Today I Wept for Humanity

I'm not trying to be poetic or use some sort of metaphor.   I walked down the street and CRIED.

Because apparently it is not enough that there is war and murder and oppression and starvation and the flagrant misuse of the word "ironic".  No.  Those are the things that always seem to be there.  The things of which we all conscious on some level, but have become more of an ache than a sharp pain.  Tragedies that have not lost their horror or scope, yet no longer surprise us, as horrible as that sounds.  And sometimes we are able to forget.  We have to forget.  We have to put aside the overwhelming catastrophes that humans inflict on each other so that we don't go mad.  So that we can still enjoy our small pieces of paradise.  So that we can watch a little girl in her funny winter hat skateboard down the sidewalk and still smile.  I am not dismissing all the things that people all over the world are suffering this very second at the hands of their fellow species.  Those actions can never, and should never, be brushed aside.  I'm fighting for the idea that we must all cling on to the good.  Fight for the smiles as hard as we fight against the hate.

And what has unhinged me so?  What set forth this tirade?  It was the silliest, simplest, saddest little thing.  A Salvation Army collector has materialized outside the entrance of my grocery.  With his red bucket and ever-ringing bell.  Now, I do not always give to people collecting money.  I believe very few people have the means to ALWAYS give, but I told myself that if I had change left over when I came out, that I would drop it in.  Shopping commenced, jelled cranberries were bought, and all was merry and bright.  As I made my exit, I slowed and reached into my pocket for the change I had dedicated to that red bucket and bell.  I was not the only one exiting, though.  There was also an older gentleman (I use the term "gentleman" quite loosely here) with a truly inordinate amount of toilet paper also making his departure.  As he rushed by, I heard him snark, "Ugh!  Out here already?!  It's not even Thanksgiving!"

I had a short exchange with the man collecting money about this Grinch, dropped in my changed, wished him a happy Thanksgiving, and went along my way to ponder humanity as I walked my groceries home.  I don't know why, but the man's comment really cut at me.  Sure, people kvetch about Christmas music, decorations, and hype bombarding them the second Halloween is done.  This humbuginess doesn't really bother me.  These people are entitled to their harmless, be it misguided opinions.  (Really people.  Christmas is wonderful, why wouldn't you want to prolong it?)  But complaining that an organization has started to collect money to help people "too early"?  How can it be "too early" to help?  I know some people have some very strong opinions about how helpful Salvation Army really is (and that IS a very valid opinion), but that's not my point right now.  My point is that there was a human being giving his time and energy in an attempt to make the world a better place, and he was met with angry words from another human being because something associated with Christmas was put into his path three days before Thanksgiving.

Now, I've never done a study on collecting for charity.  I don't know if extending exposure during the holiday season ends up in the collection of more money, or if people get angry and fed up, and therefore donate less.  The statistics part of me really wants to know, but the rest of me wants to believe the best in people.  That having collectors out there starting earlier brings in more money, and helps more people.  Again, not the point.  The point is that this man could not just walk by, saying nothing.

It was too much.

As though there is a time limit, a finite window of opportunity when people are allowed to be charitable, and it only comes after we have all stuffed our faces with turkey.  And jelled cranberries.  As though that man ringing his bell is as annoying as the Hippopotamus Song on November 1st or seeing Christmas lights displayed next to Halloween candy.

Here's the thing.  I love Christmas.  And of course I adore the music and the decorations (and cookies!), but it's more about the feeling of it.  The giving.  The joy.  The smiles.  The love.  So when people attack or grumble about the artificial trappings of Christmas, I don't get too fussed about it.  Because I still get to listen to my tunes and eat my cookies.  It's when someone is frustrated by the deeper meaning of the season that I get worried.  Not necessarily the Christian significance of the holiday, more how this time of year should remind humanity of its better nature.  Remind humanity to care and to smile.  And this man was having none of it.

So I wept.

Today is Brought to You by the Letter "D"

I enjoy many things that begin with the letter "D".  Debbie Fritsch (that's my mom… hi, Mom!), Disney, dairy, Dchristmas… you get the idea.

But today is November 12th, which means I am going to talk about one "D" word in particular.  My dad.  Because November 12 is the birthday of James Patrick Fritsch!  Huzzah and glad tidings.

Now, my dad and I have a very special relationship.  And I mean special.  I'm pretty sure that if anyone monitored our Face Time conversations, they would be forced to institutionalize us.  At least we think we're funny.

Together, though, Dad and I are grand adventurers.  We have taken on London and Paris.  Our road trips across America are the things of legend.  Wanderlust is kind of what we do.  Looking back, though, there is probably one city where most of my fondest memories are set, especially those involving Dad.  And that city also begins with the letter "D".

And that's Duluth, Minnesota.

NO!  It's Detroit.  Duh.

Since moving away from Michigan, I have spent the last ten months telling people that I'm from Detroit and getting the response, "Well, that's a good place to move from."  And this statement would awake in me a truly unholy ball of rage and indignation that would convince most passersby that I am actually a redhead.  At first, my responses were a well-crafted succession of stuttering syllables, which sounded mostly like: N-no!  Detroit is.. well, yeah, we have some issues, b-but, you know it's actually really…  I mean… HOCKEY!!

Eloquent.  I know.

Since then, I have started to refine my tactics.  I now look the naysayer straight in the eye and ask them if they've ever BEEN to Detroit.  Most say no, and then I, with a stab at calmness and civility, explain to them the myriad museums, restaurants, clubs, venues, festivals, and markets that can be found in Detroit.  Some listen, and some are confused as to how it is legal to serve food in a burned out building.   Apparently some believe that there is NOTHING LEFT in Detroit.

After I started being articulate again, I began to wonder why I was so passionate about Detroit, and even it was legit for me to say I'm "from" Detroit.  I have never lived in Detroit, but I have definitely lived in Detroit.  There have been plenty of holidays, birthdays, and just because days spent in the Motor City.  I believe I have put in my time, and most of those hours were logged with Dad.

I think I get upset when people dump on Detroit because it feels like they are pissing all over some of my favorite memories and experiences.  Hey.  DON'T piss on my memories.  I like them.  It's as though they don't believe anything good can happen in Detroit, so it follows that most of my good times were not actually that great.  Skewed logic, you say?  Well, that's the way my mind works.  Wah wah.  And my memories are awesome.  Like me.  And my Dad.

So… do you know what it's like to wander around the Detroit Institute of Arts as a kid?  This was probably my Dad and my number one hang out.  The mummies, the suits of armor, the van Goghs, the Rivera murals, and rainbow hallway that lead to the food court.  There is this one spiral staircase that is still my favorite part of the entire museum, and Dad knew that no trip was ever complete until I went either up or down that staircase.  Well, he probably didn't know, but I reminded him.

Next up, Tiger Stadium.  Guys, I knew Tiger Stadium.  We were tight.  I had journeyed both into the men's bathroom (there was a trough) and onto the roof.  I had it perfectly timed out that I only had to pee when a major play was about to take place.  Dad loved it.  My talents are truly limitless.  To me, a trip to Tiger Stadium was all about trying to catch a fly ball, attempting to get a autograph from Cecil Fielder, and running up and down the GIANT ramp.  Not winning.  This was the 90's.  The Tigers were not winning.

When someone starts in with me about Detroit I wish I could open my skull and telepathically relay my experiences.  Like how I felt as an eight year old, when my dad took me to see my first professional show.  It was the first national tour of Beauty and the Beast, I wore a dress with roses all over it, and it played at the Masonic Temple.  It was beautiful.  Or know the excitement of watching your dad crossing the finish line at the end of the Detroit marathon.  Or spending your 16th birthday at a Red Wing's game.  Or getting dressed up to watch the Joffrey Ballet at the Opera House.  (Dad's response to ballet:  I like it.  Nobody talks.)

