The power of the princess

Ok. I'll admit it. I'm a big Disney princess fan. Always have been, always will be. So, what I'm about to rant about may be construed as a bit biased (or a lot biased, actually), but I have to do it anyway because it makes me sad, confused and all sorts of frustrated.

I just read an article about a book called Cinderella Ate my Daughter by Peggy Orenstein and saw a blog from a mom who claimed that the Disney princesses had "hijacked" her daughter's imagination. Oh my. I don't even want to get into the latter, but I will because I simply must. I cannot ignore this.

Let's pretend for a second that Walt Disney had never created the first full-length animated feature film about a displaced princess with a fondness for "funny little men." Heck, let's go so far as to say that movies weren't even invented (because there are more princesses out there than just the ones licensed by Disney). However, stories and storybooks WERE still around in this hypothetical world I'm trying to convey. Would these women still be complaining that the imaginations of their daughters were "hijacked" by Hans Christian Anderson and the Brothers Grimm? How about those thousands of "Cinderella" tales that have been told as entertainment and life lessons for thousands of years all across the globe? Would Critheanach or Aschenputtel (Gaelic and German versions of the little cinder girl) have been attributed to swallowing toddlers? Maybe, but most likely not.

I completely get it if these women were just ranting about the over-availability of the Disney princess stuff in its candy pink glory. Kids really do need variety to help better sort out their own preferences and I'm completely on board for that one, but they're also attacking the messages, stories, plots, EVERYTHING Disney princess-related. What's the point? (If it's really just to draw attention to themselves, then, darn it, it's working and I'M biting!)

Today, I came across an article/review on a book and blog that I found here. In it, I read this: “When my pregnant friend went in to get an ultrasound, the nurse told her, ‘You’re having a little princess!’ We don’t even have girls anymore.” - Peggy Orenstein in the book, Cinderella Ate my Daughter

Ok, Peggy. One overly-enthusiastic ultrasound nurse and you think the whole world is out to change the gender title to "princess?" Now that's just silly.

On a side note, I worked at a Disney Store for three years. Long time, but it was next door to my college and it didn't involve working with hot food...AND I do happen to love Disney. (I have only been beaten once in Disney Scene It, just so ya know...) I was not instructed to call the little girls "princesses," but I did. What else do you call them when you're asking them to stop climbing the "mountain" of plush while their parents are ranting on a cell phone over by the mugs with nary a glance in the direction of their excitable offspring? "Hey, little girl, get down from there!" No. "Princess, would you mind getting down? You might get hurt!" MANY adults in retail will call a little girl, "honey." I NEVER liked that. How is that not bad?

As for the lady blogger claiming the princesses have kidnapped her daughter's imagination and are holding it ransom until she surrenders the little girl entirely, well, she seems like she's against absolutely everything pink, girly, semi-girly, Disney princess-y, etc. She's out to save her daughter from being a stereotypical little girl and I applaud that, but when I browsed her blog, she's perpetuating two stereotypes of her own on the first page; her "mecca" is a supermarket and she's got enough dark chocolate to last her until her little girl has "recovered" from her lost imagination. Aren't those "typical women" things? Why shouldn't her girl like some "typical girly girl" things?

Oh, and since I mentioned that she thinks her daughter is losing her imagination to Disney, when was it bad for kids to like stories? That's where these princesses come from: stories. I can see it being a problem if this lady never let her daughter watch one of the Disney "princess" movies to see that the girls A) are all different or B) change over time, but dang. How can it hurt? In my own experience (which is by no means universal), Disney movies have helped me in developing a strong imagination. Old stories did that, pictures of great landscapes do that, Disney stories do that...anything, really.

Argh. I'm so all over the place and still frustrated that maybe it would be best if I stopped while I'm ahead (or behind, or sideways...). Hmm. I'm all over the place BECAUSE I'm frustrated.

All right. I GET how over marketing is annoying and bad and everything else. I GET how other things that little girls might like are kind of glossed over or pushed aside, but if the little girl likes it, how bad is it for her to like it in moderation? You're the moderator as a parent/guardian. You set the limits. No, you can't have a princess bed. No, you can't have princess dishes because you're too typical and you're buying into an awful marketing strategy, honey. Don't cry. We'll get this nice beige set instead and, if your imagination has recovered enough from princess mania, you can pretend there's a puppy on it...or something.

