The First 26 Reasons to Not Be a Smoker

1) You can say you're better than the smokers for all of these reasons.

2) It's hard to quit to be better than all those people. 

3) Cancer. I mean, high blood pressure, pneumonia, increased risk of CAD, yada yada yada, but really. CANCER.

4) The smell is unattractive. 

5) So are your teeth. 

6) And let's not forget the wrinkle effect.

7) Or the sick voice. 

8) People who can climb a flight of stairs with ease are sexy. 

9) I'm not the only one who thinks so.

Haha, Robin's derp 

10) It's expensive. 

11) Plus, you don't even get to use these things anymore.

12) And it hasn't been glamorous since you could. 

13) It's just one more choice you have to make. 

There's a difference, I guess?

14) It's just one more thing work your life around. Like, who really has time for smoking breaks?

15) You contribute to Big Tobacco and all the lobbying it entails. I mean, you're taking away your own political influence there. Be a statistic in the right direction. 

16) Dat ash... 

Insert high pitched scream

17) Those butts...

18) They're finding a cure to the diseases it inevitably causes by animal testing. 

This is your fault, smokers. I'm calling Sarah McLachlan on you. 

19) You lose your sense of taste. This could be like, twenty reasons on its own. Chocolate, Mac n Cheese, fine wine and cheese, your mom's best baked goods, LATTES! What if you could never taste LATTES again!?

20) Literally everything you own smells. Bye bye resale value... 

21) It reduces your circulation so you are colder. All. The. Time. 

22) You know what else happens when you can't get your blood pumping? 

SO MUCH HIMYM. Not even sorry. 

23) Friends are like potatoes; if you smoke around them, they die... or something like that. 

24) People around you (cough FRIENDS cough) won't make "that face" when they're trying not to be bothered by your smoking smell. (Double bonus, the coughing will go away too). 

The Original HIMYM

25) Oh! Those people that cough at you when they walk by! 

26) You aren't even allowed to do it anywhere anymore. But sometimes you're allowed to do it outside, segueing perfectly into...

...BONUS: 27) This. You don't wanna be outside in this.

So maybe this was all just an elaborate framing technique to bitch about the weather. Maybe this WAS just a petty "challenge accepted" post in response to a Facebook comment.

But for realzies, don't smoke. 

12 Signs You're Growing Up

12 Reasons You Feel Old Enough To Be an Adult
But Not Quite Old Enough to Be Good At It

A Smattering by Yours Truly

1) Your vocabulary
The words "rent", "payday", "budget", and "busy" have replaced "lunch money", "allowance", "curfew", and "exhausted", but you haven't quite yet phased out "Mom! I need money!". 

2) Your habits are old habits

Your favorite movie as a child just produced a promising sequel and you have yet to see it in theatres, may even be planning on waiting for the RedBox.
"Oh. Yeah, I guess so..." says Person Who Dressed Up For Every Harry Potter.
"Why were you not at the midnight premiere in full costume?" says Person's reflection.
Person shrugs, and accepts that dressing up for animated movies is better suited for the screaming tweenagers and toddlers Person wanted to avoid by not seeing it in theatres.

3) Your social life

"I can't, I have to work." has become an acceptable and viable excuse for not going out. 

4) Your hours of operation
You have become aware of the establishments in your area that function on your time, which is any of the 24 hours in a given day. And you've needed them during each of the 24 hours.

5) You're good at numbers

Social Security

Credit Card

Drivers License
Phone (at least 7)

You have ALL OF THOSE NUMBERS memorized, as well as a few more. And you know which box to check on a W4, but still call your parents during tax season.

6) Your biological clock

You see a child, you want a child...

My ovaries ache.

...But know you cannot have a child. Nor do you actually want one, it's not practical, shut up instincts! No one likes you!

7) Your palette, and its associated skill set
Suddenly, Ramen and PBJ and EasyMac don't quite cut it. You know the intricacies of your oven, its quirks and shortcomings. You can season pasta sauce to perfection. You can convincingly lie about your ability to discern the difference between basil and oregano. You are an adult. 

An adult who still buys enough Easy Mac, Ramen, and PBJ to feed your college-student self for like, a day. Maybe. 

8) Your driving habits

No longer are you the extremely cautious, speed limit minding 15 year old just trying to pass your test and get your license. You have given yourself wholly to the driving gods, and kiss your sun visor under every yellow light. You shoot the gap and have driven 80 miles an hour through residential areas. 

But still call your parents when you get in trouble. 

9) Your reaction to music 

Suddenly you feel a distinct disconnect between your playlist and that of the younger generation, and are somewhat surprised when you hear anyone younger than 15 listening to anything remotely like your iPod. 

Or maybe it's when Thrift Shop comes on in the car when your nannying and the children sing along with the Kidz Bop version that you feel distinctly older. 

10) Your presence of authority

Little kids have no problem asking you for your professional opinion. They expect you to know the answers like their mommy would. 

Then you go and ask an adult before you answer them. 

11) Your humble abode

You have started living on your own. You cook, you kinda clean, you even decorated your own room. You buy your own groceries and pay your own rent, and then anxiously check your bank account and maybe call your parents for more money, just this once. 

12) You didn't prove me wrong.

Be honest. Am I really all that wrong? 

Hospitality, Holy Water, and Other Flooding Thoughts

Thursday, September 12, 2013, 26 hours since the first puddle.
Tipi Loschi house

I remember how this started. It was a small drizzle, harmless. This crept up on us, soundlessly, as though Thor took no part in its design. Then drizzle became flood.

I'm not entirely sure how this happened, but somehow I've found myself in a house I'd never noticed with people I've only just met, and nowhere else to go, and no way to get there, even if I did. 

The place I've come to call home, my apartment here in Boulder, my haven after a year of displacement, was invaded by millions of raindrops as aimless as I am, just trying to find where they're meant to go.

I am not alone in this. In either, really. I am not the only person sleeping on a floor I've only just set foot on. Nor am I the only one searching to find a home, a niche, a destiny, even just a destination.

