An Unexpected Blessing of Friendship (Which I Make All About Me)

I don't have a lot of local girlfriends.  (I prefer my hoes in different area codes . . . or they have a tendency to up and move, either one.)  And in the past when I have, I've been pretty efficient at alienating them in one way or another.  Let's just say I have had a very long road to emotional maturity; in fact, I'm pretty sure I'm still on it.  Always more to learn, right?

I'm also a believer in karma, and since I've behaved poorly and in a rather inconsiderate manner at various points, I don't really expect a lot from people--not because of the people themselves, but because "what goes around comes around," "you reap what you sow," etc.  I'm friends with good people--great people--but I always expect that when I need something, it will happen on a day someone CAN'T help me.  Like, the day of her grandmother's funeral or the day of her own booby biopsy--stuff that you can't really reschedule to help a friend out.

In a way I guess my expectations help to foster self-reliance and problem-solving skills; I'm much more likely to work and work to find a solution than ask for help, because I already know the universe is malevolently giggling in a corner somewhere, just waiting to give me my next karmic kick in the ass.

But Thursday evening, the universe must have been preoccupied with dealing out justice to some other repeat offender, because one of the few local girlfriends I have came through for me in a BIG way.

Bathing Suits, Yoga Tops, and Big Boobs

So I just spent the last four hours shopping . . . for a swimsuit and a yoga outfit.

I'm not entirely sure how I haven't crawled into the bathroom and opened up a vein yet.

I've learned about and accepted my shape.  I've figured out how best to dress it in almost any situation--ALMOST.  There are some situations, however, that are merciless bastards--namely, those that involve swimming and exercise.

I Stayed the Course . . . and Now the Course is Over

It's over.  It's done.

I graded the final exams, added a couple points to everyone's final grade (there were like FOUR students two points shy of Bs that really deserved them, so everyone got two extra points), and submitted the grades to the college.

I Got Something Puuuuuubliiiiiiished (and I Apparently Still Brag like a Five-year Old)

I was originally going to write about how I submitted a little piece to a website I adore, and how awful it was waiting for the inevitable rejection, but then I got the email saying she loved it and asking me for a headshot and bio soooooooo . . . .

Yeah, yeah, my self-esteem (especially concerning my writing) is pretty low for a self-proclaimed "narcissist,"  but that just makes me a walking irony, and that's much more interesting that a normal person . . . that walks.

Daily Blogging: Yet Another Flawed Idea Brought to You by My Inability to Hold Myself to Anything

So I think I found the flaw in this whole "writing a post a day" thing.  (Well, ONE of the flaws; I have no doubt there are others lurking just down the road, like an inbred hillbilly's tire trap.)

I Call It Gatsby Because I Don't Think It's Great

I'm listening to the Great Gatsby Soundtrack, and while I haven't seen the movie yet, I'm diggin' this.  But Baz Lurhman's soundtracks usually don't disappoint.  (Though I fucking HATED the Cardigan's "Lovefool.")

I've heard mixed reviews about the movie and I'm pretty okay with that, because I have very NOT mixed feelings about the book.

You'd think being an English major, I'd love (or at least appreciate) all the "greats," the canon fodder, if you will (If you get that joke, please try not to groan too loudly.), but no matter how hard I try, I cannot convince myself to enjoy Gatsby.

I first read it in high school and remember being disappointed.  My teacher had seemed so sure we would all like it, and since I was a budding English major who often liked the literature the other members of my honors course did not, I fully expected to be swept away by the roaring twenties.  I found the book lackluster and uninspiring.  (So much so that I didn't even remember the ending, years later.  I mean, you usually at least remember who dies, right?).

But that was high school; I was young and callow and ignorant and naive and lacking in taste and all those other things we blame for the judgement of our youth.

Even though I went through three and a half years of undergrad and four of grad school, I was never again assigned that particular text.  (And why would I be?  It's assumed everyone had to read it in high school, and I never took a course specifically over the twenties or Fitzgerald or any theme in which the piece would fit.)  It wasn't until I saw the first teaser trailer for Lurhman's Gatsby that I decided to give the book another chance.  I'd come a long way since high school and had a much better appreciation for literature and its complexities.  Surely I'd discover the genius that earned this novel a permanent place on the shelves of English majors everywhere.  I'd read it and then shake my head over yet another example of me not knowing what the hell I was talking about in my teenage years.

So I re-read it; my favorite thing about the book STILL remains how nice and short it is.

You can go ahead and stone me or berate me for not truly "understanding" the brilliance of the book and its representation of a very particular time in our history, and how "of course you react that way to the characters, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO," but I don't really give a shit.  The book didn't captivate me in high school, and it doesn't captivate me 10+ years later.  Honestly, I'd rather read scholarly criticism about the story, ad nauseum, than read the book again--it is that disappointing to me.

I've never read any other Fitzgerald (which my Kindle and I plan to remedy at some point), but I have read some of his contemporaries who DID manage to lodge themselves into my literary heart--namely Hemingway, but I like a bit of Eliot too--so it's not like I reject the period itself.

It's actually rather difficult for me to put my finger on what exactly makes me so "meh" about this book ( I'm not willing to torture myself by combing through it slowly).  And I really did hope that my second reading would be an enlightening experience, as it has been before with other books.  I didn't particularly care for Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, or Heart of Darkness the first time I read them either, but a persistent second reading remedied that.  I experienced something similar with a couple of Wes Andersen's films, Super Troopers, The Matrix, and Young Frankenstein.  I accept that sometimes I need to see or read something more than once before I "get" it.  (I have a Master's degree, not a MENSA membership.)

But I do not get Gatsby.

You can tell me all about the tragedy, the gilded-agedness, the sign's eyes, and the goddamn green light; it's not that I don't "get" the literariness of it--it's that I don't like the damn book.

The Premature Fear of a Less Than Prolific "author"

The last book in the Sookie Stackhouse series (famous for being the basis for HBO's True Blood) came out about a week ago, and after reading several reviews, I'm no longer excited.

Now I know it may seem silly to judge based on other people's reviews, but a) it's kind of hard to ignore when a LOT of reviews point out the same issues and b) I honestly wasn't that wowed by the previous book.  Basically?  I don't think it's worth my time, and finding spoilers about how various storylines ended is easy enough.

Perhaps I sound harsh or even sheep-like (I mean, who lets other people's reviews dictate what she reads?), but the same issues that kept showing up in reviews were two very significant ones: The book seemed to ignore all the books prior to it and it seemed as if it had been written by a completely different person--a bland and uninspired one.  Honestly?  It sounds like a series reader's worst nightmare . . . as well as an author's.