Befriending Irony

I always forget an umbrella when it rains. Every time. If it is a sunny, beautiful day, my umbrella weighs down my bag, laughing at me with Irony. Then, when it does rain, it happens to be the day I decide: carrying around a heavy umbrella is futile. Oh Irony, how you must take pleasure in my life.

One day last summer, I was waiting at the trolley stop. I was wearing a nice dress and was going into town to meet with some friends. The sun shone, the work day had gone by quickly, it was a Friday and the day could not seem to get any better. I boarded the trolley and was off for an adventure with my friends. The trolley went underground; I transferred to the subway (the much less glamorous form of public transit) and continued on my way.

Finally getting off the hot, crowded train, I took to the stairs anxious to be welcomed back into the sunlight. I knocked myself for ever reflecting on how wonderful and sunny the day was… I should have known that it was only a matter of time before Irony felt the need to check up on me.

Sheets of rain poured down from the sky. Buckets in the clouds seemed to just overflow and dump out onto me. I did not want to take that first step out into the street. I saw businessmen sprinting with their briefcases over their heads, people trying to use a newspaper as shelter. I had a purse… with no umbrella in it.

People pushed by me from the subway exit as I debated whether or not I should ditch my friends, go home and apologize later. Just as I was turning around to reenter the subway, a man accidentally bumped me, pushing me out from underneath my shelter: instantly drenched. So much for decision making, clearly Irony had already made plans for me. I felt like I was being manipulated into going on a date, and just could not say no.

I walked down streets, water dripping off my nose, muttering to myself and ranting about my hatred for Irony and Irony’s love for me.

I arrived at the coffee shop, where my friends said to meet. Maybe I was early. The shop was slowly filling up as college students got out of their summer classes. I shook my head at myself, thinking about all the people walking by looking at me right now: drenched and sipping on my tea…alone. I let 14 minutes pass before I looked at my phone to see 3 texts all saying the same thing:

“Weather’s bad, we’ll reschedule.”

As I sat there, I realized that I had not been sitting by myself at all. Irony was sipping on a latte beside me with a big grin slapped on his face.

Well played Irony, well played.

On the CONTRAry

Eight seconds. That’s how long he has to make an impression. Promenade; hands link, he leads her. 1, 2, 3, 4… he can smell her hair as he twirls her into the position for the next call, 5, 6, 7, 8, and he hands her off  as the ladies chain. She smiles as she swings, 2, 3, 4, locking eyes with her partner. Jealousy clouds his eyes as he easily moves to the rhythm of the fiddle, 5, 6, 7, 8.

She is taken for the rest of the night, he’s sure: partners lined up one right after another. He lost his chance. Circle to the left, 3, 4, 5, 6. His eight seconds to win her over were not enough. Though he was quick on his feet dancing, making conversation was a little different, 7, 8. Allemande right, 4, 5.

He searches the dance hall for a partner as the caller announces the next song,. Futile, his eyes can only focus on her, 6, 7, 8. The music begins, he has a chance in the line to dance with her, but it is only a moment, only eight seconds until she’s gone again.

Their eyes meet as partners balance and swing, 5, 6. Her face is flushed from the exercise, blushed from the movement, 7, 8. She smiles, 6, 7 and turns to circle left breaking the eye contact, 8. The music ends, he thanks his partner, claps for the band and goes to find a new partner, hiding the disappointment as he sees her accept the hand of her next suitor. And the music starts, 7, 8… and the music ends. There is a break before the last dance. He goes to the punch bowl. She is there.

“Are you not going to dance the final contra?” He asked, surprised she was not still being fought over.

“On the Contrary,” 1, 2, 3, 4, “I was just waiting for you to ask.” And they danced, 5, 6, 7, 8.

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I absolutely love Contra Dancing. My friend introduced me to it in March of 2011. It is a great way to meet new people, dance (even if you are a terrible dancer!), and have fun. I won't say I haven't met my fair share of awkward dances, neighbors, partners, because I definatley have (even in just a year), but at the end of the dance, I usually agree with myself that it was worth it.

If you want to find a dance in your area go Here. And if you want to learn some dance moves before you go (although you usually don't have to) search them on Youtube, or check out this worksheet.

If you're in the Boston Area, might I recommend BIDA?

Why I Simultaneously Hate and Somewhat Appreciate "Filler Books"

If you have read any book series in your life, chances are you have read what we call a "filler book," or a book that holds not enough significant information to merit over 50 pages. A book whose only true purpose is to continue building tension between the protagonist and antagonist and leave you with a severely annoying cliff-hanger and a year to wait for the next book. And yet we find ourselves reading these and anxiously waiting for the next installment in the series.

