Dear Apartment: You've been a lovely friend.

Ending any sort of long relationship: hard. Even if that relationship is with an apartment.

Saying goodbye to a dear and constant friend: also hard. Even if that dear and constant friend is a street address.

Closing and locking the door on a huge chunk of your young adult life, and turning in the key (while hoping for a security deposit refund!): melancholy, bittersweet.

So, it is with some difficulty and a melancholy, bittersweet spirit that I say goodbye to my beloved Edgewater apartment ("building B, down by the water, west of the pool -- sorry, it's not well marked!"), wishing its new residents as many cozy, comfortable years there as I enjoyed.

There were a lot of firsts I had inside the walls of that Apartment 350. Truth told, it was my first apartment altogether, so everything that happened inside those walls was a first, of sorts.

First cinnamon rolls baked in that kitchen. Discovered my love of cooking altogether and vividly remember spending the last $12.37 in my broke-single-girl bank account on butterscotch chips and baking soda and SALT.

First fruit fly infestation annihilated after surviving my first refusal to wash dishes on a regular basis and my first decision to revert to disposable plates, cups, and forks until I could bleach the bug spray off of my "grown-up-dishes."

First "Big, Manly Television" purchased and moved into that apartment.

First credit card account opened.

First car financed.

First corkscrew purchased.

First bottle of wine I'd ever bought was opened using that first corkscrew. It was horrible wine, but the bottle was so pretty. I saved the bottle and it sat on my window sill until I moved out this weekend and threw it away. Goodbye, first crappy bottle of wine.

First dates, first kisses, first fights, first cries, first "staying-up-all-night" phone conversations,  first breakups...all inside the walls of that warm, cozy, perfectly protective, beautifully sheltering refuge. No first "I love you's," interestingly -- those all happened somewhere else....interesting.

First REAL Christmas Tree (it stayed up until April and was -- eventually -- shoved out the second story living room window in dry, brittle little pieces).

First time I'd ever had space to appropriate an entire closet specifically for SHOES. This pad was a Girlie-Girl's Dream.

First drain clogged with hair that I was singularly responsible for creating and fixing.

Then there were the many's.

Many shower curtains purchased. I could never find one that I loved.

Many batches of cookies baked.

Many bottles of champagne sipped.

Many nights falling asleep to the lull of 520 traffic -- to me, it was as soothing as the ocean waves. The best type of white-noise, the type you get so used to, you have trouble falling asleep without hearing.

Many mornings waking up to cheerful little birds chirping right outside the window.

Many pairs of jeans purchased.

Many drawers filled up with cosmetics I never used (and, ceremonially, FINALLY threw out this week).

Many visitors "ooh-ing" and "ahh-ing" over the gorgeous view.

Many loops around the driveway looking for parking.

Many trips hauling groceries up the stairs, wishing parking wasn't so miserable.

Many mornings scraping ice from the windshield, wishing there was a garage.

Many summer weekends by the pool working on my sunburn.

Many afternoons on the patios of the restaurants down the street, perfecting the burn.

Many trips to the cute little carpeted grocery store.

Many gag reflexes when I'd open the fridge and realize I'd cooked too much for one person, and hadn't ditched the leftovers quite soon enough.

Many movies watched.

Many pop songs danced to.

Many blog posts written.

Many jobs. A few promotions.

Many afternoons walking through the front door, thinking, "I NEVER WANT TO MOVE OUT OF HERE. I love this house!"

Many lost pizza delivery drivers.

Many trips to "The Attic" for a burger and a Stella.

Many trips to Sorella's for a Bud Light and a horiatiki salad.

Many Friday night SVU dates with Christopher Meloni.

Many Saturday morning infomercials watched (because there was only one television channel I could tune in).

Many Christmas ornaments hung.

Many presents wrapped and placed under the tree (and then hauled out to mom and dad's to be un-wrapped).

Many New Year's Eves spent thinking, "Well that didn't really turn out like I planned...."

Many birthdays celebrated.

Many throw pillows purchased. I could never find quite the right combination.

Many loads of delicate stuff washed by hand and hung over the shower curtain to dry. And then in front of the open window when that didn't work quickly enough. And then in front of the hairdryer because it was still taking too long and a handful of quarters for the washing machine seemed like too much.

Many bikinis worn by the pool.

Many pedicures balanced on the edge of the bathroom sink.

Many spins around and around for the final "butt check" in the full length mirror before leaving the house.

Many pairs of pants hemmed by the light of Nip/Tuck episodes.

The list could go on.

I spent nearly a decade and the better part of my twenties inside those walls. When all else might have been up-in-the-air, confusing, disappointing or painful, unlocking the front door and walking into my Girl Cave was a constant comfort.

Those walls saw me cry.

Those walls saw me lip sync in my undies.

Saw me try on fourteen outfits before leaving for work in the mornings.

Saw me try on thirty two outfits before my first date with "this cute guy I remember from junior high."

Saw me eventually give in and wash those dishes, or take out that trash, or get up early on a Saturday to get in all of my "errands/shower/laundry before 9:57am so I could snag the BEST lounge chair by the pool for my 6 hour sunbathing shifts.

Saw me gain weight, lose weight, cut my hair, color my hair, dash out the door or stay in bed all day.

So, I'll miss this place.

That said: it's time to make some new memories inside some new walls. I'm looking forward to the next firsts. Our first home purchase. The first garbage disposal in nearly a decade. Having our own family soon, and creating a new home for ourselves and eventually our  kiddos and watching them make their own memories inside of our own new walls.

But every time I drive past those old, brick buildings, I'll still probably wave, and feel just a little wistful, a little melancholy, because there's so much of me etched into those walls.

Bye, house.

