The cold sting of resentment; or, I have a pencil that’s no good to me

Today, I went to the insurance place for work; and on my way out, they gave me a free pencil. I like a free pencil. With a nice, new, sharpened pencil there are several things I can do that I like to do:

a. Part my hair
b. Color in the sections of the cross-stitch pattern that I’ve already finished stitching
c. Write down appointments in my appointment book that I intend to cancel later
d. Jab holes in the covers of paperback books – oh, wait, I’m not Anna at nine.

Unfortunately I can’t do any of these things because MY FAMILY BROKE MY PENCIL SHARPENER.

Yes, I said my pencil sharpener. That really excellent electronic pencil sharpener that we had in the kitchen for years and years, next to the basket with the Q-tips, that pencil sharpener that eventually broke because too many people were using it? That was mine. I got it for Christmas one year and I loved it.

When the pencil sharpener broke, everyone was like, Oh no! Now the family doesn’t have a pencil sharpener! This is terrible! and I tried to explain that this was a personal tragedy for me because it was my personal pencil sharpener, and nobody listened to me. Everyone just kept saying how sad it was that the family pencil sharpener was broken. Which was really mine all along. Just like that stapler of Robyn’s that she finally reclaimed (I think she did anyway) after over a decade of everyone pretending it was a family stapler.

My family is a stealer. And a murderer. I bet that pencil sharpener would still be alive and kicking today if I had not out of the GOODNESS AND GENEROSITY OF MY HEART consented to allow the family to use it, rather than keeping it all to myself.

P.S. This week my mom got me a flu shot and gave me cookies as a prize for allowing her to buy me a flu shot. So I guess, on balance, I am not still mad about my pencil sharpener. It’s just, I could really use it right now. Am I supposed to part my hair with a comb?

Preaching by the converted

How come I am so much more insane about preaching the goodness of books/films/TV shows that I originally didn't want to read/watch? You notice this same thing with converted religious people sometimes, that they can be madly zealous in a way that people brought up in the faith are often not.

I bring this up because I am reading The Girl in a Swing, which is a book by the same guy that wrote Watership Down, and it's making me want to tell everyone to read Watership Down. Zealously. Though I believe when my mother first brought up Watership Down to me, the conversation was like this.

Mumsy: Jenny! I got Watership Down! You have to read it while we're here [in Maine]!
Jenny: Okay! You have never steered me wrong! What's it about?
Mumsy: Well, it's about these rabbits.
Jenny: Um, yeah. That sounds sweet, but I'm too busy revisiting the oeuvres of William Steig and Maurice Sendak.
Mumsy: Really?
Jenny: NO NOT REALLY. I AM TOO OLD FOR BUNNY RABBIT STORIES.
[Note: William Steig and Maurice Sendak are both brilliant and I love them. I am in no way criticizing William Steig and Maurice Sendak.]
Mumsy: No, no, it's very exciting. It's very exciting. It's about this rabbit that is psychic-
Jenny: Mother. This is embarrassing.

See, but I was so wrong! Watership Down is amazing and thrilling and suspenseful. The rabbits have all kinds of mad adventures, like - oo, it's so creepy - when they find this warren with these fat, well-fed rabbits that just act really weird; and like when the Major Fighter Rabbit, Bigwig, befriends this crow; and when they have to infiltrate a terrifying fascist warren and fight off the terrifying army of fascist rabbits.

When I try to tell people how good Watership Down is, I can always tell from their faces that they are thinking the exact same thing that I myself was thinking when my mother first told me about it. And I don't want them to make the same judgey-face mistake that I made! Which caused me to put off reading it for a really long time! I mean, okay, for like a week, until I ran out of other stuff to read, but dude, if we hadn't been on vacation, if we had been at home surrounded by zillions of books and a public library, I might NEVER EVER HAVE READ IT.

...I am sad for the people that have never read Watership Down.

Book lists

I love book lists. You know, those things where it's all "50 Books You Must Read Before You Die" and "75 Best Books Ever in the World" and "100 Classics If You Haven't Read Them You Are Stupid". I was talking about this with my mum and sister today, and Anna was saying she finds them dismaying because they make her feel like she isn't well-read. As for me, I always like them and I always go through and add up my totals even if I have somewhere else to be in the next five minutes. It's fun. Here's why.

1. I often feel like I am well-read when I add up my totals. Unless they have loads of philosophy books on them, I have normally read a lot of those books. I was an English major so I had to. I had to read Moby Dick twice, and the payoff for this and other miseries is that when there is a list like this, I have usually read a bunch of them. Though I think I should be able to give myself two points for Moby Dick since I had to read it two (2) times and it is as long as - like, it's really really long, okay?

