I've always loved cheese. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to most varieties of it, particularly those that are soft (I have a severe mold allergy in addition to a host of other allergic ailments). For that reason, for most of my life, I tended to stick to the harder, more mild cheeses, such as cheddar and jack. Then last year, while complaining about how I'm not supposed to eat feta but it's in basically every delicious-looking salad I've seen, my allergy nurse asked why I didn't just use goat cheese as a substitute. I'd always assumed I couldn't eat it, but apparently a lot of people who can't eat soft cheese can get away with mild goat cheese. After years of passing it by without a second thought, I realized exactly what I had been missing.
Goat cheese, to me, is like that boy you knew your entire life and always thought of as the kinda-cute-husky-kid in elementary school, who then blew your freakin’ mind by showing up on the first day of junior high looking like Adonis.
Which is, of course, how you proceeded to refer to him as you professed the pains of your unrequired love to all of your twittering girlfriends. You never know when Gretchen Wieners and that hair are lurking around the corner, just waiting to spread the news of your totally-out-of-league crush.
Did I mention I was really, really awkward in junior high school? Another story for another day (or forty). Lucky for me, most of my friends had the same taste in guys that I did. At fourteen, we were prototypical pubescent balls of hormones-run-amok. Although we all had secret little code names for our crushes, as I think most teenage girls do, my friend TBB#1 and I took the process of creating them to a completely other (borderline disturbing) level.
Now, we’re not talking about some cutesy little “omg! Teehee! I heart APM!” and “Caitlin + Crush = Lurve” doodled all over our notebooks. We are talking about a complicated system involving numerous names for the same person, deliberate red herrings created to throw inquiring minds off the scent, entire notebooks devoted to keeping track of the objects of our affection (complete with AOL profile details and photos of them taken over each other’s awkwardly-posed shoulders) and, of course, a ridiculously intricate method for developing descriptive, yet non-specific, codenames for our crushes.
There was The Joker, termed as such for his inordinately massive smile. There were The Butlers, whose parents had taken it upon themselves to spell “J” names with "G”s, forever relegating them, in our Fresh Prince-influenced minds, to the status of house servants. The Mustang, The Rainbow, Dodger, Therapist, FM Radio – all created to keep the identities of our crushes clandestine and, in part, to drive our male friends wild as they tried to figure out exactly to whom we were referring at any given time.
Of these dozens of carefully coined nom de plumes, the one of which we were most proud was The Sheep. Seems innocuous enough, right? What you don’t know is that to reach this pinnacle of our awkwardness, we first had to create three other coded names, put them together in a twisted equation that would have made even the algebra teacher that flunked me proud, then take the resulting letters (B.A.), pronounce them phonetically and, finally, use that sound to create our masterpiece. He had numerous other aliases, including, but not limited to, The Artist, The Royal Sheep and His Highness.
Despite all of the desperate measures we took to hide it, The Sheep et al. had to have been aware of our madness. My propensity for turning bright red in the presence of boys notwithstanding, the fact that TBB#1 and I appeared in their lives at "random" intervals almost every day was probably a bit alarming. So for that, I want to issue a public apology and thanks. Men of my high school from years 1999-2002, I am sorry that I was so awkward. Thank you for putting up with the shenanigans of two silly teenage girls and, more importantly, thanks for not calling us stalkers to our faces (or the police). Facebook tells me that you are all leading healthy, normal lives with beautiful people by your sides. I promise not to take unknowing photos of you for my scrapbook at the reunion next year.
And to my dear high school friend BowlCut, I'm really sorry that TBB#1 and I mistakenly took your lost fleece because we thought it belonged to The Sheep. May it provide you some comfort to know that though you probably froze that spring, it had a place of prominence in the center of our shrine.
For my parting words today: TBB#1, if you are reading this, I believe we both missed out on a very lucrative career in the CIA.
(Disclaimer: Though based on recollections of my very awkward high school years, this piece was written in jest. I am not, nor have I ever been, anything close to a stalker, and I don't find the subject of actual stalkers funny in any way. It goes without saying that if you or someone you know feels threatened, you should alert the authorities.)
Showing posts with label Major dorkitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Major dorkitude. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Dawson’s Creek 1:1
So, another year is upon us. And by that I mean simply that, “football season is back!” While we all know that I enjoy the whole Sunday ritual of donning various Pats paraphernalia, tossing chili on the stove and engaging in some serious smacktalk on Twitter, by the 8 o'clock game I'm usually done. Don't even get me started on Thursday and Monday Night Football. Unfortunately, the networks LOVE the Pats, and as such, we get saddled with an ungodly amount of night/national games this year. In the midst of this insanity, I have struck a deal with Andrew, whereby as long as the Pats aren't playing, I get to control the remote. What does this all mean? A marathon re-viewing of the standard for young adult television, Dawson's Creek, of course. (A lady has to have her happy place, y'know?).
I started two weeks ago. Coincidentally, I was about ten minutes into the premiere (and halfway into a glass of wine) when I felt the need to text Steph about how I never noticed how hot Dawson's dad is. This set off about ten minutes of running commentary from me. Right around the time I finished that glass of wine, I had the bright idea to record my analysis in perpetuity, rather than relegating it to 160 character texts. After a short marathon viewing session at my house on Thursday night, Steph convinced me to post my Dawson's Creek Premiere Recap here. It's really long because I don't have time to fully edit it, but it appears as though a lot of other bloggers are on the DC bandwagon lately, so here we go. Enjoy!
Dawson's Creek, Season 1, Episode 1
We open, of course, with fifteen year old Dawson Leery and his trusty femininely-challenged galpal, Joey Potter, watching a movie. Because when I was fifteen, I was obviously allowed to have boys not only in my room, but in my bed. For the love of all that is holy, I basically had Amy Poehler’s character from “Mean Girls” for a mother when I was fifteen and even she didn’t ok that right away. But I digress.
After musing over the injustice that is E.T. losing the Oscar to Ghandi, we find out why Dawson’s mom seems to have no issues with her hormonally-ravaged son hanging unchaparoned with the cute little thang next door: she has made a career of sporting ghastly 90s hair while delivering the nightly news and giggling flirtatiously at her over-coiffed co-anchor.