The Art of Fielding: A Novel (gee, ya think?)

First pet peeve: novels that tell you they're novels right on the cover.

Gee, I'm buying this from the fiction section of Costco, for instance, of COURSE its a novel. And also: don't underestimate a savvy book-buyers ability to discern whether they're buying A NOVEL or a cookbook. It's crazy the way we can actually figure that much out on our own.

But, anyway.

First problem with this book: I accidentally bought the hard copy. It took me a day or so to figure out what I'd done. I hit "purchase now with 1-click." As you do. And kept refreshing the Kindle wondering why my new purchase wasn't showing up. And kept refreshing. And kept refreshing. And then a hard copy showed up on my doorstep in an Amazon box and I realized I'd bought The Real Thing. The real, large, heavy, hard-copy, bulky, PHYSICAL novel.

My goodness.

The next thing The Novel had working against it: it's own press. Er -- yes, I purchased this not so much because I was hankering to read a baseball-themed bromance about self-discovery in the dregs of a protein shake, but because the dollar figure of writer Chad Harbach's advance was leaked to the press and legions of curious had to know if the writing warranted that giant $650,000 figure. As if any of us know what "warranted" looks like in this case, as if we had anything to compare that against. I just knew that was a lot of money, and if a first time novelist could command that dollar figure (in this era of declining advances and tightened publishing company purse strings) , I needed to find out what he was doing right.

So I read "The Art of Fielding" (A Novel).

I finished it in 3 sittings. Worth mentioning, because I slog through most books in a single evening so there's no petty internal struggle over "WHY" I'm picking the book back up and whether I'm GENUINELY compelled to turn the next page or whether I'm simply reading out of some rote sense of duty to complete the project I've begun.

With this book, that internal struggle was strong each time I hefted the book up onto my lap. Mr Wonderful would ask me, "Is it any good?" and I would say, "I'll wait until I'm done to answer that. I don't know yet." Which was my opinion up until the final pages. "I don't know yet." I was trying to separate my envy over the publicity and the giant advance check from my enjoyment of The Novel in its own right and finding that separation very difficult.

And, as many reviews I read prior to dead lifting the novel warned, this was not a plot-driven baseball story, this was a character-driven baseball story. And it's not a baseball story at all, not really, because there's not really all that much baseball actually played out on the pages. It's just that the characters do their unfolding in relative proximity to a baseball field, for the most part.

So, I'll quote the book jacket to give us our synopsis:

"At Westish College, a small school on the shore of Lake Michigan, baseball star Henry Skrimshander seems destined for big-league stardom. But when a routine throw goes distatrously off course, the fates of five people are upended.


Henry's right against self-doubt threatens to ruin his future. College president Guert Affenlight, a longtime bachelor, has fallen unexpectedly and helplessly in love. Owen Dunne, Henry's gay roommate and teammate, becomes caught up in a dangerous affai. Mike Schwartz, the Harpooners' team captain and Henry's best friend, realizes he has guided Henry's career at the expense of his own. And Pella Affenlight, Guert's daughter, returns to Westish after escaping an ill-fated marriage, determined to start a new life.


As the season counts down to its climactic final game, these five are forced to confront their deepest hopes, anxieties, and secrets. In the process, they forge new bonds and help one another find their true paths. Written with boundless intelligence and filled with the tenderness of youth, The Art of Fielding is an expansive, warmhearted novel about ambition and its limits, about family and friendship and love, and about commitment -- to oneself and to others."

Got it?

Okay -- my official decision on whether or not the book "was any good."

Yes -- but.

Yes, The Novel was good in that the sentences were finely crafted, the prose obviously labored over with an eye and an ear to fluidity and clarity and philosophical repose -- but --- we had some "hollow character" issues. For instance: if we're expected to care whether the purported "protagonist" Henry lives or dies, Harbach needed to imbue him with a certain whiff of humanity or some menial degree of warmth or depth that was simply NOT THERE. Henry was, essentially, no more than the mitt into and out of which a baseball flies. SO, when we're expected to CARE about the person attached to the mitt: we don't. Which poses something of a problem when so many pages are dedicated to his mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical decline. Frankly, there's a scene where he wanders out into the lake to swim in a (naturally) weighted vest. It's a "workout," apparently -- I ended up hoping it was a suicide attempt. The character -- not so much a protagonist as a catalyst or a fulcrum or a prop -- was insufferably wooden.


Yes, The Novel was good in the LITERARY sense; Harbach wielded the classic literary references (Melville, Chekhov, you name it) like I wield a knife around frosting. With much slathering. Which, sure, serves to remind us that The Man behind The Novel is well-educated, well-read, and well-equipped to remind us of both -- but -- the trade-off was authenticity. Missing from between the lines of literary reference upon literary reference was any sense that these were really, actually, young 20-somethings doing the thinking, the speaking, the behaving. If we'd been told that these characters were 33 or 43 instead of 23, perhaps some of the crisis of identity they experience while strung-out on Schlitz (yes, Schlitz) and Vicodin might have felt more believable.

And --  yes, I'm going to go here -- there was this small matter of misogyny. Okay, okay, that's a strong term. Perhaps it was less a malicious intent to make women look useless and more of a uselessness for women in general that bleeds through. First, I have no illusions that this is a book about men. Written by a man, for men, starring men. There's nary a female that crosses the page (save for the token "love triangle girl") but -- when they do make an appearance, the only currency with which Harbach arms them is a sort of clumsy sexuality that plays out almost like caricature. Pella, the "Girl" in The Novel, manages to market herself to intellectually and spiritually confused man-boys as though the only language all college kids speak fluently involves condoms.