(I was trying to think of some sort of dirty joke about Pinocchio's nose, to illustrate how long Moby Dick is. And I couldn't think of something. Oh well. I am not that clever.)

2. I come across these lists relatively often, because people love to make them, and they always remind me of books I have been meaning to read. Like Doris Lessing. I keep meaning to read Doris Lessing. One of these days I will. Or, to give a better example, Salman Rushdie. I used to see Salman Rushdie's name all over the place, and I was all, Whatever, I'll get to it, and eventually, I got to it. Which means that now when Salman Rushdie's books are on these lists, I have read them. Plus, it turns out I really like Salman Rushdie. And if he hadn't been on book lists all the time, reminding me about his existence, this would never have happened.

3. This will not stand up under scrutiny given how much I thought I was going to hate Salman Rushdie and other authors I can't think of right now, but here it is anyway: for a lot of the books I haven't read, I am pleased not to have read them. Because I know I won't like them. And because I think without having read them that they are stupid. Thus instead of feeling not-well-read, and thus not enjoying the book lists, like Anna, I feel aggravated with the list-makers for putting stupid books on their lists, and pleasingly smug with myself for knowing better. And then I have a big internal (or sometimes out-loud) rant about how racist and sexist everyone is with The Classics, and how foolish the list-makers are, putting on more than one book by Faulkner (esp. if neither of them is Light in August, which is the one I was forced to read) or whoever, and that is fun because it's fun to feel like a better person than someone else.

Yup.

Watching Moulin Rouge with my little sister

Ewan McGregor in shattered tones: The woman I love...
Robyn: IS HAVING AN AWESOME TIME IN PARIS.
Ewan McGregor: ...is...
Jenny: THE BEST WIFE IN THE WHOLE WORLD AND ENJOYING LIVING HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
Ewan McGregor: ...dead.
Robyn and Jenny: HAPPY AND ALIVE.

We forgot how adorable Ewan McGregor was in this film. Hot damn. Oh, and also how sexymazing Nicole Kidman was when she had red hair and curves.

Ewan McGregor: How could I know, in those final days--
Jenny: That poor Satine had a terrible illness that could only be cured by something awesome happening!
Robyn: Only be cured by a shock of joy!
Ewan McGregor: --stronger than love--
Robyn: But not stronger than a shock of joy!

Jenny: Hahaha, I like the part where Ewan McGregor tells her that he wasn't trying to trick her or anything...
Robyn (giving this due reflection): I like the part where they live happily ever after.
Jenny: Me too. That's the best part in the whole film. It's really good when the curtain falls and then the movie ends because there's no point it carrying on when they're living happily ever after.
Robyn: Yep, that's the best part.
Jenny: Yep, of the whole film.

But seriously, though, Moulin Rouge is fantastic. It has been way too long since I watched this film. I love rewatching films I haven't seen in ages - I forgot how hilarious Moulin Rouge is, and just think how easily it could have been total crap.

Speed shopping

I just have to boast about this because I HATE SHOPPING. Or rather, I hate shopping that I have to do. I do not mind shopping as long as I am not shopping for a particular thing that I need to buy right now. This is because I am a Meyers-Briggs J and I like to have my decisions made quickly. If I don’t need to make a decision straight away, then the pressure is off and I can shop in a relaxed fashion and not worry about whether I buy something or don’t buy something. (Except that if I don’t buy something I will be cranky because it will have been a wasted shopping trip.)

Anyway, yesterday my sister and I were at the mall shopping for perfumes, because we were both tired of our old perfume and we wanted something new. I got one that smells like jasmine and violets, and Robyn got a nice citrusy cedary one, and anyway since we were at the mall anyway we wanted to try on prom dresses. We really love trying on prom dresses. I like to try on dresses that are poofy like a Disney princess or a cupcake, and Robyn likes to try on dresses that are so slinky you can’t even tell they are a dress when they’re on the hanger. We love trying on dresses. (The Say Yes to the Dress people would hate us.)

As we were heading in the direction of one of the department stores to look for cupcakey and slinky dresses, I said, “Unnnnnnnngh, I have to buy some new work shirts. Gross,” and Robyn said, “Yuck, that won’t be any fun” – because of the previously mentioned dislike of shopping for things that I need to get right now – and I espied Express having a sale on tops, and I said, “Can I just go in really fast and try some stuff on, really fast, and then we can go try prom dresses?” And because Robyn is a nice person she said yes.