Dawson is mystified that Joey won’t sleep over, since, you know, he is blind to her unrequited love-crush and doesn’t understand that she has been ogling him awkwardly this entire time. Going with the whole early 00s theme of, “we really need to just talk everything to death,” she informs him that they can’t sleep together anymore because of their burgeoning adulthood and lusty natures. Katie Holmes is already so good at delivering the obvious with just the right amount of self-righteous indignity. “I have breasts! And you have genitalia!” Look, Jo, if we’re really being honest here, you should probably mention that unfortunate mop bucket on top of Dawson’s head. Get a haircut, you bum!
“I just think our emerging hormones are destined to ruin our relationship and I am trying to limit the fallout.” I credit lines like this for the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend until my sixteenth birthday. Thanks a lot, Kevin Williamson. Dawson uses Joey’s tomboyish reputation to lure her into bed by threatening to call her Josephine. Oh, the horror! Our heroine falls (make that jumps) straight into the trap, in a not-sexual-at-all tickle match on top of the comforter. Take that, Dawson!
We cut to the original, weird opening theme song. This is not the legendary Paula Cole. I do NOT like this. I don’t like it one bit.
More weird song with same footage as classic theme. This is so bizarre. I got all amped up for my, “I DUN WANNA WAIT!” and it never appeared. I hate everything.
After what I remember being a long commercial break advertising Tamagochis or Jenga or JNCOs or some other awesome thing I wasn’t allowed to have, the show returns. Joey lounges on the dock while Dawson films Pacey, in full seamonster regalia, prematurely pulling Joey into the water. Dawson goes apeshit. “It’s a three count you gotta wait for!” he shrieks. What a pretentious douche.
One of my favorite Pacey lines ever, his very first of the series, as Joey climbs out of the creek:
Joey: “You did it again! You grabbed my ass!”
Pacey: “Like you even have one.”
At this point, mysterious new girl Jen arrives in a yellow cab and just nonchalantly strolls up to this motley crew of strangers, one of whom is dressed as a dripping seamonster. Nice. The boys act like pubescent assholes, Pacey making moderate sexual innuendos and Dawson forgetting how to speak, mumbling about God knows what. Meanwhile, Joey McKayla Maroney’s the situation and when Dawson says Jen’s changed, rolls her eyes and mutters, “puberty.” ZING!
P&D head to casa de leery and catch the parents en flagrante. Pacey makes a not so subtle attempt at flirting with Gail Leery, which I think is supposed to indicate some kind of foreshadowing. I’m not really sure because I've been too busy ogling Dawson’s hot dad. Pacey drools on the floor and Gail calls Mr. Leery “Mr. Manmeat,” to which I readily concur.
Because we need to establish some kind of backstory for the rough-around-the-edges heroine, we next see Joey arriving home. Her sister’s African American, living-in-sin boyfriend, Bode, walks out to let her taste some pasta sauce. Racial diversity alert!! A very pregnant Bessie then emerges from the house, bringing about our very first glimpse into what the producers of this forward-thinking show have deemed, “unsavory people.” Also the first time “orgasmic” is used as a totally unneccesary adjective. A true turning point in American culture, for sure.
Dawson and Pacey both work at the local video store. Awww, remember when we actually had to go to separate stores to rent stuff, rather than just streaming old episodes of decades-old shows directly to our wireless-enabled tvs? So quaint!
OMG the first Tamara scene. Here we have Pacey making a complete ass of himself as he attempts to flirt with this mature, sexual “older woman.” On first glance, I would probably peg her for 38, but then again, that’s about as old as the Leery parents look, so what do I know. The cheesy 80s saxophone music is killing me. The seductive voice, the barely there dress, the reference to “The Graduate.” These writers! So subtle!
Oh Charlie Conway, how far you have come (nice vest, btw).
After work, Dawson rounds the corner of his house, a stack of videos in his hand, to a picturesque view of the new girl, aka Michelle Williams when she was first pretty, before her awkward duck stage. Dawson goes into some douchey spiel about classic movies, blah blah blah, and I continue to serenade my wine glass with the stellar music from this show. “As I lay me, down toooo sleep. Yes I pray. That you will hold me dear...”
Ever the suave operator, Douchebag Dawson drops a casual, “Hey, wanna see my studio?” into the conversation. DMoney, you dog! Although on second thought, if some guy invited me to hang out and then had a shrine to Steven Spielberg on his walls, I think I’d cut my losses and invest in a cat.
After hearing her name bellowed from next door, we find out that Jen has to hide the fact she’s hanging out with Dawson from her Grams. How totally not suspicious at all; I’m sure it is just a freak coincidence and has nothing to do with her backstory at all. Meanwhile, Joey, window climber extraordinaire, appears crestfallen as she pauses outside the window in her too-short shorts and overhears Dawson and Jen having a very intimate moment, aka discussing something totally innocuous like Dawson’s only passion in life. Because obviously, a guy with a shrine to Spielberg never talks to anyone about movies but you, Joey.
After Jen leaves and Joey has assumed the usual position on the bed, Dawson observes that his mother uses “soft Bs” when talking to her co-anchor, and is therefore obviously having an affair. “Back to you, Bob!” he mimicks. Now I’m going to be on the lookout for soft B’s everywhere and assuming the speaker wants to get in my pants. “Bring the bagels?” That’s sexual harassment and I DON’T have to take it! (thank you, 90s commercials).
Back to Jen, who is having a tender moment with her incapacitated Gramps. Grams squashes that shit right quick, telling Jen she needs to eat or else she’ll be late for school. Over eggs, Jen interrogates Grams about Dawson and Joey, both of whom the elder refers to as “the wrong element,” pointing out that Joey’s been climbing into Dawson’s window at all hours for years. Wait, an adult that makes sense? What is this, the Waltons?!
Jen diverts Grams’ attention by declaring that she hates church and doesn’t believe in Jesus or God. Apparently she has either never invoked the wrath of religiously-oriented Grandma guilt or she’s just plain crazy, because no sane person would ever want to bring that upon themselves a second time. On a related note, remember how revolutionary it was to have an ATHEIST on tv?!
God-fearing Grams aside, Jen starts school wearing a white skirt and a button down double-breasted, very short sweater. Very Catholic schoolgirl, indeed, as demonstrated by Jen’s statement to school huss Nelly Olsen that she “likes to have a good time, drug free.” Give me a break, Jen.
Thank God for Chumbawumba. My life doesn’t have enough of it.
The kids all take their seats, and Tamara, aka “Ms. Jacobs” strolls into English class and Pacey figures out that he’s been keeping his teacher in the spank bank. Oh God, this is so much better than Aria and Ezra. Pretty Little Liars basically wouldn’t exist without this show. Gold. Standard. Television.
