In Which I Love on Children's Stories ....that title sounds awful.

So, I've been reading a new book lately, The Name of the Wind, recommended by my brother.  It's a fantasy novel, which I don't tend to think of as my genre of choice, but I have been so pleasantly surprised by it.  I'm not going to go into description, you can read it for yourself.  It's a little bit of everything, and most recently it's reminding me of a Harry Potter for grownups.  Not that Harry Potter isn't perfectly perfect for grownups.  I loved that series.

Then, today I was thinking about movies I like.  And when I'm in a relaxed mood, not looking for anything too serious, I always go for children's movies.  Or those films that are somewhere in between childhood and adulthood.  Because (and this is a concept brought up in The Name of The Wind) they always have a distinctive outline.  Child faces danger and loses.  Child goes into the wilderness to learn about the foe, and learns about themselves along the way.  Child often encounters wacky, outlandish mentor, and must prove him/herself.  Child faces danger again and succeeds.  All is well with the world.

There's something so satisfying about that formula.  I'm sure it's the last bit of it, but I also think satisfaction lies in the foe.  The danger is always immediate, not some metaphorical bit of nonsense.  It's a witch, or a bogeyman, something that actually can be defeated.

Then I thought about a famous childhood movie/tale we're all familiar with.  Old Yeller.
That movie was just plain mean.
Where the Red Fern Grows, as well.
I don't know how we're not all a little more psychotic having lived through those experiences.  To this day I'm kinda ticked off at wild boars.  ....and red ferns.

At least in my book, it's only the bogeymen he has to fight.

On How You Know You've Found the Right Man

Earlier this evening, the boyfriend received an email from me declaring: "The lady of the house wants ice cream for dinner!"
This was post-workout madness speaking (sorry Jillian Michaels), and since I didn't get a response, I assumed he allowed common sense to rule and ignored me.
A couple hours later, after I'd showered and simmered down a little, he arrived home with a grocery bag full of goodies.  Among said goodies were my 2 favorite kinds of ice cream.  "Because you said you wanted it."
My heart went all mushy.  But that might just be the cholesterol.

Well, She's No Bryan Adams

When did I first tell myself I couldn't paint?  That I am not a good dancer, lacking any and all rhythm?  That I am not artistic, aesthetics losing the battle?  Exactly when did I relegate myself to a boring life full of greys and browns?  All I remember is when I decided I couldn't sing.

I was 10.  In music class, our teacher would have us line up on these mini-bleachers in the classroom.  While we all sang whichever ditty (most likely, "Everything I Do, I Do it for You" by Bryan Adams.  Teacher had a real hang-up on that song), she would walk down the line and listen to each of us.
As class went on, she would point out the good singers among us, and ask the bad singers to stop and listen.  Most of the people she stopped would be allowed to start up again after hearing the talented choir she'd cultivated.
When she halted my spastic harmonies, she kept it that way.  Sat in silence the rest of the period.
About the 3rd week in, she testily asked me if I wanted to go to the principal's office.  I was so bad at conveying Bryan Adam's melodious sensibilities, she thought I was misbehaving.  She asked me to stop and listen to what singing is meant to sound like, and then proceeded to down some aspirin she had conveniently stored inside her piano bench.

Your father has a nice singing voice, too.  That's what my mum told me, as we drove about town one day.  It's the "too" that's misleading.  The implication being that among my many inherited traits, a vocal acumen was bequeathed.
Looking back, that was awfully kind of her.
Maybe she had a value size of Tylenol stashed away in the glovebox.

On Feminine Mystique....and Chili

I made my first chili the other day.  Came out really well, so very proud.
At the end of the night, as boyfriend is clearly ready to go to bed, my mouth decided to get all serious.
Do you still love me as much as you did?
"I love you more."  (boyfriend, I should note, is genius at deflecting the crazy)
But are you still attracted to me?
He ignores the hardened clump of chili on my chin, "Of course I am!"
Yeah, but....is there still that feminine mystique?
"...Are you saying you once had a feminine mystique?"
Indignant now.  Yes!  Of course I did!  And then the chili decided to take that moment to stage an encore.
"Oh my god.  Was....was that the dog?"
....It was the dog.
"That was you?!  That is foul!"
It was the dog!  Shuddup!  We're talking about my mystique!
"Right.  Of course you still have mystique, baby.  Wads of it.  Like a cloud surrounding you.  Right now.  Your mystique can really clear a room."  Boyfriend hurriedly goes to bed.

For My 16-Year-Old Self

Did you ever meet someone, but never really get to know him?  Have someone going on with his life, never knowing he made an impact on yours?  I'm going to pretend we all have that someone, so I won't feel embarrassed, and I'll write him a letter from a girl he never knew existed.  Because sometimes, you want to go back in time and tell yourself to just ACT!  Do something, even if he laughs, if they all laugh, so that when you're old you won't wonder why you didn't.
So, here goes:  To you, for me.

Dear So and So,

We sat next to each other for only a semester in my junior year, your senior.  The class was music theory, or something like that, taught by Mr. Something Or Other.  He was fat.  Obese, really.  With a mustache.
There was no assigned seating, but we sat next to one another, in the back corner.
You were....tall.  Taller than me, and gangly, with scruffy brown hair.  Your uniform was jeans and a t-shirt of a distant, long-dead band.  I would light up when you wore Pink Floyd's The Division Bell, because I just knew we were destined to be friends when I saw that shirt.
The days we had class together, I would wear my band t-shirts, so that you could see I was cool, also.  So that one day, you would declare, "Hot damn!  The Who kicks ass!  Let's hang out!"
But you never did.