I've been drifting through this process. I don't know what the appropriate course of action would be. Natural disasters are things that happen to other people, not to me. I'd not been touched by the chilling fingers of tragedy without a few layers of "someones" I may or may not know, not without layers of distance keeping me safely within my comfortable existence, virgin to the experience of first-hand devastation. 

I still don't really feel devastated. I'm used to couch surfing, and it's nice to have company. And the company I'm in, it's quite nice.

It started with the girls, Filiae Dei, the group my roommate found while converting to Catholicism. These girls, their hospitality is overwhelming. A hot shower, a dry bed, a few good meals... these simple necessities otherwise out of my reach were given to me with a concerned smile and a sweet, understood promise that nothing was expected in return. They just want to help, and I will never forget my gratitude for the solace they folded into the blankets they handed me.

Their house was safe. It was sturdy, spacious, and untouched by the overwhelming amounts of water careening through the streets of Boulder. 

Until about dinnertime today, just as the roads became treacherous to navigate and the sun had laid to rest the joy of the day.

The games we played, the stories we told, the great sense of relief after a night of blind purpose, the sun that shined today was somehow brighter from behind the clouds, because we were safe, we were clean, we were dry, and the problems of my apartment were in someone else's hands... All was well.

It was a bubble, a small flaw in the otherwise placid ceiling, a tell-tale sign of our dream's end.

The bubble, we knew, was the tip of the iceberg. The sanctuary of 15 people had been breached. Water was pooling above the living room, anxious to do to this haven as its sisters had done to mine the night before: slowly creep into the comfort we had found.

People react in different ways to almost everything, this I've learned. Danger is part of everything. Some enforce their brow and sternly divulge a plan. Some suggest ideas riddled with fear. Others broaden their shoulders against the brow enforcers. Some weep, some pray, but then there are those who watch and listen, back against the wall, leaning as much on it as their faith in the future to stave off the memories of ceaselessly shuttling water from the floor to the sink, fighting the most losing of battles. Leaning on their resolve to never have to fight a losing battle again. 

The plan was decided, to brave the river-like streets and find a new refuge. 

Packing was simple, I hadn't had time to unpack, really. I looked to the prayer group, and was drawn by their anchored souls. My determination paled in comparison of their faith. While the house bustled in upheaval, I sat on the floor, listening to the entire rosary, 4 tear-choked voices led by Micah's strong faith. 

The trucks came and were loaded in the standard fashion, women first. Few by few, we climbed into the cabs of the lifted trucks, and by chance I wound up in the pick-up bedecked in camouflage and draped with an American flag.

My driver, Colby, embodied a different kind of faith. His was a faith in freedom, the kind that only the country-blastin', flood-bravin', red-blooded American can know. His confidence fording the 3 and 4 foot currents in the streets must have come from those deep roots of liberty that beat his blood racing through his veins.

I'm not sure where those truck boys wound up (Colby's basement had flooded, I don't know if he had anywhere to go), but more than anything I hope they're safe. I hope their faith didn't misguide those souls who believe in the land of the free, and would risk their lives to fight disaster in the homes of the brave. 

When we got to the new place, Tipi Loschi, the home of the enforced-brow, we made new friends, our refugee group growing with every passing hour. 

We sat down to watch a movie of desert tales and drank cups of tea. Some started storing as much water as we could. Some made calls to family. Some had to look away from the screen, could only look at the walls below the windows, waiting to see the silvery, creeping line of displacement making its way into this new haven. Some fought memories of the last time an evening was spent watching a movie, at home before all of this started, when the rain was nothing to fear. 

Now I'm sitting by the bathroom door, listening to the laughter and pop music emanating from the main room, charging my phone before they cut our power. We have stored as much water as we can before they shut that off too.

I can hear everyone speaking around me. I hear hospitality colliding with convicted morals as boys and girls alike try to find a place to sleep. The tears of the girl so concerned for her image that she is sobbing at the thought of sharing a town home with boys tonight. 

These boys, who sent us in the trucks first, to save us before the roof collapsed, I trust them. These good Catholic boys who share the same morals... she would cast them out into the rain, through the doors they opened for us, to walk to a new home in the pouring, relentless, perpetual rain.

I hear friends consoling each other, I hear the awkward silence of those who have set amusement aside for the sake of deep emotions brought on by the storm. I hear the smiles on the faces of those who cling to amusement for sanity. I hear my own thoughts fighting to make me worry, to make me dwell on the loss, the absent security, the unknown events that are barreling towards us like and with the wall of water down Boulder Canyon. 

Today, tomorrow, yesterday... All of a sudden I've lost touch with time. I'm floating through on heavy breaths and unsure steps toward what I hope is the right future.

At this point, I know very little but this: when it was almost time to give in, when panic was imminent, what kept it at bay was the faith I could see, that reminded me of the security of childhood when I knew I believed in what Christianity stands for.

And tomorrow is a new day, full of new battles, and I go towards it, armed with nothing but hope.

Then and Now: Home Alone

Remember when staying home alone was absolutely the coolest thing you could do when you were like, 8? When you broke into the sugary cereals and that stash of Oreos your mom hid for herself and didn't know you had found? Remember when being left home in middle school was awesome because it meant watching all those crappy cartoons that were on while your parents normally watched the news or other adult-y shows? Remember in high school when being left home alone was the best because you could make all the bad decisions you couldn't make when your parents were there?

REMEMBER WHEN BEING HOME ALONE WASN'T THE SCARIEST THING IN THE WORLD?

Here's the story.

I'm in my new apartment in my new town, listening to old punk rock and web surfing for night stands and rugs. The album of old punk rock runs out, which is fine. Quiet is nice, too. It's odd, I usually have my iPod on 'Repeat All' but that's okay. I'll turn it on if the quiet starts bothering me.

Then there's a bump in the hallway. And another. And another right in front of our door. The handle bumps and jiggles. There's shuffling about in the hallway. There's another bump.

"Hello?" I call. Maybe my roommate got back and couldn't get her keys out.

*Mumble grumble*  says the hallway in a deep, masculine voice. Not my roommate.

The shuffling in the hallway continues; I become acutely aware of my lack of defense weapons. I'm getting lightheaded from holding my breath. I count to ten and let it out, then go toward the door. The shuffling shuffles away.