What bothered me the most is that someone could think that her daughter wasn't being imaginative for wanting to dress up, pretend and just be a fanciful child. Forget messages, marketing, the whole monster. Stories, any kind, PROMOTE imagination instead of "hijacking" it. That's what I think.

Signorina Sirena, a.k.a. Miss Mermaid, out.

(Take that!)

IKEA and my night at Monster Jam, part 2

Later on in the evening after our trip to IKEA, Ryan and I attended the 2011 Monster Jam at Raymond James Stadium. I was prepared to be enthusiastic about something that I felt unenthusiastic about, but I truly enjoyed our time there. The only things I didn't like were the frigid temperature and the fact that Ryan was only wearing a thin jacket. He assured me at first that he was fine and that this was how it was at his work in the winter, but as the trucks kept performing and the wind picked up intermittently, he finally admitted that he was practically frozen to the seat.

Knowing that the slightly cold, windy day would lead to an even colder night, I brought 5 various jackets and sweaters with which to bundle up before the event. I told Ryan that he could wear my sweater under his thin Ford jacket so that no one would see the David Bowie lyrics and emblems that I painted on it, while I wore my hoodie underneath my Mickey Mouse jacket; he refused, saying that he would be fine. I wore the sweater and my Mickey Mouse fleece jacket and the only things that froze for me were my legs in my jeans and my fingers and face. Ryan, on the other hand, was shaking so violently after drinking some awful hot cocoa that he bought that I mentioned either leaving or going to stand in the enclosed bathrooms with a hot tap running. Despite the cold, we made it through the night and thawed in my parents' car when they picked us up (parking at the stadium was not a viable option for me as I HATE driving in traffic like that).

As for the vehicles in the Monster Jam, they were just phenomenal. Well...some were phenomenal, some were good and others were just plain mediocre, but I was most surprised to see the level of skill exhibited by all of the drivers. Ok...maybe not all of the drivers. (I'm looking at you, War Wizard...)  (Ok. I'm sorry. I take it back. You ARE skilled, but were just having a really off night. I understand. Please forgive my snarkiness. You did end up killing your monster truck, which was awesome to witness, but was probably not unexpected and yet still an unpleasant let-down experience for you. The cheering in the stands was purely for the thrill of seeing destruction, not because you broke your axle and lost your giant tire after bouncing like a monster truck-shaped rubber ball. I'm sure you understand that.)

I went in knowing the name of only two monster trucks, Bigfoot and Grave Digger, the latter of which I had actually seen. That thing's been around since forever (1981, to be exact...my idea of "forever" is apparently a bit limited), and I've seen it parked at various events and doing donuts in front of stadiums since I was a morbid little kid (I rather dig the hearse-like look). After last night, I'm officially aware of at least 16 trucks and the fact that a couple of the better drivers are from Tampa, Florida.

I thought I was only going to cheer for Grave Digger, but I became enamored of the Iron Man truck, which even had red LEDs on the side and a bright white 2nd edition arc reactor on the hood - a very nice looking truck that evoked images of Robert Downey Jr.'s Tony Stark in my head, which led me to call the truck "sexy"... Um...Iron Man actually had a great driver, too. Quite fast and not bad at free style driving, either.

The other ones I particularly enjoyed for the talent of the drivers were the U.S. Air Force Afterburner, Gunslinger, Nitro Circus, Grave Digger and Madusa.

Grave Digger, of course, goes without saying. Dennis Anderson, who originated the truck and was racing it last night, is a real professional. He's all for giving the people a thrill and a few frights, but he's great at straight racing, too. During the free style section, he had 90 seconds to gain points from the judges and, once started, almost instantly flipped the truck into a dip created by a few close dirt jump hills and some cars with crushed roofs. He came out fine and out of the free style competition, but he still wanted to give the fans something to see, so he proclaimed that once the truck was righted, if it fired up, he would still free style for the crowds, despite being disqualified for the crash. Sure enough, it fired and he didn't disappoint. Granted, after some massive jumps and quick turns, Grave Digger died, but it died in style - right on the top of a crushed car. Even then I had to wonder if it was a masterful stunt, but I enjoyed it regardless. What panache!

