Narnia Rap

This is really old news, but it's still crazy-funny. If you haven't yet seen it, check out the Narnia Rap.

Sweet Lips

Celebrate Valentine's Day by reading this article on the history of the kiss.

XOXO!

One of the best stories I know

Disclaimer: I can never do justice to this story, but I will try anyway.

My sophomore year was the most exciting year of high school because it was the year of the Cat Killings. You might have heard about it--it was on the national news and Dateline and crap like that. Four senior hooligans--you know the type--got liquored up, broke into a local animal shelter and bludgeoned about twenty cats with baseball bats. It was not pretty. Uproar followed and animal rights activists and television crews invaded our town. However, the Cat Killers got off pretty easy in the end, and I'm not sure what happened to them in the long run. They are probably working at K-Marts or selling cars. The only Cat Killer's name I can remember is Lamansky, because it pertains to this story.

As I recall, the Cat Killings happened in the summer, and that fall we had this new English teacher named Mr. Volmecke (VOL-meck-y). He was straight out of college and used to wrestle and was in fact a wrestling coach at our high school. This is the only time I have heard of an English teacher doubling as a wrestling coach. He had black hair and big shoulders and thought he was Cab Calloway. He was always saying, "That guy was one cool cat," and other jive talk that sounded ridiculous. Needless to say, I didn't like him and mocked him at every opportunity. I mean, this was the guy teaching us Julius Caesar.

He didn't like me either but I don't blame him. He could sense my loathing. But don't blame me because I was just a smart-ass sixteen-year-old who had my own problems. I had skinny legs.

So it's homecoming. There's a big pep rally on Friday afternoon in the gym that we're all forced to attend. Mr. Volmecke has been asked to speak and is doing so, insanely. He's in full jive-talk mode, saying the football team was going to be riffin' on those yard-dogs and whatnot. He waved his arms and his eyes burned with hysteria. The crowd was into it and yelling and stamping. Volmecke screamed, "And I want you guys to cheer like crazy when Lamansky takes some cat's head off!"

Silence.

People sat down, slowly. Volmecke, unaware of the Cat Killings, had used his hep-talk to describe a player, another student named Lamansky, not the Cat Killer, making a great tackle. It was an unfortunate choice of words because hardly anyone had had Volmecke in class and most people thought he was indeed referring to the notorious Cat Killer. Gradually, titters of laughter burst out around the gym, and Volmekce got off quick. He only stayed at our school that one year. But people still tell the story of the Cat Killers and how Mr. Volmecke put his foot in his mouth in the most glorious fashion.

If you want to know that I didn't make this up, click here.

Some days I feel like the only thing I'm good at is looking cute.

Some days I feel like I suck at almost everything. My career goals seem the insane dreams of a megalomaniac. My interpersonal skills seem so lame I wonder how I managed to survive so long. My writing stinks. My cooking is terrible. Even my speaking voice seems low and scratchy.

I feel like one of those bimbos on Jay-Walking who is only good at looking cute. Maybe the energy I expend on clothes selection and hair is inversely proportional to how talented I can be in other areas. Something to think about. This whole scenario is of course based on the assumption that I do look cute. If you think otherwise, please don't let me know. If it's really the only thing I'm good at I'd hate to have that last shred snatched out from under me.

Wishing it were Summer

I wish it were summer in Iowa. I wish my fingers would burn when they touch the steering wheel of my car. I wish the heat would hit me like a wall when I step outside. I wish for warm hazy evenings when the sky is purple and pink at 9 p.m. and lightning bugs blink in the fields. I miss summer smells of mown grass and grilling burgers. I miss tank tops and my hair in a permanent ponytail. I wish for hot asphalt that shimmers and mornings so bright the grass looks electric.

Alert: Girl Talk. Don't Read if You Are Embarrassed by the Word Bra

The older I get the more I realize how problematic it is to judge other peoples' actions. We never know when we might be placed in a situation where hard choices have to be made. I bring this up because I've found myself thinking about doing something I never dreamed possible: getting a boob job.

I've always said I thought it was disgusting and unnatural and I'd never do anything like that. I acted as though people who got them were shallow and and ridiculous. How strange it is to find yourself considering something you once laughed at. Truth be told, I won't get one. I don't have that kind of cash. But I find myself wondering what I would do if I had buckets of money at my disposal.

You see, I am flat as a pancake. This fact strongly asserted itself in ballet class where we all wear leotards and and no bras. People say things like a flat chest bother you less as you get older, but I think it actually bothers me more. Maybe I've finally accepted that they won't grow any more on their own.

It's not really a major problem, and it only bothers me occasionally. Keira Knightley is flat, and she's accepted as a bombshell. They painted on her cleavage in Pirates of the Carribean, I was very happy to learn.

Still, I find myself imagining what life would be like if I had an, ahem, alteration. It doesn't seem too bad. And unless you are flat-chested yourself, you shouldn't say boob jobs are always disgusting. You never know who you might be insulting.

Only one semester left (EVER!)

I'm off to turn in my last final exam! The semester is finally over. Never again will I have to sit through a lecture about the courtly politics of the movie Titanic. What a waste. I'm heading home to eat cookies, watch movies and make people play board-games with me. Yay! See you back here in January.