I could keep going.  I could talk about spending the day at work with Dad downtown.  I could talk about the Detroit Historical Museum, or the Verlander no-hitter at Comerica Park.  And I know Detroit is messed up.  And yes, I have stories of coming back to the car after a baseball game to find out the car has been broken into.  But honestly, the girl who does my hair just got her car stolen from outside her house.  She lives in a cute little suburb in Washington state.

So on this November 12th, I want everyone to know that I'm missing Dad and missing Detroit, and woe betide the next human who tries to tell me that Detroit is just not worth… well, anything.  Because I associate Detroit with Dad, and you don't want to get in that fight with me.  

Miley Cyrus

HA!  MADE YOU LOOK.

As though I actually have any idea what's going on with Miss Cyrus, or am going to waste my time forming an opinion.

Now, get off the internet, pick up a book, hang out with your friends, and drink something yummy.

Or have a popsicle.  That's always a good choice.

Public Service Announcement

Look.  I don't like to be touched.  I never have.  Just ask my Aunt Lisa.  She was always so disappointed that I wasn't a cute and cuddly child.  Cute, yes, just not cuddly.

Before you ask, my parents did not abuse me, nor did anyone else.  This was something I was asked fairly frequently throughout high school, because I didn't want anyone in my bubble.  I have wonderful parents who hugged me, and nothing sinister in my past, just a very defined sense of personal space.  And I'm pretty good about warning new people about my tendency to freak out if they invade said space...

SO DON'T.  I do let people I feel comfortable with give me hugs or touch my hair, and if I don't, it doesn't mean that I hate you.  I have very close family and friends who giving a hug is a very awkward and claustrophobic event for me.  And if I give someone else a hug in front of you, that does not give everyone within that square mile permission to come up and embrace me as well.  When did it become a social insult to deny someone physical contact?  Sure, I'm on the more extreme end, but IT IS MY RIGHT TO DENY ANYONE A HUG.  Overreacting you say?  Probably, but if you want to hug me that badly, I would hope that you are my friend and would therefore respect my wishes.

And I'll admit, it's pretty arbitrary.  I don't have a formula for who I will and will not hug/let hug me.  But pressing me about it does not move you up on my list.  Give me a high five.  I love high fives.  Get to know me.  Ask permission before SWOOPING DOWN ON ME OR LAYING HANDS ON ME IN ANY WAY.  I don't care how innocent or how pure your intentions are.  Asking permission first at least gives me some warning.  Because I have a tendency to flail and/or hit.  Which is very amusing for any bystanders, but not very amusing for YOU.  It also shows that you acknowledge my weirdness and are trying to work with it.

You know what else?  I'm not just talking about straight boys, here.  EVERYONE.  Surprised?  Maybe you thought that this was some sort of vendetta against those awkward boys who can't take social cues. Well, it's not.  Guess what?  Over the years, most of my closest friends who I hug the most have been awkward straight boys.  Gasp!  Shock!  Awe!  Yeah, stick that in your overly judgmental pipe and smoke it.

How does this work in theatre?  It's kind of dodgy.  I've definitely gotten better, and I'm usually fortunate enough to work with people for whom I have respect and who seem to respect me, and we work it out.  But sometimes I'm all, "I don't know you!  Why are you hugging me?  Because we're theatre people?  I'm sorry, I didn't know that my BFA was an open invitation to have strangers attack." Yes, most theatre people are very touchy-feely, and I'm kind of the odd one out, but that doesn't mean that I don't get to dictate what makes me uncomfortable.

And there are points where I cross the threshold.  One day I may not hug you, the next day, hugs galore (within reason).  It's just how I operate.

That is all.

August is Like Ohio

On July 31st I was overcome with great joy because it was Harry Potter's birthday.

That joy was quickly smothered by panic.  Panic that the following day was August 1st.  I hate August.  I seem to hate a lot of things.  But that's because people seem to like to hear about the things I hate, so I continue to write about them.  It's all YOUR fault I have so much hatred.

Anyway.  August.  August is that month of weird limbo.  July is great because it is the midst of summer; it always seems like you have all the time in the world to swim, bask in the sun, and barbecue.  If you are the kind of person to swim and bask and barbecue.  For me, summer was almost always that precious break from school, where I was allowed to read whatever I wanted.  Augusts hits and then BAM! only one month left to do all of those summer things!  Sure, it's still an entire month, but behind every August outing is a sense of urgency.  All of a sudden, the summer check list seems impossibly long and you know you're never going to get it all done before September.

Of course, this feeling stems from the idea that one is going back to school in September, which I am not.  But I always forget that.  It's just so engrained in my psyche.  September = School.  Which is amazing.  I wish I were still going back to school, but I'm also so happy that I don't have to do homework (because I did do my homework every so often).

Honestly?  I'm not actually a huge fan of summer.  June?  Lovely.  July?  Fine.  August?  I'm over it.  August is what stands in between my waning tolerance of heat and sun and that most perfect of seasons: autumn.  By the time August hits, all I want is to wear tights and jackets and scarves, pick apples, and gorge myself on a profane amount of absurdly pumpkin flavored goodies.  August is like Ohio at the end of your family road trip back from Florida.  Yes, the vacation and sun are over, but you're not quite home free.  You have to schlep through a state that does not look that intimidating on the map, but feels like an eternity while driving through it.  And it offers NOTHING.

That's a lie.  There are some good things in Ohio.  You know, Cedar Point and Tony Paco's.  But at this point, you're not looking to enjoy your time in Ohio, you're looking to get back to Michigan.  That's how I feel about August.  Yes, it has some merits, it can still be enjoyed, but really, I just want to get to September.  I don't want to wear sunblock anymore.  I don't want to continue to drive past flat fields and colleges.  I want fall.  I want Michigan.

So close.  

RAGE

SO MUCH RAGE.

THE FRUIT FLIES.

Why are there fruit flies?  Really, what purpose do they server for the greater good?  I mean, you could ask the same thing about me, but I feel like I bring some sort of joy to people's lives.  Fruit flies bring joy to no one.  Only rage.

I would say that the fruit flies have inspired me to keep up on my dishes.  Yes, this is a good thing.  Now I always clean, or at least rinse, my dishes immediately after I have enjoyed my delicious fare.  The purpose of fruit flies is to make sure dishes are clean?  I would definitely hop on board with that... EXCEPT THERE ARE STILL FRUIT FLIES.  EVERYWHERE.  I don't get it.  Where do they come from?!?  And so quickly.  I think that's the part I don't get.  One day, no fruit flies.  The next day, ZILLIONS OF FRUIT FLIES.  You can tell I'm full of rage because I'm using so many capital letters.  You know what I don't say nearly enough?  "That's capital!"  You know, as an exclamation.  "What a capital idea!"  I think I'm going to integrate that into my daily vocabulary.  You know what isn't capital?  The fruit flies infestation of my apartment.

The thing is, fruit flies have great taste.  I say it's great because they have the same taste as me.  They love fruit (duh) like me, and coffee, and peanut butter, and all sorts of natural tasty things.  They're not going after highly processed food, and neither am I.  Why am I being punished for enjoying bananas and cherries?  I'm eating fresh, natural foods, why am I being sent a plague?!  And it's not like I'm leaving banana peel out and about, I put them in a sealed beg!  Ugh.