Finally (and I know this will sound terribly nit-picky), there was a certain quaint, classical, almost old-fashioned tic to the way Harbach writes that evoked, culturally, anyway, a mid-century sort of college town. Something out of the 1950's. So it felt in-congruent any time he'd work in an iPod or a text message reference. It was as though we were straddling generations, comfortably floating through a 1952 collegiate paradise of baseball and puppy love and all things clean and contemplative, and then the iPhone reference would pop up, or he'd invoke the "PowerBoost" protein shake and the illusion was shattered.

However -- when it gets down to it, if you ask me "was it any good?" I'd still end up saying, "Yes." Even though it wrapped up a little too neatly, the "happily ever after" felt a little too easy, and -- FERHEAVENSSAKE -- he actually went with the lame "sports movie" ending where the crestfallen player has the opportunity to take up his cross and save the team in the most spectacularly cheesy, eye-rollingly unrealistic climax EVER. I kept thinking to myself, "Tell me he doesn't go there. Tell me he doesn't go there. Tell me -- oh NO. He's doing it. He's having the little guy come in to save the day. Damn if he didn't watch Rudy too many times growing up......"

So there was that.

But the character of Mike Schwartz really should stand the test of literary time -- were I teaching a high school Lit class, I'd probably have them dissect the Schwartzy at length because he seemed like the least wooden, most believably human character in The Novel.

Would I buy this for family members for Christmas?

Hmmmmmmmmm. Only for the family member who are literature students (or teachers), I think.

I do not get hot for Fassbender.

Uh, I need something explained to me.

WHY AM I THE ONLY PERSON WHO DOESN'T THINK THIS MICHAEL FASSBENDER GUY IS THE ULTIMATE SEXY? Lemme clarify -- not only am I not quivering in my little girl boots over this guy, I think he's about the most bland, vanilla, un-sexy, overrated, concave-chested, pasty-skinned dullard this side of Alex Skarsgard.

To further confound me -- this Fassbender guy is in every single movie released in 2011. I'm serious. Every. Single. Movie. IMDB the guy. It's ridiculous. It's like one morning Hollywood woke up, grabbed "that guy, uh, that one who was in that Basterds movie with Brad Pitt -- uh, that one guy with the name -- the odd name..." and decided to cast him in every single movie for the rest of the year.

Fassbender.

I can't escape the man.

Likewise: can't escape the legions of women who seem to want to do every unseemly thing under the sun to this guy. With this guy. While thinking about this guy. Whatever.

Then I hear that he's got some film called "Shame" coming out where he plays s a sex addict. Huh. And they're probably going to have problems finding a company to distribute the film in the states because it will inevitably end up with an NC-17 rating (due to some full frontal Fassbender) and, gee, now the celebgossipsphere is alight with women who can't seem to slurp the drool back into their mouths at the idea of checking out his cheeks. Andwhatnot.

I realize I'm not making much of a case for myself by posting tons of pictures of him -- but it was a study in the blase, trying to find a picture of him where -- even with my head tilted and my eyes blurred -- I could manage even a mildly interested shrug of "huh. Ehhhh he's OK, I guess." I came up short. Ladies (and studio executives and casting directors and wild donkeys and helium balloons and poltergeist) are going ape over this????

I just don't get it.

And I couldn't tell you if the guy can act, because I haven't seen any of his movies. OR, I saw that "Inglorious" movie a few years back, but wouldn't remember this guy from Adam (all of those uniformed men looked the same to me......). Which means he's bland AND forgettable.

I know, I know, not all men can be as dashing and handsome as my Mr Wonderful. He's one-of-a-kind. But I'd at least expect the planet earth to chose someone REASONABLY interesting, with a REASONABLE amount of character in his face and a REASONABLE dose of photogenic....oh......SWAGGER to inflict upon the greater movie-going/gossip-cruising/air-breathing public.

I know, I'm in the minority when it comes to a lot of the standard issue hot tickets. Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Ryan Gosling, Robert Pattinson, Justin Timberlake, Daniel Craig.....uh, I'm suddenly drawing a blank on most "standard issue hot tickets."

But this one: I just don't get it.

Clue me in.............convince me.

Bump conspiracy.

I had a dream on Saturday night that I was pregnant. And so was my mom. And she was giving me delivery tips. And I had the easiest delivery in the history of deliveries, right from the comfort of home. Popped out a beautiful little girl, named her Lydia Grace, then got frustrated with my camera for defaulting to "Saved by the Bell Collage Mode" and layering all of my pictures of my little bundle of joy on top of each other with a neon paint-splatter "effect" over the top. Meh.

Bad camera.

But, was a nice dream -- she grew up very quickly, she was beautiful (but interestingly aloof), she didn't like waiting for me to fumble with the camera when taking her picture.....normal sort of stuff.

I guess I'm just getting to that "oh. I DO have a ticking clock" phase of my life for the first time in recorded history and am dreaming of painless births.

Relayed the dream to Mr Wonderful and he agreed -- Lydia Grace is great name. So, check that one off of our relationship list: we've named our first unborn kiddo. Mr Wonderful also believes that dreaming about your future babies has something to do with "the ghost of that twinkle in your eye" communicating with you before they're a biological reality.

Huh.

Sooooo -- this is all just a lead-in to dish about the fact that Beyonce's recently-revealed super-baby is already the focus of a few rather darling conspiracy theories. Mostly, they cite a performance just 10 days ago where no bump was in sight. Now, fast forward to this weekend's VMA's and some hyper-suspicious types wonder whether Beyonce sported a faux bump for the sake of announcing the pregnancy.

My take: probably. Ferheavenssake, she uses Spanx and custom underthingies to craft a smaller waist and flatter belly, why the heck wouldn't she pad the bump when she needs it to look "just so" for the purposes of big, televised reveals?

