If You Haven't Yet...

You should really spend the time watching this Pride and Prejudice vlog adaptation.

My She-lationship

Men think they invented everything. Take the Bromance, for instance. Apparently, close or best friendship needed a term coined only when men caught on to the benefits of such a relationship but didn't want their heterosexual status questioned. The film I Love You, Man demonstrates the difficulties and challenges associated with male bonding (even if it portrayed female friendships as shallow and less meaningful). For most women, close friendship comes a bit easier. There are countless possibilities as to why this is. My own personal theories on the matter relate to the ratio between word count and monosyllabic guttural noise.* And GNOs.

When I was 13 and had discovered the joys of a daily personal hygiene routine for myself but not anything more comfortable than a ratty sports bra for my newly developed breasts that just kept growing, I met this girl at church. Originally, there was a posse of we silly and over-dramatic adolescent girls. The gaggle of us dwindled as some moved away and eventually others married. By the time I was halfway through college, it was down to us.

Alice and Rookie.

And then there were two.

For eight years now we've been besties. Through lame bridesmaid dresses, lamer boyfriends, grad school, differing hobbies, those six months she crashed on an air mattress on the floor of my bedroom, a crush triangle (I wouldn't dare call it "love"), new career paths, unemployment, life catastrophes, celebrations, three apartments, failures, fights, and successes we've been there for each other. Thick and thin and all that bid-ness.

Needless to say, she's the person I know very best. If I didn't trust her so much, all the dirt she has on me would keep a girl up at night. We hang out most days of the week and still I never tire of her--even if we're roommates.

We're rare. I know this.

Some folks aren't sure which is which (I've been called Alice, she's been called Rookie). But before you start to think this is an eerie demonstration of enmeshed dysfunction, it should be noted that we actually celebrate our individuality. Allyson hates Pride & Prejudice but loves Billy Madison, for one. She is wise, filled with common sense and a knack for winnowing things down to what is most important. My head is in the clouds. She celebrates my rather geeky affinity for the written word. I revel in her deep and nuanced observations on humanity. She loves the thrill of the trauma bays in the ER and the Newborn ICU (she's a hospital social worker), I faint if someone says the word "vein". She's a Vince Vaughn/Jack Johnson kind of girl, my heart belongs to Javier Bardem/Dave Grohl.

I mention all of this because this summer marks 16 years of friendship. Sometime after seventh grade, Alice and I started this road to best friend-dom, wo-mance, whatever you want to call it. I am blessed to have a partner in crime, a sure and steady chick flick date (excepting period piece dramas), and someone to share the rent and inside jokes.

I love you, woman!
Here's to 16 years of memories!
May we have 61 more!

*(Oh, now don't be so offended, boys. I kid, I kid.)

And I will wear it as a badge of honor

I write like
Jane Austen

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Go here. Copy and paste something you've written (I used my "Conversations with My Mother" post.) Wait a few seconds and see which famous writer you write like. It is all in good fun!

I've My Work Cut Out for Me

Only three weeks left of summer and I haven't cleared time for lazing about and watching some of my favorites. Am I missing anything?

Vulnerable and Raw and Open

I am on Spring Break this week. No school for an entire week is a blessing indeed. Yet here I sit feeling less than blessed, feeling lost and vulnerable and raw and open. And so I spent the day stealing the roommate's Easter candy piecemeal, un-showered, in my pajamas, napping and doing not much of anything. Besides feeling downright depressed. Because of a 38-year-old boy who stared and stared and did nothing about it until I made it blatantly obvious that it was OK and he could perhaps even push it beyond staring. And that was too much for him and so he ignored me, quite rudely, in fact. I scared him away. And that pisses me off. So I ate too many peanut butter eggs.

I do not know what is going on with me lately. I never wanted to be the mopey single girl. The girl who longs to be married. NEVER. I was going to be happy with my single status. I was going to be independent and liberated. And yet, somehow, I've slid off that slippery slope. I feel that pitiful. Perhaps it is that I had a different plan for this age. Perhaps it is that I've entered this new phase where I see a baby and it feels as though two hands are squeezing my lungs, ringing out an old, weary sponge. Perhaps it is all those damn Jane Austen film adaptations.