IT WAS THE BEST SHOPPING TRIP EVER. Seriously, we went in there and grabbed like twelve shirts, and I tried them on. Robyn kindly folded them up and shook them out for me, and kept track of which ones we liked and which ones we wanted in another color or another size, and then we went back and got the other colors and other sizes, and lickety-split I tried those ones on again and we made a decision and we checked out. We were in that shop fifteen minutes. Tops. (See what I did there?) I got some sexy-ass shirts, and I got new perfume.

(Fortunately! If our pride in our shopping expedition had depended on trying on pretty prom dresses, we would have been woefully disappointed! The department stores didn’t have any prom dresses! What are people supposed to do who have formal parties to go to? Are they all supposed to wear sundresses? Is that what’s supposed to happen?)

(We did see the masturbating bear overlooking the children’s play area, though. It is very disturbing. I need them to take it away. I simply cannot believe that none of the mall employees have noticed what that bear is up to.)

(Oh, and they had a big bouncy sproingy thing set up, which we enjoyed watching. BOING. BOING. BOING. It was very cool. If we had not just spent loads of money on expensive perfumes, we might have gone on the big sproingy fun thing.)

Casting about for something brilliant to say

You know how sometimes when you are talking to someone about something, you quickly run out of things to say about that topic? Like, I don't know, bricks. Here are some things I think about when I see bricks:

1. Why are some brick houses so ugly?
2. If I stole those bricks and got some planks from somewhere, I could make a bookshelf.
3. One time, Frank Gilbreth showed off his leet brick-laying skillz to his future in-laws.
4. That Ben Folds Five song that I didn't realize was about abortion until someone pointed it out to me, just another of many examples of me totally ignoring what song lyrics are plainly saying
5. The weird old-timey British compliment

Although all of these things run through my head when I see a brick, none of them are likely to lead to really good conversations. So if I am with you, and we get onto the subject of bricks, the conversation will probably trail off slightly.

Today I was walking with my father, and we were checking out dandelions, and I was thinking of things to say about dandelions. I told him how Mumsy correctly hypothesized that you would be more likely to get your wish if you blew from the bottom of the dandelion (by the stalk), and then I had nothing else to say about dandelions, so I was thinking about them, and it occurred to me it's very lucky for dandelions that people think blowing dandelions away will grant you a wish, because, ta-da! instant fertilization.

In fact, like, weirdly lucky for dandelions.

My Latin teacher used to tell us useful information that she said would save our lives someday (such as, hit a marauding alligator on its nose and poke its eyes and scream really loudly because it won't like that and will waddle away). So here is something that I thought of today that might save your life someday, and I told it to my father, and I am telling it to you, and I recommend that you pass it on to your friends and relations and possibly Homeland Security so that we can ALL BE PREPARED.

This wish business with the dandelions? I have used my deductive skills to deduce that it's an alien plot. Aliens, for some unfathomable alien reason, have a vested interest in ensuring the long-term prosperity of the dandelion. They have infiltrated Earth and spread this rumor about getting wishes, in order to ensure that dandelion spores are spread far and wide. So if ever you are walking around, and aliens land in front of you, and you are panicking because you are afraid that they are going to take you onto their ship and do bad things to you, here's what you do. (Don't smile - they might think you're baring your teeth.) You say, "Welcome to DANDELION LAND! Is it not glorious? We only regret that we do not have MANY MORE DANDELIONS to offer to you, our distinguished visitors!" And then they will spare your life.

You're welcome.

Prepare to be so, so jealous

What did you do Friday night?

Do not even bother to tell me what you did on Friday night. Whatever you did Friday night, it was not nearly as excellent as the totally legendary thing that I did on Friday night. On Friday night, I went with Robyn to Bongs & Noodles to get something, and while I was there, I realized that THERE WAS STARLAB.

If you never had StarLab, you missed out in a way that I cannot really even begin to explain to you. StarLab was the most amazing thing that ever happened to my elementary school self. It was this big, silvery inflatable dome that (in my day, though apparently not anymore) looked like it was made of duct tape. And your whole class would crawl inside and sit around the edges, while in the middle there was a projector, and it would project the night sky onto the ceiling of the dome. They could rotate it to show you the night sky at all different times of year, and if you were doing a mythology unit (we always seemed to be), they could connect the dots of the constellations, which again, if you haven't seen it, you can't appreciate how incredible this was. I have moped about how much I miss StarLab a number of times in my adult life, I can tell you.

AND BONGS & NOODLES HAD IT TODAY AND I WENT INSIDE.