A Letter to Snow

Dear Snow,

I've got to say, I've always thought we were friends. We played together when I was a child, and we had great times. Remember that winter when I made an igloo out of blocks of you? That was really special. Even as I've gotten older, I've looked forward to seeing you each year. I know that sometimes I pretended I didn't want you to visit, but that was just to impress my friends. Secretly, I loved watching you cover the ground with fluffy whiteness.

But, Snow, I have to be honest. Lately, you've kind of been overdoing it. Sure, I don't mind if you visit once, twice, even three times a month. But you don't know when to leave, and this Snow everyday thing is getting on everyone's nerves. Yes, other people are noticing too. My roommate made a comment today, something about "freaking snowing everyday." As a friend, I thought you should know.

Please don't take this the wrong way. It's just that I get tired of wearing boots everyday, and scraping my car is a real bitch. So Snow, this doesn't mean we're not friends anymore. On the contrary, I look forward to seeing you at Christmas. Just tone it down a little, and everything will be back to normal. Call me, we'll go sledding.

Laura

Why I Blog

Once, a couple years ago, I randomly looked at a bunch of blogs on blogspot. I wanted to get a feel for what people were writing about. It was interesting, because people were writing about everything, but mostly about themselves. In the isolation of post-modernism, we're all looking for a way to communicate. Each blog was a person trying to make sense of a self and trying to tell someone, anyone, about that self. Well, not every blog. One was a site encouraging people to go to church naked. Still, that's communication! What better way to strip off the pretensions of life?

I guess a need for communication is why I blog. I'm afraid I'm becoming more post-modern every day, and blogging is a way to have a touchstone of embarrassing sentimentalism. The thing is, I love honesty. I want to know about how people are deep down. And I want to tell people about me. Sometimes I think I share too much with people, whether in print or in person. I like to explore the little everyday details that make up a life. I may have shared too much about those details when I wrote an essay in undergrad about going shopping for a new bra. Looking back, I think the class may have felt awkward when I read it aloud.

That's the problem with honesty: someone usually feels uncomfortable. But I'm sick of the boredom of being polite. So I will continue to post embarrassing personal and/or sentimental slush on this blog. Try not to feel uncomfortable.

List: Things Men Shouldn't Do on a First Date

1. Offer your arm prom-style and say "Shall we?'

2. Use grotesque cheesy phrases such as "You look lovely tonight."

3. Try to take a picture of your date with your camera-phone.

4. Suggest a walk in the snow when the woman is wearing heels.

5. Disregard bad weather and refuse to leave earlier so that you get stuck on a hill with the tires spinning and your date prays to Jesus to let the night end soon.

6. Insist on getting out of the car and walking your date the five feet to her door.

7. Be a boring, ridiculous buffoon.

8. Tell your date that people always tell you you look like Tom Hanks.

9. Not take hints about the woman being "busy" next Saturday but keep asking questions about what she's doing that day.

10. Call fifteen minutes after you drop her off to tell her you got home safely.

11. Expect a second date.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Today I woke up and it was winter. Actually, I felt it coming on all through the night as the wind whipped tree branches against the side of the building and I had to burrow deeper and deeper into my nest of blankets. I have realized afresh how my conception of cold does not align with most of the population. I've learned that most households keep their thermostat at around 70 degrees in the winter. Some people even dare to drop to 68. This is not how I was raised. We were like a family of house-cats all seeking the warmest spot and turning the heat up to a temperature that would stifle most Mid-westerners. My parents' electric bills must have been obscene. I never thought about bills, I just wanted to be warm.

Now that I have to pay the bills, I am trying to adjust to life in an igloo. But in the mornings, when my resistance is low, I still sneak into the hall and turn the thermostat up to 75 degrees. Even that's not really warm enough. I wear sweaters all the time now, and fuzzy slippers. I sleep with a comforter, a quilt and another down comforter on my bed. But I'm still cold and am looking into getting an electric blanket. Now if only I could find an electric jumpsuit to keep me warm during the daytime.

Hot Cold

The computers hum and blink their one giant eye, a room full of Cyclops that never sleep and stare and have no eyelids. Sure, there are screensavers but they just blink some more and never stop radiating energy into the room chock full of fluorescent light and rays. It's dead here, quiet, a place of screens and papercuts on my fingers from the paper that spews out of the printers, page after page after page. Outside it's windy cold fresh and the leaves are slick wet under my shoes. The parking lot it black and wide and I rush to my car get in lock the doors. It's scary in parking lots at night when nobody's around and there are shadows and what could I do? Something. It's nice when I get home and the lights are on but they aren't screens and there is yogurt and cookies and I like the fire that turns on with a switch, because the fire is real true light not from a bulb or screen. It's hot light, not cold like the computer lab, parking lot, but like the sun, summer, the glint in peoples' eyes when they are excited.