And you know what else?  My apartment used to smell like Lush and pancakes and sunshine.  It smelled like paradise every time I walked in the door.  But now it smells like apple cider vinegar and hate and dying fruit flies.  Because that is supposed to be one of the most effective ways to kill the little buggers.  Apple cider vinegar in a little dish.  Not the worst smell in the world, but still nothing compared to sunshine.  Also, there is a tiny fruit fly grave yard on top of my toaster over.  Ich.

I have to admit, though, I do feel pretty badass whenever I kill one.  Not by drowning, but because of mad ninja skills.  There are very few things as satisfying as clapping your hands in midair and actually squashing one of those little brutes.  Sometimes I still yell out, "I am Obama!" whenever I manage to get one.  Everyone remembers when that happened, right?  Obama killed a fly with his bare hands on television.  It was pretty epic.  And that's how I feel when I get a fruit fly.  Epic.  I even have one completely flattened on an index card.  It is a warning to the others.

The worst thing about the fruit flies?  When they land on me at night.  Once it happens, all I can feel are the fruit flies crawling all over me.

That Stupid Puppet

You know what crazy about acting?  You fall in love/hate/like/friendship and every other sort of emotion with people on stage in the course of an hour and forty-five minutes.

I think that's one of the reasons I really like acting.  I'm not a big "let's be emotionally bonded" type of person, but I can get little dollops of human connection while I'm acting, walking away from the whole experience safe and sound.  Want to hear something weird?  I fall in love with a stupid blonde puppet.  It is the most ridiculous looking thing in the world -- an inanimate object.  And I, also the extension of a puppet (though mine is brown and furry), fall head over heels for the thing.

For the course of the show, I barely look at the actor who has his hand up that puppet.  Eye contact is made with two googly eyes.  And yet, I am over the moon when he hands me a mixed CD, pissed off when I realize that "Fat-Bottomed Girls" was included on said CD, giddy about going on a date, jealous of the slutty puppet, ecstatic when he wants to be my boyfriend, and crushed when he breaks up with me.  IT'S A PUPPET.  (Does anyone else hold down the shift when writing in all caps, or does pretty much everyone hit the caps lock?  I always forget it's there.)  

But what does that say about the human mind?  To what level can we delude ourselves?  What is it that clicks on or off which allows a person to feel these feeling for a bit of fleece with hair?  And it can't just be me.  I mean, even if the other actors on stage aren't getting all mushy for my puppet, the audience is. Most of the audience members love the puppets.  And, let's be real now, EVERYONE loves the Muppets.  I read in the amazing book my amazing friend sent me about Avenue Q, and in a documentary about Elmo, that Muppet-esque puppets are so great because so many people can relate to them.  When they are funny colors and furry, no one is excluded.  When a puppet is green or blue or orange, it can be any race.  I think that is such a brilliantly simple concept.  Is that why it is so easy to connect to and relate with the puppets?  Are we seeing ourselves and others when we watch these shows?   

Another thing.  My mom, after seeing a photo of my puppet, told me that Kate Monster wasn't very attractive.  I think Kate is amazing and super cute.  In the aforementioned book, the creators of Avenue Q said that Kate Monster had body/self-image issues.  This was something I never associated with her character before, but like I said, I think Kate is great.  And here's a little quote from a local man's blog about her, "And who wouldn't fall in love with Fritsch's Kate, someone you want to wrap your arms around and keep from harm?"  I (usually) hate hugs.  Kate seems to need them. 

Acting is crazy.  Puppets are crazy. 

Glasses

I hate fake glasses.  I hate them.  Hate hate HATE.  Hate is a strong word, you say?  Good.  Because this feeling of dislike I have is a whopper.

Now, I've debated with myself whether or not I have a right to hate on fake glasses and the people who wear them.  (I guess I don't really hate the people who wear fake glasses, that's a bit unfair, but I definitely don't trust them.)  They can technically be considered an accessory, I suppose.  It's like wearing a belt when you don't actually need one, right?  Sure, when I'm wearing a belt with a pair or jeans or trousers, it's because they will fall down otherwise, but sometimes I wear a belt with a dress just because I like the way it looks.  It gives me a more defined waist and completes the ensemble.  Those people who wear suspenders AND belts, though?  Don't get me started.  That's a complete blog post in itself.  But do you see where I'm coming from?  Am I being too harsh?  I would hate to be a hypocrite because I condemned fake glasses and then went around in a superfluous belt.

And then I decided I don't care.  Call me out on whatever you want, but I will not back down on the issue of fake glasses.  True, I'm not a big fan of functionless accessories... at least on me.  Feel free to rock out all the jewelry you want, but I'm going to stick to my watches, shoes, scarves, clothes, and glasses.  I like things that are both fabulous and useful.  Hair flair kind of toes the line.  I like a good headband, but it doesn't actually do much.  Sometimes it aides in creating a certain hairstyle, so we're going to say it counts.

Back to faux glasses. Why are you wearing them?  A fashion statement, you say?  You think it looks "cool"?  When did this happen?  I thought that glasses were supposed to be the anti-cool.  Is this the hipsters' fault?  Is this all about irony?  Are you wearing cheap chunks of plastic on your face to make a point?  Well, if that's how it started, I'm pretty sure something went wrong.  Because there are plenty out there who are donning fake glasses who I'm sure the hipsters DO NOT want to claim.  Also, "I wear them because they make me look smarter" is not okay.  Just BE smarter, and you'll look smarter.  To me, wearing fake glasses seems really silly, thus negating any perceived IQ points.  Are you now asking if I think glasses are cool?  Of course I do, because mine are flippin' sweet.  And I rock those glasses because they help me see, and I bought rockin' glasses because people have to look at them.  Like my clothes, I want my glasses to reflect who I am.  What are fake glasses reflecting about you?  "Fake" is not something I would want as a describer, but that just me.

Am I bitter?  Maybe.  Maybe I'm tired of people asking me, "Are those real?" and "Do you actually need those?"  Maybe I'm pissed off that I had to endure years of playing sports in glasses, and that meant that those eyepieces were permanently askew from various collisions.  And that they're always fogging up or collecting rain water, and other little annoyances that only true glasses wearers know about.  I feel like I've paid my dues to wear the awesome specs I have today.  I've grown to love my glasses.  Maybe I just feel protective.  MAYBE I just want to keep people from being like me in a desperate attempt to hold on to my individuality.  Also, the people who wear contacts and THEN fake glasses?  Just go buy some glasses you like or wear the contacts.  You're the worst.

You know what fake glasses are kind of like?  Wearing fake braces on your teeth.  

Happiness Is...

Can I share something that helped define me?  Well, I'm going to.

See, I'm a pretty happy camper.  I'm sure some of you out there have seen the gloomy Gus side of me, but truth be told, you know I'm one of the more chipper people you know.  And if you don't know me, well... 1) I'm a happy person, 2) thank you for reading my blog, 3) I'm sorry if my blog came up in your search for something completely different, but please read on, and 4) you are about to be given the secret to happiness, so aren't you lucky.  People have asked me how I could be so upbeat.  To this, I have answered many different ways.  Sometimes I shrug and give a goofy smile, other times I'll proclaim, "Life is good!".  If I'm feeling a little snarky, I may throw out, "It's a chemical imbalance!" and add a couple of jazz hands.

These are all pretty generic responses.  Do I actually know why I am happy more often than not?  Do I know why some other people are less happy?  No.  Of course, there are uncontrollable forces at work.  Brain chemistry is a strange thing that affects everyones moods in different ways and I have lead an incredibly fortunate life.  So yes, I do believe that those two things are probably key players in what make me "me".  Also, there is that whole concept of "choosing to be happy".  Is that like choosing to be awesome?  Because I choose you, Pikachu!