Although Dennis Anderson was the veteran pro and his driving was rash and expert, I was actually most in awe of the driver of the U.S. Air Force Afterburner. The announcer kept calling him a "hot shot driver" and other cliched things, but they all suited. He was quick, intense and very skilled. The turns he took were so precise for such a large automobile! He raced very well and I was positive he was going to show us some outstanding precision jumps during the freestyle, but when War Wizard (my least favorite) buckled and lost its tire, the giant thing rolled out and smacked the Afterburner that was parked, waiting for his turn. When Afterburner's turn at free styling arrived, he zoomed over to the start position and the truck cut off and the driver drove it off because its suspension was messed up. BOO!!! I was quite angry, much to my surprise, and I just knew it was because of that dumb War Wizard.

Gunslinger and Madusa were great, and were the two drivers from Tampa, so the crowd really rooted for them. Gunslinger was quite a good racer and I think his car ran the loudest and at the highest octave(?). Madusa, though she had won 2 championships in the past, wasn't really at top performance, racing-wise, but her free style skills were really impressive. She timed the jumps very well and the variety of things she did was outstanding. Her free style technique seemed very organized and stylish and I was cheering for her the most until Nitro Circus came up to the plate. This car is in the "stable" with the "Nuclear Cowboyz" motocross show that Ryan and I went to last year that I enjoyed whole-heartedly. (Now THEY are EXTREMELY talented; the "Nuclear Cowboyz" show was fantabulous in every regard except for cliched plot, which I don't think they really could help, given the nature of what they were trying to do. If you get even the slightest hint of a thrill from seeing motorcycles do stunts, I highly recommend you attend one of their performances; VERY worth it.)

The monster truck Nitro Circus, however, was nothing really remarkable UNTIL the free style event. That driver is very skilled with staying upright and/or he has the best luck in the world when it comes to near-crashes. I know that the audience loved seeing the crashes and flips, but the multiple very near-misses that Nitro Circus had while freestyling were either highly calculated crowdpleasers, or they were the luckiest close calls...probably both, now that I think about it. The people were oooh-ing and you could literally hear the collective gasp of the crowd just before they burst into stadium-wide applause when Nitro Circus righted itself at the last second from what everyone was sure was going to be a spectacular flip into the tire-churned dirt.

It was nothing short of wonderful the entire evening.
Before going last night, I was prejudiced against these monster truck events. I had attended one before at Raymond James, but I was manning a Charley's Steakery booth with my NJROTC unit as a fundraiser for our Orientation trip and only ventured out to get something to eat (and watch a just a little bit of the car-crushing action), so my interaction with the people in attendance was limited to the drunks who only wanted yet another $10 beer after they'd already well passed their 2 or 3 drink minimum and the people who were angry about the sky-high prices of stadium food.

Last night, however, was undeniably fun. The cajoling drunks were there, of course, but so were plenty of families with kids, rowdy college people and folks of all sorts. I wasn't accosted, like I had been when I attended with my NJROTC unit, and I wasn't surrounded by unpleasant over-rowdiness. I think my prejudicial attitude in this area has been vanquished!

To top it all off, I really loved sharing something with Ryan that he has enjoyed since childhood. You wouldn't think it to look at him, but he's such a little kid when it comes to this sort of thing. I love it.

Oh, and while walking from the stadium to the car, we had a nice discussion about the nature of the monster trucks in the show. I told him that the name "monster truck" must just be a tradition to honor the origins of the sport, because not a single monster truck out there fit the definition of a 'truck.' He disagreed and we argued companionably for a while as our blood began to recirculate.

My argument was that the definition of a 'truck' was something that pulls or carries things...heavy things. He then suggested that they were designed to pull or carry things, but that trucks didn't have to do that; they could just look nice, never do a day of work and still be a 'truck.' He sees that all the time at work (he's a mechanic). We went back and forth with my noting that some of the monster trucks (e.g. Monster Mutt Dalmatian, Avenger, the despised War Wizard, Maximum Destruction, etc.) had body styles that were clearly based on cars and not trucks, and he went on to tell me about the construction of the actual vehicles themselves and not the flimsy bodies set precariously on top. Most fun, but I still don't know who is right. I tend to think I am...just because.