There's an Amazon package on the doormat. And one at the door across the hall. I laugh, grab the package, and go back inside, being sure to lock the door.

I get back to my computer, I keep surfing the web, la da da da da.

Then THIS starts playing out of the dead silence with the great acoustics of an empty apartment.

And I'm practically in tears.

Now, I'm blogging about it, and I'm laughing, but still practically in tears. Oi vey. So now I remember what a racing heart feels like.

Somehow, when you're supposed to be the adult, when you don't have the protective figure granting you independence, and you're just the one who's supposed to be in charge, you feel a lot more vulnerable.

Being home alone now is much less fun than when I was 8, 12, or 16. Now it's not about the freedom, it's about the responsibility. Amazing how growing up does that to you.

On a final note before I get back to surfing: Congratulations, New Found Glory. You've successfully pranked me like no one else ever has.

2:40 am

I am entirely convinced that everything happens for a reason. There is a design to life and each moment is some small piece of that design, like tiles in a mosaic.

So there's got to be a reason I woke up at 2:40.

I wasn't woken up, nothing happened, there were no bumps in the night. I simply dreamed myself out of sleep. I think that's probably a good thing, I was dreaming about a night of waiting tables. How in the world that became the late night solace of my psyche, I will never understand, that job is far from a haven.

I'm quite frankly unhappy with the direction this blog post has turned, I was hoping that maybe I would have some profound thought, some intense realization that would change the course of someone's day, anything to make it worthwhile to be up at this hour (now 3:10). Here comes an abrupt change of topic, I'm sorry, but consider yourself warned.

I love late nights. I love when everything else goes so still, but the air is still buzzing with the heat of the day and all the insect songs. Simple sounds, like footsteps on a stone pathway, make echoes you don't hear in the day. I love the shape of nighttime, how shadows don't show what you know to be there, how suddenly perception can't be trusted. I think there's a metaphor hidden in there somewhere.

Maybe nighttime is more than just a time of day, but entire eras of life. It's that time when you can't see what's around you quite as well as you normally can. It's that time when everything just feels different, you feel like your movements are against the turn of the Earth, like the path you're walking is somehow newer and different, though you've been here time and time again. It's that time when you feel a little scared of what you don't see. It's when you lose sight of what you've been so sure of before, and that scares the Dickens out of you because anything could be waiting for you around the corner. The thing is, if something was waiting around the corner, you wouldn't be able to see it in the light either. That's the point of being around the corner, it sneaks up on you just the same.

Nighttime is exciting, you don't have to look around, you aren't missing anything if you're not looking everywhere at once, you can look dead ahead and see almost everything. You can look up at night and feel incredibly small, but part of something much bigger, like a tiny tile in a massive mosaic. Because everything happens for a reason, like waking up before 3 am, because now I feel calm about the changes coming my way, because it's just a little bit of nighttime. And my world is just in a state of calm around me now, and I just hear my footsteps a little better now. They've always echoed this way, I've never been able to hear it. And sure, maybe there is something big and scary lurking ahead, but maybe not. Maybe the biggest thing heading my way is a sunrise, but if that waits a little longer I don't mind. It's only 3:30 now, plenty of time to fall back asleep if the sun stays away. 

The Beautiful and Damned

"Because I know I'll get nothing accomplished until I can get these thoughts out of my head and out into the world, I'm taking a break from studying for calculus and writing my personal review of Luhrmann's adaptation of The Great Gatsby. Brace yourselves.

I didn't expect to love the movie. Going into it, I knew the anachronistic soundtrack would throw me. I knew what kinds of movies Luhrmann liked to make. I knew the story. I knew the actors. In fact, there isn't much over the course of the movie that actually surprised me (except maybe when Izzo started playing on the bridge). I was neither overwhelmed nor underwhelmed. I was just... whelmed. I was submerged in what Luhrmann presented as the 1920's for 143 minutes and on the other end, I had a lot to say.

Fitzgerald wrote The Great Gatsby with the endgame of an audience disillusioned of the 20's . . ."

I wrote that segment on Friday, having seen the movie the night before. The problem was, I got stuck. I didn't know how to process what I was feeling about the movie. I'm not sure I even knew how to feel about the movie, to be quite honest.

It's been what seems a long time since then, and I've finally come to terms with my reaction to the film. I've refrained from discussing it too much (with the exception of my immediate viewing party), just to make sure the opinions I post here are purely my own. I have not read any other reviews but one, and have glossed over any status update that could even remotely resemble a Gatsby response. 

I do not, however, live under a rock; I have opinionated friends who know how I love to spout opinions on such matters as literature and its many adaptations. These friends like to remind me that Gatsby tanked in the box office and that the overall reception has been poor. I know that. I may be socially odd, but I'm not socially incompetent. That being said, I will now ask you to accompany me through the thought process that is my reaction to The Great Gatsby. 

In terms of craftsmanship, the movie was excellent. I appreciate the thought that went into every cinematic decision, and for that I applaud Mr. Luhrmann. If you saw this movie without the knowledge that he directed Romeo + Juliet and Moulin Rouge, I think you might be able to guess it. His fingerprints are distinct, his point of view unique, and in some ways well-suited to the great undertaking that is The Great Gatsby. The novel itself is arguably the most widely read and recognizable pieces of American literature, and therein lies Luhrmann's curse. 

By and large, people are possessive of Gatsby. It's a story that is easy to interpret and even easier to connect to. But as each reader has a different mindset, each reader has a different interpretation. I know people who interpret Nick to be gay or Gatsby to be black. Even in re-reading it myself, I find that I am interpreting it differently than I did three years ago, and Luhrmann presented an interpretation vastly different from either of mine, and from what I can extrapolate, from everyone else's too. 

The movie's theme was clearly altered from that in the book. It was heavy on the visuals and obvious motifs, but much lighter on the nuances and substance that make the novel so interesting. The book is an experience that coaxes scholarly thought out of the hardest of sophomore heads. While the novel was meant to express Fitzgerald's disillusionment of the 1920's, the movie was made to market. It spoon feeds the verbiage that was so intricate and insightful in text, which makes all the profundities inane. To me, it seemed to rely on the obvious, the well known, and the recognizable. I can't be the only one who feels that the screen adapters read the book a la Sparknotes.

