...and this is why you never write about your grandpa's lotion...

The play starts this weekend.  Because of the fact that being Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing is my oldest dream, I am finding it really difficult to wrap my head around this.  It’s easier to think, “Hmm… I was supposed to get married on March 25, and then I never would have been in Much Ado About Nothing.”  But thinking, “This is the first thing you ever knew you really wanted to do.  And it’s all going to be over April 23.”  Now that is depressing.  I don’t like to think about it, really.  I know it’s going to happen, and soon at that.  And I know that I will have time to do things again, but I’m going to have to worry about getting everything done now.  I’ll have to worry about when I’m going to see other people from the play now.  If I think about it too much, I want to cry.  I want to cry over a play.  Really?  Come on now, that’s ridiculous.

I’ve been doing little things to try to make up for it.  One thing in particular is writing new notes for every performance.  The goal is to ease my way out of the play, but I see that backfiring, don’t you?  Oh well, at any rate, the script calls for two love sonnets—one from me, and one from a guy named Justin who’s playing Benedick.  While Justin hasn’t even written out any of his Spanish homework, I’ve taken it upon myself to try to write something new every night for the last scene.  No, this doesn’t mean I’m writing a new love sonnet every night, or even a new love letter.  I was told once never to write anything that I wouldn’t want to be published, so random notes will have to suffice.

The first night, I counted out the lines on the paper and explained that love sonnets are a little useless.  After all, fourteen lines of poetry can’t really contain extreme amounts of affection.  To make it extra awkward, I drew a hidden Mickey on the note.  Justin, in his joy at actually getting a note, promptly lost it.  Boy, am I glad I didn’t end up trying to write a shoddy love sonnet.

Last night, I gave him a list of random facts about me.  This note came from the fact that I was struggling through homework and listening to “Introducing Me” from Camp Rock 2.  It didn’t include anything major.  The list included things like, “I eat tomatoes the way some people eat apples; ironically, I’m not a fan of semicolons; I sometimes sing myself to sleep.”  Nothing profound, nothing to write home about.

My most recent note to him started out about my beloved cat and why the world should love him.  Then I remembered that Justin doesn’t like cats.  I switched gears and decided to write about my favorite smell.  After writing out this letter and smearing some of the smell onto the piece of paper, I realized that I was holding the weirdest thing I had ever written in my life.  And it was about to be used as a one-time prop.  That would end up going to a guy who would read it and have no idea how to respond to it.  Who may consequently think that the letter (not to mention the person writing it) is nuts.  And then, I felt like a moron.

I mean, sure, writing about the senses can be awesome.  This note could have potentially been 

normal had it not been for that fact that it is about the lotion that my grandfather used to use.  It was a girly lotion from Crabtree and Evelyn, and I currently own what I believe to be the last bottle in existence.  The scent was discontinued when I was in 4^th grade, so when the quarter of the container that I have is gone, the smell will disappear into family history.  I wrote about how the lotion smells like learning how to recognize trees in the area, sitting at my grandpa’s desk while he played computer games, family parties.  These are things that won’t mean anything to anyone else. But to me, that lotion smells like all of my happy childhood memories.

So what’s the moral of the story?  Not sure.  Don’t write about lotion?  If you are going to write about lotion, make sure the person who reads about it gives a hoot?  If you’re going to write about lotion, make sure you are at least passionate about it?  Never ask your folks what hotdogs are made of?  At least the LAST one makes sense.

Because every blog needs a good Wuthering Heights rant...

When the seasons change from winter to spring, I get the horrible urge to read gothic British literature… To be more specific, I get the horrible urge to read Wuthering Heights under a tree until I have to go inside and read it by candlelight.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s the fog that rolls in around dusk and makes me want to yell “HEATHCLIFF!” from the top of a hill.  Maybe it’s the dark skies that make the grass look particularly vibrant.  Maybe it’s the thought that people are going to be running around all twitterpaited once spring has sprung—this one probably makes the least amount of sense since it's been eons since I've participated in a good spring twitterpaited romp...