IKEA and my night at Monster Jam, part 1

Yesterday was a day of firsts for me. First time at an IKEA store and first time actually sitting down to watch monster trucks at Monster Jam. The former was completely overwhelming and the latter was amazingly enjoyable; I was actually surprised by my reactions both times.

Maybe it was the fact that it was warm in there, or maybe there were just too many people, but I had to get a hold of myself yesterday at IKEA before I had a mini panic attack. I went with my parents, sister and boyfriend for two reasons: 1) I'd never gone and it sounded neat, and 2) Ryan wanted to buy bookshelves and some tables.

First stop inside was the restaurant, which is (like everything else there) surprisingly affordable. I got my mom whatever she wanted while I grabbed all sorts of fizzy drinks, strange juices and colorful food, and Ryan and my dad got the Swedish meatballs and some other varied Swedish foods. (Sister abstained from eating at all because she said the last time she had the chicken nuggets, - the only thing on the menu that is appetizing to her distinguished palate - they disagreed violently with her the next day and second chances with food items are not her forte.)

When I sat down to partake of my brightly colored stuffed salmon, potato and broccoli medallions, steamed vegetables, Ligonberry juice and fizzy apple drink, I felt a little apprehensive about eating food from a mostly-furniture store, but I dove in and was rewarded with that weird, joyous full feeling that comes after eating something foreign. Suffice to say that when Ryan was paying for the side table, magazine files and lamp he ended up buying, I scooted past the register to the tiny little IKEA market and stuffed my arms with frozen meatballs, Ligonberry preserves, Elderflower juice, Ryan's favorite "äppelkaka" (apple cake), etc. and ended up spending $40 on Swedish foodstuffs. Oh well...at least that's one day that I won't have to buy for at the grocery store today.

As for the furniture side of IKEA, I was overwhelmed, impressed, inspired, frustrated, confused and a few other "-ed" things as well. The store was more massive than I thought and there were so many different combinations of room layouts that I could never make up my mind what I liked best. My indecision problem was heightened in the store so much that Ryan is still under the impression that I didn't like it, despite my protestations to the contrary. Rather frustrating to say the least, but I'm pretty sure I enjoyed it. Oh, and I now know that when Ryan buys a house in the near or slightly distant future, we will be refurnishing it with plenty of IKEA furniture and organizing thingies...which is actually quite pleasant to think about.

Pleasantries and pookas

Last night, for the first time ever, I sat down and watched the movie "Harvey" from 1950, starring Jimmy Stewart and an invisible 6'3&1/2" rabbit named Harvey. The first words I uttered once it was over were these: "What a delightful story!"

However, as much as I loved the story and the great acting, I was most pleasantly surprised to come to the realization that I no longer disliked Jimmy Stewart's very distinct voice! Ever since I first saw "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" and "Rear Window" back in middle school, I'd been completely put off by Jimmy Stewart's voice. I have no reason why I found his voice so unpleasant, but I just knew I didn't like it. Maybe it was his trademark stammering...maybe the timber...I don't know. I just didn't like it. Even back then I knew this would be an unfortunate loss on my part because he was such a fantastic actor.

Last night, as I watched Elwood P. Dowd traipse through his strange, pleasant life, I simply enjoyed the movie. It was marvelous! Because of this new-found affinity for a voice once despised, I have logged into Netflix and added a whole bunch of Jimmy Stewart movies to both my DVD and instant queues! I'm oddly ecstatic about this and am even making a special stop at Target tonight to purchase a movie that I've put off seeing for the sole reason of his voice: "Bell, Book and Candle." The premise is interesting and Daddy said it was a fun movie, but I've never seen it; now, I'll own it. (If it's there, of course.)

On a final note, I would like to leave you with a simple, sweet quote, courtesy of the "Harvey" character Mr. Dowd (uh, Elwood P.): "Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, 'In this world, Elwood, you must be' - she always called me Elwood - 'In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant."

Subconsciously Ludo

Yesterday I counted 3 rocks that hit my windshield in the course of driving home. Today, so far, it has only been one...although that one has created a larger crack than the other three combined. Since I've moved, I've had my windshield replaced twice because of cracks. No, not just little smacks and dings - long, drawn out cracks.