Oop, sorry.  My nerd got all over the place.  But I can kind of hop on board with the "choosing" to be happy.  Now, this only works when brain chemistry is NOT in play.  DISCLAIMER: all the things I am about to say have absolutely no bearing on people with depression.  Please do not go up to your friends and be all, "Hey, this Fritsch person is happy, you should be to!"  It doesn't work that way.  I am merely throwing out there some of my thoughts, my fleeting fancies, on the concept of happiness, so... yeah.  I'm not going to apologize for what is said here, but I'm also not going to tolerate it being taken out of context.

Speaking of apologizing, don't apologize for being happy.  I think that's one of the most important things I've learned through my short life.  Allow yourself to be happy.  Allow others to be happy for you.  Don't hold your happiness over others, but share it.  THERE IS ENOUGH HAPPINESS FOR EVERYONE.  I promise.

Ich.  I don't like the way this post is going.  It sounds like I'm giving you all advice.  Telling you what to do.  That is not what this was supposed to be at all.  I'm trying to sum up why I'm a happy person, or those little events in my life that make me who I am today, as far as being in a good mood.  Well, this post was actually inspired by a movie.  A movie that is not The Wizard of Oz, or any of the Harry Potters or Star Wars.  It's not even a sports movie.  It's a movie called Heart and Souls, which came out in 1993.  I didn't see it in the theatre, but rather in my Grandpa's living room.  He had cable.  So, let's say it was the mid-90's, which puts me at mid-elementary school.  I only saw it once, but it made a huge impact on me.  Or at least one part did.  This:

I remembered the general premise of the movie, but what really stuck with me was Thomas (Robert Downy, Jr.) and the rest walking down the street singing that song.  And I held on to that feeling.  I wasn't even sure what the movie was for many a year, but I did eventually find out the title.  That's what it's like inside my head.  That one scene.  I would sing that song and dance that dance all over the place, as though I had those four invisible friends around me.  That's happiness.  Happiness is singing in the bathroom or doing something good for someone else.  It's the little things.  

And remembering things that make me happy.  Maybe that's it.  I have a truly amazing memory, and though I can remember the bad things, I hold on to the good things.  Literally and figuratively.  Did you know I have a book of happiness?  I keep little things that make me smile in there.  Can you remember the best days of your life?  Can you remember swinging on the swing set and singing at the top of your lungs?  If you had to conjure a patronus, what would you remember?  

Also, I was kind of a morbid child, or at least I had some very morbid fascinations.  I loved reading about the Salem Witch Trials, the Titanic, the Holocaust, factory fires, plagues.  But then the funny pages every morning in the paper.  It kept things in perspective.  My life was never going to be as bad as the ones I read about, so why not be happy?  Of course there is a time to be sad, but that's not what this post is about.  This post is about dancing around to Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.   

Crayons

Guys, I used to steal crayons.

Specifically, cerulean Crayola crayons.  Apparently, I've always been incredibly picky about both my brand preference and color when it came to my crayon pilfering.  I have vivid memories of being in the childcare at the YMCA, and while all the other kids were watching Land Before Time, I was rifling through the cavernous tub of loose crayons in an attempt to find every single cerulean crayon.  Could I pronounce 'cerulean' at the age of four?  No.  Did I know that it was a much truer representation of what I envisioned as the color blue than any of the other crayons labeled as such?  Yes.  To me, blue Crayola crayons were a very sad color, and cerulean was a much happier alternative.

And this didn't stop with daycare.  Wherever there was a bin a crayons, whether it be school or that one restaurant that actually had Crayola crayons, I would immediately begin my hunt for the cerulean ones.  And once I started babysitting?  Well, let just say there are probably a couple of houses in my neighborhood that have been relieved of their cerulean scribblers.  Now, I never stole from BOX of crayons.  That would leave a gaping hole.  And it wasn't that I thought that hole would lead me to be caught (because who would think there was a crayon burglar?), but because that incomplete set would cause my OCD more grief than the new cerulean crayon would bring me joy.  There was this one time I bought a new box of crayons (just the 24 set), and the cerulean crayon was broken... BROKEN!  So, I brought it with me the next time I babysat and traded it out for the pretty (and completely intact) counterpart from the kids' box of crayons.  I felt better.    

You may or may not be wondering at this point whether or not I have a giant pile of cerulean crayons hiding somewhere.  I don't.  They've all been used, lost, or gone through the wash.  Although, I'm pretty sure that if you look through all of my old bags/purses, you will probably find a cerulean crayon in each of them.

Most recently, I was struck with the urge to make a bright green metallic mine.  I was at a music director's house for a rehearsal, and sitting on a speaker was a lone crayon.  It called to me.  Is that what kleptomaniacs feel like?  Or do they do it for the rush?  Because I just REALLY wanted to take that crayon.  There were no other crayons in sight.  Why was it there?  Just to taunt me?  To remind me that all I have in a measly 24 count box, with nothing more exciting than "dandelion"?  Why?!?  And I almost took it.  I told the music director that if he couldn't find his crayon, it was because I pocketed it, but I didn't.  Because I'm new to town, and I don't want word to get out.  "Don't hire that redheaded Elizabeth girl for your show.  She'll steal your crayons."

Also, can we just take a moment to hate on RoseArt?  Those are the worst.  I always felt kind of bad when kids at school had RoseArt crayons... until they asked to borrow my AWESOME 96 count box of Crayolas and returned it with all the crayons worn down, broken, and out of order.  Dude, I know you're used to your crappy, waxy, RoseArt pieces of nonsense, but ease up on my crayons, will ya?  Develop those fine motor skills, and discover the joys of shading.  No need to have THE MOST INTENSE COLOR FOR YOUR ENTIRE PICTURE.  At least not if you're using my crayons.  And what on Earth made you think that "Tickle Me Pink"goes back next to "Macaroni and Cheese"?  My box of crayons is obviously organized by color family... it's the first thing I did when I received it.  Show some respect.

To My Mum

The other day I was thinking about makeup.

What does that have to do with my mom, or mothers in general?  Well, let me tell you.  I was walking down the street, thinking about how I really hate taking off makeup, and that I'm so happy that I don't feel as though I need to wear makeup to go out of the house.  And that made me think about how my mom doesn't wear a lot of makeup, either.  Because she doesn't need to.  She's lovely.  And then I started to think of just how lovely she is and all the amazing things she has done for me, which is appropriate seeing as it is Mothers' Day season.  Unfortunately, I did not have the time, nor the resources, to send her a gift this year (never fear, she got an excellent birthday present), but I still want to give her something.  So I decided to give her my first blog post after a bit of drought.

Thank you, Mom.  Thank you for not wearing a lot of makeup, and not inflicting on me some sort of beauty regime.  But also, when I needed to look good for college auditions, thank you for taking me to a high quality makeup counter, and treating me to that makeup.  As you said, since I didn't ask for any makeup until I was 19, it seemed okay to buy it for me.  I still remember that shopping trip.  Thank you for the makeup and the dresses.  Going out shopping was never really our thing, and that was a very successful, fun day.