At any rate, something about the season clicks with me.  In fact, I ended up buying a copy of Wuthering Heights today for this very reason (I also bought Robinson Crusoe, Rebecca, and a collection of essays by Emerson.  The important book, however, is Wuthering Heights).  It’s a paperback that won’t be ruined if I write in it, and it smells new.  It’s officially the third copy at my disposal right now.  The first copy is a maroon-bound paperback that is sitting on the bookshelf outside of my room.   I’ve had it since I was homeschooled and lived in the camper (and suddenly everyone realizes why I am the way I am).  The only writing I was allowed to do in that copy was underlining words I didn’t know.  The second is a cheapo Scholastic copy from the 1970’s.  The pages are yellowing, and the cover has a picture of Heathcliff’s head floating over a very manly woman (who we can only assume is Catherine) standing on a hill.  That copy lives in my grandparents’ upstairs bathroom (if I ever stay in that bathroom for a little too long, that’s why). 

My mother had me in tow all day, so this copy has been sitting in my ugly green bag with Rebecca since 2pm.  When I finally had a moment to myself, I walked outside the misty spring air.  Needless to say, every freaking tree seemed to be begging me to sit down and read.  But no.  With two late papers and two assignments due at midnight, there was no way I can do ANYTHING.  Skipper Elyse In-Way-Over-Her-Head Winter strikes again!   

All I want to do is read about how whatever souls are made of, Heathcliff’s and Catherine’s are the same.  In spite of how unromantic and emotionally incompetent I am right now, ***SPOILER ALERT!!!*** I want to get my vicarious-passionate-doomed-woulda-coulda-shoulda-married-my-best-friend-but-I-totally-copped-out-and-married-the-rich-guy-which-consequently-wrecked-everybody’s-life-romance on! And dagnabbit, when did I get so hyphen-happy?

Side note: is it really a spoiler alert if the book’s been in print since 1847? Honestly, you’ve had plenty of time to read it. You have no excuse, and I no longer feel sorry for spoiling the story for you.

What’s wrong with me? And it’s not even like I’d want to date a guy like Heathcliff. I’m ridiculously tired of pissy men who take everything personally and then decide to date and ultimately marry your sister-in-law when they love (potentially read “are straight up obsessed with”) you. Ok, so it’s not entirely relatable right now. That's probably more of a high school phase anyway.

Moral of the story, gang: I’ll be much happier once my homework is done and have a chance to read Wuthering Heights.

Things that I've lost... and cake...

For some reason,  I've been plagued recently by the thoughts of things that I stupidly gave to exes/let exes borrow before I realized that they were going to be exes.  A few of these items in particular have been on my mind.  Let's just go chronologically...

- Harry Potter neck tie 

How did I get it? I bought that bad boy at the height of my Hot Topic days. I went with a girl named Sage, who was, at the time, my best friend.  Sage didn't bother to buy it, but she always wanted it.

Who has it? Dan -.-"

Why was I stupid enough to let him have it? We went to a Catholic high school complete with uniforms.  He needed a tie, and I had a fun one.  I figured I'd get it back at some point...

Horrible irony: Nope, I never got the tie back, but he totally wore it all the time after we stopped dating. Even when he was dating Sage AND a girl named Christine. (yep. At the same time.) So I saw my tie being pulled like a leash about once a week by either Sage or Christine.  As Dan used to say, "Ouch.  My soul."

- Original Skipper bracelet

How did I get it? I bought it in Canada in Epcot during my first college program.  I HAD to buy it in Canada because that is how it worked.  Skippers love Canada.  Why?  No idea.

Who has it? Zac -.-"

Why was I stupid enough to let him have it? I was leaving campus to head back home after visiting my old friends at Hope.  I forgot to put it on again in the morning, and he found it.  He decided to wear it til I went back.