It's probably just because US-19 is one of the pebbliest roads ever invented, but I actually think it's because of something that happened when I was still in high school. I want to say in 2002 (but can't remember exactly when) I went on a trip to the Bahamas with my Police Explorers group. It was fantastic when we hit Nassau and we got to explore a little bit; the Police Department there was most interesting. Everything was fine up until we got to the island reserved for Royal Caribbean.

I was swimming with a few friends and somehow I ended up without my snorkeling mask on. As a sidenote, I would like to say that I am as blind as anything without my glasses or contacts on and the snorkeling mask served that purpose to a point. Unfortunately, I wasn't thinking, dove into the water and kicked powerfully for a few strokes until my face hit a rock. Yup. Face-first into a rock.

Instantly stunned, I stood up. My friend onshore was heading out to join me at the same time and he saw me stand. I saw his face contort into a look of horror just as I realized that something was dripping down my face. I touched it and realized it was my blood. I didn't hurt any worse than what I was feeling from the sunburn I'd gotten so far, so I sat down in the shallow water just to rinse the blood off my face. My friend must've thought that I was about to faint or something because he ran out and grabbed my arm to take me to the first aid hut. I protested that I just needed to rinse it off, but he wouldn't let me sit back down, even though I tried. I'm pretty sure he was just making sure I didn't faint and drown, but I was most frustrated at the time.

At the first aid hut, the Royal Caribbean doctor (who was Swiss, I think) patched me up and gave my chaperones instructions on how to keep my wound clean and well-bandaged for the duration of the cruise home. I heard later that there were some serious thoughts about sending me to a hospital via helicopter, but someone talked them out of it when they saw how coherent I was. To say the least, it was an interesting trip home and I think that little incident took some of the shyness right out of me for the rest of the trip. Case in point, I finally told the boy I had a crush on just how I felt (even though he already knew) and he kindly told me he was into someone else at the time, he just hadn't told her. Heh...weird trip, indeed. Afterwards, one of the officers who went on the trip with us as a chaperone called me "Crash" from then on. It was a great experience, albeit strange and a bit painful.

Ok...I swear this ties into the rocks in my windshield! Here's the tie-in: Fast forward to a few days after I'm home from my trip and my mom and I are sitting in the well-lit kitchen to swab my forehead wound (which didn't need stitches or even a trip to the doctor, thank goodness) and put on a clean bandage. The wound itself is starting to heal and when my mother took the swab to it, out popped a little chunk of rock which had been embedded in the wound. We all knew it was there, but I didn't want them to remove it for fear of beginning to bleed profusely all over again (man, even mostly superficial head wounds are nasty bleeders). The rock itself was about the size and shape of a larger piece of kitty litter gravel. I didn't keep it, but since then, I've constantly had run-ins with rocks, ESPECIALLY with rocks and my windshield.

Have you ever seen the Jim Henson movie "Labyrinth"? Well, if not, in it there is a giant creature called Ludo and he is a "friend" to rocks.

He has a certain power over them and they come to his call. I think my run-in with that Bahamian rock has caused me to become somehow attractive to rocks, just like Ludo. It's not fun and it's mildly distressing, but that's my life as a rock magnet.

"My Own Way," dog bites and motorcycles

My dad's been the lead guitarist in bands consistently since his teen years in the '60s. A few years back, he had a lead singer named Lee who was a very quiet individual outside of the band parameters. He was nice and he knew music (which wasn't bad for a lead singer). That October, my mom and I were attacked by a dog. It's a long story to tell, this dog bite story, and I think I'll leave it alone for the time being. However, we had plans prior to being attacked and, as the wounds were only on our hands and we really wanted to get out of the house, we kept up with most of our plans for the evening.

One of these aforementioned plans was to go and see my dad's band play at a bar on St. Pete beach. It was a nice, not too chilly day and we went, my sister, mom and I. We surprised the band members (who are always like family to us) and Daddy with the tale of the attack and presented them with our freshly bandaged hands. Everyone was shocked, of course, but we wanted them to continue and play to help us keep our minds off of the unfortunate incident, which they did quite well (as always; they are a really tight band). During one song, just to make me smile, Lee sang some off-kilter side lines from a Duran Duran song called "My Own Way," which is the second song on the "Rio" album. I was blown away and all smiles. No one else got it, but it made my day infinitely better.