Apparently the perhaps-padding vexes the heck out of blogger Sandra Rose. In THIS POST, she pretty much calls the presumed augmentation the most narcissistic stunt she's seen in 19 years in the music industry. Here, to spare you some link-clicking, I'll quote:

In my 19 years in the music industry, I’ve seen narcissistic celebrities go to absurd lengths to grab headlines. But Beyoncé really took the cake tonight at the MTV Video Music Awards when she showed up on the red carpet with what was obviously a fake baby bump.

Beyoncé made sure she was going to upstage every celebrity at the awards show even before the show began, by announcing her pregnancy — a pregnancy that no one saw coming even though she has not left the public eye in months.

I find it necessary to remind my readers that Beyoncé was just onstage 10 days ago in New York with NO visible baby bump!
Now all of a sudden — 10 days later — she shows up at the VMA’s with a swollen belly looking like she’s 6 months pregnant? LOL! I can’t stop laughing!


And of course the gullible Beyoncé Stans fell for the lie just as easily as they fall for all the crap that Beyoncé and her camp shovels their way. Well, we’re not fooled because we know that a pregnant woman doesn’t go from 0 to 6 months in less than 10 days!

Beyoncé may very well be pregnant — and if she is, congrats to her and Jay Z — but that baby bump she was holding all night like a basketball was as fake as a $100 dollar bill with Barack Obama’s face on it!

Wow. Who knew Beyoncé could stoop so low just for attention?

Ummmmm - jaded much, Sandy?  Ferheavenssake, she's a celebrity with a big announcement to make -- do we expect this particular brand of diva to underperform? Hardly. Look -- according to Radar, she's due in February so she's somewhere around 3 months along. I'd imaging that can look different ways on different women. Apparently THIS is the picture of her from 10 days ago:

I see draping. I see a dress intended to hide the middle. And, I've heard that a belly can actually really "pop" from "meh, bloated" to "whoa, baby" in a matter of days, anyway.......I wouldn't know -- I've only ever given birth in dreams. Where umbilical cords were no issue at all and nurses and doctors arrive in your home at the tinkle of a little bell to fill out birth certificates for you and fawn over how magnificently you just delivered. Ahem.

Anyway.

Do I think it was a prosthetic belly? Nope. Do I suspect perhaps a bit of...augmentation so that there was NO doubt in the public's mind that, yes, she is incubating a little Mini-J spawn? Yes, I do suspect. Am I dreading the probably unavoidable ballad following birth of spawn that's tantamount to a super-vibrato lullaby? Yes, I'm dreading. It was bad when XTina did it, it will be just as gratuitous when Beyonce does it.

HOWEVER - in the spirit of graciousness: congrats to the parents-to-be.

This kid's gonna fall out of the womb with some serious swagger. And better hope Kanye is this kid's godfather. Oh, the things a toddler could learn from a guy with diamond teeth.......

Wow, a bad movie I ALMOST had the good sense to turn off.....

Things we've covered here before: Heather loves bad movies.

Things we may not have covered here before: Heather (lately), specifically enjoys Kristen Bell's quasi-slapstick-ee brand of bad movies -- those movies that can't quite decide whether to fall back on trite physical humor, or cutesy wry sarcasm or whether to just slap a pretty dress on her and pit her against good looking co-stars who lack much charm. Remember "When in Rome?" No? No worries - it was bad. I liked it.

BUT. There's a line I draw. Um -- a line that I just discovered today, when I had to continually PAUSE the movie "You Again" because it was so uncomfortable I couldn't watch any more. I had to flip over to a different browser tab and cleanse my mind's palate with a little Sephora-cruising or Huffington Post-trawling. It was THAT. BAD. I wouldn't have thought that any movie combining Jamie Lee Curtis, Sigorney Weaver, Victor Garber AND Betty White could actually BE so horrible -- but -- um, wow. It was REALLY bad. Yeah, I kept going back for more, but it was in a brain-twistingly self-loathing way -- I was enjoying the pain. Hating myself for it, but enjoying the pain.

It wasn't just the "20-something lovebirds" claiming that "Kiss On My List" was their favorite tune, then singing along loudly, off-key.

It wasn't just the pre-wedding dance lessons that ended in a family "dance-off" to Britney's "Toxic."

It wasn't just the over-played cameo by Kristen Chenoweth (that was enough to make me HATE an actress I normally find cute and likable).

It wasn't just the attempt to make denture cream funny, or Sigorney Weaver cougar-sexy or Kristen Bell's faux acne believable.

It wasn't just the completely cliche "little brother character" that writers love to abuse for bad, one-liner quips that no real 12 year-old would EVER utter.

It wasn't just the ewwww factor of watching Victor Garber make repeated "AH-OOOOOH-GAH" faces at Jamie Lee Curtis over and over again.....

It wasn't just the range of inconceivably contorted facial expressions that Kristen Bell manages (and seems to assume are quirky and endearing when -- in fact -- they're flippin horrifying).

It wasn't just that the dude cast as the "hunky brother" had total John Edwards hair.

It wasn't just the choreographed dance routines and white-girl rapping at the wedding rehearsal dinner.

It wasn't just the repeated use of BAD KARAOKE as a vehicle for laughs.

It wasn't just the fact that female conflict was reduced to plate-tossing, hissy-fit cat fights.

It wasn't any one of those things on their own. It was a little bit of all of these things.

So, what's the premise?