Horrible irony: He got fatter (and consequently balder) before my last visit.  The bracelet was stretched out and disgusting when I saw it again.  By that point, I didn't even want it anymore.

- Fistful of Fig Newtons by Jean Shepherd and Pirates of the Caribbean 3

How did I get it? I bought the book at Barnes and Noble in December 2007.  Gui bought me Pirates 3.

Who has it? Gui -.-"

Why was I stupid enough to let him have it?  Around the time we first met/started working together, he asked if he could borrow one of my favorite books, so I let him borrow it.  Even when we were dating, I asked him for the book back several times.  He just kind of took the movie...?

Horrible irony:  I never got to finish reading Fistful of Fig Newtons, and I never watched my copy of Pirates 3. Deeeeepressing...

I'm not sure why I've been thinking about these things.  Maybe it was the conversation I had with a friend of mine about how his last ex had several of his stuffed penguins, and when they broke up, she threw them all away.  Or it could be the random, awkward, last attempt gifts from Gui.  He sent me a copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas for my birthday without signing the package or anything.  My guess is, he hoped I'd figure out who sent it (I totally did), and I'd text him saying thank you.  I didn't.  Instead, he texted me to say, "Did you randomly get a movie for your birthday, in the mail?" (Ugh... the inappropriate comma use was secretly one of the reasons why it would never work out...) I responded, "Yep. From you? Thank you."  I left it at that.  I haven't talked to him since.

More likely, though, is the guilt cake.  After all, you lose things in break ups, but there are plenty of things you gain.

I have a Spanish book, a physics workbook, and a few notes from Dan.

I have a Kill Bill poster, a scarf, a pillow, and a pair of socks (that I gave to my mother) from Zac.  The other stuff became bonfire fodder... the stuff from his current girlfriend (again, an old best friend) went to the same bonfire.

Gui gave me a few movies, an Oscar Wilde action figure, and some jewelry (which he wants back, but sad day, I don't have his address.).  He also gave me a recipe for his mother's orange rum cake.  This cake has now become "the guilt cake." 

I've made it since we broke up, and I think I'm better at it, but it's still the guilt cake.  It has been suggested that I should make it for another guy, and THEN it will become rebound cake.  But where will that end?  I'll eventually need "He's finally going to make an honest woman out of me" cake. 

Confessions of a Disgruntled Cat Person

I am not a dog person.  This really comes as a shock to me (but probably not to anyone else) because I always thought I was.  I had two dogs growing up, and I liked them both just fine.  I did NOT want to come to grips with being a cat person rather than a dog person—ever.  I was a girl and a dog person—not a cat person.  I thought that not being a cat person made me interesting or something.  I even dated guys who reminded me of dogs.  It seemed like a good idea, especially since I was never going to be a cat person.  Dogs are loyal, sweet, and smart, right?  Who wouldn’t like to date someone with those qualities (considering past relationships, this ended up being a horrible idea.)?  I even thought about how silly it was that my childhood dreams for my future (trophy wife, actress, coffee shop owner, librarian, someone who had an apartment…) had one thing that tied all of these other dreams together: the fact that I would have a cat.  As I grew up, the name of my feline companion changed from Heathcliff to Gatsby, but as sure as I loved Holden Caulfield, there was no way that I would ever call myself a cat person.  

I came to the “cat person” realization when I got my cat, Gideon.  I picked the kitten up from the middle of the road and cradled him in my shirt.  His eyes weren’t even open yet.  It was an easy transition for me to go into caregiver mode for this tiny, fluffy, potentially dehydrated and hungry kitten.  And I was even willing to thank God for rednecks since Tractor Supply Company allowed its patrons to take animals into the store so I could, at the very least, get him some water. While I was there, someone referred to him as my kitten, and, honestly, as soon as someone gives me leave to own a fluffy thing, I refuse to say no. Fluffy thing is MINE, and I am going to keep it. You go ahead and pry the fluffy thing from my clammy, dead fingers.  That’s pretty much how Gid and I have been ever since.