The cool thing is that everyone in the band kinda laughed aside my absolute adoration for the music of Duran Duran...and yet Lee knew some strange little lines about streets that Simon LeBon sang in one very out-of-the-way song: "I'm on 45th between 6th & Broadway...between 6th & Broadway!" (Or something like that; it's kind of hard to understand what Monsieur LeBon's saying in those lines.)

I don't think I'll ever forget that little act, especially now that Lee has since been unable to continue as lead singer due to his having been in a terrible motorcycle accident that almost robbed him of his life a few years later. It was awful, but he almost didn't make it through the coma he was in. Of course, now we're just happy he's alive, but he is no longer the same person he once was and I most definitely don't think he'll ever remember those few lines he sang for me when I was having troubles of my own. I'll just have to remember on my end and be thankful.

...all because I was listening to the "Rio" album in the shower tonight.

The blog title

Prose, because that's what I write.

Cunning, not because I am, but because "Prose and Cons" is typical and I like how the word 'cunning' makes me think of Jayne Cobb's "cunning" hat in Joss Whedon's "Firefly" (my favorite TV show, by the way).

So there. Explained.

Art in the wake of the flu

Every so often, I feel a bubble rising within me that can only be released through a form of creative expression other than writing; mostly that means that I feel the urge to draw or paint. Sometimes, if I'm sick or otherwise not my usual self, I'll whip out a coloring book and a little bit of that will quell the rising need to be artistic. This happened during my almost-three-week bout with the flu and the secondary infection that followed. I wanted desperately to draw something and I tried, but I ended up just digging in my coloring drawer for my box of well-loved crayons (sorted in plastic baggies by hue) and my ancient Egyptian coloring book.

Now that my illness is finally leaving me for good, I feel that little creative bubble growing steadily and I don't think coloring is going to do it. I tried to quash it over the weekend by creating a couple of new Sims 3 families, but that didn't work, although the families turned out well. In fact, I think that just made it worse. Then Ryan got me this lovely little plastic organizer thing on cute little casters for my art supplies and I had a magnificent time sorting my acrylics, brushes, fabric paints, markers, colored pencils, sketch pads, charcoal, sketching pencils and other arty notions into the four drawers. When I put the little oil paint set my parents got me into the drawer, I felt that they needed to be used again. Oh boy.

Last time I used the oil paints, this is what happened:
<- I'll post a better picture later...or maybe not.

It took me a whole weekend and it turned out ok, but for some reason I don't think I could ever do any better; I'm afraid I'll do worse. The Lady Elizabeth looks bug-eyed, tiny-mouthed and has a pallor reminiscent of a ghost recovering from jaundice. Overall, I'll admit it wasn't a bad first attempt at oil painting, but I still can't decide if I'm proud of it or dismissive. I put it on the wall with thumbtacks because the most awesome part of the picture is visible only when you stand real close to it. You see, the strokes of the brush that left tracks in the paint come together to form a skull. I have no idea how it happened, but it was rather eerie when Ryan first pointed it out to me; he was thrilled.

For some reason, I'm tempted to attempt a landscape, but I'll bet I will stick to a portrait. I tried to sketch a pensive Marilyn Monroe on an unused canvas board a while ago, but she made me sad. I couldn't finish her and put her aside. For some reason, I'm wondering if I can try Rapunzel from Disney's "Tangled." (Yes, my obsessive nature has forced me to absolutely adore most anything to do with this latest animated Disney movie and its story and there's nothing I can or want to do about it.) The luminescence of her hair is striking and I'd love to try out this method of adding light to an oil painting that I once read about in a fiction book somewhere. (Maybe it was in Girl with a Pearl Earring, but I can't remember exactly.) Hmm...might wait until I get the art book for "Tangled" in a month or two, though. Dunno.

Edit: Just had to laugh at myself. I reread this once I posted it and then looked at my other two posts; each one highlighted some point of indecision on my part. A central tenet of my life, indecision. Just found that funny is all. (Or maybe not.) HA! ...sorry.

My mornings

How is it that some people can sleep completely through something literally screaming in their ear and some wake at the slightest meow from the annoying cat(s)? I just don't get it.

Sure, I could Google it and I almost did just then, but that would render this blog post completely obsolete and I'd have to delete it and start all over with a new thought. Nope. Not gonna happen.