And, yes, okay, it was not quite as legendary as it was when I was little, because the little children were screaming, and instead of stars they had a video about weather, but it was still pretty awesome. It was all cool and blowy inside, exactly like I remember, and the sides flapped up like I remember, and the video about weather went all over and up and around. Different, but mostly the same.

Incidentally, prior to the Bongs & Noodles guy assuring us that we were not too old for StarLab, Robyn and I also made lots of jokes like, Am I too big to go inside that? Which is another change from when I was little.

People whose fault it is

So I just bought ninety books over the past few days, right? Of which about forty-two are books that I’ve never read before, but presumably I want to read them because I bought them. They are sitting in my living room in an appealing stack, waiting to be put on a shelf that has not yet been moved into my apartment because it is large and heavy and I’m not strong and I don’t have a truck or a dolly. And I decided very reasonably that what I would do is, I would read all the books I currently have checked out of the library, and when I had finished them, I would return them all, and when I had returned them all, I would start reading my nice new books. I figured this would take a little while because some of the books I have out of the library are huge and long, like the biography of Edward Murrow (which is awesome by the way), but that is not a big deal because my library book bazaar books belong to me and I do not have a deadline for reading them.

Today I returned three of the books to the library. I had read one of them a few days ago so it was well time to get rid of it, and I read the other two over the weekend. I felt like this was excellent progress on my part, bringing my total number of checked-out library books down from fourteen to eleven, a major step in achieving my goal of returning all of my books, a total library book reduction of just over twenty percent. And do you know what I did then? I went and checked out THREE MORE BOOKS. It was totally counterproductive, and here’s who I blame it on:

1. Michael Sera for being funny in Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist and making me want to read the book and see how it compares.
2. Kirkus Reviews for calling Thursday’s Children “goopy treacle” – you can shut your face, okay? – and comparing it unfavorably with some other book about dancing, rendering it necessary for me to check the other book about dancing out of the library to check that it isn’t better than Thursday’s Children, which I seriously doubt that it is. And anyway Thursday’s Children is not goopy treacle and it does have substance. And charm. So there.
3. Also: the author of the other book about dancing, for being from Baton Rouge and writing about a book about a Louisiana girl. Way to make your book irresistible to me.
4. My grandmother for taking me to Barnes & Noble one time and letting me loose to wander around, notice Merlin Holland’s excellent The Real Trial of Oscar Wilde, and fall into a mad and relentless obsession with Oscar Wilde, and subsequently into lesser but related obsessions with gender issues, sexual ethics, and the Victorians.
5. Also: my therapist parents for talking about mental health all the time so that now I am obsessed with that too.
6. Also: book blogs for writing appealing reviews that deal with Victorian-era women who are unhappy in their marriages and go see neurologists to help them deal with their mental issues.

THANKS A LOT, Y’ALL.

(No, but really: thanks a lot. I am looking forward to reading these books. Especially the book about dancing because I am interested to see how it compares – not because I am determined to reject it in comparison with Thursday’s Children although I am certain that it won’t be as good – just because I like it when somebody compares two books and then I read them both and decide what I think. Like that time someone said Geek Love was a way better circus book than Water for Elephants and I read them both and decided I should just stick to Circus Shoes and never again venture out into the world of circus books.)

Why is it Thursday?

Why is it Thursday?

I don’t feel like Thursday today. You know how sometimes it’s some day, and you just really, really, really don’t feel like having that day right then? That’s how I feel today. Every time I look at my calendar I feel displeased. Thursday. Bah. I would have changed it to Friday, just to make myself feel better, but I couldn’t because the Friday shoe is so ugly. I’m so unwilling to have Thursday that I would actually rather it be Wednesday than Thursday (setting myself one day further back from the weekend), except that of course, that would then mean that I’d have to have Thursday all over again.

For a lot of today, I was trying to decide why this should be. I like Thursday usually. It’s not one of those days of the week where I feel depressed. The Office comes on Thursdays. Thursday is only one day away from a weekend. At Essex I had Thursdays completely off. There are three books I like a lot with Thursday in the title – Noel Streatfeild’s Thursday’s Child (bless Noel Streatfeild), G.K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday (a line that speaks to my soul: “We have abolished Right and Wrong.” “And right and left,” said Syme with a simple eagerness, “I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me.”) and Rumer Godden’s marvelous Thursday’s Children. Thanksgiving, the only day of the year that I get my uncle Mark’s wonderful dirty rice, is on a Thursday. British elections are held on Thursdays, and God knows I love elections. Both of the Brownings were born on Thursdays.