Um - Kristen Bell's character was a geek in high school (I can relate). She had an "arch nemesis." Ehhh, can't necessarily relate. She grows up, gets sexy, becomes VP of a successful PR firm (heh -- right. Only in the movies). She goes home for her brother's wedding and discovers her future sister-in-law is none other than that "arch nemesis." Along those lines, her mother (Jamie Lee Curtis) also discovers that her own high school nemesis will now be in the family as well. Hilarity ensues. Er, at least, Kristen Bell tries to unravel the pending marriage, hoping that love-scales will fall from her brother's eyes and he'll dismiss his hot fiance on the grounds that she did mean things to his little sister an indeterminate number of years ago.

No one can let go of the past. No one can forgive anyone else for what happened that indeterminate number of years ago. Girls can't run fast, geeks can't dance, ugly girls are bitter, pretty girls are bullies who are out to get us all, women are always looking for the next excuse to pull one another's hair, the career-driven woman is secretly miserable because she's not happily married, when girls are emotional they'll sit in front of the fridge and eat everything in sight (*gasp -- CARBS AND ALL - ! gasp*), all men are gullible buffoons following the best rack around town, when in love, people sing Hall & Oates songs -- dear heavens, the stereotypes, the stereotypes, the stereotypes.

But I can live with stereotypes if they're well-written, and actually snag some legit laughs AND if they omit choreographed dance numbers. Wait -- in the case of "She's All That," we completely forgive the choreography.  BUT -- Usher was not in "You Again." And, let's face it, Kristen Bell is just not QUITE the movie star studios keep trying to convince us she's become.

Real life: we don't hold grudges against the other "mean girls" from high school. We become their Facebook friends and console ourselves with cheap comparisons over who's gained (or lost) more weight since high school. We don't ruin their weddings, or pull out old videos of their worst moments to air in front of all of their friends and family. Is it just me? Am I crazy? Are MOVIE GIRLS so desperately, artificially VENGEFUL that they're giving real girls a bad rap? Or do we do that to ourselves.....?

Big sigh.

I watched the whole thing. Begrudgingly. The John Edwards Hair didn't get any better. The girls made up in the end, everyone lives happily ever after. Do yourself (and women everywhere) a favor and DO NOT WATCH THIS MOVIE.

Thanks.

{Updated + Pictures} Mall Girl and Mountain Boy tackle Mt Pilchuck. Mall Girl learns things.

{that's me! in the snow! almost to the top! Tip: click the pics to zoom!}

I climbed a mountain this weekend. It was covered in snow. I have photo evidence. Me. On a mountain. In the snow. That mountain up there, actually.

Rather than a play-by-play with lots of paragraphs, let's do a Top 10 List to document my foray into Things A 10 Year-Old Can Do With Ease But With Which I Struggle Mightily. No shame there. I'm an indoor girl, for the most part. Reading, writing, lip syncing to pop music, that sort of stuff. Not afraid to try new things as long as those things come with an easy button and a safe word. This mountain: no easy button. No magic carpet back down the hill. Magic carpet woulda been righteous, actually.

Here we go:

Top 10 Things Mall Girl Learned While Chasing Her Mountain Boy Up A Really Steep, Snowy Hill

{clawing my way to the top. more often than not: sliding right back down}

10 - Just because every seventy year-old woman and eight year-old girl on the trail pass you like you're standing still doesn't mean you're out of shape. It means you're VERY OUT OF SHAPE. Own it. Acknowledge that you're the hiking equivalent of the lady doing 47 on the freeway, then get over it.

{this is my "I'm not so sure about this mountain-climbing gig" face. it quickly becomes my "why did you talk me into this?!" fit of rage.}

9 - When you throw your hormonal Mall Girl hissy fit about halfway up the mountain, make sure there's no one around to see. It's OK to beg and plead with Mountain Boy to accompany you  back down to the comfort of the parking lot -- but when those elementary school kids and grandmothers pass you, keep yer flippin mouth shut.

{blue skies, sunshine, Puget Sound in the distance, forcing a smile for the camera, AGONY - !}

8 - It's difficult to call it hiking, really, when you're sliding backward down the "trail" you're trying to climb UP. That whole two-steps forward, one step back idiom is true. Except it's more like a half-step forward, six feet backward. Rinse, repeat. The trick, however, is to find the nice packed-out spots dug in for you by the seven-foot tall GIANTS that blazed the hill before you. Following in the post holes of giants makes for a really easy, natural, graceful, glamorous-looking trek. 

{shockingly, I do not look miserable here. give the kid an Oscar.}

7 - The phrase "I don't have it in me to follow your pride up this mountain!" was actually quite poetic. Too bad you were wrong, and he was right, and the fact that every inch of your body hurt and your head felt like it was going to explode did not, in fact, keep you from hauling your jiggly buns up that icy hill. And while it pains you to admit he was right and you DID enjoy yourself, you also think your definition of "enjoy" needs some rethinking if bug bites and frozen fingers and bum knees are in ANY way included therein.

{awwww. mountain smiles.}

6 - There's always going to be that know-it-all at the top of the mountain with more gear than they need, eager to show off how much they know about everything. There's also always going to be that cute girl in aviators with great legs and a fantastic tan who shows up at the top in neon-orange daisy dukes, not a bead of sweat in sight, looking like she just wandered in from the beach. So, you can count on death, taxes, know-it-alls and girls who make you jealous. Inalienable truths.

{Trail: often quite narrow}

5 - These boots are amazing. They were comfortable from the moment I put them on, had incredible traction, and went 6 hours in the snow without letting ANY wiggle its way inside the boot. Feet stayed warm, dry, comfy, supported, and I'd recommend them to any and everyone. No rubbing, no blisters, no sore spots. Great ankle support, great breathability, great water resistance. AND they look quite nice. Ultimate footwear win. See, Mall Girl can be counted on to find GREAT shoes no matter the occasion.