You usually can't tell your reading a filler book until you've finished it. And how do you know you've read a filler book? Because you feel like you haven't actually moved forward in the story. Maybe you've gained a tad bit more information, that isn't all that important to the overarching story. Most of the time, when you finish the book, you feel no sense of accomplishment, and find yourself saying, "That's it?" or "I just spent $20 to buy this is hardcover?"

This is why I despise filler books.

I would be lying however, if I said that I didn't also somewhat appreciate them. (This statement depends completely on whether or not the preceding books were worth reading).

Usually (again depending on the series), when I read a series, I get severely attached to the characters. They become my best-friends, and I don't want to grow apart. (Only a slight exaggeration).

I read the Maximum Ride series... when I thought it was just going to be three books (It's finally going to end in August 2012, 5 books and 3 comics later). When I found out a fourth book was in the works, my heart fluttered a little. And then I read the book, and then I read the book after that, and the one after that etc. etc, each time hoping that something would happen. I was slightly relieved by Angel, but still waiting for all the pieces to [hopefully] come together in the end. Filler books drive me crazy, but when you fall in love with characters, you don't care as much when they run around doing nothing.

When an amazing series ends, I can't help but silently demand more from the author. The Harry Potter series comes to mind. As much as I disliked Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and am convinced the only reason for that book was to kill Sirius and give us a real reason to hate Voldemort, I am glad that Rowling let us live in the Wizarding World a little longer.

But for me to even consider somewhat appreciating a filler book, it better be a dang good series.

What series have you read with a filler that drives you crazy?

Love the Word, Hate the Flavor

Gouda. I am not quite sure what is so appealing about this word. It's refreshing. You simply say the word and it finishes with "ahh," like you just took a sip of ice water of a stifling hot day.

Gouda. Iz Gewd.
Gewd. Ahhh...

Whether you care or not, Gouda cheese originated in Holland, and if you ever cared how to make it just click HERE!

As much as I love randomly saying "Gouda Cheese," or quoting She's the Man when I say, "My favorite's Gouda," I just can't bring myself to actually enjoy this particular dairy product.

I would love to say that I actually enjoy this cheese, rather than be an endorser for a product I don't actually eat. And yet, here I am... writing about Gouda.

I was first tried Gouda as a Freshman in college. As a vegetarian at a small (mostly commuter student) college campus, my food choices are limited. Not to mention I'm picky. So, if it's not a salad, it's a sandwich! And a sandwich for me, is basically a salad with a slice of provolone cheese and bread. It's an amazing sandwich.

Since provolone cheese is a delicacy on my campus, you are lucky to grab even half a slice before it's gone. Especially if you don't go to lunch in the first wave of people. (Which I never do). I learned my lesson- in my sandwich, there is no substitute'. No provolone, no sandwich. End of story.

It's called provolovin' for a reason.

The first time I was faced with the dilemma of no provolone, I thought, "No biggie, the cheese doesn't even make that much of a difference once I put the lettuce, tomato, cucumber, honey mustard, bean sprouts, pickles, banana peppers and whatever else I can find on the sandwich." I thought, "I always talk about how much I love Gouda. I'll just put that in my sandwich and then I can say I ate gouda, and I liked it." I though, "What could possibly go wrong?"

My sandwich looked beautiful. I was excited to have my first bite of gouda cheese.

...

I ended up taking the cheese out of the sandwich, and just eating the bread and vegetables.

With that sandwich I discovered that: Gouda, while sounding delicious when spoken, does not belong in that sandwich.

Just History: His Story.

In 7th grade (I think), my history teacher introduced the subject of history by dividing the History into two words: His Story. To make the class seem relatable and more exciting, like I am actually just reading a story? I have no idea. It didn't work.

It wasn't until about my junior year of high school that I didn't completely hate everything about the class. I always thought it was pointless to hear the same story every single year with only one or two details changed.

I am reading The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. In the book, there is a paragraph about history that inspired this post. (This has nothing to do with the actual story, so no worries- no spoilers if you intend on reading the book).

"I remember watching a television program once...I must have been seven or eight, too young to understand it. It was the sort of thing my mother liked to watch: historical and educational. She tried to explain to me afterwards, to tell me that the things in it had really happened, but to me it was only a story. I thought someone had made it up. I suppose all children think that, about any history before their own. If it's only a story, it becomes less frightening." -p. 144

Last year I finished my final history course. Ever. Unless I decided to change my major or take more history courses. As unlikely as that is, I have found a new appreciation for what history teaches us.