With this, the studio's purpose, in mind, I tried to remove myself entirely from my feelings for the novel and focus strictly on my viewing experience, and that lowered my hackles. 

The movie as a movie was not terrible. There were some brilliant moments that stuck with me. Tobey Maguire's "I bought cakes!" still makes me smile. Leo's struggle with the clock was painfully relatable (*1). Most significantly, though, Luhrmann's signatures were actually pretty exciting. The grand cinematography of the parties, the eccentric use of cars, the contrasted stylizing of the Valley and the Eggs, the artistic incorporation of music, even the floating words on the screen- it all had appeal to the deepest recess of the artistic portion of my mind. He found a medium that he could use to express his craft well. The fact that he compromised the integrity of the medium itself seems to be all that people can talk about. 

The story itself, though, after removing Nick's rectitude as a character and making him solely Gatsby's golden retriever (*2), was relatively vapid. It became a love story that we've seen before. Let's draw parallels, Jeopardy! style.

A: In this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays a character who falls in love with someone else's girl and ultimately dies.
Q: What is Titanic?

Maybe a little refinement.

A: In this Baz Luhrmann movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays a character who falls in love with someone else's girl and ultimately dies.
Q: What is Romeo + Juliet?

Maybe a different approach.

A: In this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays the lead role of a man whose lifelong obsession causes him to die alone, except for the one special friend who likes to watch his obsession play out.
Q: What is J. Edgar?

Not quite... 

A: In this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays a man who makes a lot of money illegitimately in order to bolster his appearance and make up for his tumultuous relationship with wealth (or lack thereof) in is youth. He eventually uses the money to throw some notable parties. Along the way, he falls in love with a girl from the south, but cannot bring himself to marry her because of his financial situation.
Q: What is Catch Me If You Can?

That last one is a stretch, I'll admit, but I get carried away with games like that. It's like 6 Degrees of Bacon, but with DiCaprio movies. Brownie points to whoever can make Gatsby sound like Inception. Double points if you can do it with Shutter Island (*3).

Now that I feel good about giving the movie its dues independent of its inspiration, I would like to say a few words about the compromised integrity of the aforementioned medium. 

As I said a while back, this book is incredibly recognizable, but more than that, it is well loved. No matter what the producers did, they were doomed to fail miserably in the eyes of the academic community. If they had played it classically and strictly by the book, everyone would have been bored. "We know," we would have said, "we've read the book, there was nothing all that great about Gatsby." Nothing could incite in us the same thrill as piecing together Fitzgerald's meaning for the first time. 

Instead, the movie's purpose became marketability. Jay-Z produced the soundtrack so our ears would be entertained. Baz Luhrmann directed the movie so the grandeur and fantasy of the 1920's would dazzle our eyes. They simplified the story to Daisy and Gatsby in the frame of Nick's therapy journal, with the intent of playing to our emotions. But  in the end, even after all this stimulus, our brains were left wanting more: more substance, more of what we felt while reading the novel.

Gatsby is a beautiful story, but the movie itself was damned from the start. Yet despite my very best efforts to remain true to what I feel while reading the story, there's a part of me that can't help but wonder what right I have to criticize their interpretation against mine. Maybe just being exposed to that perspective has me disenchanted of the entire story of Gatsby. Maybe Luhrmann maintained Fitzgerald's theme (perhaps inadvertently) in the end.


Before I leave off, some quick notes. 

1) Chrome does not like it when I use the word relatable. Will someone please tell me who is the dummy in this situation, me or the computer?

2) Golden retriever is the perfect analogy for Nick in the movie.

Gatsby: "Let me lure that cute girl over with my new puppy, bitches love puppies."

Gatsby: "I'm stressed out, Imma go vent to my dog."

Nick: "I love my master! He let's me stay in the small house in the yard and feeds me and takes me on walks(drives)!"

Nick: "My master died so I'm gonna sleep on the stairs in his house because I don't know what to do with myself."

3) I couldn't find a way to integrate this into the post, but this will always and forever be my favorite of Baz Luhrmann's works. If you can find a way to play Draw Parallels with this, I will be forever grateful. -> Click Here

Reminders

This week is a week I'm glad to see the end of. Every day this week has been marked. April now bears an ugly scar for an entire week, right through the middle of the month. Historically, the 14th (Lincoln, the Titanic) and 20th (Hitler's birthday, Columbine) already have negative connotations. The year 2013 just fleshed out the days in between.

Just to recap (for anyone who's been under a rock,) Monday was the Boston Blasts, Tuesday the country let itself slip into a comfortable state of 'slacktivism', Wednesday was the explosion in West, Texas, Thursday was the beginning of the manhunt for the bombers, and Friday was the day they caught the second of the pair. 

I think what makes the West Texas event so profound is that we were slipping into the slumber of slacktivism after Boston. We thought "that's enough crisis for now" and paid our respects and posted our statuses and thought we were done. We thought we could be done. Texas may have been more error than terror, but the losses are more numerous than Boston. But can we really qualify one tragedy against another? Is that more or less fair to the victims of either? God forbid there's anyone who suffered from both, I couldn't even begin to fathom. 

And then, as a reminder that we are truly never done with this, that some people are inherently bad and merciless, the suspects from Boston reared their ugly heads, and MIT was the setting for the violence. The sound of gun shots and more explosions, even a car crash  riddled the air in Cambridge. The whole thing seems like something out of a movie. 

Then the entire city of Boston was put on lockdown. One of the biggest cities in the world, one of the most powerful cities in the country was a ghost town yesterday, residents waiting with bated breath behind locked doors for something to happen. At least they finally caught the second bomber. I know I slept more soundly for it.

Meanwhile, the Texas community is still rebuilding itself in the shadow of the bombings. Remember that?

And to end the week from Hell, my immediate community is torn between two very different reasons to note 4/20. On the one hand, the air above 5280 is a little cloudier today, dense with marijuana. On the other, below the cloud, the memory of some reminds us that today is the fourteenth anniversary of the Columbine shootings. Thanks to the program Rachel's Challenge, 4/20 is a day I remember for starting a chain reaction that has positively affected so many lives, but it's a double edged sword. When this day rolls around Littleton, it still marks a day when hatred reigned. There are some days when sunshine just seems out of place.