{Pausing to appreciate that we're Up Very High.}

4 - The mountain has ears. When you wonder aloud "what the trail must look like underneath all of that snow," don't be alarmed when a random dude pops out of nowhere to enthusiastically inform you that it looks "A lot like that rock part you just passed! Lots of boulders!" Thanks, dude. Spooky, but thanks.

{I like to imagine this is what I'd look like at the top of a run if I ever learned to snowboard. In this case: preparing to skid my way down the hill.}

3 - It's possible to completely re-evaluate your entire philosophy on life and your present success (or patent lack of) while sliding your way "up" the mountain. Like, is the fact that you're an inherent quitter the driving force behind your stalled-out career? Is the fact that you constantly doubt yourself and your capabilities the reason you're unwilling to take many chances? Are you constantly playing it safe? Do you love limits and saying "I can't" and are you EVER outside of your comfort zone? Is the fact that Mountain Boy is successful and well-respected and driven and determined the reason he can make it up the mountain AND own several homes and you're here whining and crying in the snow with a few hundred dollars in the bank? Maybe. But your feet are warm and dry and he's wringing out his socks, so there's that. Minor Mall Girl Win.

{Boulder-scramblin. As "random hiker guy" said - "it's not bad. If you're hanging by your fingertips and it gets 'really rock climb-ee,' you've gone the wrong way."}

2 - You never knew you liked granola bars until that first bite at the summit. After you conquered. And made it to the top without so much as a skinned knee. That was the tastiest granola bar you've ever eaten. And those were the most amazing views you've ever seen.

{big, huge, gorgeous views went on for ever and ever and ever}

1. One word. GLISSADE!!!!!! Two more words: TREE WELL!!!!!! A few more words: LEARN HOW TO STEER!!!!!!

Yep. The trip back down was a wild ride, complete with some good old-fashioned Butt Sledding. Learned the hard way that picking up too much speed and being unable to steer is as dangerous as driving a car with no breaks. And skidding off of the trail and into a tree well could have been MUCH, MUCH, MUCH worse. But try not to think about that. Instead, think about the accidental 360 spin you did on your way down the next path. Style points. Sure, your arms and legs were flailing in all directions, Ninja-turtle style, and yeah, you need to work on that whole "stopping" part, but that 360 had to have looked pretty cool.

{At the top! Stopping off to enjoy the views in the lookout tower.}

So that's that. I climbed a snowy mountain. And yeah, so did your mom, and grandma, and preschool-aged nephew. But I'm new to this. Gimme some time and I'll be that know-it all at the top with lots of gear, looking badass in her neon orange daisy dukes. Just wait.

As of this morning, I've also learned that sore muscles and bug bites are both more sore and more itchy 36 hours after the fact. I can't remember ever being so stiff or so scratchy - ever. And not just mosquitoes. Weird biting flies. I have bug bites ON THE PALMS OF MY HANDS. They were vicious, blood-sucking mountain monsters from which there was NO ESCAPE. And I don't like to share my victory with them.

So, *scratch, scratch, scratch* more lessons learned. Next time: bring bug spray.Here, have some more pictures:

Operation Naked Face - 12 days and counting.

  Okay - ignore for a moment the fact that I'm making a similarly funny face in both pictures (and that I wear the same headband nearly every day) and instead appreciate that I'm sharing pictures* of my nearly two-week-long foray into makeuplessness. Operation Naked Face 2011.

I'm not sure what precipitated the "let's shed the mascara and brow gel and end the quest for the perfect 'shimmering champagne/taupe/bronze/hint of raisin' eye shadow and go baby-faced for two weeks" beauty about-face, BUT - if nothing else, I'm enjoying a recurring jolt of PURE FLIPPIN GLEE every time I rub my eyes. Which I've been doing vigorously, repeatedly, lots -- BECAUSE I CAN. 

Yes, I look about thirteen. Yes, I sat in my soul-sucking cubicle and took pictures of myself two days in a row. But I can say this: there's something infinitely time-saving about this approach, and it's certainly cheaper, long-term. And makes makeup "fun" again.  As in, "hmmm, maybe I"ll treat this evening as a special occasion and break out the ol' mascara. Or maybe not." So far the answer has been "Or maybe not," but it's given my poor face a break. 

I'm certain there were times in (very recent) Heather History when a trip to the Starbucks drive-thru on a Saturday morning would not have been conducted without some concealer, but now that I'm dipping a toe into "life with some under-eye circles," I'm actually surprisingly unselfconscious with the state of my face.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ooh, ahh, give yerself a medal - you've gone TWELVE WHOLE DAYS without the clumpy black stuff on your eyes - good for you -- uh, there are totally those of us who do this EVERY DAY...."

Well, you're better women than I. Or you're a dude. But probably not because I suspect very few dudes clicked this link. Basically. And if you did, good on ya. Welcome to Mind of Girl. Meet The Girl who's made a hobby out of curling her eyelashes. The Girl who carries the entire bathroom drawer around in her purse "just in case she needs to touch-up." The Girl who owns at least 24 different shades of eyeshadow that would appear to the uninformed examiner as "brown" (unless you're my momma and can match me shade for shade). BUT: I'm proud of my twelve days.

It's a weak, vain brand of pride, but I'm proud just the same.

Blessedly, my coworkers recognize me, the dog doesn't bolt away from me whining, I've had NO "my goodness, you look TIRED" comments and I've saved HOURS of my time over the past few weeks (hours that I've obviously redirected into super-noble pursuits like online shoe shopping).

Things that I haven't given up: tending to my eyebrows. They get plucked and combed and trimmed just the same (they just end up looking uneven and sparse and pale). I still slather on the moisturizer. I'm never without my chapstick. HOWEVER -- this is monumental.