Well, hey, that really helped. I feel a lot better now. Thursday!

Recovering from Christmas

Mm, it’s difficult. Christmas is good because I can spend money wantonly and not feel fussed about it. Christmas presents don’t count as part of my budget, see, because – well, no reason really, I just decided that I didn’t want Christmas presents to count as part of my normal budget. I had lots of fun Christmas shopping this year. Lots and lots of fun. Now I have to stop buying things. So depressing. No more presents. Maybe I will buy myself a few records, to make myself feel better.

Another point to consider: I saw a lot of my sisters this holiday. Now I will see them less. The ones that live out of town are back out of town again (sniffle), and the one that lives in town is all with the working and then going back to school. It is back to real life. I like Christmas better. Nobody has top secret gifts for anybody anymore. Anyone can look in anyone’s closet now without its being one bit a catastrophe. That is sad. We got rid of our tree. The Christmas decorations at work are all gone. No more presents to be unwrapped. Christmas is over until next year, which is a long long long way away.

Sigh.

A nice thing that happened last night

All my sisters were at home, and we were hanging out, and it was just like those nonspecific old times people are always nostalgic for. We decorated the tree, and then we turned off all the lights and sat in the living room and looked at the tree all lit up and pretty, and we had a great big moan about teachers we had that were mean to us as kids (Bonnie and I had a number of Ms. Leblanc stories to share). After that we watched an episode of Doctor Who, which we never did in old times, but we all behaved exactly like ourselves: Anna alphabetized the vast number of Archie comics we accumulated over the years, and occasionally updated us on her progress. Robyn and I exchanged woeful looks when something sad happened to the Doctor (which is always - seriously, Russell Davies, why all this merciless Ten-bashing? Has Ten done something to you? Did Ten perhaps MURDER YOUR MOTHER? My God.), and Bonnie alternated between stubbornly refusing to suspend disbelief and cooing at the Doctor for having sideburns and Converses and a sonic screwdriver.

And that was nice. Growing up is sad because these things happen less and less often. I get sad when Bonnie and Anna are away and I never see them, so it's nice that it's Christmas and everybody is around.

The best thing about having a regular source of income?

The mad Christmas-gift buying that can occur! I made my crappy-ass week a lot better today by purchasing my very, very first Christmas gift of the season! And I know it's a little early, as my family's buying-stuff-for-yourself embargo has not yet gotten going, but I could not resist, and the gift was time-sensitive. Someone amongst my friends and loved ones is so lucky. They don't even know. The only bad thing was that I was planning not to tell anybody what I was getting for anybody this year, and I had to tell someone about this. There were reasons. Don't question.

But don't worry, everyone else I know! You will all have nice presents! I am planning and plotting and possibly scheming! CHRISTMAS IS AMAZING.

Harry Potter's first Christmas

Well, okay, not his first. But his first nice one! Well, I guess his second nice one, since I’m sure his very first Christmas was a lot of fun as his parents were still alive, but he was only very, very tiny then. So his first remembered Christmas, the one at Hogwarts where he gets his Invisibility Cloak. I started reading that Christmas chapter this morning right before I went to work, and although I didn’t get to the bit where he gets all his presents, I still became super excited about Christmas’s imminent arrival. Plus, there has been weather that is somewhat cooler than incredibly hot; plus, it’s mid-October now, which is about the time my mind gets into the Christmas mindset, if all’s right with the world. Since I do not have midterms to worry about (ha!), and I will not have finals (ha!), I am free to focus on the joyous fact that Christmas is in two and a half months! 72 days remain! It is time to start considering Christmas gifts for those I love! I have already got plans for one, two, three, four people – my older sister, my old work people, one of my friends, and my darling aunty (one of my darling aunties; I have like twenty of them, but I only do Christmas presents for the ones in town). Oh, and I suppose I have something in mind for my grandmother too, because she – like me – is always happy to have new books.

Oh! Oh! And Christmas cards! I am a total grown-up now, and that means I’m going to send Christmas cards out! Oh, I’m so excited! Fabulous Christmas cards, I shall go shopping for them tomorrow! And I shall make a list of people to whom I wish to send Christmas cards! All my beloved family members will know that I am thinking of them with love in my heart in this most joyous Christmas season! I’m so glad that my aunt and uncle gave me some of their Christmas records, or else I wouldn’t have any Christmas music to play around my room. Oo, except that Roches CD. I’m going to play that Roches CD tonight before I go to bed. Wonderful Roches! Wonderful Christmas!