I hope that when this week rolls around next year, I heed the advice I'm about to spew.

I think we should look at this week, as it gets buried further and further in history, as a reason to be grateful for what we have. We should look at the positives (the outstanding emergency crews in Boston and West, the noteworthy work of the FBI and BPD, the fact that we, unlike Syria, repay terror with justice, the fact that it's over, to name a few).

We should take this week as a reminder as to why we choose to be good people every day. To my knowledge, you, Reader, are not malicious. You don't carry in your heart a germinating seed of hatred. And even if you do, maybe you choose to deny it nutrient, maybe you choose to replace it with hope, hope that whatever you hate will change, will evolve. I hope it brings you understanding and peace.

We as a race must evolve to survive. I as a person must evolve in that I need to learn to honor and respect the magnitude of things without bearing it on my heart, mind, and shoulders. I need to discover a more productive way to react than sitting at my computer and blogging about it. I need to find something active. Every action is incomplete without its equal and opposite reaction, and I need to find that reaction, because Facebook just doesn't cut it. 

Meanwhile, take a moment today to respect the victims of the Columbine Shooting, privately or publicly. It will always be a big deal. 

April Showers and May Flowers

I think what we need right now is hope. I'm dedicating this post to the lives lost and affected by the tempestuous April, and to the tenacious will we carry as a community. As a believer in the swing of things, I want nothing more than to promise sunshine and springtime as reward for weathering the storm. I can't promise it, but I can encourage anyone to believe it and work for it. It's what we all deserve. 

It's been a hard week in the world, and I know I don't have to say that, because you, Reader, probably feel it. There's nothing I can say that others before haven't said, or even that I haven't said. So here are words of great others before me on which to pin hope for the passing of the storm. 

"The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief." - William Shakespeare

Blackbird

"He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." - Friedrich Nietzsche 

Let It Be

"Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats." - Voltaire

Say

And finally, and in my mind, most importantly:

"While there is a chance of the world getting through its troubles, I hold that a reasonable man has to behave as though he were sure of it. If at the end your cheerfulness is not justified, at any rate you will have been cheerful." - H. G. Wells

I'll be posting about my developing thoughts on tragedy, but I'm determined to pace myself when it comes to somber thoughts. 

I Scream

I've learned a hard lesson about dependence again. This one is going to take some serious effort to recover from. The worst part is, I didn't even realize I was abusing it until I couldn't anymore. Nature hosted an intervention and she was ruthless.

I'm lactose intolerant.

This may not seem like that big of a deal, but there are a few key points that need to be acknowledged. 

1) I've never been 'intolerant' or allergic to anything in my life. 

2) 90% of my college diet was based in dairy (cereal, Greek yogurt, lattes, mac n cheese, pizza...)
3) I work at a restaurant where cheese goes on/in EVERYTHING.

4) Ice cream is my coping mechanism.

I may or may not have had a meltdown in the frozen aisle of King Soopers, and the irony is not lost on me.

Apparently, when I had food poisoning a while back, my body took it as a sign to stop making the enzyme lactase, which means I can no longer process lactose. Thanks, biology, for blatantly labeling things.

I am aware that this is not the end of the world, especially with all things considered. But it's an indicator of change, and those can be hard to take. Change is something that I can manage if it occurs over a period of time, but abruptly encountering it is hard. Assimilation and adaptation occur gradually, ask Darwin.

I guess I'm excited to try new things (maybe?) but I have yet to find a suitable substitute for pizza. Vegan cheese is NASTY. I'm okay with almond and soy milks, the ice cream is... adequate, and apparently soy mac n cheese is a thing, so I won't starve.

If anyone knows of any tricks for lactose avoidance, comment below or get a hold of me somehow, it'd be much appreciated.

And one more fun thing! I've revamped the blog a little bit, you can now subscribe by email by entering your address above and can see the most popular posts on the sidebar.

Meanwhile, I'll sit here studying with my Soy Dream vanilla fudge swirl and ruing the day I ate the chicken salad that triggered this whole debacle. 

525,600

To begin, I know this won't accomplish anything but provoking thought. It's a prime example of "slacktivism", but it's what I want to do. Here goes.

Today is the closest I've been connected to an act of terror. My brother, Bostonian and marathon runner, passed by the location of the bombing 60 seconds before it went off, but when he passed, it was just a location, no prepositional phrase.

I've been thinking of how drastically things change in just 60 seconds. Actually, that things can change so drastically in 1. Right up until the instant that it became rubble, that sidewalk was just a sidewalk. And to think my brother was 60 seconds ahead of that instant.

This may be because I just saw Jurassic Park for the first time and idolized Jeff Goldblum, but my mind instantly started creating all the possible scenarios that could have stalled him 60 seconds. He could have stopped to relieve himself, he could have had to tie his shoe, he could have had to stretch out a cramp, he could have had a slower pace because he didn't train that one day when it was raining because the butterfly flapped its wings in Peking.

I was 60 seconds away from possibly losing a brother, and didn't even know it. That minute passed the same for me as any other had, and I had no idea that it was the most important minute of my life so far.

Never again will I take for granted a single minute that I'm not dead or in danger, and neither are the ones I love.

That's a lie, I will. But I'll think about how I took it for granted, and feel insurmountably and simultaneously guilty and grateful for it.

And in case you missed my opinion about tragedy, I'd like to direct you to Super, Heroes, Demise of Humanity, and Beauty and Love in Loss, because it makes me sad to have to repeat these things, and I don't want to. Four is enough, sad blog posts suck.

Waking Up Is Hard To Do

In which I compose a list of scenarios in which getting up sucks, ranked in order from mildly bad to the worst ever, accompanied by a respective list of things I would rather do than have to start the day under that circumstance, which become more drastic as the suckitude of the scenario increases.

1. It still looks like nighttime. 

I absolutely dread waking up when it's still dark enough outside to require headlights. It's the exact opposite of trying to fall asleep on a sunny afternoon on a roller coaster, which makes it equally as difficult. They even have equal and opposite exceptions: excitement-induced adrenaline and horse tranquilizers, respectively.