The whole “not being a dog person” thing didn’t hit until we got our dog Gilbert.  I was ridiculously excited about getting a dog, and I expected to take to the dog like I take to all fluffy things—if it ends up in my house, it is a family pet.  He is a good dog, sure enough, but somehow, he doesn’t feel like he’s mine.  Maybe it’s the way he tries to claim my pillows with the gusto of a drunken frat boy.  Maybe it’s the fact that he chases Gideon out of the living room.  Maybe it’s the way he eats cat crap.  Maybe it’s the way he barks when I come home late.  Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t just leave my food out anymore without hearing him howl and beg.  Maybe it’s how disgusting he smells.  Nope, I don't even like saying "I love you" to this dog because it would be a lie.  I think back to when Prof. Holt asked my class if we'd rather be stuck on a desert island with our pet or a significant other.  I honestly said, "Depends on the significant other and the pet."  Gideon vs. any of my exes?  Gideon wins hands down.  Gilbert or exes?  Sad day, it's a bit of a toss up.  

At any rate, I’m sitting in between him and Gideon right now.  Gideon is sitting up and looking as though he actually has some idea of what’s going on while Gilbert is looking at me all sheepishly with his gold eyes, stretching and all, with his ears purked up like if he had an extra brain cell or two, he’d totally have some clue about something. I’d say he knows I’m writing about him, but I doubt he’s that smart.  Instead, I think he just hopes that the cough drop I put in my mouth was a treat for him. 

Dear Nick Jonas, you changed my life. No, seriously, you did.

I know I’ll probably be marked as a creeper for writing this, but I just figured I should come clean about something:  Nick Jonas is kind of amazing.  Considering my thoughts on Miley Cyrus (because after seeing Miley in a concert at work, I was NOT impressed), it may sound weird to admit that I think of Nick Jonas as a legitimate musician.  But music, like everything, shouldn’t be really tossed aside until you give it a try.

It all started the summer before my sister went off to high school.  We were home alone one night, and she asked, “Do you know the Jonas Brothers?”

I know of them.  I never really paid much attention.  Turns out, she had gone to one of their concerts and bought a CD.  She pointed to each brother on the cover, introducing them with name, age, and distinguishing characteristic.  She pointed to the shorted Jonas and said, “This is Nick—the cute one.”  I laughed.  Sure, Nick was a good looking kid, but that was the stock answer.  Jonas Brothers=Cute.

Then she started playing their songs.  Relatively unimpressive until a voice came on singing in a realistic (you know, not overly altered because of the computer-reanimated pop paradigm) voice singing in wavering tones “I’ll be fine.”  It wasn’t the typical song on the album, so I asked my sister about it.  It was baby Nick Jonas singing about how he learned he had juvenile diabetes.  Heartbreaking!  The song was sung with such genuine feeling that I decided never to make fun of a Jonas ever.

Things got more serious the next fall.  As any teeny bopper would tell you, Nick Jonas had dated Miley Cyrus (disapprove!  But anyway, that’s background for this anecdote)… My grandmother’s Family Circle had a picture of Miley Cyrus pretty much pole dancing at the Kids’ Choice Awards with some caption about role models and poor decisions.  A few pages after that was my new-found buddy-roo, Nick Jonas, talking about fundraisers for diabetes.  Whoa!  Holy difference right there in your face, Batman.  Ok, legit singer AND a rising public figure.  This is something I can get behind.

The most recent event in my Nick Jonas chain of events happened Saturday night...