Pretentious Asshat, aka Dawson, is all mopey and emo because he was denied admittance to a class he isn’t eligible to get into because he’s an underclassmen. He spouts of some extra douchery by insulting the school’s only film teacher, accusing him of “denying students their education”. I bet his parents gave him a trophy for peeing in the potty as a toddler. Assholes.
Out in the hallway, Jen asks Joey if she and Douchson are a couple. Cue Joey and her sneer and a sob story. Nice way to slip in that your dad is a jailbird, Potter. “Oh, conspiracy to traffic marijauna in excess of 10,000 pounds”. AND her sister is having her black boyfriend’s baby. THAT should intimidate the girl from New York, alright.If someone hasn’t made a meme out of Katie Holmes’ faces from this show, they should. Comic gold.
Meanwhile, Pacey is hard at work seducing his English teacher. WHY IS IT ALWAYS THE ENGLISH TEACHER?! After trying to coerce Dawson into crashing Tamara’s date, Pacey informs him that Cosmo says older women are just itching to bang high school boys. “I have three menstrually diverse sisters. I get Cosmo, ok?” Dawson, ever the wordsmith, tells him to go home and walk his dog because it’s never going to happen.
On the way home from school, Dawson rides up to Joey, sporting a backwards, ADJUSTABLE Yankees hat, might I add, and begs her to act as a fifth wheel on his date/Pacey’s stalking mission. This brings about yet another eye roll, both from Ms. Potter and from me.
So as it turns out, despite all “unsavoriness” in Capeside, Grams is willing to let Jen out in public as long as she goes to Church on Sunday morning. Christ will cure your rebellious nature, Jen! She promises to go to Church when Grams say the word ‘penis.’ BAM!
Not to be rude or anything, but Grams needs some root touch-ups, stat.
Here’s hot Mr. Leery again, talking about condoms and foreplay. Meanwhile, the fifteen year old asks why sex is so important and uses the fact that Spielberg has never had a sex scene in his movies as proof that it’s lame. Holy fuck, Dawson, just stfu and let your dad keep talking about stuff that grown ups do.
I am old. So, so old.
Bessie, in a move meant to indicate that she fears Joey is going to grow up and die alone with her cat collection, grabs Joey and smears some lipstick on her omnipresent pout. Now that her crooked smirk is all accentuated and stuff, Joey can go crash Dawson’s date. GO AND CATCH YO’ MAN! RAAAAR!
This might be one of the best scenes in television history.
Jen: “Hey Joey, I love your lipstick, what color is it?”
Joey: “Wicked red. I love your hair color, what number is that? By the way, are you a virgin?”
Jen: “Yes…. and you?”
Joey: “Please. Years ago. Trucker named Bubba.” I had that quote hanging on my wall for like five years in junior high. I wish I were kidding. I am not.
WHO WEARS SHORTSLEEVE BUTTON DOWNS, PACEY?! Ugh. Just... ugh.
Slick Dawson keeps trying to grab Jen’s hand during the cartoon before the movie. Whoa there, tiger! Joey, mature as ever, interrupts the moment to continue interrogating Jen, asking her if she’s a size queen and if she “noticed the long fingers.” To the guys of my 8th grade class, this is why we all asked you to hold out your hands. Now you know. God, it feels good to get that off my chest.
Dawson, apparently not amused by his bffl’s antics, pulls Joey out into the lobby to engage in the kind of dramatic screaming match known only to sexually-charged middle school friends of the opposite sex. I can say that because I had this exact fight with my own unrequited teen love, coincidentally referred to as “Dawson” in notes from that era, approximately 3209 times. “OMG YOU IGNORE ME WHENEVER SHE’S AROUND AND YOU CAN’T EVEN SEE WHAT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!” Joey storms off, and I feel so much second-hand embarrassment for my thirteen year old self.
HAHA Jen shuts Dawson DOWN as he leans in for a goodnight kiss. And yes, D, if anyone wasn’t already convinced, making the L on your forehead just REINFORCES that you are, in fact, a loser. Nice sweater, you clown.
Pacey sulks past Tamara at the marina after getting socked in the eye by her date. He calls her out on her unbridled, middle-aged desire. “I’m the best sex you’ll never have!” says fifteen year old Pacey. I remember that line being way less hilarious as a teenager, but I have to pause the tv to stop laughing and pour myself more wine. AND THE BEST PART IS, SHE FALLS FOR IT! The two share a passionate-by-cable-standards embrace. WOOHOO, it’s gettin’ HOT up in HERE!
On the other side of the creek, Dawson comes home to find Joey lurking on the floor of his closet. Normal. Realizing that he was kind of a jerk, he apologizes for being such an insensitive male and says he remembers thinking she looked pretty with her lipstick at the movie theater. Joey admits becoming jealous of the hand-holding Olympics, saying that she didn’t want to be the one holding his hand, but just didn’t want Jen to, either. Dawson just accepts that explanation, despite Joey’s wounded puppy eyes and the fact that it MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER.
In yet another attempt to show Dawson that they can no longer be friends like, I dunno, mature adults, Joey dares him to tell her about his masturbation habits. This is the second reference to “walking the dog” in twenty minutes. Haaaaahaha. Awesome.
After being blown off in a fit of awkward laughter, Joey leaves through the window, her relationship with her best friend in shambles. Ohhhh, why you look so saaaaaaad? The tears are in your eeeyes, come on and come to meeeee now. Doooon’t, be ashamed to cuh-ryyyyyyyy!
Appearing in his backlit window, Dawson saves the moment by yelling, “usually in the morning, to Katie Couric.” Joey, apparently not making the obvious mommy issues connection, laughs as she rows away... just in time to see Gail making out with her co-anchor.
Well, that’s that. I know this recap isn’t the best, but I figure it’s a start while I get back into the ol’ reviewing groove. I hope you’ll come back and check on my progress as I feel my way around this little universe.
In the meantime, I’ll stand by YOU, Creekers.
I started two weeks ago. Coincidentally, I was about ten minutes into the premiere (and halfway into a glass of wine) when I felt the need to text Steph about how I never noticed how hot Dawson's dad is. This set off about ten minutes of running commentary from me. Right around the time I finished that glass of wine, I had the bright idea to record my analysis in perpetuity, rather than relegating it to 160 character texts. After a short marathon viewing session at my house on Thursday night, Steph convinced me to post my Dawson's Creek Premiere Recap here. It's really long because I don't have time to fully edit it, but it appears as though a lot of other bloggers are on the DC bandwagon lately, so here we go. Enjoy!