Exceptions aside, I would rather eat whole grain pancakes, cold and dry, than wake up in the dark.

2. It's much colder than comfort.I really would not have trouble staying out of bed when I turn off the alarm if I woke up to a climate I was comfortable in. I can't fight instinct that early in the morning, and instinct says to establish yourself in a habitat most conducive to your health. AKA not the cold. Cold sucks. Cold is sickness. Cold is like death, especially in the morning. So if I leave the cocoon of my comforter and shiver, I will turn off the alarm and sheath myself again. I'm not always cognizant enough to hit snooze instead of dismiss. Cold is a bad thing.

I would rather mow an entire football field with a rusty, olde tyme mower than wake up in the cold. 

3. After being dehydrated. 
I hope you haven't experienced this, it is not fun. Especially because the next thing you have to do is drink a bunch of water to fix it, which can cause nausea when you combine it with the dizziness of the dehydration. Occasionally it also means you wake up by falling over when you stand up. That's why I have no sharp corners by my bed. Too many close calls to count.

I would rather have to retake my high school swimming class, first hour and everything.

4. Before the dream ends.
Really this is just a frustrating thing. It's like a bookmark falling out, except you only have 5-10 minutes to find your place, but you also have to get back into reading mode and that in and of itself can take a long while.

That was not one of my more brilliant comparisons. I admit that. It's late.

I would rather have to reread the Twilight series than wake up before the dream ends.

5. At the absolute best part of the dream.
I take all the frustration of the previous scenario, and multiply it by 10,000. It's like losing the bookmark because you lost the entire book. At the best part. It's like watching a DVD of a Bourne movie with a massive scratch through the car chase. It's like an alert from the National Weather Service that comes on right at the end of the crime drama so you don't know if they caught the creepy serial killer or not.

I would rather have to read all Twilight fanfic than this.

6. When you absolutely cannot afford to sleep in any longer.
This is never a good thing, because it starts the day by feeling rushed then it kicks your brain into triage/prioritization mode. No one likes to have to decide between hair or makeup or breakfast. Don't even get me started on coffee. There is ALWAYS time for coffee. I can't think of very many things more important in the morning than my coffee.

I would rather be trapped in a room of lactose intolerant fools with nothing to eat but bean and cheese burritos, and no candle. 

7. When you were never really asleep to begin with.
College. Netflix. 'Nuff said.

I would rather do all of the above at once for an entire week straight. 

In Which Literature is Deemed Superior

The internet is frustrating. In fact, some days it makes me want to punch a wall so hard it would rip a hole. Through that hole, I would throw my laptop and scream profanities at its shattered remains. 

Then I remember I like my laptop and return to a state of being resembling sanity.

The truth is, the internet has become the most powerful means of communication. I can honestly say that at least 5 times a day, my sentence starts with "I saw on the internet that..."

To be fair, a lot of the time that starts a sentence that refers to a meme or gif or juicy morsel of gossip. But thanks to friends Bennett and Erika (as well as a few others, these two are just the most prevalent, and I know they're frequent readers) this sentence can also introduce a solid piece of information that I'd rather learn from bbc.com than Fox News, so thanks for that. 

But now, I'm going to use it in a different way. I saw on Pinterest a quotation that read 'When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew. - William Shakespeare'. 

Not to brag or anything, but I did an independent study comparison of The Bard's four greatest tragedies. And I studied three of his comedies the semester before. I'm incredibly familiar with his work. That's not to say I've read every line of every sonnet he ever wrote, or even to say I can name all of his plays without citing a source, but I know the man's style. And it is blasphemy to accuse that of even the remotest similarity. 

The rhythm is all wrong, the wittiness is just not up to par. The supposed origin of the phrase is Hamlet, Act II, Scene ii, most likely when Polonius is reading Hamlet's love letters to Ophelia. Here's what Shakespeare actually wrote:

'Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
'O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers;
I have not art to reckon my groans: but that
I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu.
'Thine evermore most dear lady, whilst
this machine is to him, HAMLET.'

You see that and think Shakespeare would settle for "you smiled because you knew."? Bitch, please. 

I did the research and found out that the true origin of the conspicuous quotation is Arrigo Bolto, who admittedly wrote operas based on Shakespeare's works, which can maybe justify the confusion. Beyond that, I'm baffled. 

What I've figured is that the people on the internet want to believe it's Shakespeare, save for all the other lovers of Shakespeare who pegged it as a fraud. And to be fair, it's a lovely line in its own right, just not Shakespeare. But essentially, Shakespeare is a romantic figurehead. He's written what some argue as the greatest love story ever told (and if they're referring to that of Juliet and her Romeo, I'd beg to differ) and also sonnets that quite frankly make me smile in my sleep. The modern quotation embodies this romanticism that the hopeless of the internet eat up like Dove chocolate squares, and instinctively associate with the poetic romance of Shakespeare. They can't help themselves, it's like placing a pint of Ben and Jerry's in front of them with free yoga pants. 

My point is that the internet lies. It's nothing revolutionary, but it's still relevant, unfortunately. Books lie less, and that's why I'd rather put up with book dust allergies than computer viruses. 

And fair warning: My next few posts may be tied to Tess of the D'Urbervilles. 

Also, for more fun quotations that aren't actually Shakespeare, check this LINK out. Some guy took this post and gave it steroids and a publisher. It's awesome.

Beauty and Love in Loss

Never is there so much potential for beauty in humanity as in the aftermath of a tragedy. Somehow, when all things material seem broken and wrong, the human spirit radiates. People find it in their hearts to say and feel and do the right thing. 

In tragedy, the human heart reaches out its arms and embraces those around it, and everyone is connected by the single, lonely heartbeat, searching for companionship in the time of abandonment. Tragedy is an inevitable and essential part of the human experience. It's like the loose thread in your coziest sweater. I think we take for granted how whole our lives are until the fabric of our existence feels the tug. 