I am in a ridiculously good mood now. Not sure if it’s because I’ve just started reading Harry Potter over again, or because I thought of Christmas, and Christmas always puts me in a good mood. I love Christmas! Christmas is a wonderful holiday! I love presents! I love buying presents, and I love hiding presents in my closet, and wrapping presents up in shiny paper, and coming out to the living room on Christmas morning to behold the glorious heap of presents beneath the tree! Capitalist materialism is fun! If the dominant paradigm is wonderful Christmas, it does not need to be subverted but EMBRACED. Want “Deck the Halls” stuck in your head? Come to me! I am already singing it! Nobody can tell me it’s too early! I’m my own woman! Hurrah for Christmas carols!

I have not had a good Christmas since starting this blog. My 2006 Christmas was far from home and my family and came very shortly before a break-up; my 2007 Christmas was far from home and came very shortly after a death in the family. You would think that these things might have soured my love affair with Christmas, but no, they haven’t even approached damaging my transcendent love for the joyful Christmas season. When it is Christmas, my wonderful uncle Jim comes to visit, and we give him lots of hugs and affection because we know he has missed us in the months (or weeks, as it may be) since he has seen us last. We make delicious sugar cut-out cookies with each other. Sometimes we go camping and eat yummy brisket and red beans and rice and read Forever Amber with Bonnie. We play Christmas music and sing Christmas songs and hang Christmas lights and it’s just the most best time of year. Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!

(In the interests of full disclosure about holidays, Halloween and Thanksgiving are also coming up. Whatever. It’s all about Christmas.)

On my way to grab some food this evening, I stopped at the Dollar Tree and bought two things of wrapping paper, some sparkly red and green gift bags, white tissue paper, and two things of Christmassy to-from tags. It was joyful. Only one of the things of wrapping paper was Christmas-themed. The other one was just awesome. People with upcoming birthdays will see.

What my mother said to me yesterday

She said: "This book (Jodi Picoult's Vanishing Acts) was very absorbing. I stayed up all night reading it."

And I, knowing that my mother doesn't stay up past eight, said: "Really?"

And my mother said: "Yes. Till ten-thirty!"

In other news, I watched a really depressing football game today. I went straight home before it was over and I read that bit of the sixth Harry Potter book where Ron succeeds in turning the Gryffindor Quidditch season around, to cheer myself up (it didn't work). CBS had the meanest commentators ever and they loathed LSU obviously, and I now completely decline to ever watch CBS again. I mean, my God, CBS, WE GET IT ALREADY. YOU ARE FELLATING THE ENTIRE FLORIDA TEAM ON THE SIDE. QUIT REPLAYING THAT AWFUL PLAY.

However, my aunt and uncle, with whom I watched the football game until we all got too depressed to continue, learned that I had purchased a record player, and they gave me all their old records. Now, this includes some Barry Manilow ones, giving me the opportunity to mock my aunt for her previous musical tastes by singing "Copacabana" at every commercial break (now it's stuck in my head, so that'll teach me to make fun of the music people used to like before they wised up), but it also includes the Jesus Christ Superstar album that she got when she was twelve, the Jesus Christ Superstar album that I love like my life, the version of Jesus Christ Superstar that is my desert island record. Also Cat Stevens, Simon & Garfunkel, Diana Ross, Grease, and many other things.

I AM SO HAPPY

Seriously. I am very, very, very happy. I bought two new pairs of shoes, one of which is a completely unsensible pair of shoes. I saw my amazing uncle Jim and gave him lots of hugs, more than usual because I was giving hugs for Robyn too. And also I BOUGHT A RECORD PLAYER.

It is the best record player ever! It was only twenty dollars and I got it at Goodwill and I got speakers for seven bucks apiece, so the whole thing was a little over thirty dollars. And I bought a bunch of records at Goodwill also, and after I bought those records I went to the library and on the way back I went to THE BEST STORE EVER, i.e., The Compact Disc Store. It's so great! There's a dog! There are records! It's near the comic book store! And I bought a bunch of used LPs, and additionally I got new ones because all the cool bands release their records on vinyl too - apparently because all the records I looked for were there - so I got the Decemberists' Picaresque, and my favorite Shins album (Chutes Too Narrow), and one by the New Pornographers (and the guy said he thought they'd be getting some Neko Case records in soon too), and also I bought Abbey Road new. Because I like it.

Records are awesome. I am sitting in my room nostalgically listening to Man of La Mancha, which I used to listen to when I was a kid before my father gave away all our records (yes! he did! All of them! Though I begged him to desist!), and I am just as happy as a clam. Some people say it doesn't make a difference but I say it's the difference that makes it.