Instead, we would crack quiet jokes and make brief eye contact.  And then the teacher would shout, "Good cracker!" as he was wont to do, and you would burst into laughter.  I only just recently learned that good cracker could be construed as a racist term, and wish I'd known then, so I could laugh with you.  I always thought he was talking about Saltines.  Don't know why...

I never asked to be friends.  Looking back, I don't know why.  I suppose that awkward teen I was must have had some pretty important reasons.  I was so lonely, though, and thought we would have gotten along pretty well.  I spent my solitary hours listening to music, looking at pictures of the 70's in my history books, and reading Aldous Huxley.  You would have liked me, I think.

But you were a year older, and gone before I knew what hit me.  The school flooded, but I think you knew that.  One of the mean girls, who always wore pink, and put hairspray in her bangs got an infestation in her locker from all that water.
I wanted to thank you for that.  Like a weird going-away present, one you didn't even know you gave.  I missed you when you were gone.  Continuing on with music theory, watching Mr. Something Or Other balance precariously atop a small stool, and having no one to impress with my limitless knowledge of Pink Floyd.

I hope you're well.  Let's be friends.

Good Cracker!
Cait

In Which I Write a Book

I've decided upon an idea for a book.  Pretty sure it'll be a best-seller.


How to Tell if Your Dog is an Asshole.

Chapter 1:  Does Your Dog Look Like This?

If so, then clearly your dog is already an asshole, and you have failed.  Big time.  Better luck next time, sucker.

You have many things to look forward to as an unwilling, embarrassed owner of an asshole dog.  Things like, coming home to find your dog has raided your entire underwear drawer, and eaten all the good undies, leaving you with only granny panties, and that one pair with dinosaurs all over them which are completely uncool, but you're not about to throw them out now that you have no options, now are you?  So stop asking!
Your asshole dog will also raid your landlords' compost heap, and then wake you up by licking you right on the mouth.  Except your mouth was open, because, let's face it, you're one of those mouth-breathers, and now you have a weird piece of compost grit stuck in your teeth, and your boyfriend realllly doesn't want to kiss you.
Your asshole dog will also steal your belongings, and everyone else's belongings, run away with them despite your repeated shrieking, and then taunt you, a mere ten feet away, leaping just out of your grasp.  He will do this with your purse, and your socks, or your friend's books or shoes.  Anything he can get his jerk teeth around will fall prey to this behavior.  Just as he tires of the game, he will make eye contact with you, drop the object, and pee on it.

Maybe it's your own fault, though.  Remember that first car ride, when you held him in your lap and he looked up at you with those cute puppy eyes and then unleashed a massive pee flood?  You should have turned around and brought him right back for a refund and an apology.  But you didn't, did you?  No, you thought I can train this little sucker.  He'll be a star pooch!


But you were wrong.  You were so wrong.  Your dog is an asshole.  And now everybody will think you are an asshole for keeping him.  And here's the thing about asshole dogs:  they are invincible.  They can fall off cliffs, get hit by cars, whatever.  Asshole never dies.

Depressing Everyone on the Bandwagon

I suppose it's time to jump on the bandwagon, and mention that NY Times article about 20-somethings.  I suppose it's bad manners to assume you've already read it.  As Stuart Smalley (nee, Al Franken) said, "...when you assume, you make an ass out of Uma Thurman."
So, the basic points of it were that the 20-somethings has become a time to discover yourself, a time to process adulthood, rather than being a full-fledged adult.
...You should probably just set an afternoon aside and read it for yourself.

I left that article behind feeling ... more lost than ever, I suppose.
I'm in the last gasp of my 20's, and have less idea of what to do now than ever before.
I want to change the world, but I don't want that to change my world.
I want to be entrenched in a job I love, but still have plenty of vacation time.
I want to make a real difference, so long as I'm paid amply.
I want to write stories, but I can barely keep this blog afloat.

If you've ever been in the same boat, let me ask you something:  Did you get out?  Did you sink or swim?  How did you find what you wanted to do.

And so long as we're talking articles, how 'bout this one in Psychology Today, addressing the bad habit we all have of comparing up.  With Facebook, and MySpace (oh, that jilted love), and Twitter galore, we have a barrage of fabulous lives to compare ours to, and how could they ever live up?  The article's point was that well-adjusted people don't compare themselves to anyone other than themselves.

The whole bit made me feel pretty ok, for about 2 minutes, until I thought what about siblings?  If ever there was a fair comparison to make, wouldn't it be to siblings?  Someone a similar age, with similar opportunities, and even the same damn gene pool?  
My mum once told me it's not fair to compare myself to my brother, but I couldn't think of anything more fair.
My brother the doctor.
My brother, the life of the party, the social butterfly.
I mean, the man gets paid to take summers off and visit friends.
And if I don't compare myself to him, how about all the other fabulous people I know?  I don't need to venture as far as tabloids to find amazing lives.  They're all right here, sharing their city with me.

I've never lived overseas, like some friends, nor have I started my own business, or biked an entire coastline.  All these amazing people and their stories, and it's so hard not to feel like an anchor.
I remember that feeling of possibility, and for my life, I don't know where it's gone.  I used to swear I would never work in some office, on some menial job, and now I'm pushing my resume just to be allowed a cubicle and some grey lighting.

Will another article be written, giving hope to those of us (almost) out of our 20's, saying that the 30's are a time of self-discovery and fulfillment?  Or is this it?  Have I wasted it all away?