The 25^th Anniversary Concert of Les Miserables was on PBS.  Total.  Geek out.  No, I had never seen the play, but I loved the music, knew the story, loved the characters… and there he was!  NICK JONAS!  As the romantic male lead!  Holy things in Heaven, can this be true?  Sure enough, there he was, plain as day, playing Marius in Les Mis.  Oh ho ho ho, I HAD to watch this!  As I expected, he was fantastic—beyond fantastic.  The song “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” had never brought tears to my eyes (yes, I have a heart of stone.  Yes, it’s a fabulous song.  Yes, I get it.) until Saturday night.  His stage presence was amazing, and that one song was worth the price of admission.

The damage has officially been done.  I am a huge fan of Nick Jonas.

I sent a text to everyone I thought would care (I’m noticing a theme in my posts… Elyse texted, and lemon bars were served.).  The text looked something like this:

OMG!!!! NICK JONAS IS PLAYING MARIUS IN LES MIS!!! I LOVE PBS!!! I LOVE IT!!! HE’S SO GOOD!!! OH MY GOSH!!!

Or something like that…

I received a series of angry texts that basically said, “I feel like I don’t know you anymore.  I thought you’d never like the Jonas Brothers.  I have no idea what your deal is.  Grumble grumble…”  So, for some inexplicable reason, I started defending Nick Jonas.  Which means, I pretty much explained what I just wrote in this post.

Basically put, Nick Jonas changed my life.  I went from the opinion of “sure, I guess I should give the teeny boppers a chance” to the opinion that “Nick Jonas is a legitimate everything.  I am so proud of him, and you have no reason to diss any of the Jonas brothers—especially him, without listening them.”  And all this, again, because of Nick Jonas.

Panic Name

I have a panic name.  I don’t think every girl does, but I certainly do.  It started because I’m tired of being called Elsie or Alice.  For instance, I was at a burger joint called Froggie’s, and they asked for my name.  I told them, straight up, and they wrote “Alice.”  Sure, it’s not the biggest deal in the world, but it drives me nuts.  Then there are cases where guys you REALLY don’t want to talk to ask your name.   Actually, I’d rather I didn’t have to talk to you at all, let alone give you any information about me.  In another case, a girl from my high school had it out for me, and she was in control of handing in names for the newspaper.   I ended up with a few ribbons at a track meet, so the next day the high school sports section said, “100 meter dash, 1^st place, Eliez Winkie.”
 
All right, seriously?  I knew something had to be done.

It took me a few years to realize what I needed to do: I needed a panic name.  As soon as I figured that much out, I was golden.  I started small.  Like at coffee places where they’d ask for a name.  Not MY name—a name.  So I became Stella.  Not for any particular reason, mind you, but it really comes in handy.  First off, nobody mistakes Stella for anything else.  In addition, people like to yell “Stella!” dramatically, to which I respond, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”  And just like that, I have a believable panic name.

 The most recent time I used this name was about a week ago at Wal-Mart.  I was standing in the checkout line when I realized someone or something was looking at me.  For all the world, it looked like a blonde, Rasta version of Sasquatch was smiling at me.  I smiled back and started staring at the beef jerky nearby.  Yep.  Sasquatch.  I texted a few people to say, “I think Sasquatch just smiled at me…”  I didn’t get any responses (my guess is, they all rolled their eyes and thought, “another Elyse text”).  I figured I was in the clear, so I walked out to my car.

Then I heard him.

“Dude, hey!” It was the Sasquatch! I said hello—he was already right next to me, so it’s not like I could ignore him.  I went into panic mode.  “Dude,” he said again.  I wish I was kidding about how many times he said dude.   “I saw you in the store,” he said.  “So I figured I’d just follow you to your car and introduce myself.”  Oh, how nice.  You followed me to my car.  That’s totally normal.  “Your name is?”  Stella.  “That’s pretty.  You live around here?”  Nope.  I’m live in Florida.  Just visiting my mom.  “Aww, well, nice to meet you, dude.”  He shook my hand and went away.  I took a deep breath and thought about what a horrible liar I am.  Oh well.  That’s what a panic name’s for.