It feels good. Clean. SIMPLE.

I'm gonna keep it up.

(just hide my eyelash curler from me or it's all downhill from there.......)

*Because I'm feeling particularly brave, you can click the pictures to zoom 'em. Really zoom 'em. Am I ballsy or am I ballsy (and in need ot a root touch-up, apparently)?

Technical difficulties, dude.

That's gonna be the blanket statement I use to describe basically EVERYTHING right now. Career, bank account, hair, weight, blog layout, Seattle's weather  - TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES. If I were to, oh, Venn Diagram all of these, the point of intersection would be a lovely black wedge of mild depression. Speaking of Venn Diagrams, I went ahead and made one. Nothing says "company's dollars hard at work" like Heather, MS Paint, and the circle-drawing tool. Also speaking of Venn Diagrams: my sister and I were at our hilarious best in the middle of a particularly boring logic class a few years ago when we decided the entire chapter on these diagrams was immediately more fun if we re-named them Vin DieselGrams. Heh. See? Funny.

So, about those technical difficulties.

Career. Ugh. Big sigh. Big, long, obnoxious sigh. I've spent the last dozen years KILLING MY RESUME. SLOWLY. With a spoon. Or a dull, plastic fork. Or a garlic press. Name your utensil. I don't yet have an entire college degree under my belt. I work in a tech support job (a resume-killer in its own right, since "telephone software support" doesn't easily segue into ANYTHING ELSE, let alone a job that uses the parts of my brain I actual ENJOY USING), AND climbing out of this professional hole, re-directing the career ship, even starting over from scratch have ALL (repeatedly) proven to be EXCEPTIONALLY difficult, daunting prospects.

And these prospects fight back, dammit.

They're not just like, big, brick walls standing in front of me, keeping me from any type of professional fulfillment, they're walls with teeth and Uzis. They're the Duke Nukem of prospects. And for the most part I keep my spirits up by rambling about celebrities here on these pages, or by working on my novel, or by drinking champagne. BUT, now and again....the spirits sink. Like when I realize how desperately removed I am from the career I assumed I'd have since I was eight years old.

It's my own fault, sure -- I've accepted jobs in a panic-stricken bid for health insurance, I've chosen shoes over college credits, I've opted to put myself on hold for years at a time -- BUT, the course correction seems to be nothing but switchbacks. Expensive switchbacks. Switchbacks that force me to toss all hundred or so college credits out the window in order to start from scratch yet again. Frustrating as all get out.

So there's that.

Then there's the bank account. That's definitely experiencing some technical difficulties.....but enough said there -- who hasn't struggled with that...?

Hair. Uh, because I'm vain and obsessed and no amount of Bumble and bumble seems to lift the follicles from damaged and frizzy to damn fantastic, I've declared the hair my Beauty Blue Screen of Death. 

Weight. Yes, I'm still a pound or two from my personal panicky maximum. Finding very little willpower (see above reference to lifting spirits by drinking champagne).

Blog layout. Uh, darn you, Google+ with your difficult-to-interpret cataloging of albums that led me to delete photos that were uploaded as part of this blog. SO, I'm going to have to re-attach photos over the next few weeks. Yippee. And the layout needs an overhaul in general - thinking I'm going to start self-teaching myself some web design junk and fix it myself. It's in need of a facelift. Apologies for the missing pictures (which, unfortunately, render a few of these posts sort of comically incongruous).

Seattle's weather blows, dude. It was raining, dark, and 50-something while I drove to work, listening to some in-home care nurse on NPR telling the rest of the country how to keep cool in the "dangerous heat wave."

Oh really?

Tell them the best solution would be to come visit Seattle, where it's rainy and cold and barely likely to hit 70-degrees in these last few days of July. Holy mother of bubble gum, it's almost insufferable how little sunshine we've seen this year. 78-odd minutes of temperatures over 80 degrees do NOT a summer make. And I'm a summer girl. I'm impervious to humidity, I'm like a lizard for the heat. Send me into the desert and let me bake - I'm never warm enough, I've been "too hot" only once in my life (and then, only because it was windy in the 122-degree situation, so it felt a little hard to breathe), I drive with the heat on in the car in the summer, I WANT TO BE WARM. Yes, I live in the wrong part of the country. No, I'm not planning on fixing that any time soon (see "bank account technical difficulties").

So, beneath all of these gripes I languish.....moody and whiny while I abstain from junk food and bubbly and
Buying Things between bouts of moderate motivation that find me trolling the webernets for online degree completion programs with the vague idea that if I spend the money to finish the school, someone will find me as qualified as the other 22 year-old recent grads out there and offer me some sort of entry-level opportunity to do formally what I presently do recreationally. You know, the way MOST people go about getting the jobs they want.

It's not cheap, it's not quick.....it doesn't make for entertaining blog material, but hey....it's life. It's my personal Vin DieselGram.

Tristan Walker gets the last laugh.

Earlier title of this post:

"I'd be tempted to suggest that Foursquare, the Stanford Business School, and the English language go shoot themselves, but that would be missing the point." 

Here's the deal. On the one hand, I rather wish I hadn't seen this article in the San Francisco Chronicle today, BUT, on the other hand, I must admit I am completely engrossed in the, uh....LIVELY conversation it has generated (and, yes, by lively I mean "Ruled By The Sort of Rage Heather Loves Reading In Web Comment Threads").

The headline was catchy: "This Email Got One Stanford Student A Huge Job At Foursquare." I was curious. Sure, I wanted to know how to net my dream gig with a single email. I wanted to send a message so completely intoxicating, Salon and MSNBC and E! Online alike would crawl all over themselves to snag me as a contributor. 