Thank you.  Thank you for taking care of me every single time I got sick.  Which, as we both know, was ALL THE TIME.  It was probably no fun taking care of a little girl who managed to contract scarlet fever.  And walking pneumonia.  And is allergic to penicillin, but caught strep throat at least once a month.  Oh, and who would sleep through her own coughing attacks, while you laid awake.  You're a champ.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for all the times we didn't/don't see eye to eye.  I'm sorry about the time I didn't want you around for homecoming pictures.  I'm sorry about the times I came home after having a little too much to drink.  I'm sorry that I don't wear a helmet when I roller blade, and I know it makes you worry.  I'm sorry about the one year I thought it was a great idea to buy you goldfish for Mothers' Day.  And I don't mean the crackers.  I mean two live goldfish.  

But thank you.  Thank you for reading to me when I was little, even if it did always make you fall asleep.  Thank you for making the world's best cookies, which I'm still convinced are the reason I ever had friends growing up.  Thank you for making a killer apple pie, and for teaching me how to bake.

Thank you for the ability to say that I had only ONE store bought Halloween costume.  And for loving holidays as much as I do.  And embracing all that is Christmas.  Christmas is important.  Thank you for decorating the house so beautifully every year and playing Christmas music and making hundreds of cookies.  Thank you for always making sure that my birthday presents are always wrapped in birthday, NOT Christmas, paper.

Thank you for supporting my Wizard of Oz obsession.  And my acting obsession.  And almost all of my hair brained obsessions and choices.  Thank you for believing I am smart enough to be a doctor or a lawyer, and accepting that I have degrees in Public History and Musical Theatre Performance.  Thank you for letting me do whatever I wanted to my hair and coming to see all of my shows.  Thank you for staying up to help me finish homework and other projects I left too late.

Thank you for teaching me how to manage my money.  Thank you for teaching me how to craft, and the simple beauty of something made by hand.  Thank you for teaching me how rewarding doing something for some else always is.  Thank you for the night we watched "Big Business", and for all the times we kicked Dad out of the Man Cave so that we could watch "Cupcake Wars".

Thank you for marrying Dad, because we all know he would be dead in a ditch if you hadn't.

Thank you for being there for me these past 25 years.  I look forward to many more.

There are innumerable other things which deserve thanks, but let's save some for next year.

Love you.

Letter to a Professor

Dear Dr. Palmitessa,

It has been five years since I took your European Witch Hunt class at Western Michigan University, which I'm sure you know is half a decade.  In the grand scheme of history, that is not a very long time, but let us put those five years into some perspective.  I have lived a fifth of my life since I took your class.  Between the end of that course and now, I have studied for a year in London, finished two Bachelor's degrees, and moved across the country.  If we are considering my personal history, it is as though thousands of years have past.

And yet, I am still royally pissed off at you.  Your class was named "European Witch Hunt".  It should have been AWESOME, even for someone who isn't as interested in history as I am.  In fact, I am pretty sure there were a few poor souls in that class who were not that into history and just wanted to tell their friends that their gen-ed was about witches.  Don't get me wrong.  I knew going into it that this was not going to be about spells and potions.  I was not looking for an in-depth study of witchCRAFT.  Having been obsessed with the Salem Witch Trials in elementary school (I was secretly a very morbid child), I was ready for all things witchHUNT.  I was ready for you to BRING IT ON.  In a purely historical manner, of course.

Well, you did NOT "bring it".  At no time was it "brought".  Firstly, this was a 400 level history class (which I was taking as a sophomore ::hair flip::) and yet you found it necessary to spend a majority of the class going over the Reformation.  Yes, it was pertinent to the subject on hand, but guess what?  The Reformation is pertinent to many subjects in history, and any schmuck who has made it to a 400 level university history course knows about it.  Don't lecture every class for six weeks about the Reformation, just spend two days on brush up and then start talking about witch hunts!  Of course the two were related, but then we should have been spending brain power on how they were related.  Did you not have enough information to fill up a semester?  I think this must have been the case, because we also watched movies, and I don't mean documentaries.  Now, if this class had been titled "How the European Witch Hunt Has Been Portrayed in (quasi-) Modern Media," I could probably let it slide.  And the "quasi" is in there because these were Hollywood films from the '70's and '80's.  Heck, that sounds like a great class.  Why didn't I sign up for that?  Also, we spent a lot of the end of the semester on "personal research time", which meant I could get my work done, but that's not why I'm paying you.  I'm paying you to inspire/scare me into doing research on my own time.  I guess technically I wasn't paying you, seeing as I had my scholarship, but everyone else in the class was.

So, I'm pretty sure you didn't have enough material for a semester, but you could have done a better job making the information you did have EPIC.  Somehow, you managed to make the European witch hunts boring.  It is people like you who give history a bad name.  YOU, sir.  I understand that history can be a bit dry, especially when reading journal articles that are written by scholars who don't realize that someone may one day want to learn from their publishings.  I get that plowing though primary documents from the 13th century can be a headache.  It seems to follow, at least to me, that history in the classroom should be wicked fun so that everything breaks even.  EUROPEAN WITCH HUNTS.  How many times do I have to say it?  And it was a small class.  There is so much more that can be done in a small group setting that could never fly in a lecture hall.  What are these fun things?  I don't know, it's not my job.  But there must be something.  And it doesn't take much for me to get excited over academics.  You should have seen me in Logic.  Front row, every class, practically seizing over how much I loved doing proofs.  Or Latin.  Or when I took History of Women in the US South and turned a cotton ball into 22 feet of thread.  I get into learning, and you gave me nothing to work with.

And I tried.  I was really excited about this class, and that seemed to bother you.  I (for a while) actually read the assigned books and articles.  I came to class ready to discuss and share and learn with my peers.  You stopped calling on me when I raised my hand.  Just because I was the only one who ever talked.  Do you know how annoying it is to be told you can no longer answer questions and then have to sit in silence as no one else responds.  Sure, if there were other people willing to participate I would (grudgingly) allow them their turn.  But no one ever did.  Waiting in silence is a waste of time.  If the other students don't want to read and discuss, then why not let them coast by?  It's their loss, and if you don't care enough to make the subject interesting, then why would you care if they answer questions?  Just let me answer so that we can all get on with our lives.

Now, as the perpetual optimist that I am, I will note a few things that I did enjoy about your class.  There was no final paper, which is always a plus.  This may have been because you had no motivation to read and grade 17 ten page papers, but I'm not going to ask too many questions.  No paper is fine by me.  Also, you brought donuts one day.  I really like donuts and I love free donuts.  Check plus on that one.

One more thing.  You loved the French and hated the British.  I learned this only after the class was either over or almost over.  I had been showing up at least once a week in my Union Jack zip-up.

Just a recap.  You somehow managed to ruin The European Witch Hunt.  The class.  Not the actual historical occurrence.  That would give you too much credit.

That is all,

E. G. Fritsch

Tagalongs

Cookies are very important.  Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

In the world of Girl Scout Cookies, there are really only two kinds that actually matter.  Tagalongs and Thin Mints.  There are a few out there who also pay homage at the purple altar of the Samoa, but I don't think those people have souls.  Coconut is an abomination.  I'm pretty sure it's a texture thing.  A texture and horrible taste thing.  Certainly we can all agree that these three varieties evoke the strongest response in the general population.  I was going to point out that this is probably because these three flavors come in boxes that are the secondary colors, but when I turned up my lights all the way, it looked like my Tagalong box was more red than orange, which is too bad.