I'm not acting as advocate for those actions viewed as tragedies, simply seeking solace in an idea. Anyone who denies the magnitude of strength in Heritage's reaction this week, or admiration for Christian Bale when he visited the hospital in Aurora, or the reach of Rachel's Challenge, is only denying the most basic of human instincts. People want love. They want to share it, receive it, give it, see it, and genuinely know it. To be unified is to feel the love, and tragedy reminds us that we cannot stand alone. 

Shakespeare's greatest works, the ones that people carry in their hearts, the ones that define actions and characters, are his tragedies. It is cathartic to experience such pain and emotional turmoil vicariously through Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, or Hamlet, but it is shattering to touch the agony for yourself. 

Every action is an opportunity to react. The reaction that flooded Facebook was that of a shattered community, rebuilding and uniting itself with the love we'd all taken for granted. And it was truly beautiful.

It's reassuring to see such beauty in immediate life, and if anything that has come from this week is to stay, I hope it's that.

Share the love. For Madi, and for the beauty she's helped us find. 

No. 2

Another post of thoughts I can't develop into full-fledged posts independently, sorry. Or maybe you like these, in which case, you're welcome. 

First

In reading The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, a novel whose themes and language are dated (which is good, because I'm nostalgic), I encountered the phrase "of a sudden", sans 'all', and it occurred to me after all these years that it's a prepositional phrase. Being such, sudden is the object. Which means it's a noun.

Something important to know is that  I envision a man similar to Poe or Hemingway living in my head, poised at a Dickens desk with a pot of ink and either a quill or fountain pen, depending on the poetic nature of the words I'm processing, be it through reading or writing. (This, for instance, is a piece more suited for a pen than a quill.) Anyway, I imagine this scholarly figure, henceforth known as Ernest Allen Poe, looking up suddenly from his parchment in a moment of disbelief. How could he have glossed over that fact for his entire life!? He's Ernest Allen Poe, dammit, authority on all things literary and scholarly in the realm of Natalie's brain. Why was he not informed of this before?

Being of a curious nature, I looked up the word "sudden" in the dictionary. The definition as a noun begins with a single word in italics: Obsolete. It then goes on to define it as an unexpected occasion or occurrence, which makes sense.

But then you compare the understood meaning of the phrase "all of a sudden" to what you can derive from defining each word individually, "the entirety of an unexpected occurrence" and realize something is missing. I, for one, feel like the original phrase must have been "in all of a sudden", meaning in no more time than an instant.

But where did we lose the 'in'? And for a while, we had lost the 'all' too, as evidenced by The Age of Innocence. I'm aware that this may not be enthralling to everyone, but have you ever thought about how our language is changing? Is there a graveyard of words whose tombs say nothing but their names?

But back to the point. Sudden is considered obsolete as a noun, even though it's used frequently in that specific context. How often do we think about what we're actually saying? Or more importantly, how often do we speak without actually knowing what we're saying?

It's not that I'm upset by it. I just think it's interesting that in a few hundred years, people may not recognize our language anymore. They may speak numbers by then, who knows. Or better yet, they'll have discovered the secret to telepathy, or some weird meteor rocks will hit the earth giving everyone the superpower to communicate wordlessly.

Or I've just been watching too much Smallville. Ernest Allen Poe is face-palming. And again because I used face-palm.

Second

I think it's a little sad that even after all this time, and all my mildly feminist tendencies, I still personify my scholarly spirit as a man. Not just a man, actually, but two. At a desk named for another man.

It's indicative of something, I just don't know what. I don't feel comfortable writing about the inner-workings of my psyche on the internet, though, so I'm just going to leave it at this.

Third

As my dear friend ED suggested, I think I'll start a Dear Abby option. Sounds like fun, and I'd enjoy it immensely. Plus, it would give me something to write about so I can hopefully get a more consistent posting schedule instead of an erratic, "I'll post when the muse hits me" pattern.

If this is going to happen, there must be rules. And the rules which will follow must be followed, capiche?

1) You must address all queries to askdearnatalie@gmail.com 
2) Per the norm, the email should begin with "Dear Natalie"
3) Come up with a clever name to sign off with, i.e. "[Adjective] in [Location]" 
4) Please don't use any real names, otherwise I'll be forced to reassign them Power Ranger alter egos. 
5) Make sure what you're writing about is appropriate for the blog. I reserve the right to disregard any undesirable posts.
6) I also reserve the right to post anything not specifically labeled as DO NOT PUBLISH. 
7) In order to get an answer, you have to recommend my blog to someone. Uh huh. Yeah. I went there.

Fourth

In respect of Valentine's Day, I'll follow up my Love's Letters Lost post. I'm choosing to spend this Love Day with some of the friends I care most about. I made a choice a while back to not celebrate love that was unsure or dishonest. My guess is it was about the time Hemingway became a part of my psyche.

I don't believe in Singles Awareness Day. I'm single, but it doesn't bother me. I don't think today is about letting it be known that I'm not in a relationship. Today is about celebrating the spirit of love, and it comes in so many forms. Personally, I'll be reading more of history's greatest love letters and spending some quality time with other girls like me, who would rather be single.

I think what's hardest to explain is that I am in a committed relationship right now, with myself. Have been for 18 years. I've worked hard and long to make sure my life is something I could wake up to in the morning, and smile about when I go to sleep at night. And though it will never be done, my self-renovation is well underway.

So maybe it should be Singles Awareness Day, in that singles, reluctant or otherwise, can take an inventory and become aware of themselves. Because in most cases, when people take stock, they'll realize they can love themselves, and if someone can love himself, then others can too. It may be schmatlzy, and perhaps a little overdone, but it's because it's true, and yet there are still those who choose to disregard it. So I'm saying it again: having a solid relationship with one's self is the foundation for solid relationships with others. You've gotta start somewhere.

And to those of you in a dedicated relationship with someone else, I humbly encourage you to do the same anyway. All it will do is make your relationship stronger. The only difference is, you'll have to share what you find. That's my catch, sharing. I know that now.

So that's my bit, let Valentine's be about self love as much as love of others. My friend Chase writes a blog Chasing Somewhere, and in his last post, Singles Awareness Day, he makes a solid closing argument. Don't let your love be commercialized, let today stand as a declaration of the importance of love, that it is celebrated by its own holiday. Understand what it means to have a love so valuable it deserves its own day, and show it.