So, yeah. I'm the person who can't sleep through the computer shutting down with the speakers turned off in the other room while Ryan is the one who LOVES choosing things like "Hangar 18" by Megadeth for his phone's wake-up alarm just to sleep right through it. Granted I can now recite the lyrics for about 10 seconds of that song, but I don't think I wanted to do that in the first place.

Even when I'm absolutely exhausted, I can't sleep through that crazy alarm. Oh, and did I mention that he sets 2 alarms a night? No? Well, he does. Phone alarm AND clock alarm.

Here is what my morning sounds like:
ZzzzZZZzzzz...
"Welcome to our fortress tall, take some time to show you 'round, impossible to break thes-"
Ree Ree Ree Ree REE REE REE
"fortress tall, take some time to show you 'r-"
REE REE REE REE
"AGH!" -Me.

I shut the clock alarm off first and put the Heavy Metal alarm on snooze. I do the latter action two (or three) times more before shoving Ryan to wake him up; he hasn't heard a thing until I move him somehow. Then he stirs and wakes slightly. A bit more effort and he's awake.

The word 'coffee' is usually the first thing out of his mouth. Since I'm up and already moving, I'll make him a cup before figuring out what to do with my not-long-enough hair and retreating to the silent confines of my bathroom on the opposite side of the house. Lately it hasn't been too silent because, by this point, my body is awake enough to register that I've still got a bit of a secondary sinus infection and I start coughing and blowing my nose as soon as my feet touch the familiar tile floor of my bathroom.

Once in my "sanctuary," I'm good. Unfortunately, I've closed the door and that means that there is an impediment between myself and my little Po cat. It's not like she was going to hang out with me while I readied myself for work, but when the door closes, she automatically decides that it's time to let me know that she wanted to have the door open by sticking her paws under it and meowing. ...and this continues until the door opens or she gets bored and/or distracted.

Done with my daily ministrations, I exit to see that Ryan's already come in, put up his cup and gone out to the garage to leave. I follow behind after putting on my shoes, making sure that I've got a book and my lunch and making sure that both cats are alive and healthily bored before dashing out the door.

...this is every morning, five days a week. I can't decide if I like the monotony or if I'm indifferent to it.

To begin and/or continue

I've had this blog for a while now and hadn't decided on what to post in it. I keep thinking that I need to post something "really good" or I'll never get anywhere, but that's just me having delusions of grandeur again. That happens sometimes; always has. Sometimes, when I do something insignificant like addressing a letter in my own hand at work, I might start to daydream a bit about people clamoring on eBay for my personally addressed envelopes. The bids are going up and up and the hoarder-like person who held on to the seemingly pointless envelope in the first place is sitting in front of their computer screen, rubbing their hands together like Mr. Burns on "The Simpsons" while seeing the numbers climb. I even go so far as to imagine what sort of house they live in and how their life is going to change because I was too frustrated with the printer at work to print out a set of labels and, instead, hand-wrote the address on the envelope that contained their certificate and thank you letter. Erhm...yeah. Delusional, but still mostly sane.

Dreaming has always been a nice respite from daily life and yet it tends to reinforce how normal and blasé everything seems to me at times. I'm not complaining at all, just dreaming.

When we went to the archaeological Jamestowne site this past summer, I had imagined asking poignant questions and having Bill Kelso (head of the project) turn and credit my insight and knowledge right before asking me about my schooling and seeing if I was available for some field work during the next year. Yeah...he was there and I knew what I wanted to ask, but I quailed and my mom asked a simple question about something I already knew. I just smiled and kept my mouth shut. At the time I attributed my trepidation to the extreme heat and the fact that my face was red with exertion, but I'll admit I was just embarrassed (and overheated). I'm just like anyone else with an interest in archaeology and that just isn't too interesting or outstanding. I know things about different subjects and my interest fuels questions and topics for research later on. I majored in English with a minor in Anthropology. Nothing too special, but it's me and I actually did it. That's gotta count for something, right? In my daydreams, they count for everything and they count a whole lot more than they do in everyday life.

Dreams, delusions, wisps of imaginative thinking...whatever they are, they help keep me grounded and they bring a nice little hint of excitement whenever they appear before my eyes.

I have no idea what sorts of crap I'll end up posting on here and how often I'll post, but it'll be interesting to see, even if it's just me looking.