Today I am honest. Today I am lonely. Today I am weak. Today I am single and rejected and it makes me mad and mopey. It isn't so much that I'm mad at him--he can't help that he is a scared little boy trapped in an aging body. It isn't so much that I'm mad about my life, either. Life is actually very good to me. Good job. Good friends. Good faith. Good family. I'm just mad at me, I suppose. I should be enjoying my single-hood and this time for freedom and travel and blah blah blah. Even my mother (bless her!) tried to tell me how I should enjoy this time, that it "isn't THAT bad" (which leaves me to infer that it is bad at some level).

I am tempted to never post this, but I think if you read all the words I punch out week after week, if you've bothered to stick it through my long-winded rants and ruminations, then you deserve to know the ugly truth: I have my off days. I am petty and weak (see previous post). I am human and learning and this is who I often really am.

Wanker!

Dear ukdvdltd (at ebay),

As a single latetwentysomething residing in a peculiar area of the world in which I am, in fact, considered to be an old maid, I only get so much pleasure out of my little life. Recently, I discovered one Mr. Thornton (played by a certain Mr. Richard Armitage) in the BBC film adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South. In this discovery, I recognized that owning this particular film adaptation would be particularly pleasing in its escapist and byronic nature. And so, looking for a frugal steal of a deal, I turned to no other than the infamous ebay. At said website, I was able to locate and purchase the complete DVD set of said film from your company.

I am impressed that, in spite of holidays and weather-caused airport closures, the item was able to skip across the pond, as it were, and arrive here in a timely manner. I was not impressed, however, to discover that, without any heed or warning on your part, this item, when placed in my DVD player, was exposed for the fraud that it is. You see, ukdvdltd (at ebay), your DVD is incompatible with my DVD player due to its incorrect regional code. What is a regional code? you ask. I'll tell you what it is, it is a code that correlates directly with the DVD players of the UK and all of Europe, but not so much MY DVD player from the UNITED STATES.

Here is what I need from you, ukdvdltd: When selling items on ebay to an international customer base, do your research. If the regional codes won't match up: warn the customer. Or, if you knew this would be an issue for a customer such as myself, please clearly advertise this. Also, I really need a complete refund for the 11.70 lbs. I spent (plus shipping & handling charges). You see, I need to take this refund and apply it to the purchase of the DVD set which will actually cooperate with my DVD player.

Thank you for your time and what I assume will be your superb and reasonable customer service. If ever I am in the market for the DVDs under the UK regional code, and if my predictions about your service are correct, you will certainly be my first choice for DVDs and other media.

Sincerely,
The Rookie

P.S. Buggar off, you bloody wankers! Who do you think you are? Don't you know how this has ruined me!?




And, because it made me laugh hysterically:

Mr. Darcy, I'd Like You to Meet the Competition

Water Bottle?

Check.

Popcorn?

Check.

Red Vines?

Check.

PJs?

Check.

Fuzzy "Monster" Socks?

Check.

Two week vacation from the adolescents?

Check (and a resounding, harmonious rendition of "The Halleluia Chorus").

The first half of the BBC's North and South?

Check.

This is what bliss looks like.

I swooned.

I haven't swooned in...well, ever, really. But swoon I did watching this. I blame it on the subtle, killer of a soundtrack...and perhaps that Richard Armitage as the haunted Mr. Thornton. I cannot wait until the second half arrives in the mail (though I may have cheated and looked ahead on youtube just a little bit). Should I be ashamed at the pitifulness of it? Because I'm not. What is it with BBC and the entirety of their female literary canon looking in on my adolescent diaries and spitting out films mirroring my frivolous young fantasies?

Yes, Mr. Darcy, meet Mr. Thornton. It is a toss up. No one can tell which of you smolders hottest with your brooding white heat. But oh the fun of comparing!

Now, onto the important things:

Laundry completed, presents wrapped, Christmas shopping done?

Errr...

The Jane Austen Guide to the LDS Singles Ward

I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, also known as the Mormons. Like most devout to their faith, mine means a great deal to me. But I'm not talking so much about the doctrines and beliefs I hold. Today I'm talking about culture. Like any religion, we have our own quirks which we'll simply call our subculture. Green Jell-o with carrots aside, the most intriguing phenomenon of this subculture consists of three magic words: The Singles Ward. As in, a congregation of young single adults. I am uncertain why it is, exactly, that we have these little side-groups. I think the philosophy has something to do with getting we singletons OUT of the singles ward. Preferably through marriage.