Back to the cookies.  I grew up knowing only my mom's cookies.  These are undeniably the best cookies in the world and the only reason I had friends growing up.  As such, we had an unwritten law in my house that banned all commercially made cookies from crossing the threshold.  Oreos are not cookies.  They make great dirt cups and are welcome as a garnish, but they are not cookies.  The exceptions to this rule were Girl Scout Cookies and the cookies from the Meijer bakery.  I don't think we ever bought the Meijer cookies, but it was acknowledged that they tasted good.  Oh.  And the no-bake cookies from the bakery in Pigeon, Michigan.  But we're going to count those as homemade and a class of all their own.  Nothing as good as those cookies has ever been even thought of.  You could tell me that they are made out of lard (which they might be), and I would simply ask for another one. And although these are not large cookies, I don't think I've ever seen a person eat an entire Pigeon no-bake in one go.  Such an action is shunned.  There are a limited number of no-bakes at any given time, and it is every person's duty to make them last as long as humanly possible.  You don't know when you'll see one again.  What you do know is exactly how many parts of a no-bake you, and everyone else, has consumed.  Food of the gods.

This was supposed to be about Girl Scout Cookies.  The point is that cookies are more of a delicacy than something you mindlessly snack on.  Each cookie is an experience.  It takes forever to eat a cookie.  Now, Thin Mints, though very yummy, are not very exciting.  I think they may be one of the only kinds of cookies where I can polish a few off without much thought.  You stick them in the freezer, you take them out of the freezer, and you try not to scarf through a whole sleeve in one go.  They're thin (hence the name), they kind of crumble if you try to break them, and they're not very complex.  Still good.  But the Tagalong.  First of all, you only get 15 to start with, and if Dad gets to them before you, you are screwed.  So you have to make them last.  You have to savor them.  Personally, I like to deconstruct food that probably should be eaten whole.  This includes foods such as soft tacos from Taco Bell, swiss cake rolls, and Ferrero Rocher chocolates, just to name a few.  It also includes Tagalongs.  I am a firm believer that the parts are greater than the sum of its whole, and therefor a Tagalong should be consumed chocolate, peanut butter, and then cookie in order to be truly enjoyed.  That's my view of the matter.

Eye Contact

And how it relates to strangers.

People are always telling me that making eye contact is a dying art, mostly because the most popular means of communication are trending toward the electronic.  This is why actors will someday take over the world.  We all were learning how to be human in our college classes while the business majors were learning how to write emails.  I'm pretty sure these statements have to do with eye contact between friends/co-workers/acquaintances/the girl who gives you your coffee at Starbucks.  Of course, eye contact between these types is important and expected, but that's not what I'm talking about.

I want to be able to look at/make eye contact with random strangers on the street without being forced to look away.  Actually, I want to be able to openly stare at anyone I please while in a public space without feeling awkward or creepy if I'm caught looking.  People are interesting.  I want to look at them.  And not just if it's sunny.  I usually hate the sun (it burns), but the blazing rays give me an excuse to don my awesome, reflectively lensed sunglasses.   These sunglasses allow me to look, at length, at the person walking toward me.  As long as I don't obviously move my head, I am free to admire, judge, or just take in my fellow human beings.  But I want to move my head.  I want to look over at the person across the street if she has fantastic shoes.  I want to stare at the guy with the ridiculous mustache.  And why not?  When did looking at one another become rude?  Don't you want me to look at your fine fashion choices or your well-groomed facial hair?  

It's something I'm working on.  Instead of reflexively turning my head away when someone makes eye contact with me, I try to meet their gaze.  Sometimes I smile.  Sometimes the other person looks freaked out.  I'm not quite sure why; I am not intimidating.  If I were big, drunk, scary man following you home, then yes, you have my permission to be freaked out.  But I'm talking about broad daylight (but not bright enough for sunglasses).  It's just ingrained in us.  We're told it's rude to stare.  I'm not talking about gawking, or changing pace or direction.  I am not telling everyone to go out and stand by as a harassed mother is trying to counteract her toddler's melt down, or slow down to watch a couple fight outside a restaurant.  I just want to people watch.  Without that awkward "I'm looking at you and now you're looking at me and we just caught each others' eyes but we're both going to pretend we didn't and look away" thing.  Maybe I'm just trying to imagine what you looked like when you were nine, maybe you have funny colored hair, maybe I'm wondering why you're wearing white socks.  This is what I do.  It's not rude.  You will know if I'm intending to be rude.  

Valentine's Day

I know haters are going to hate, but...

I really like Valentine's Day.  A lot.  You know why?  Because it is a holiday and holidays are awesome.  And I have never been .5 of a couple, so you can't throw that, "You're not single" nonsense in my face.  So there.

You may claim that this is a day that puts unnecessary stress on relationships, is merely the capitalist construct of the greeting card/flower/chocolate companies, or that it singles out all of those (supposedly) sad single ladies.  But I cry no!  Every Valentine's Day, I dwell not on the fact that I do not have some Romeo, but rather bask in the memories of Valentine's Day elementary school style.  Those glory days when February 14th meant that most of the school day was not spent learning (though, we all know I loved learning), but going through all of the Valentines in your special, handmade, disgustingly red and pink mailbox.  In fact, there was even time spent earlier in the week, not on studies, but on festooning said shoeboxes with paper doilies.  And glitter.  GLITTER.  Enough said?  I'll go on.

I don't know about all of you, but my mom and I did not buy into the whole "buy the pre-made, pop-culturally relevant, tiny Valentines" schtick (destroying those capitalists' plans), because a) since when have I known what's going on in pop-culture, b) they never had Wizard of Oz Valentines, and c) we were super crafty, even back in the day.  Along with being perpetually crafty, I've also been a pretty consistent procrastinator, meaning that the week of Valentine's Day also meant I usually got to stay up kind of late to finish my masterpieces.  They usually involved extensive rubber stamping, and let me tell you, I was a very creative, detail oriented child.  These Valentines were spectacular... and almost always Wizard of Oz themed.  Yes, I own Wizard of Oz rubber stamps.  None of this should surprise you.  I have to say, my mom was a champ through all of this.  Kudos, Mom.  Love you and your patience.

Now, back to school.  Cookies, cakes, candy, and cards.  Ah, the alliteration and the sugar rush.  Sure, some of the more popular kids had extra boxes of candy in their little cubbies, but who cared?  I was still proud of the assembly line I had created to produce 27 handmade cards in one night.  I was sorting out my candy hearts so we could make a bar graph of all the different colors.  I was... a huge nerd.  But I had a cookie, so it was all good.

Harry Potter

Since we're talking about my obsessions...

I still love the Harry Potter books, and movies, but mostly books.  Currently, I am sporting my Gryffindor scarf and I listen to Jim Dale read me J. K. Rowling's words to lull me to sleep.  The obsession is real and that's fine.  Because of how much this glorious work of fiction has enriched my life, I've let a few things slide, especially as far as continuity goes.  I've let go of the fact that Ginny's eyes change color from the beginning to the end of the series, that Hagrid tells Harry that his dad was a Head Boy in book one, but then it is revealed that James was never even a Prefect in book five, and that at first it's just Neville's dad who is an Auror, but then it becomes both his parents' careers.  Whate'er.  Aint' no thing to me. Like I said, I've moved past these tiny details that really shouldn't bother me... (Mostly)

What I have NOT moved past is the distinct lack of grandparents throughout the entire series.  WHERE ARE THEY? (Insert frustrated hand waving)  It is obvious that wizards are perfectly capable of living past the age of 55... unless they procreate?  Think about it: None of the super old characters have kids and none of the characters over the age of 30 have parents.  Where are they?  The exception, of course, is Neville and his tenacious, hat wearing grandmother.  (Love her)  But, besides the two of them?  Nothing.  I understand that if Harry had grandparents on either side of his family there wouldn't be the whole Dursley situation, and that would be less interesting, but it seems hard to believe.  I may have been able to suspend my disbelief for Harry, but then it became a constant phenomenon.  WTF, J.K.?  Harry?  No grandparents.  Lupin?  No parents.  Sirius?  No parents, just an annoying portrait.  Tonks? Well, she hadn't turned 30 yet, so she started with both parents.  Malfoys?  Nothing is ever mentioned.  The Weasleys?  An unmarried, great-Auntie Muriel who has made it to be 107 years old, but no grandparents.  And it seems unlikely that Hermione would fail to mention her Grandma and Grandpa if she had any.  She's just not the type.