Dawson's Creek, Season 1, Episode 1
We open, of course, with fifteen year old Dawson Leery and his trusty femininely-challenged galpal, Joey Potter, watching a movie. Because when I was fifteen, I was obviously allowed to have boys not only in my room, but in my bed. For the love of all that is holy, I basically had Amy Poehler’s character from “Mean Girls” for a mother when I was fifteen and even she didn’t ok that right away. But I digress.
After musing over the injustice that is E.T. losing the Oscar to Ghandi, we find out why Dawson’s mom seems to have no issues with her hormonally-ravaged son hanging unchaparoned with the cute little thang next door: she has made a career of sporting ghastly 90s hair while delivering the nightly news and giggling flirtatiously at her over-coiffed co-anchor.
Dawson is mystified that Joey won’t sleep over, since, you know, he is blind to her unrequited love-crush and doesn’t understand that she has been ogling him awkwardly this entire time. Going with the whole early 00s theme of, “we really need to just talk everything to death,” she informs him that they can’t sleep together anymore because of their burgeoning adulthood and lusty natures. Katie Holmes is already so good at delivering the obvious with just the right amount of self-righteous indignity. “I have breasts! And you have genitalia!” Look, Jo, if we’re really being honest here, you should probably mention that unfortunate mop bucket on top of Dawson’s head. Get a haircut, you bum!
“I just think our emerging hormones are destined to ruin our relationship and I am trying to limit the fallout.” I credit lines like this for the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend until my sixteenth birthday. Thanks a lot, Kevin Williamson. Dawson uses Joey’s tomboyish reputation to lure her into bed by threatening to call her Josephine. Oh, the horror! Our heroine falls (make that jumps) straight into the trap, in a not-sexual-at-all tickle match on top of the comforter. Take that, Dawson!
We cut to the original, weird opening theme song. This is not the legendary Paula Cole. I do NOT like this. I don’t like it one bit.
More weird song with same footage as classic theme. This is so bizarre. I got all amped up for my, “I DUN WANNA WAIT!” and it never appeared. I hate everything.
After what I remember being a long commercial break advertising Tamagochis or Jenga or JNCOs or some other awesome thing I wasn’t allowed to have, the show returns. Joey lounges on the dock while Dawson films Pacey, in full seamonster regalia, prematurely pulling Joey into the water. Dawson goes apeshit. “It’s a three count you gotta wait for!” he shrieks. What a pretentious douche.
One of my favorite Pacey lines ever, his very first of the series, as Joey climbs out of the creek:
Joey: “You did it again! You grabbed my ass!”
Pacey: “Like you even have one.”
At this point, mysterious new girl Jen arrives in a yellow cab and just nonchalantly strolls up to this motley crew of strangers, one of whom is dressed as a dripping seamonster. Nice. The boys act like pubescent assholes, Pacey making moderate sexual innuendos and Dawson forgetting how to speak, mumbling about God knows what. Meanwhile, Joey McKayla Maroney’s the situation and when Dawson says Jen’s changed, rolls her eyes and mutters, “puberty.” ZING!
P&D head to casa de leery and catch the parents en flagrante. Pacey makes a not so subtle attempt at flirting with Gail Leery, which I think is supposed to indicate some kind of foreshadowing. I’m not really sure because I've been too busy ogling Dawson’s hot dad. Pacey drools on the floor and Gail calls Mr. Leery “Mr. Manmeat,” to which I readily concur.
Because we need to establish some kind of backstory for the rough-around-the-edges heroine, we next see Joey arriving home. Her sister’s African American, living-in-sin boyfriend, Bode, walks out to let her taste some pasta sauce. Racial diversity alert!! A very pregnant Bessie then emerges from the house, bringing about our very first glimpse into what the producers of this forward-thinking show have deemed, “unsavory people.” Also the first time “orgasmic” is used as a totally unneccesary adjective. A true turning point in American culture, for sure.
Dawson and Pacey both work at the local video store. Awww, remember when we actually had to go to separate stores to rent stuff, rather than just streaming old episodes of decades-old shows directly to our wireless-enabled tvs? So quaint!
OMG the first Tamara scene. Here we have Pacey making a complete ass of himself as he attempts to flirt with this mature, sexual “older woman.” On first glance, I would probably peg her for 38, but then again, that’s about as old as the Leery parents look, so what do I know. The cheesy 80s saxophone music is killing me. The seductive voice, the barely there dress, the reference to “The Graduate.” These writers! So subtle!
Oh Charlie Conway, how far you have come (nice vest, btw).
After work, Dawson rounds the corner of his house, a stack of videos in his hand, to a picturesque view of the new girl, aka Michelle Williams when she was first pretty, before her awkward duck stage. Dawson goes into some douchey spiel about classic movies, blah blah blah, and I continue to serenade my wine glass with the stellar music from this show. “As I lay me, down toooo sleep. Yes I pray. That you will hold me dear...”
Ever the suave operator, Douchebag Dawson drops a casual, “Hey, wanna see my studio?” into the conversation. DMoney, you dog! Although on second thought, if some guy invited me to hang out and then had a shrine to Steven Spielberg on his walls, I think I’d cut my losses and invest in a cat.
After hearing her name bellowed from next door, we find out that Jen has to hide the fact she’s hanging out with Dawson from her Grams. How totally not suspicious at all; I’m sure it is just a freak coincidence and has nothing to do with her backstory at all. Meanwhile, Joey, window climber extraordinaire, appears crestfallen as she pauses outside the window in her too-short shorts and overhears Dawson and Jen having a very intimate moment, aka discussing something totally innocuous like Dawson’s only passion in life. Because obviously, a guy with a shrine to Spielberg never talks to anyone about movies but you, Joey.
After Jen leaves and Joey has assumed the usual position on the bed, Dawson observes that his mother uses “soft Bs” when talking to her co-anchor, and is therefore obviously having an affair. “Back to you, Bob!” he mimicks. Now I’m going to be on the lookout for soft B’s everywhere and assuming the speaker wants to get in my pants. “Bring the bagels?” That’s sexual harassment and I DON’T have to take it! (thank you, 90s commercials).