I think my thought well has run dry for the time being. I'm sure at some point in the near future, it will kick up again, so don't you worry your pretty striped head. No. 3 will happen eventually.

Love's Letters Lost

I don't know how to admit to this, I've spent so long denying and repressing it... I'm somewhat of a romantic. Though I am thoroughly embarrassed by grand gestures (it's like when people sing Happy Birthday, and my poise just shrugs in a "Don't even look at me, bro!" sort of way) I am nevertheless touched when I see magical moments for other people. Somewhere in the big ball of wibbley-wobbley timey-wimey, there's a girl falling asleep in fluffy pink pajamas, and dreaming of what life will be like when she's old enough to fall in love. 

That girl grew up, now old enough to fall in love. She wears a lot of grey and black, and rolls her eyes at Nicholas Sparks novels and Katherine Heigl movies. But she never outgrew the little dreaming girl. But society did.

Society has labeled romance as this quirky, bumbling passing of time between two people. Romance, now, is incomplete without the comedy. What I consider romance is older than old fashioned, and I'm not talking two straws in a chocolate malt. What the little girl in pink believed in was the kind of romance that Shakespeare dared to write, the kind that lies dormant in poetry and art until the beholder brings it to life. 

Matt Nathanson has a song, Modern Love, that kinda sums me up. It used to be because of the one "Watch your back, I'm nobody's girlfriend," line, but now it's because, upon closer inspection, the lyrics really embody what I'm trying to say. So go ahead and click on the song title and take a look for yourself, but I'm gonna explain the seven words that really drive my point home: this modern love is a taco truck. 

When I first heard the song, I had to do a double take. Taco truck, what? Is he on drugs? Probably, but I don't care. After excruciating research, I found an interview where he explains it, and the rest of it is worth reading too because he is an artist and wonderful, thus the providing of the link.

But modern love is a taco truck. It's not the nice sit down dinner, not the home-cooked, feel-good meal it used to be. Now dinner comes to you and you stand outside and eat it instead of sitting down and experiencing dinner for real. I still believe in dinner for real.

Admittedly, this was sparked by my current bedside companion, The World's Greatest Love Letters, compiled by Michael Kelahan. And as someone whose cynicism has developed from failed relationships and trust issues, reading something as honest and beautiful as Alexander Pope's letter to Mary Wortley Montagu gives me faith. The blind kind of faith whispered into the little girl's pillow. And faith that I won't let her down. 

I think writing love letters has become a lost art. Or at least writing them well. Robin Williams has a line in Dead Poets Society, "Language was invented for one reason, boys - too woo women - and in that endeavor, laziness will not do." A lot of today's wooing and courtship comes from choosing 'our song' and making inside jokes, and fitting the cliches. I say a lot, because I know everyone feels that they're the exception, and I'm not even saying there aren't exceptions. And realistically, this comes from my experience which is limited to, well, my personal experiences. I don't know every love story out there, every warm fuzzy gotten, every text sent. 

That's another thing, texting. I'll take splitting a milk shake over a texting courtship. I've been there, I know it gets me nowhere and nothing but bullshit. If you're the kind who make it work, wonderful. But I encourage you, find another way, something to supplement. Don't just let your thumbs do the talking, don't spend your life waiting for that phone to buzz. There's so much more to a person than what they can say in 3-5 minutes (the appropriate time to wait before responding to a text, according to the tween magazines).

I am now the age that I believed as a little girl was the age to fall in love. And by today's standards, I don't want to. I feel more like the little girl today than I do the young woman that I am, I'm just waiting to grow up to the right age to fall in love, the passionate, mad, inconvenient love, because what I've seen of love today is not enough for me. It's a taco truck.

Fluent in English

It's been a trend for a while that the internet allows for poor grammar and usage. Think I'm wrong? Go through your newsfeed.

The causes may vary: Public education, lack of intelligent stimulation, lack of spell check, sticky keys while eating caramel corn (IT HAPPENED!), or in my case, a lack of practice.

I've noticed, with SO MUCH EMBARRASSMENT, that I, too, suffer from horrible grammar. The kind that used to make me cringe, then promptly yell at the display. I hate myself a little for it. So I decided to do something about it. And by doing something, I mean write a blog post.

I distinctly remember the good ol' days of being the uncontroversial Queen of Grammar. Well, that's not true, that was my mom. I was the Duchess of Usage. I met fellow enthusiasts in high school, but still didn't feel threatened.

Now, I feel a need to submit my blog posts and Facebook* statuses to my English teacher before publication. Because I've caught myself messing up. Either I am worse at grammar now and am just realizing that, or I'm better now and never realized how bad I've always been, and I hope to God above that it's the former. Because I can fix that, that one is about present and future, but the past is stuck, and that scares me. 

But as there's been a decline in grammar, there's been an increase in snotty remarks and snippy ecards about how frustrating bad grammar is. But honestly, I don't know where anyone gets off feeling superior in that regard. At least not the people making those snide comments, because I'm sure the editors at MLA have better things to do, like debate about the Oxford comma.

No one is really fluent in English anymore, at least not in that regard. It's a sad thing, but it's true. My AP Lang teacher said, while in a heated debate about the importance of teaching grammar, that as long as the point is communicated intelligently, then there's no reason to be concerned with grammar's finer points. I, representing the pro-education side, argued that if we don't continue to teach grammar, the finer things will be lost. It's an art form, like great piano playing. And just like concert pianists have to practice their craft, so do grammarians theirs.

Maybe it's one of those things that is only valuable to those who have it, like how the people in North Korea, by and large, are completely content with that way of life because they don't know what it's like to live anywhere else. Plus, defecting is incredibly arduous. Actually, I'm really happy with that simile. I'm keeping it that way. No offense to anyone who would be North Korean by that comparison.

I'm just glad that I'm the one who was raised by the Queen of Grammar, because I do value my ability to determine a gerund versus a participle, though I'm not entirely sure I use 'versus' correctly to this day. Maybe I'll finally figure it out now that I'm aware of my shortcomings.

*Anyone else notice how the icon for Facebook is a lowercase 'f' but the little, red, squiggly line only goes away when it's capitalized?