I guess I should be happy that Ms. Rowling gave up this trend for the Epilogue of book seven, making a reference to "Granddad Weasley".  Thank goodness for that.

Star Wars and The Wizard of Oz

This is NOT a comparison between the two.

This IS a general acknowledgement that these four movies (we aren't even going to dignify Episodes I - III with inclusion) are probably the most referenced films of all time.  Now, please don't run off to your precious Google and look up what is "technically" the most referenced film of all time... that's not the point right now.  The point is that the internet is ruining the fact that I can't make up facts anymore.

No.  The point is that you can nary get through a day without... okay, I just went on Google to do a bit of light digging.  My claims are justified, even if they're not definitive.  Moving on.  

Not moving on.  In my searchings I happened upon a blog that had an entry titled "Top 10: Most Quoted Movies of all Time (With help from my facebook friends)".  It ended up being a list made from personal opinion and observation (much like what I'm doing here), but she put Star Wars at number 10... BECAUSE SHE HAD NEVER SEEN ANY OF THEM.  The blog is entitled "Ranting in the Dark".  Don't rant in the dark, ma'am, watch Star Wars  in the dark.  Rant in the light.

What I'm saying here is not these movies are the most quoted (though they all have some good ones), but rather they are alluded to in books, TV shows, advertisements, commercials (which no one watches), comedy sketches, daily conversation, and other films.  It is generally accepted that these allusions will be understood by the population at large, no matter their age, race, financial standing, or intelligence.  The book I am currently read (Lamb by Christopher Moore) has already referenced both, and thus far I have found Mr. Moore to be an incredibly witty individual who chooses his words and ideas well.  These are the movies, the relatable popular culture pieces of our collective history, he chose.  Because he knew that they, and he, would be understood.  If that particular piece of literature is a little too esoteric for those out there, how about this.  Think upon How I Met Your Mother, and what that show would be like if you had never seen Star Wars: Episodes IV-VI, or... well, let's face it, have you ever made it through a day without encountering something having to do with Oz?  I know, I know, the quotes and the concepts are so widely known, that there is really no point to watching the movies at this juncture, right?  WRONG.  Watch the movies.  They are excellent and part of our collective consciousness.  And I will openly judge you if you don't.  Just as I did a complete stranger at a museum one day (true story, and I hope she went home and watched The Wizard of Oz) and just as I did today when one of my former college roommates told me she had never seen any of her Star Wars. Her fiancé was on my side.

If nothing else, use these films as tools when meeting new people/trying to date.  It's a safe bet that everyone has seen these movies, and so they are a ready topic of conversation or a way to make a joke. Ladies, that guy you like probably has some strong opinions about Star Wars.  Dudes, why do you think ladies love red shoes?  These are crazy generalizations, of course.  Obviously, there are plenty of girls out there who love Star Wars, too.  Ladies, if your date brings up how much he loves the Wizard of Oz... well, that's probably going to be a very useful bit of information.

Toilets

Specifically public ones.

Let it be known, I don't have crazy high standards for toilets or bathrooms.  I grew up with one bathroom, which was so small that anyone over the height of 5'4" had to either put their feet in the tub or sit sidesaddle.  I'm not sure how things worked for the approximately 49% of the population who stood while doing their thing, but seeing as they usually forgot to put the seat down, their feedback is less important.  This is only kind of relevant to the topic at hand.

I don't need leg room to pee, all I want is the choice of when to flush the toilet.  I understand that the auto-flush means that I don't have to touch the lever/button/whatever, but I'm intending to wash my hands anyway, so I think I'll be okay.  Also, I'm pretty awesome at flushing with my shoe.  It actually makes me feel pretty epic to kung fu flush, so why take that away from me?  And if there are people out there who are really worried about touching the handle/do-hicky of a public toilet, but are still using public toilets, I think they really need to reevaluate.  Either they need to stop using public facilities or figure out a way to flush the toilet.  Harsh?  Maybe.  I don't care, though.  Because I really hate auto-flushing.  This is purely selfish, by the way.  This is not a cry against auto-flushing because it wastes water, but rather a rally against the inevitable phenomenon that is premature flush.    

Sounds terrible, doesn't it?  Well, it is.  Is it partly my own fault?  Kind of, but it's still not fair.  Just because I am usually adorned in some sort of skirt/long cardigan/scarf/coat/dress that I don't want to baptize in tribute to the porcelain gods, does not mean it's just for me to get a complimentary bidet treatment.  Speaking plainly, I usually have to shift around so that my clothes or accessories don't end up taking a dip in the toilet water, and this movement usually sets off the flusher before I am well clear of the splash zone.  How is that more sanitary than flushing the toilet when I'm good and ready?  Plus, I  end up wasting more water with the auto-flush, due to the fact I was never given a fighting chance to throw the can cover into the bowl.

All I'm saying is that would like to be trusted with the simple task of flushing the toilet.  I think I can handle it.

The Snow Day Effect

Yet another reason home schooled kids are just a little bit off.

Everyone (or, almost everyone) knows that there is nothing better than a snow day.  Conversely, there is nothing worse than expecting a snow day, not doing any of your homework (but telling your mom you did), and then being awoken the next day by said mother only to realize that the weather people had once again blown the wintery precipitation completely out of proportion.  Oh, and the fact that your district is one of the only walking districts in the reporting area and having to deal with the fact that your school is THE ONLY ONE THAT STILL HAS CLASS.  This will take years to come to terms with, but is not, in fact, the Snow Day Effect.  The Snow Day Effect, henceforth referred to as the SDE, is the second worse thing that could NOT happen on a potential snow day.  This silver medal of snow day disappointments is not knowing you have a snow day until it is 10am and you've already slept in.  Confused?  See, I want to know I'm sleeping in.  I want to be made fully aware that I am sleeping at a time I would normally be sitting in a desk... WHILE I'M SLEEPING.  I don't think there is any better kind of sleep, and so I had a strict rule that my loving mum had to wake me up at my "normal" school time, tell me I have a snow day, and let me fall back into the most blissful of sleeps.  This, friends, is the SDE.  If, heaven forbid, my mom refrains from waking me up at an ungodly hour just to tell me that I can go back to sleep, the SDE is not achieved.  While I still may be scoring the same hours of extra shuteye, non-SDE sleep is just not the same.

Interestingly, I have grown to love the SDE so much, that I actually started setting my alarm hours before I have to wake up, not so that I am sure to arrive to any obligations in a timely manner, but rather so I can experience SDE sleep on a daily basis.  Awesome?  Yes.  I even let my alarm go off when there is NO specific time I need to be conscious (pause for consideration of the words "conscious", "conscience", and their specific etymologies), meaning that my atomic clock is going off at 7am even if I have no where to go until the afternoon.  So lovely.

On a similar note, if I actually have to wake up early and am worried about possibly oversleeping, my body will sometimes jolt me awake every hour, on the hour, starting at 3am.  This phenomenon can have one of two effects.  Either I a) have a repeated SDE experience or b) end up being so tired from the restlessness that I ultimately oversleep.  Less lovely.