Back to Jen, who is having a tender moment with her incapacitated Gramps. Grams squashes that shit right quick, telling Jen she needs to eat or else she’ll be late for school. Over eggs, Jen interrogates Grams about Dawson and Joey, both of whom the elder refers to as “the wrong element,” pointing out that Joey’s been climbing into Dawson’s window at all hours for years. Wait, an adult that makes sense? What is this, the Waltons?!
Jen diverts Grams’ attention by declaring that she hates church and doesn’t believe in Jesus or God. Apparently she has either never invoked the wrath of religiously-oriented Grandma guilt or she’s just plain crazy, because no sane person would ever want to bring that upon themselves a second time. On a related note, remember how revolutionary it was to have an ATHEIST on tv?!
God-fearing Grams aside, Jen starts school wearing a white skirt and a button down double-breasted, very short sweater. Very Catholic schoolgirl, indeed, as demonstrated by Jen’s statement to school huss Nelly Olsen that she “likes to have a good time, drug free.” Give me a break, Jen.
Thank God for Chumbawumba. My life doesn’t have enough of it.
The kids all take their seats, and Tamara, aka “Ms. Jacobs” strolls into English class and Pacey figures out that he’s been keeping his teacher in the spank bank. Oh God, this is so much better than Aria and Ezra. Pretty Little Liars basically wouldn’t exist without this show. Gold. Standard. Television.
Pretentious Asshat, aka Dawson, is all mopey and emo because he was denied admittance to a class he isn’t eligible to get into because he’s an underclassmen. He spouts of some extra douchery by insulting the school’s only film teacher, accusing him of “denying students their education”. I bet his parents gave him a trophy for peeing in the potty as a toddler. Assholes.
Out in the hallway, Jen asks Joey if she and Douchson are a couple. Cue Joey and her sneer and a sob story. Nice way to slip in that your dad is a jailbird, Potter. “Oh, conspiracy to traffic marijauna in excess of 10,000 pounds”. AND her sister is having her black boyfriend’s baby. THAT should intimidate the girl from New York, alright.If someone hasn’t made a meme out of Katie Holmes’ faces from this show, they should. Comic gold.
Meanwhile, Pacey is hard at work seducing his English teacher. WHY IS IT ALWAYS THE ENGLISH TEACHER?! After trying to coerce Dawson into crashing Tamara’s date, Pacey informs him that Cosmo says older women are just itching to bang high school boys. “I have three menstrually diverse sisters. I get Cosmo, ok?” Dawson, ever the wordsmith, tells him to go home and walk his dog because it’s never going to happen.
On the way home from school, Dawson rides up to Joey, sporting a backwards, ADJUSTABLE Yankees hat, might I add, and begs her to act as a fifth wheel on his date/Pacey’s stalking mission. This brings about yet another eye roll, both from Ms. Potter and from me.
So as it turns out, despite all “unsavoriness” in Capeside, Grams is willing to let Jen out in public as long as she goes to Church on Sunday morning. Christ will cure your rebellious nature, Jen! She promises to go to Church when Grams say the word ‘penis.’ BAM!
Not to be rude or anything, but Grams needs some root touch-ups, stat.
Here’s hot Mr. Leery again, talking about condoms and foreplay. Meanwhile, the fifteen year old asks why sex is so important and uses the fact that Spielberg has never had a sex scene in his movies as proof that it’s lame. Holy fuck, Dawson, just stfu and let your dad keep talking about stuff that grown ups do.
I am old. So, so old.
Bessie, in a move meant to indicate that she fears Joey is going to grow up and die alone with her cat collection, grabs Joey and smears some lipstick on her omnipresent pout. Now that her crooked smirk is all accentuated and stuff, Joey can go crash Dawson’s date. GO AND CATCH YO’ MAN! RAAAAR!
This might be one of the best scenes in television history.
Jen: “Hey Joey, I love your lipstick, what color is it?”
Joey: “Wicked red. I love your hair color, what number is that? By the way, are you a virgin?”
Jen: “Yes…. and you?”
Joey: “Please. Years ago. Trucker named Bubba.” I had that quote hanging on my wall for like five years in junior high. I wish I were kidding. I am not.
WHO WEARS SHORTSLEEVE BUTTON DOWNS, PACEY?! Ugh. Just... ugh.
Slick Dawson keeps trying to grab Jen’s hand during the cartoon before the movie. Whoa there, tiger! Joey, mature as ever, interrupts the moment to continue interrogating Jen, asking her if she’s a size queen and if she “noticed the long fingers.” To the guys of my 8th grade class, this is why we all asked you to hold out your hands. Now you know. God, it feels good to get that off my chest.
Dawson, apparently not amused by his bffl’s antics, pulls Joey out into the lobby to engage in the kind of dramatic screaming match known only to sexually-charged middle school friends of the opposite sex. I can say that because I had this exact fight with my own unrequited teen love, coincidentally referred to as “Dawson” in notes from that era, approximately 3209 times. “OMG YOU IGNORE ME WHENEVER SHE’S AROUND AND YOU CAN’T EVEN SEE WHAT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!” Joey storms off, and I feel so much second-hand embarrassment for my thirteen year old self.
HAHA Jen shuts Dawson DOWN as he leans in for a goodnight kiss. And yes, D, if anyone wasn’t already convinced, making the L on your forehead just REINFORCES that you are, in fact, a loser. Nice sweater, you clown.
Pacey sulks past Tamara at the marina after getting socked in the eye by her date. He calls her out on her unbridled, middle-aged desire. “I’m the best sex you’ll never have!” says fifteen year old Pacey. I remember that line being way less hilarious as a teenager, but I have to pause the tv to stop laughing and pour myself more wine. AND THE BEST PART IS, SHE FALLS FOR IT! The two share a passionate-by-cable-standards embrace. WOOHOO, it’s gettin’ HOT up in HERE!
On the other side of the creek, Dawson comes home to find Joey lurking on the floor of his closet. Normal. Realizing that he was kind of a jerk, he apologizes for being such an insensitive male and says he remembers thinking she looked pretty with her lipstick at the movie theater. Joey admits becoming jealous of the hand-holding Olympics, saying that she didn’t want to be the one holding his hand, but just didn’t want Jen to, either. Dawson just accepts that explanation, despite Joey’s wounded puppy eyes and the fact that it MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER.
In yet another attempt to show Dawson that they can no longer be friends like, I dunno, mature adults, Joey dares him to tell her about his masturbation habits. This is the second reference to “walking the dog” in twenty minutes. Haaaaahaha. Awesome.