(That's from Empire Records.)

I ate dinner at my parents' house after I went on this records-buying spree, and when I came in the house with all my new records, my mother was totally unimpressed. She said "You paid for these?" and she said it was just like if I had come home all excited because I! Had bought! A push lawnmower! She said records are hard to deal with and easily damaged and out-of-date, and we should embrace the way of the future. But instead of that I think I want to embrace the way of the past, which includes large cool cover art, lyrics, and a pleasant crackly noise when you put them in.

Each time I think of the many records I now own (I mean, not tons and tons and tons. I think I probably have about fifteen of them? Fifteen or twenty?), I heave a happy sigh. I love my lovely new records. I have speakers in my room. I have a record player. I cleverly fixed the needle so it's not unbalanced and dangly anymore. I have cool records and a new favorite store. This was a good weekend.

Life is weird

A few years ago, I sneered at Anna for purchasing seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer because even though they were only $20 altogether, I didn’t feel it was a necessary investment when she could have spent that $20 on something more exciting like, I don’t know, a whole bunch of dental floss.

The other day I found myself gravely talking to Robyn about how we didn’t think Buffy ever recovered emotionally from Angel’s departure, and how we really felt that her subsequent romantic dysfunction could be attributed to an unwillingness to let go of her relationship with him.

THE MAFIA....

...hypothesis of brood parasitism.

Or, I learned the most fascinating thing ever today.

Well, we all know that cuckoos are wicked and unpleasant birds with the wicked and unpleasant habit of laying their own eggs in other birds’ nests, so that the other birds hatch the eggs for them. And then the baby cuckoos hatch sooner and grow faster, and they kick the mama bird’s real babies right out of the nest. This is nice for the parasite cuckoo mama, who doesn’t have to do any work, and nice for the parasite cuckoo babies, who get to throw other baby birds out of the nest, but not so nice for the host mama, whose reproductive success is diminished, or for the host babies, who end up dead and splatty at the bottom of the tree while their mamas give free worms to their murderers.

Or possibly the host babies fall out of the nest, don’t die on impact, and, lacking the tenacity of the Are You My Mother? bird (You are not my mother! You are a Snort!), die anyway because of no mama to feed them. Poor little birds.

Well, I’ve known about this for a while. But today I learned one of the theories for why the host mamas put up with this crap instead of evolving out of it (because it really, really doesn’t benefit them reproductively), and it is so fascinating. It’s called THE MAFIA HYPOTHESIS. Basically, the notion is that host mamas who try to get rid of parasite (cuckoo) eggs that show up in their nests get targeted by the cuckoos. The cuckoos come to check on their eggs, and if the host mama has ejected the parasite cuckoo eggs from her nest, the cuckoo up and dumps out all of the host mama’s eggs. So that instead of having fewer of her own babies as a result of cuckoo activities, the host mama ends up with no babies. Some studies have shown that host mamas who eject parasite eggs have a massively higher likelihood of ending up having their nests plundered AND IT IS THE CUCKOO WHO PLUNDERS THEM.

THAT IS RIGHT. DO NOT MESS WITH THE CUCKOOS. THEY WILL KILL YOUR CHILDREN.

I have three equally strong reactions to this. One, this is fascinating and I wonder if Neil Gaiman knows about this, he with the love for writing about cuckoos. Two, cuckoos are fucking terrifying. And three, I sort of wish my sisters and I had known about this when we were little and we used to play the game where I was the mama bird and Robyn and Erin Molly were my little baby birds, and Anna would only play if she could be the cat. But I bet she would have played if she could have been The Recurring Evil Cuckoo Character. It would have been great. There could have been epic battles, man.

The running high of emotions

We finished watching Buffy today. We have now seen all the episodes that there are. There are no more new episodes for us to see, ever.

Robyn and I had different reactions to this. I cried eleven tears and fetched my laptop to go write my story, as I do when things end that I didn't want to end. She cried some tears also (I didn't count because I don't care about her) and then went into her room claiming she wanted a nap, and I went in later to fetch my laptop to write my story, and discovered that she was trying to smother herself with her pillow. But don't worry, I was in time to stop it.

We were very sad that Anya died. We thought it was more misfortune than poor eye-losing Xander deserved. We've been really loving Xander in the past two seasons - he's grown up a lot since the old days when he was all jealous of Angel. Plus, you know, he's the only one who's managed to make it through seven seasons of apocalypse without stopping being sweet. Like, Buffy's not a bit sweet anymore, and we never felt the same about Willow after she turned evil and started going out with Kennedy, but Xander's still a dear. In fact he's become more of a dear. Not less. He's had positive growth.