When I was younger, history was a boring story that I had to listen to every single year repeatedly. A story that I had to memorize pointless dates to, and vocabulary. History was just another English class. We were told these events were not fiction, that they actually happened. I told myself that these events had happened centuries before I was even conceived. That is what my teacher said, so it must be true, but I could not actually picture them happening. No matter how realistic the History Channel made it look.

Children don't mean to be disrespectful by complete lack of understanding regarding history. How can we even begin to fathom war upon war upon war? Why can't everyone just get along? The emotions do not register because everything is simple when we are children. Nothing is bigger than the bubbles we grow up in. And now we feel the repercussions of different events in history. Our generation's history is now being printed in textbooks. (So weird!)

History is weird.

Sorry. I just really enjoyed that quote from Atwood. For some reason it made me want to blab about nothing...

Olympic Dreams

**DISCLAIMER** Content of this post is only 14% serious

I love watching the Olympics. There's something for everybody. Even people who don't generally like watching sports. By far, my favorite event to watch is men's gymnastics. (And no, not just because there are men in tight spandex). Don't get me wrong, women's gymnastics is pretty awesome, but there is a difference between men's and women's athleticism. (Sorry feminists, but we are different).

Well, since the Olympics have not actually started, I have been spending random amounts of time watching the trials. And since I am from the United States, I have only been paying attention to the USA men's gymnastics Olympic trials... to be specific.

And yes, I have found a man to put my money on. (Figuratively of course, I don't gamble, and I don't really have money). Jake Dalton. Not only are his biceps huge, and his skills impressive (to someone who doesn't know anything about gymnastics aside from "ooohhh a flip and he didn't break his neck!") but, he is a cutie.

Forgive me for my shallowness!

This being said, what any 20 year old woman with all her dignity would do, I immediately consulted my friend to discuss. And this is what we decided:

We both love to kayak, although admittedly, neither of us have a kayak nor the means to transport one if we had the money to buy one. Technicalities. As wannabe (professional) kayakers, we decided to create a new Olympic event:

The Double Person Kayak Race

Since this is not a real race. Because this race is so new, there is no official trial to determine teams for each country, rather a intense feat of Olympic proportions is necessary to prove your awesomeness and worthiness to compete.

Because we are from Boston, have no sponsors for this completely legitimate event, and this year's games are in London, to prove our worthiness, we shall kayak across the Atlantic Ocean! (Begin playing intense music). Oh Yes! Prepare to hear about us in the news and everything! Don't worry, we are prepared. Lots of protein bars and, naturally, we have a pocket water distiller that will let us turn sea water into drinkable fresh water! Better yet, reverse osmosis anyone?

Also, since we are the only people in this event, we are pretty much guaranteed a Gold Medal. No big deal. Bring on the sponsorships!

Oh yeah, back to the point-- Jake Dalton. When we receive our Gold Medals, he won't have a choice but to think we are nothing less than the coolest people ever. Then we live happily ever after. 

OLYMPICS 2012- Leggo!

Coffee Past 7p

Some people are night owls while others are early birds. What do you call a person who is neither? What kind of bird just likes to sleep? Well, whatever it is, when I am in summer mode that is the kind of bird I become, even though I try to force myself to wake up early.

My freshman year of college I tried to become a night owl. I would stay up to anywhere from 12a to 3a before going to sleep, and I would wake up at 7a. All without drinking coffee. I was pretty smug about it. But, it did not take long to figure out that 4 hours of sleep for me was simply not enough. Long story short, I decided to self-enforce a bedtime.

The summer before my sophomore year, I began drinking coffee because I would go to work at 6a. During the school year I would go to bed at a reasonable 11p. I didn't need to drink coffee, but it tasted good, and it was nice having a little bit of help waking up in the morning. A few times however, I decided that it would be a great idea to get a coffee at 7p. Thinking it would help me with my homework. Besides, caffeine doesn't affect me that much. (Denial).

I did this last night again:

"It's 3a. I'm wide awake. And I want to sleep. I love sleep. It's a hobby. I want sleep. I tried to sleep. I was yawning. That means I'm tired, right? Why is my mind racing a million miles a second, and my eyes wide open? My eyes hurt, but they won't close.

I know better than having coffee past 7p. I should have known better, I have to wake up at 6a tomorrow today. I won't be happy."

The solution? -- More Coffee.

And I thought I wasn't going to give in and drink coffee when I got to college.