After being blown off in a fit of awkward laughter, Joey leaves through the window, her relationship with her best friend in shambles. Ohhhh, why you look so saaaaaaad? The tears are in your eeeyes, come on and come to meeeee now. Doooon’t, be ashamed to cuh-ryyyyyyyy!
Appearing in his backlit window, Dawson saves the moment by yelling, “usually in the morning, to Katie Couric.” Joey, apparently not making the obvious mommy issues connection, laughs as she rows away... just in time to see Gail making out with her co-anchor.
Well, that’s that. I know this recap isn’t the best, but I figure it’s a start while I get back into the ol’ reviewing groove. I hope you’ll come back and check on my progress as I feel my way around this little universe.
In the meantime, I’ll stand by YOU, Creekers.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Cult Classics and the BetrAyal
I think I've already made it pretty clear that I'm a perpetual 14-year old trapped in a late 20s body.
Despite its ubiquity, "Call Me, Maybe" still brings a grin to my face. I'm not ashamed to be caught rapping the Ludacris solo during "Baby" or any other Bieber song-of-the-moment on the treadmill. One recent inquiry to The Google included, "Is there a rivalry between Big Time Rush fans and One Direction fans?" (I need to stay on the up and up for when I next run into Andrew's 17-year old cousin) and I routinely disarm people with a cool, "I'm Chuck Bass" whenever someone gives me the side eye (like... now).
So while my friend and I were discussing developments from last week's episode of Pretty Little Liars (actually, "developments" is a bit of a stretch; nothing ever happens on that show but I just can't give up all the pretty hair and clothes), she mentioned that Entertainment Weekly recently ran an article on the top 26 cult shows of all time. Naturally, Buffy was #1, but I was pretty happy to see a few of my other all-time favorites on the list:
Veronica Mars: I've already intimated my love of VM many times, so no need to rehash it all here. Team Logan 4 Life!
Firefly: Part Star Wars, part John Wayne, Andrew and I went through every episode of this totally underrated and too-short series in about two weeks. Throw in the cache of Nathan Fillion, Joss Whedon and Jewel Staite (who is once again lost in space, to my delight), and I couldn't turn it off. Also, after sending in a few Mars bars to save VM, I appreciate the tenacity of the Browncoats who managed to get Serenity into theaters to give the series the ending it deserved.
The Wire: Hands down the best tv show I've ever seen, and I've watched every episode of The Sopranos and Six Feet Under, and all but this past season of Dexter. I've heard a solid case can be made for Breaking Bad, but after the first season, I'm not yet convinced. The Wire, however, is pure drama at its finest.
It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia: Unlike the rest of this list, I have not seen every episode of Always Sunny. In fact, I took a staunch opposition to the show in the beginning, when Andrew and his goofy roommates would devote hours of their day towards it. I refused to watch, calling The Gang "stupid" and "not funny" for months...only to have my carefully erected wall disintegrate into dust when forced to play the part of "cool girlfriend" and watch the episode about kitten mittens. I now regularly find myself caught up in marathon DVD-viewing on Saturday afternoons. Well played, Danny DeVito. Well played.
Edited to Add: I wrote this post yesterday, before the PLL Summer Finale, aka "The BetrAyal" aired. WHAT. THE. F--K?! I refuse to believe that that.... person.... is what they made him/her out to be there at the end! If anyone wants to discuss, feel free to comment with a spoiler alert OR just email (caitieexperiment [at] gmail [dot] com) or tweet me. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who didn't get to watch, but that shit was CRAZY!
*This list is by no means exhaustive; obviously if I included all of the classics from my adolescent years, we would be here for days. Boy Meets World (x2 at the very least), Saved By the Bell and Full House are but a small sampling.
Despite its ubiquity, "Call Me, Maybe" still brings a grin to my face. I'm not ashamed to be caught rapping the Ludacris solo during "Baby" or any other Bieber song-of-the-moment on the treadmill. One recent inquiry to The Google included, "Is there a rivalry between Big Time Rush fans and One Direction fans?" (I need to stay on the up and up for when I next run into Andrew's 17-year old cousin) and I routinely disarm people with a cool, "I'm Chuck Bass" whenever someone gives me the side eye (like... now).
So while my friend and I were discussing developments from last week's episode of Pretty Little Liars (actually, "developments" is a bit of a stretch; nothing ever happens on that show but I just can't give up all the pretty hair and clothes), she mentioned that Entertainment Weekly recently ran an article on the top 26 cult shows of all time. Naturally, Buffy was #1, but I was pretty happy to see a few of my other all-time favorites on the list:
Veronica Mars: I've already intimated my love of VM many times, so no need to rehash it all here. Team Logan 4 Life!
Firefly: Part Star Wars, part John Wayne, Andrew and I went through every episode of this totally underrated and too-short series in about two weeks. Throw in the cache of Nathan Fillion, Joss Whedon and Jewel Staite (who is once again lost in space, to my delight), and I couldn't turn it off. Also, after sending in a few Mars bars to save VM, I appreciate the tenacity of the Browncoats who managed to get Serenity into theaters to give the series the ending it deserved.
The Wire: Hands down the best tv show I've ever seen, and I've watched every episode of The Sopranos and Six Feet Under, and all but this past season of Dexter. I've heard a solid case can be made for Breaking Bad, but after the first season, I'm not yet convinced. The Wire, however, is pure drama at its finest.
It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia: Unlike the rest of this list, I have not seen every episode of Always Sunny. In fact, I took a staunch opposition to the show in the beginning, when Andrew and his goofy roommates would devote hours of their day towards it. I refused to watch, calling The Gang "stupid" and "not funny" for months...only to have my carefully erected wall disintegrate into dust when forced to play the part of "cool girlfriend" and watch the episode about kitten mittens. I now regularly find myself caught up in marathon DVD-viewing on Saturday afternoons. Well played, Danny DeVito. Well played.
 |
| Someone might have used Mac as his inspiration for an 80s party. |
I've also seen every episode of Gilmore Girls, Castle, New Girl, The Sopranos, Six Feet Under and all but the second half of last season of Gossip Girl.*
Then there are the shows that I formerly obsessed over, but finally
gave up on because the plot started to weaken and the character flaws
became magnified to the Nth degree. Dawson's Creek, Felicity, Fringe, Grey's Anatomy, The Office, Dexter
-- I'm specifically looking at you. I intend to remedy the first three
during my winter hibernation (Netflix Instant for the win), in part
because I want to re-live the awkwardness of my teen years...