Unfortunately, the era of the true SDE is a short one.  Once you go to college, you're usually stuck with waking up and checking the computer for a snow day.  Or, more often than not, you truly think that classes will be canceled, and they're not.  Sometimes, you make it all the way to campus, and though the university has made no official cancelation, your professor couldn't make it and somehow you didn't get the mass text.  Actually, that happened more when there wasn't snow.  And then you enter the real world, which, unless you're a teacher, does not include snow days.  Thus killing the pure SDE.  Unless you're in London.  Four inches and that whole place freaks out and shuts down.

Awe vs. Aw

awe |ô|nouna feeling of reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder: they gazed in awe at the small mountain of diamonds | the sight filled me with awe | his staff members are in awe of him.• archaic capacity to inspire awe: is it any wonder that Christmas Eve has lost its awe?verb [ with obj. ] (usu. be awed)inspire with awe: they were both awed by the vastness of the forest.ORIGIN Old English ege ‘terror, dread, awe,’ replaced in Middle English by forms related to Old Norse agi .aw |ô|exclam.used to express mild protest, entreaty, commiseration, or disapproval: aw, Dad, that's not fair.ORIGIN natural exclamation: first recorded in American English in the mid 19th cent.
In this world where so many of our communication are written out, there is a difference between the two.  If you are ever confused between the two, please, just write "Ô".  Thank you.

Sports Movies

I was going to write about band names ("Hollow Stairs", anyone?  No?  Dibs.), but something more important came to mind.

Sports movies.  They're the best.  Or they tie for the best with war movies.  Sports and war movies?  With Tom Hanks?  Why yes, I do love A League of Their Own, even if my dad does hate Geena Davis.  I still don't get that.  What's wrong with Geena Davis?  Besides the fact that she spells her name "Geena" instead of "Gina".  Especially in that movie, one would think Dad would take issue with Rosie O'Donald or Madonna.  Geena Davis.  Myself, I enjoy Beetlejuice. 

Sports movies.  There are so many, and with such great diversity.  I am convinced that sports movies are like beer.  If you tell me you don't like them (or "it", in the case of beer), then I will tell you you just haven't tried the right one.  Already I've named a classic that many people love, but others... well, it's not quite their taste.  There are a plethora of other baseball films that are phenomenal: The Natural, Field of Dreams, The Rookie, Rookie of the Year, Angels in the Outfield, Moneyball, The Sandlot, etc.  Baseball not your thing?  Okay, not everyone likes IPAs.  I get that.  Sort of.  Football?  Who doesn't love Remember the Titans?  That is not a rhetorical question.  Please, find me someone who doesn't love that movie.  I hate football, and I love that movie.  It has great music, is based on true events, stars Denzel Washington, and features a very young Ryan Gosling enjoying some awfully honky-tonk tunes.  And NO Geena Davis.  The list goes on.  Golf? The Legend of Bagger Vance.  Soccer?  Bend It Like Beckham.  Figure Skating?  The Cutting Edge.  Basketball?  Coach Carter (Okay, I haven't seen that one, and don't know if it's any good... uh... SPACE JAM!  Bam.)  Bobsledding?  Cool Runnings.  Horse diving?  Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken.  Something for everyone.  And lots for me.

Of course there is one category conspicuously missing.  The noble sport of the North.  I'm not speaking of dog sledding (Iron Will) or curling (Men with Brooms.  Didn't think I had one for curing, did you?)  But no.   I mean hockey.  A friend once asked my why chicks dig hockey more than guys.  It's probably because of the Mighty Ducks trilogy.  Best movies.  Best sport.  And if that wasn't enough, they went and made Miracle.  Why sully this topic with more words?

Sports movies.  Did you know the Netflix has a category for their "watch instantly" films with this title. Well, it's kind of sad and disappointing.  This bums me out enormously.  There is one though that has David Tennant in it, so that's a win, right?  And there is A League of Their Own.   

Berlin

And I do mean the city in Germany.

I'm thinking Berlin is going to be the next project/adventure.  Obviously, London will always have my heart and soul, but right now, Berlin has my curiosity.  It keeps popping up in art/literature/my life, and I've come to realize I know very few facts about Berlin.  Of course, I've read a little non-fiction on the matter, but Eric Larson's In the Garden of Beasts focused on a very narrow window of time, and Berlin is more than that.  I feel like Berlin in the 20th century was it's own person, with it's own cracked out, off the wall, unbelievable story to tell.

I saw this painting the other day.  The artist is Karl Hofer.  I was wandering around the museums in hopes of catching a glimpse of a Caravaggio or a Van Gogh (there are never enough of those works... or just any of those works), and stumbled along this.  This was painted in Berlin in 1935.  Do you know what Berlin was like in 1935?  Nor do I.  Books like Ken Follett's Fall of Giants and Winter of the World give me a fictionalized account, and the two Berlin graphic novels by Jason Lutes lent some illustrations, but, I'll be honest, when I was hitting the history books hard, I kind of skimmed over Berlin.  All I wanted was to read accounts of Concentration Camps or heroic tales of Allied troops.  Closed mind?  Yes.  Oh, and don't get me started about post World War II.  For a very long time, I believed that there was one perfect decade.  1939 (which was when The Wizard of Oz was released) to 1949.  World War I was okay, but it had nothing on WWII.  Please.  Where was I?  OH.  Okay.  This picture.  Artists no longer created because the Church was writing them a paycheck.  They created what they wanted, when they wanted.  What about Berlin made Hofer want to create this?  And what was going on in the nightclubs and the streets and the meeting rooms?  To live in Berlin in the 1920's or the '60's or in '89/'90 when the Wall came down?  I've touched part of the Wall.  I've listened to Cabaret.  But now I think it's time Berlin and I got a little more acquainted.  Then, when I have neither the time nor the money, I will go and see what Berlin is.  Now.

Forks

And I don't mean the city in Washington.

I have a strange relationship with forks.  In my perfect world, I would be able to eat everything with either a spoon or my hands.  You may suggest chopsticks, but then, what about salads?  It's the accursed salads that foil my forkless plans.  Let's start from the beginning.

It is so hard to find a good fork.  If a fork is too long, then the distance between my hand and my mouth is too great and mayhem ensues.  Not fun, electric mayhem, but salad on my lap mayhem.  One would think that by this point in my development I would have conquered the skill of feeding myself.  No dice.  At least not with a long fork.  And I know.  I used to always know when one of my parents had set my place with the wrong fork.  It's similar to how I can sense when a glass of milk contains something other than skim.  This sounds like an OCD, but it's not.  It's more a lack of coordination on my part than anything else.  Short forks are great.  And I have no shame in asking for a little fork when attending a meal at another's house.  No shame.  The shame comes from the aforementioned salad dropping.  Or missing my mouth.  But I guess that happens more with straws.  Heavy forks?  Also good.  I may or may not have "acquired" a most excellent fork from a shady Chinese place in Kalamazoo because the fork had a good weight to it.  What can I say, it balanced well in my hand.  You can't turn your back on balance on those rare chances you find it.

Second thought.  Have you ever had to clean a fork?  I mean wash it by hand with a scrubby or washcloth or other such thing.  It sucks.  See, I like to clean and rather enjoy doing dishes... EXCEPT FOR THE FORKS.  Bowls?  Fine.  Plates?  Great.  Pans?  Let them soak.  Knives and spoons?  Things can get a little dicey, but on the whole, not a problem.  But forks.  With the tines and the encrusted schmutz?  Bah.