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.

The Fun House Effect

I've always been the kind of girl who always felt a bit left out. In elementary school, I was the smart kid who had friends -- until I figured out that all they actually wanted to do was copy my homework. In junior high, there were the music kids but, as Mean Girls will show you, cliques exist even in the very depths of the popularity Inferno.

High school was better; I managed to run with a variety of crowds (we ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud. Sorry, couldn't resist!), most of whom I still maintain as casual Facebook acquaintances. I was kind of a bitch,  but we'll get into that some other time. College was more of the same friendships, in that I won some, I lost some, hell, I even bought some, but suffice to say that I was never "that girl", the one for whom the crowd waits to get their parties started.

So you can see why I've become slightly insecure, now that I've noticed a trend among some of my friends.

Apparently, there was a close-out sale on Fun House mirrors, and someone forgot to invite me. 

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For weeks now, ever since the sun started to peek out from behind the clouds and shorts and bikinis became the weekend wardrobe of choice, I've been hearing it all over the place. "My legs look fat!"; "My nose has a weird bump!"; "Shamu had less blubber around his midsection!"; "My hips are too thin!"; "I look like a little boy!" (Sidenote: I hate how common an assumption it is in this little blog niche we have here that everyone's body issues stem from the same perceived "flaws." There are plenty of people out there with concerns that they are too thin, too short, too tall, not womanly enough, et al., so shut up and stop assuming that everyone and their mother thinks their thighs look like cottage cheese already).

It's funny. My friends apparently look at themselves in the mirror and see circus freaks; I look at them and see smart, beautiful, hilarious individuals. Some of them have hair I would kill for, others have mile splits that I'm pretty sure would leave my poor little lungs curled up in the dirt resembling the fetal version of Voldemort. A few of them who have cared to share their writing have completely blown me away with their words. The sheer talent that flows through so many of my friends' veins, whatever the arena, is something that I often find myself stopping to think about, and counting myself lucky to have them in my life.

You know what I almost never think about?

Their size.

I say "almost never" because basically, the only thing that makes me say, "HEY! So-and-so is a size X!" is because I'm secretly planning to plow through her closets like a preteen boy on a panty raid.

"What do you mean, this is your shirt?!"

If you were to go through my dresser, closet, undergarment tower and/or workout/goingout/pajama bin, you would find clothes that range from a small to an extra large. You'd find a size 18 business suit from Macy's that I wore to my first "grown up" job interviews and enough "suits of armor" (aka spanxx) to get the Klumps on the cover of Shape magazine. Loads of tshirts in every color, cut and size imaginable litter my hamper and those rolly-things that go under the bed. There are jeans in every size from 10-16, with one pair of 12s that I can't wear for fear of running the risk of plumber butt, and another in the SAME SIZE that I can't even yank up past my thighs. Somewhere, in the very depths of a box that's probably hidden in my living room closet, there is a pair of shorts in a size 7 from the summer I left for college, 130lbs and too thin for my frame. 

Maybe I should just lay off this whole writing thing and consider making my claim to fame via Hoarders.

I'm definitely not a saint myself when it comes to the whole "fat day/skinny day" phenomenon, but I have noticed one thing in the past year or two: while I still suffer from negative self-talk, that second little voice in my head has, bit by bit, begun to grow bolder. When I think, "jeez, I weigh the same thing I did when I was a size X, but these feel WAY tighter on my thighs!", there's another voice that overrides that one, saying, "yeah yeah yeah, but you were totally lazy at the time and never moved; you've been running and spinning and ok, so maybe there is still some extra fluff in the lower region, but your endurance at the track and resistance on the bike don't lie." It's a slow process, but it's happening.

Like a briiiiiidge overrr troubled, watterrrssss....

At the Blake Shelton/Brad Paisley concert last weekend, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't, at one point, look around at all the uber-tan, straight-haired, belly-baring ladies in cowboy boots and daisy dukes and think, "I don't belong here." But then one of those "perfect" chicks next to me ended up engaged in a bitchfight with a posse of 15 year-olds, the "what? what?" hand snap in the face and accent straight out of The Fighter included.

Then I realized that, while I might have been comparing my pasty white calves to her golden gams and wondering why I couldn't be "perfect" mere moments before, Girlfran had her own set of issues to deal with. One does not feel the need to "step up" to a group of little girls nine years her junior if she's secure with who she is.

I felt a lot better about things once I took that in to account. It reminded me how grateful I am for what I've got, both inside AND outside, and how proud I was to have made a distinction that a year ago, when I was 20lbs lighter, was so far outside the realm of reality for me that I probably would have said, "I'd rather be a size 2 and trashy than a size 14 with friends." It's crazy what a year, some therapy and a bit of perspective can do.

Anyway, not to get all Operation Beautiful on you or anything, but seriously, ladies (and gents, if you're reading): stop getting all down on yourselves because of the number inside your pants. Chances are, your friends and acquaintances don't care about whether you're a size 2, a size 12 or a size 20.

Unless, of course, they happen to be the same size, in which case, they probably just want to steal your pants.

Truly, Madly, Deeply Dooo

Have you ever gone YEARS without hearing a song, only to have it pop up out of nowhere one day and then proceed to follow you around, its little earworm hooks creeping and crawling into you brain and bringing up all kinds of long-forgotten associations?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Savage Garden's Truly, Madly, Deeply. It's stalking me.