...but mostly because no one should ever be denied the chance to stare at Josh Jackson or Scott Speedman, both of whom I believe have only gotten better with age.
...but mostly because no one should ever be denied the chance to stare at Josh Jackson or Scott Speedman, both of whom I believe have only gotten better with age.
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| [Source] |
*This list is by no means exhaustive; obviously if I included all of the classics from my adolescent years, we would be here for days. Boy Meets World (x2 at the very least), Saved By the Bell and Full House are but a small sampling.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
As Long As They Ask
You know, this whole half marathon experience has definitely been humbling. I'm not the type of person who likes to admit that I'm not good at something, or that I don't know what I'm doing. In school, I tended to focus on the things I was actually good at (textual analysis, communication, music, parsing arguments, biological sciences etc.) and did just enough to get by in the areas where I was weak (physical sciences, sports, economics, math of all kinds). Gym class was my worst nightmare come true -- I didn't lose weight (the first time) until my junior year, so those fall semesters that I was forced to engage in physical activity with my peers were spent being picked last for team sports and taking the elective classes that would minimize my wiggly bits. I'd like to thank Walking for Fitness and Line Dancing for saving both my humility and my classmates' eyes.
Thinking back, even with all the bitching, backstabbing and bullying that accompanied those years (and I don't mean of the, "OoooMG, you guyz, sum biddy totes called mah purple ankle jeanz ugly, yo" variety), one of the worst memories I have is of running The Mile (it warrants capitalization).
Apparently, most high schools only make you do it once a semester during the Presidential Fitness Thingie, but not mine. No, we had to run the mile EVERY. SINGLE. FRIDAY. for half of the semester, and if we didn't cut our time by a certain goal, we got a zero for the day. I only took gym the fall semester of my freshman and sophomore years, so as I wheezed my way around a park three and a quarter times, I was on the heftier side. Twice, I didn't even finish; I collapsed on the ground next to Coach Beiste and cried about my blood-soaked socks. At the time, I was unaware that Keds are not really the best sneakers for running (or, you know, for a millenial high schooler to be wearing, period. But we'll get into my total social ineptitude and utter fashion misfortune some other time).
To make matters even worse, I happened to have a gym class full of those harpies from hell, the "athletic" girls. Sure, they weren't as morally corrupt as the other bastions of high school hierarchy, the cheerleaders; they were a hundred times worse. These girls were smart. They were skinny and gorgeous. Perhaps worst of all, they were NICE. "C'mon, you can do it!!!" they'd chant, clapping and throwing out encouragement as I puffed along the sidewalk a solid ten minutes after they'd finished their final lap. And then, when I was finally done, they'd make these ridiculous saccharine statements about how, "when I first started running, it took me twenty minutes to run a mile, too!".
Bitch, please. It's not quite the same when you're seven.
I've been called a lot of mean things in my life, but few of them ever made me feel more embarrassed than feeling like some kind of charity mission for those more athletically gifted than I. Sure, I knew they meant well, but in the end all that their "you go, girl!"s did was make me even more aware of the fact that OTHER people were aware of my struggles. While I appreciated the sentiment, I really wished they would've just let me run my tortoisely slow mile in peace, sans comment. Or maybe actually invited me to their parties, rather than just commenting on my weaknesses, then completely ignoring my existence when I saw them in my own element.
I really haven't changed much. When I go to the gym, I still don't like when people watch me or make it a point to say they've noticed whatever I'm doing. If they want to strike up a conversation about something else, that's totally fine; I'm more likely to cultivate a friendship or feel comfortable in a new class if they start out by cracking a joke about the decrepit state of the spin bikes or the spastic Zumba instructor rather than making some asinine comment like, "oh wow, you must be new at this!". I also try to keep this in mind before I open my mouth to dispense my own workout encouragement and advice.
Because while it might take me 2.5 hours to run 9 miles, I can shake my ass like Shakira. A secret which I am happy to share with anyone.
As long as they ask.
Thinking back, even with all the bitching, backstabbing and bullying that accompanied those years (and I don't mean of the, "OoooMG, you guyz, sum biddy totes called mah purple ankle jeanz ugly, yo" variety), one of the worst memories I have is of running The Mile (it warrants capitalization).
 |
| [Source] |
To make matters even worse, I happened to have a gym class full of those harpies from hell, the "athletic" girls. Sure, they weren't as morally corrupt as the other bastions of high school hierarchy, the cheerleaders; they were a hundred times worse. These girls were smart. They were skinny and gorgeous. Perhaps worst of all, they were NICE. "C'mon, you can do it!!!" they'd chant, clapping and throwing out encouragement as I puffed along the sidewalk a solid ten minutes after they'd finished their final lap. And then, when I was finally done, they'd make these ridiculous saccharine statements about how, "when I first started running, it took me twenty minutes to run a mile, too!".
Bitch, please. It's not quite the same when you're seven.
I've been called a lot of mean things in my life, but few of them ever made me feel more embarrassed than feeling like some kind of charity mission for those more athletically gifted than I. Sure, I knew they meant well, but in the end all that their "you go, girl!"s did was make me even more aware of the fact that OTHER people were aware of my struggles. While I appreciated the sentiment, I really wished they would've just let me run my tortoisely slow mile in peace, sans comment. Or maybe actually invited me to their parties, rather than just commenting on my weaknesses, then completely ignoring my existence when I saw them in my own element.
 |
| In my element a few years later. |
I really haven't changed much. When I go to the gym, I still don't like when people watch me or make it a point to say they've noticed whatever I'm doing. If they want to strike up a conversation about something else, that's totally fine; I'm more likely to cultivate a friendship or feel comfortable in a new class if they start out by cracking a joke about the decrepit state of the spin bikes or the spastic Zumba instructor rather than making some asinine comment like, "oh wow, you must be new at this!". I also try to keep this in mind before I open my mouth to dispense my own workout encouragement and advice.
Because while it might take me 2.5 hours to run 9 miles, I can shake my ass like Shakira. A secret which I am happy to share with anyone.
As long as they ask.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Back Here Baby... and Other Monday Musings
Today has been one of those weird days -- I have a ton of busy work to do at the office, so I'm jamming out to bad pop music while doing some routine maintenance stuff and crossing tasks off of my To-Do List. This, of course, gives me plenty of time to think about all kinds of random stuff, along with a bunch of random post topics for later dates. In the meantime, though, I thought I would give some insight into my thought process on a random Monday morning:
Ciao, Bellas!