I'm sad no more Buffy. We've been watching Buffy since February, and we have great love for it. We think it deals honestly with relationships which is, actually, kind of rare in our experience. All these TV shows and - GOD - Twilight, which is disturbing and kinda antifeminist - no, wait, don't let me get off on that tangent - anyway, all these things where people continue to have insanely dysfunctional relationships because, I guess, it keeps TV interesting, and nobody ever says, Holy shit, you're insanely dysfunctional and have serious issues and/or mental disorders and then talks about the emotional issues and tries to figure out where to go with them.

On another note, my big sister, the warrior goddess, is leaving tomorrow, to go and do Life. Robyn and I have entertained the notion that some of our tears are Anna-related, not Buffy-related. Anna's swell. I'm happy about her Life but I'm going to miss her.

I’m warning you in advance that this is disgusting

Not disgusting like The State of the World. Disgusting like entrails.

I inherited many things from my father’s family. Like my very tall height that is extremely tall and matches my birthday. And like being good with languages and wanting to learn ten dozen of them (this is from both sides actually). And like enjoying of the gallows humor. And, less goodly, little bumps on my head.

It’s a thing – my father had a great big massive bump and when we were in Indian Princesses his name was Brave Bump-on-the-Head. One time he got it removed on Halloween Day, and every time he answered the door to the little trick-or-treaters he would bend way down to them so he could show off his gruesome bloody bandages. And I have inherited a similar thing but smaller, and before I went to England I went to the dermatologist and had them remove two wee bumps from my head. They’re totally harmless bumps, but I had them removed because one of them hurt like a bitch every time I bumped my head, and I’m clumsy.

Well, now, two years later, one of the ex-bumps has gone insane. And amusingly it’s not the one that hurt when I bumped it. It’s the one that was much smaller, the one I only got removed because I was like, Well, hey, while they’re cutting pieces off my head, why not cut ’em all off? And it’s, like, it’s like sprouting now. Every time I feel the place where the bump used to be, there’s these little things that peel off my head.

I told you this was yucky.

But I can’t leave it alone. It’s too fascinating. They look exactly like little flat seeds. Flesh seeds. I am definitely entertaining the notion that there are things growing on the top of my head and if I left them alone they would grow into little – um – somethings. And I can’t decide if this is mainly gross, or mainly fascinating. Nor does my compulsive nature (a maternal-side gene though not absent in my father’s side) permit me to leave them alone long enough to find out.

The upshot is, I may well be a frightening science-fiction asexual reproduction creature. FEAR ME.

(Reading back over this, it sounds totally disgusting. Like even more disgusting than I was originally thinking it would sound. And I’d like to be able to say, Ha, ha, just kidding, wouldn’t that be yucky; or possibly, Nah, I just made all that up; but the truth is, the flesh seeds on my head are very real. (Ew.))

Extra blankets

Here's what I realized last night as I was falling asleep: See, before I went to university, I bought a comforter for my dorm room. And because the dorm was paid for by my scholarship, I always lived in the dorms, and I had this comforter, and meanwhile back at the home, I had my real comforter on my real bed, which I slept on when I visited home.

Well, last night I realized that I am no longer at the dorms, thus will no longer have that blue dorm comforter on my school-year bed, because my school-year bed will have become the same thing as my real-life bed. Which means (stay with me here), the dorm comforter will have become an extra blanket.

I will have extra blankets.

I told this to Robyn, and she said, "Well, yeah!" and I said, "No, but like I'll have extra blankets," and she was like, "Duh! I always have extra blankets! I get cold a lot!" Totally missing the point (though a lovely girl). The point is this: I will have an extra blanket that I am not keeping on hand for my own use, an extra blanket that will just be extra, that I will have to store in an extra blanket place. Like in the linen closet! With the other extra blankets. To distribute to hurricane evacuees or, I don't know, give to people who are sleeping on the couch, in order to make them comfortable... An extra blanket spot. The place where we will put extra blankets.

I mean, the next thing you know I'll have a dog and furniture that serves no purpose other than to put bric-a-brac on, and a Christmas tree of my very own. Having extra blankets means that I am bidding farewell to my transient carefree existence! I can't just pack a bag and go anymore (not that I ever did, except that time I went to England)! I have STUFF.

Yeah, I can't decide how I feel about this. I'd rather have fewer extra blankets and more books.