Imagine, if you will, a congregation of law-of-chastity-keeping adults in a religion that values marriage and family above most else and you'll soon see that carnage might easily ensue at any regional dance. Take that even further--the female to male ratio is often 2:1. It is dog eat dog in some wards. I have the good fortune of being in a ward where most of the males are "tolerable, I suppose...though not handsome enough to tempt me." Because of this blessing, petty competition doesn't plague my Sundays.

And here is the thesis of my post today: I think Jane Austen understood too well the social complexities of the Singles Ward, though she wrote of life and courting rituals and annual income and social status and other such cultural observations as a Protestant minister's daughter in early 19th century Great Britain. I think this is the appeal of dear Janey to most Mormon women around my age. Because, ask just about any of them (except Alice, NOT Alice...Alice hates Jane...and Anne Shirley, for that matter--so she's no judge!) and they'll tell you Pride and Prejudice holds a special place in their heart...or at least Mr. Darcy does. While Austen is appreciated by more than just we single Mormon girls, I think we are hard-wired to connect to Austen in a manner that most cannot. Because, apparently, a good man is hard to find in early 19th century England as well. And lucky for Austen's heroines, they usually find one. Which gives we Mormon girls a false sense of hope for our current conditions.

Take, for example, the scene that played out after church yesterday. Alice, Sephalo, and I were exiting the building discussing the following: were we or were we not going to attend a boating activity this coming Saturday at a local reservoir because it all depended on who was in attendance. And then, conversation drifted into the ever-important who was dating whom, who had stopped dating whom, and who was engaged to whom after only three short weeks of knowing one another (yes, this is a recent development in my ward--and it wouldn't be the first time one of these deprived singletons jumped the gun a wee bit too early). I laughed to myself because it all smacked of Jane Austen so completely--the gossip outside the parish church, the debated attendance at local events. But my plot thickens.

As we gossiped away a certain older "gentleman" (we'll call him this, though I'm not too certain whether this is the case or not) who has, if observation serves me correctly, been staring at my every move during the past several months, also exited the building and stopped just outside our gossiping circle. Fumbling with his cell phone, acting nonchalant, trying, I suspect, to edge into our clearly all-girl conversation. And I wondered to myself, is this guy a Mr. Collins? Or is he more like Marianne's Colonel Brandon? Important side note--my singles ward, rebel that our bishop is, doesn't follow the typical turn-31-and-you're-on-to-bigger-and-brighter-things rule. So this certain "gentleman" is rather old for a girl of 27. Late 30's, possibly 40, I'm guessing. Anyway, back to the story...I've never really had a conversation with the guy beyond when he pipes in and makes a comment during my Sunday School lesson. So, frankly, I'm leaning toward the Mr. Collins camp. And I'm also suspecting that his pitiful shyness explains most of why the guy is still single.

Which brings me to his eavesdropping. In an Austen novel, the story develops through instances of eavesdropping. Think about it: "She is tolerable, I suppose...but not handsome enough to tempt me." One of the most famous lines in an Austen novel--unknowingly overheard by the eavesdropping skills of one Elizabeth Bennett. But have you ever tried to have a good gossip conversation while someone eavesdropped in an unskilled manner? It makes a girl uncomfortable. I felt bad for him, but I couldn't help but think "Run along, little buddy, run along. It is better for you that way."

After the conversation died out, I simply sauntered away with the girls, walking home with my roommate, dear Alice. My conclusion that this guy is of the Collins-variety convinced me that throwing him a bone would only make matters worse. That, and the fact that I am an awkward flirt feeling even more awkward after this guy's eavesdropping. An escape seemed to be my best option.

Which leads me back to my thesis. Jane Austen understood too well the social complexities of the Singles Ward, though she wrote of life and cultural observations as a Protestant minister's daughter in early 19th century Great Britain. Yes, it is too true. Janey has seen me through my fair share of singles ward havoc and has given me the ability to laugh at it all.

And most importantly, my red-blooded, law-of-chastity-keeping self can't get enough of Colin Firth's Mr. Darcy exiting the ponds at Pemberley. Am I alone here?

Oh, and Sephalo, if you are reading this, you know who I am speaking of, I believe, so please do keep this a bit hush-hush so as to not embarrass the parties involved.