- I found an entire CD case full of old but good discs from my youth. You're welcome for the BBMak serenade today, coworkers. You're welcome. (This also bodes well for future I Go Back posts.)
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| [Source] |
- When I come up with a good post idea, I always hit "New Post" and then write a few words that are supposed to remind me of whatever it is I wanted to talk about and then hit save. Now, my Blogger Dashboard looks like a veritable graveyard of 3-word drafts, and I have no idea what half of them mean. "Dog porch scrunchie," anyone?
- I'm allergic to the soap that we use in the bathroom at work, so I always have a little bottle of Purell in my pocket. I'm paranoid that if people don't hear the water running, they will assume that I didn't wash my hands, so I always run it for a few seconds anyway. And then I feel bad for wasting water.
- I might have agreed to watch my coworker's two spawn last week simply to gain access to Versus so that I could watch Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals. I know I have plenty of Canadian readers, so please forgive me when I say, tongue-in-cheek, "Nothing says 'Canucks' like a screaming crybaby!'" (I kid.
Or do I?) Anyway, this has been a flippin' AWESOME series so far, so allow me to say how pumped I am for tonight's Game 6!
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| [Source] |
- If the past tense of "rewind" is "rewound," why isn't the past tense of "remind" "remound?"
- Until you're back heeeere, baybayyyy..... miss you, want you, neeeeed you so.....
- Andrew and I went to his friends' apartment over the weekend to hang out and grill. Can we just discuss how DISGUSTING men can be?! Seriously, these guys are 24 and I legitimately thought I accidentally Back-to-the-Futured myself to Sigma Beta, circa 2005. The nudie mags on the bathroom floor notwithstanding, I kid you not -- THE TOILET SEAT WASN'T EVEN ATTACHED TO THE TOILET. WTF, GENTLEMEN?!
- Why, oh why oh why oh why oh why, am I seeing more and more bloggers using "suppose" when they should be using "supposed"? You are not "suppose to" do something. You are "supposED to" do it. The same applies to "use"... as in, "I USED to do xyz," not "I use to." WTF?! And that concludes today's Daily Oral Language (did anyone else have to do that in elementary school? Basically decline a sentence?).
- I'm not in love, no not at all. What makes you think you've made me fall. I slip but no, I'm not in loooooveeee....
- When it comes to clothing, I'm usually a light blue/bright pink/coral girl in the summer and leave my jewel tones for the colder months... but this year, I have developed a totally random affinity for royal purple. So far, I've obtained two shirts, a dress and a pair of super adorable flip flops in it, and had to stop myself from buying another shirt over the weekend.
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| I'm actually wearing this shirt today! |
- Why can't I even remember the basics of geometry while studying for the GRE, but have absolutely NO PROBLEM belting out every single lyric to every single boy band song released in the mid-late 90s?
- Hearkening back to my calorie-counting days, I know that lemon squeezed into water is supposed to have diuretic properties. Does that count for limes, too? Just curious because I have a tendency to add a lime garnish to my soda-and-
vodka-cranberry juice mocktails.
- Ooooo... surprise cds with no labels. This could get interesting....
- What are your favorite colors to wear in the summer? Do you stick with cool popsicle colors, go all Uncle Sam in patriotic wear, or buck the trends with deep, rich hues?
- What's the most embarrassing/awesome cd or album in your collection? I wish I could say that mine resides in this CD case, but we all know that's a lie.... I still have yet to find the case housing my "Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Dance Remixes" (you haven't lived until you've blasted, "I'm Too Sexy" all Alvin-fied down the highway at 11:30pm. Trust me).
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| [Source] |
Ciao, Bellas!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
That Great Digital Disposal in the Sky
Greetings, loved ones! MIA for almost a week due to a laptop that's on the fritz. Seriously, the thing is 8 years old; I think it's time to send it to the nice Dell home in the sky. Or at least a retirement community of some sort.
I'm really going to miss you, Inspy. You got me through the best of times and the worst of times, through sickness (remember the menengitis-just-kidding-it's-allergies incident?) and in health, from the time I began college until I gave up internet when I moved into the studio. You were there through 30-page term papers, the advent of Facebook, the compilation of an epic iTunes library, and the beginning of my work-study when I tried to learn the ins and outs of tech support (Oh, sweet irony!).
We've shared laughs (recorded videos after a night out frat hopping, YouTube contests to find the most hilarious video with my sister), big life moments (job offers, figuring out that there *is* a field that encompasses *exactly* what I want to do with my life), frustration (crying in the library at the U, all-nighters in the study lounge), triumphs (finishing that 15-pager I started at 6am in time for my 9:40 class, that little cow mooing when my crush finally sent me an IM [the fact it said, "Hey" and that was all I heard? Trivial facts, people.]), and tears (clicking "single" on the FB profile after a nasty breakup, reading the condolence emails when my Gramma and my former boss passed). We've been through a lot together, you and I.
And now, I bid you adieu.
Unless, of course, I can get you to stop showing the screen for 3 seconds and then immediately blacking out. If you can do that, my friend, we are back in business! I am totally open to resuming this dysfunctional relationship at a later date, should you feel so inclined.
So, tell me: have you ever had to bid farewell to a treasured item? When did you get your very own computer (presuming you have one)? If I decide to get another laptop, what kind should I get (I have a desktop, but B and I have neither cable nor internet at home, because we're cheap mofos like that.)?
RIP
Inspiron 1100
September 2003-March 2011
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| [Source] |
I'm really going to miss you, Inspy. You got me through the best of times and the worst of times, through sickness (remember the menengitis-just-kidding-it's-allergies incident?) and in health, from the time I began college until I gave up internet when I moved into the studio. You were there through 30-page term papers, the advent of Facebook, the compilation of an epic iTunes library, and the beginning of my work-study when I tried to learn the ins and outs of tech support (Oh, sweet irony!).
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| I'll miss you, dear friend! |
And now, I bid you adieu.
Unless, of course, I can get you to stop showing the screen for 3 seconds and then immediately blacking out. If you can do that, my friend, we are back in business! I am totally open to resuming this dysfunctional relationship at a later date, should you feel so inclined.
So, tell me: have you ever had to bid farewell to a treasured item? When did you get your very own computer (presuming you have one)? If I decide to get another laptop, what kind should I get (I have a desktop, but B and I have neither cable nor internet at home, because we're cheap mofos like that.)?
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