just a load of rubbish. Like those horrible Christmas cards that you receive every year--the ones that recount all of the amazing things that happened that year in the lives of the sender. They learned so much about themselves on that trip to the Australian Bush, and while yes, there were times they were hot and tired and didn't really love the fact that they hadn't showered in two and a half weeks, they really just became such a better person. Oh, and their fourteen-year old graduated from high school and started teaching physics at one of the local colleges, and they just couldn't be prouder! And the whole family just loves spending time together so much that they have family night every Saturday and they all recount for each other the ways they grew and learned in the past week.
Gag me. I hate those Christmas cards. Not that i need a blow-by-blow account of every fight and sickness that occurred during the year, but honestly, those Christmas cards with the starry-eyed story attached to the photograph of the family in their matching red turtlenecks just makes me want to kill someone.
It's just not real.
Neither are Super Christians.
I have no problem with someone who has a conviction about not watching certain shows or movies, or not listening to a certain type of music, but these people who say they don't watch tv--they don't even have cable!--are so ridiculous. They are the same ones who insist their children dress in fashions from the 1800's--can we say FLDS, anyone? Why is it that dressing like Laura Ingalls somehow makes one a better Christian? And God forbid the women wear any makeup!! You don't want to look like a harlot, now, do you?!
No, Super Christians can not be bothered with wearing normal clothes or having a normal life. They have important tomes to read to their children--those glorious children who never scream or fuss and just want to memorize Scripture. They have to talk about nature and how they sat under the tree and just breathed and wrote a poem about it.
But all of the starry-eyed, breathless commentary on their lives stops when something like pop culture comes up. Pop culture?! What is that?! I don't even know who Paris Hilton is!!!
Suddenly, all the gentleness goes away and you get something that is astonishingly close to snobbery. You must not be very spiritual if you know who all these celebrities are! Why, i've never even heard of that movie! I'm too busy cooking delicious, healthy meals for my glorious children and awe-inspiring husband! You apparently waste a lot of time paying attention to the world!
And what is implied by these virtuous people as they wax eloquent about just how blessed their life is, is that yours obviously is not if you are wasting your time watching tv, going to movies, listening to anything other than worship music, or reading anything other than devotional books--in other words, anything they deem to be "worldly." Editor's note: The Lord of the Rings obviously does not count as something worldy, since it was written by a Christian man who was friends with C.S. Lewis, and anyway they're only watching it because of it's important lessons!
Ironic, i think, that so much of this is yammered on about on blogs, Facebook pages, and Myspace pages, although far fewer are on Myspace because Myspace is bad, whereas apparently Facebook is quite Christian! And there is seemingly nothing wrong or worldly about wasting so much time on the internet--just don't waste time watching tv! Television is evil!!!!!
Whenever i read these things, i find myself wanting to post about all kinds of things that would just horrify the Super Christians' sensibilities. Even if i just made up some crap, it would still seem more real than the garbage these people are spewing out.
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In my family we have a saying--"Oh, don't worry--they're just a Christmas card." This is used whenever one of us runs into someone and, after speaking with them for about 5 minutes, we begin to feel like crap in comparison to their perfect, charmed existence. But of course, no one actually has a perfect, charmed existence, so it's obviously all just a load of rubbish. Like those horrible Christmas cards that you receive every year--the ones that recount all of the amazing things that happened that year in the lives of the sender. They learned so much about themselves on that trip to the Australian Bush, and while yes, there were times they were hot and tired and didn't really love the fact that they hadn't showered in two and a half weeks, they really just became such a better person. Oh, and their fourteen-year old graduated from high school and started teaching physics at one of the local colleges, and they just couldn't be prouder! And the whole family just loves spending time together so much that they have family night every Saturday and they all recount for each other the ways they grew and learned in the past week.
Gag me. I hate those Christmas cards. Not that i need a blow-by-blow account of every fight and sickness that occurred during the year, but honestly, those Christmas cards with the starry-eyed story attached to the photograph of the family in their matching red turtlenecks just makes me want to kill someone.
It's just not real.
Neither are Super Christians.
I have no problem with someone who has a conviction about not watching certain shows or movies, or not listening to a certain type of music, but these people who say they don't watch tv--they don't even have cable!--are so ridiculous. They are the same ones who insist their children dress in fashions from the 1800's--can we say FLDS, anyone? Why is it that dressing like Laura Ingalls somehow makes one a better Christian? And God forbid the women wear any makeup!! You don't want to look like a harlot, now, do you?!
No, Super Christians can not be bothered with wearing normal clothes or having a normal life. They have important tomes to read to their children--those glorious children who never scream or fuss and just want to memorize Scripture. They have to talk about nature and how they sat under the tree and just breathed and wrote a poem about it.
But all of the starry-eyed, breathless commentary on their lives stops when something like pop culture comes up. Pop culture?! What is that?! I don't even know who Paris Hilton is!!!
Suddenly, all the gentleness goes away and you get something that is astonishingly close to snobbery. You must not be very spiritual if you know who all these celebrities are! Why, i've never even heard of that movie! I'm too busy cooking delicious, healthy meals for my glorious children and awe-inspiring husband! You apparently waste a lot of time paying attention to the world!
And what is implied by these virtuous people as they wax eloquent about just how blessed their life is, is that yours obviously is not if you are wasting your time watching tv, going to movies, listening to anything other than worship music, or reading anything other than devotional books--in other words, anything they deem to be "worldly." Editor's note: The Lord of the Rings obviously does not count as something worldy, since it was written by a Christian man who was friends with C.S. Lewis, and anyway they're only watching it because of it's important lessons!
Ironic, i think, that so much of this is yammered on about on blogs, Facebook pages, and Myspace pages, although far fewer are on Myspace because Myspace is bad, whereas apparently Facebook is quite Christian! And there is seemingly nothing wrong or worldly about wasting so much time on the internet--just don't waste time watching tv! Television is evil!!!!!
Whenever i read these things, i find myself wanting to post about all kinds of things that would just horrify the Super Christians' sensibilities. Even if i just made up some crap, it would still seem more real than the garbage these people are spewing out.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Reality check
You can scream and cry and bluster and gnash your teeth and lie to yourself all you want
but he will
never
be yours.
This is not
to be mean.
Just to
put the
truth
out there.
but he will
never
be yours.
This is not
to be mean.
Just to
put the
truth
out there.
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