Death Under the Kitchen Sink

We caught a mouse. The little bugger was in the trap this morning. I checked immediately after I woke up. It was sort of gratifying to actually see the cause of the trouble and know that it was eliminated. But it was also quite sad. The poor brown furry thing was stuck in the trap, dead. I just stood there and stared at it. Then I started to get really sad and had to close the cupboard. I knew I couldn't get rid of it, so I waited until my roommate woke up and asked her remove the mouse. My eyes got teary for a moment as I described to her the situation under the sink. I know it had to be done. Mice are dirty gross disgusting and can't be tolerated. We have scrub the cabinets with bleach. But it was sad to see the mouse in the trap. I hope there won't be any more.

Mouse in the Lazy Susan

There is a mouse in our lazy Susan. More precisely, there was a mouse. It is gone now. I don't know where it went. Perhaps it is traveling through a labyrinth of the backsides of cabinets and the spaces behind walls, nibbling as it goes. It nibbled my macaroni and cheese.

I discovered the mouse this morning. I woke up, drank some water and stumbled to the kitchen. I mixed some oatmeal from a packet and and microwaved it. I sat down on a stool at the counter to eat my warm oatmeal. The sun peeked through the blinds and all was right with the world. A few bites in, a sound came from the cabinet containing the lazy Susan. It sounded like a piece of paper being flicked around in the cabinet. I knew it could only be a mouse (or, more horrifying, mice). I was hit with the irony that this is the nicest apartment I've ever lived in, and yet it is the first one to have a mouse. I walked over to the lazy Susan and spun it around. No mouse. Thank goodness. I hadn't thought about what would happen if the mouse flew out at me. Maybe it wasn't a mouse after all.

I bent down and inspected the cabinet. A bag of popcorn had a ragged hole in the side, and specks of corn littered the bottom of the lazy Susan. I peered into the space behind the Susan. A tiny mouse turd lay on the plywood. In my mind, a tiny swear word rose and emerged softly from my lips. I thought about just closing the cupboard and finishing my oatmeal, but then I decided that my roommate needed to share in my horror and promptly woke her with the news that there was a mouse in the lazy Susan.

Together, we inspected the damage and found more evidence of nibbling. My macaroni and cheese packets had large bite marks in the paper. A corner was missing from her box of taco shells. The mouse could not be denied. I pulled on some jeans and rushed to Wal-Mart for traps, the old-fashioned kind that snap. I set them, nearly snapping off a finger in the process. Two traps sit baited in the lazy Susan, one on the top level and one on the bottom. No carnage has yet occurred. My roommate said lazy Susans are notorious for having mice. You are all forewarned.

Do You Want to be a Sex-Kitten?

Most women do, secretly, says Maureen Dowd. We're taught to want that, just as we are conditioned to think feminism is about ugly women who hate men. Lies, all lies. Read this column for some more insight. I don't usually like Maureen Dowd, but I think she nailed it here.

NY Times column

King of the Geeks

My professor for Epic Politics in Film is an insane old coot. He is tall and has large nostrils, so everyone can see up his nose as he towers above the class. He has a salt and pepper beard and stands with his hands clasped behind his back. His stomach is round and stretches the fronts of his sweater vests.

Theoretically, the class is about the ways epic films provide us with political myths. Practically, the class is an excuse for the professor to talk about swords, wars, the Lord of the Rings and other topics close to the hearts of geeks everywhere. There are four or five of these geeks in the class. Mostly males, they are the students who scream "Arwen!" in unison if someone has trouble recalling the name of the elf princess. They are not embarrassed by their knowledge, nor reticent about sharing.

My professor revels in this sea of useless trivia. He is the King of the Geeks and presides gloatingly over his geekdom. He asks the class what the design on Frodo's sword looks like, then bellows, "Oh, come on!" when no one has a clue. Sometimes even the other geeks let him down. He watches each film once, then watches it again with the commentary. He loves the commentaries--they drip with geekiness.

I must admit that I am somewhat of a geek. I love the Lord of Rings and have read all the books. I have a subscription to National Geographic. I play sometimes computer games. Yet, I am not in the company of the true geeks, the ones who own a replica of the "one ring" and dream of naming their first-born after a character. My professor named his daughter Arwen. But what else would the King of the Geeks name his princess? As for me, I am content to stay on the fringes of geekiness where I can watch the occasional episode of Days of Our Lives and not feel ashamed.

Through the Looking Glass

Stranger than Fiction

A bizarre Iowa moment, brought to you by me. If you read nothing else this week, read the story at this link. To understand it properly, you may need to read it twice.

Fairfield Ledger story

Dream Journey

Fall is Nice

Ahh, fall. It seems I can't go a year without reflecting on my favorite season. Perhaps I like it because my birthday's in fall. But I don't want to talk about my birthday as I seem to be having a bit of a quarter life crisis. So, I also like fall because of the leaves and the wind and the hot chocolate and sweaters and cornstalks and Halloween cookies and pumpkins and creepy dark evenings. And then in November there's Thanksgiving, a wonderful holiday devoted to food. How can anyone not like fall?

Fall is when good movies start to come out. Only a little over a month until Harry Potter! The only bad thing about fall is that it is cold. I hate being cold. I am cold constantly from mid-October until April. Two years ago my grandma sent me long underwear, and I have big furry boots, but I am still cold. But I guess coldness is a small price to pay for all the other things I love.