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Remember when, sometime around the time that scrunchies were on their way out, this song seemed like the absolute most romantic thing you had ever heard? I mean, come on -- "I want to stand with you on a mountain. I want to bathe with you in the sea?" That is poetic, lyrical GENIUS, people! Elton John himself couldn't write that shiz. I will forever associate it's bass-y, lilting chorus with wide-leg jeans, passing notes in the hallways and dancing awkwardly with the kid from the next homeroom over, at 3 in the afternoon, on a dirty gymnasium floor.

And my friend Sara's Bat Mitzvah, at which I realized that I was not living in a John Hughes movie and, if I were, I would be less like Molly Ringwald and more like Ally Sheedy.

First of all, I was kind of an awkward middle schooler. One day, if you're lucky, I will post my 7th grade photo. Though I have destroyed all copies of it, my best friends are bound to have one, as my yearbook that year was filled with comments about how they would save it until I became famous and then leak it to the National Enquirer. And yes, it IS that bad... Four words: Velour. Scrunchie. Side Pony. My mother also forced me to wear skinny ankle jeans which, though tres cool now, were about as hip as garbage at the time, prompting the secret object of my affection to ask me one day in math class why I "wore such ridiculous pants." Good question, D, good question.

Despite my closet full of wardrobe malfunctions, I wasn't particularly popular or unpopular; I kind of like to think I ran in the middle of the clique pack. I had a solid group of friends, and we paraded around the hallways like we owned them, arms linked in a miniature display of solidarity with our other socially-stunted brethren. So, when my friend Sara invited me to her Bat Mitzvah, I was super pumped and assumed everyone else in my little group would be in attendance, too. Um, no.

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Now, being raised Catholic, I had no idea what to expect. My understanding of Jewish tradition extended to my Uncle wearing that funny hat during his wedding, the lesson on the Maccabees that my 5th grade teacher gave during the obligatory "Multi-Cultural Holiday Celebration" phase and the fact that while my friend Nicole got 8 crazy nights of Tiffanys, I got three hours of Church and a second-hand bicycle. So, I wasn't prepared for the fact that no, my entire social circle wasn't invited. Or that, in absence of said friends, it was not polite to invite along my best friend and assume that there would be a pot luck buffet like my family had at our First Communions. I was 13, for heaven's sake; how was I supposed to know the magnitude of the cost of a single un-RSVP'ed plated dinner?! So, as I entered the Temple in my black velour Liz Claiborne dress (apparently, velour is the new black. Or was, back when the Fresh Prince ruled the fashion scene), Things Remembered jewelry box engraved with "Mazel Tov!" and gate crasher best friend in tow, you can imagine what I was thinking as I saw all of the girls up front in their pastel semi-formal dresses, giggling at one another and making intricate hand gestures to the boys they knew from Hebrew School on the other side of the room, the basket of yarmulkes for the men and Sara, looking like a movie star sitting solemnly with her parents.

Oh. Shit.

The ceremony itself was very interesting. I love learning about other cultures and religions (and have the $180 text book to prove it), so I thought it was so cool to discover that they do their readings backwards. And that Sarah could speak another language. And that after all the traditional, ceremonial stuff was over, we got to go to a bitchin' party complete with glow-in-the-dark masks, a dance troupe and more shiny beads than Mardi Gras. Sure, I didn't know anyone except for a small handful of school chums and my gate crasher best friend, but that didn't stop me from tearin' up the dance floor during the Hava Nagila or taking second place in the "Chubby Bunny" contest.

And then, with a single resonating beat of bass, Savage Garden and their ode to everlasting teen angst ruined my night.

Normally, I had a group of guy friends who would have asked me to dance -- whether out of true desure or the fact that they couldn't find anyone else who would tolerate their clumsy big feet, I'll never know -- but this was uncharted territory. I didn't know ANY of these guys, save for the very few I knew from school. Most of these guys went to the junior high across the river, and they had no interest in doing the hands-on-shoulders sidestep with someone they'd never met.

So, while literally every other girl there was out on the dance floor, swaying in sync with the magical tempo of T,M,D and imagining the arms of whichever hunk they were dancing to helping to bathe them in the sea (which, by the way, I always pictured as more of a waterfall), I sat at my table, staring wistfully and waiting for the picture-perfect Andrew McCarthy or, at the very least, Jon Cryer lookalike, to come sweep me from my solitude and twirl me around the dance floor, declaring his undying love for me and that we would, of course, be together forever.

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My Pretty in Pink moment never happened, but a hot guy from the other school DID trip over his own two feet and spill the red punch that smelled vaguely of vodka all over my precious velour ensemble. And that is why I will forever wrinkle my nose and try not to let the chubby, forlorn teenager inside of me tear up whenever I hear Truly, Madly, Deeply in an elevator or blaring softly from the soda cart downstairs.

Damn you, Savage Garden, for building me up and then tearing me down. Millions of little girls had their hopes and dreams of romance dashed because of the high bar that you set. For the briefest of moments, we believed that perhaps we were the Chosen Ones, and that one day, a dreamy Australian man with spiky hair and highlights would find us and sweep us off to our destinies.


And then Titanic came along, and Leo and Kate and Celine made us forget allll about those crazy Aussies.

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Swoon.