Turns out the headline was a little misleading -- turns out it took eight emails. Details, details. Whatever. Meh. I can send eight.

To provide some brief back story, I'll mention that Tristan Walker was a first year student at the Stanford Graduate School of Business who decided he desperately wanted to work for Foursquare. Fair enough. He tracked down the cofounders on Twitter and fired off an email. Here's what he sent:

Hey Dennis and Naveen

How’s it going? Hope all is well!

My name is Tristan Walker and Im a first year student (going into my
second year) at Stanford Business School (originally from New York).
Im a huge fan of what you both have built and excited about what you
guys have planned for FourSquare. It is an awesome , awesome service.

I would love to chat with you guys at some point, if you’re available,
about FourSquare. This year, I’m looking to help out and work
extremely hard for a startup with guys I can learn a ton from. Dennis,
with your experience at Google and the Dodgeball product, and Naveen,
with your experience at Sun and engineering in general, I know I could
learn a great deal from you both!

Before business school, I was an oil trader on Wall Street for about
two years and hated it! Moved out to the Bay/Stanford to pursue my
passion for entrepreneurship and the startup world. This past spring I
had the opportunity to work for Twitter as an intern and learned a
ton. Solidified my commitment to working at a startup that I’m
passionate about, and FourSquare is one of those startups that I
believe in.

I know you guys are probably getting inundated with internship-type
requests, but thought it’d be worth a shot! I can assure you Im humble
and Im hungry! Let me know if you’d be interested in chatting further.
I definitely look forward to hearing from you.

Stay awesome!
Tristan
@tristanwalker

I didn't edit any of this - so the obviously excluded apostrophes and other kooky, conversational bits were Tristan's and Tristan's alone.

He did get a job. 

At first I was outraged (hence the "all involved should shoot themselves" title).  The company actually relented and hired this kid? This sort of horrific writing (times eight) was actually successful? And if he writes this sort of crud for a job interview, how must his Stanford application package have looked? And they ADMITTED him? To GRADUATE SCHOOL?

I was angry and -- apparently -- so were all three hundred or so other folks who commented on the article. In the throes of my ire, I even fired off my own rebuttal to a commenter who suggested that "we dutiful, middle-class, college-educated folks were trained to be overly attached to the artifacts of the process and unaware of the essentials. Our schoolmarms were WRONG: Avoiding typos and me-statements, etc., etc., are not The Evidence of Professionalism and Intelligence and Worthiness. They were discourse rules. Marketing rhetoric. This guy mastered the appropriate discourse for his context."

I initially found that logic disgusting and dismissive. Didn't this commenter realize we were talking about a student in one of the nation's most prestigious MBA programs? Are we all supposed to fall on our Proper Punctuation Swords in the face of this obviously more savvy business student who  knew how to work the system when the rest of us are stuck in the dark ages? How dare someone show so little regard for a complete sentence -- and how dare other people STAND UP FOR HIM?

I may have posted something that looked a little like this:

"I think the vitriol is valid. We're not so much disgusted by the fact that this kid landed his dream job via dogged determination, we're disgusted that our ivy league schools are admitting and graduating students that have an obvious and cavalier disregard for the basic tenets of written business communication.

Flagrant disregard for the basics of written English is what's irksome - basic tenets of professionalism are hardly mere marketing rhetoric.

'Appropriate discourse for his context?' Ehhhh - not so much. More like battering ram. Bug someone enough, eventually they relent -- but it would soothe our ever grammar-loving souls if the 'bugger,' as it were, at least used an apostrophe or two."

Might have. I'm not saying that's exactly what I tossed up there, but.....might have.

And then the dust settled. I took a few deep breaths, reluctantly released my death grip from the soap box and thought about this again. Tristan Walker is currently Foursquare's director of business development. According to the article, he's built partnerships with recognizable giants such as Bravo, MTV, CNN, New York Times, NBA and Starbucks. He's been successful. He wanted a job with a tech company, he snagged himself a job with a tech company.

I might be appalled by his approach, but we can't argue THAT IT WORKED. In fact, I started to wonder if he wasn't "in" on the joke. Perhaps he wanted to "dumb himself down" slightly in order to get his foot in the door. Surely, if he was so patently unable to string a basic cover letter together, he wouldn't have had the clout to snag an acceptance to Stanford, right?

RIGHT????

That's the hope to which I'm desperately clinging, anyway.

In that spirit:

Hey, Salon.com Honchos? If you're out there, I'm completely willing to abandon parentheses and ellipses entirely if it means you'll let me contribute to your Life section. Or TV section. Or Books section...or.......yeah.

"Shade it Black: Death and After in Iraq"

I read "Shade it Black" today in a single sitting and wanted to write this while the details were fresh in my mind. As I write, I'm listening to a recent interview Fresh Air's Terry Gross conducted with Jessica Goodell, a Marine Corps vet who penned this memoir about her time spent in the Mortuary Affairs unit in Iraq. I heard part of this interview on a commute home recently and was transfixed...I'm glad I took an opportunity to hear this again after reading Goodell's story. You can listen to the interview here. The title of the book is culled from the practice of indicating missing body parts on dead soldiers by shading those areas black on a diagram of a body.

The book itself is equal parts chronology of Goodell's time spent processing the dead bodies and remains of deceased Marines and a delicately poetic philosophy on death, war, feminism and PTSD.

There's an interesting conversation between herself and the co-author John Hearn where he asks her to imagine herself down the road with an eighteen-year-old son - here's the conversation as described by Hearn:

"What would you tell him if he were to announce that he was enlisting in the Marines?" I asked.
"I'd tell him to go for it," she replied.
"What would you say to an eighteen-year-old daughter who told you she was joining the Marines?"
"I'd say, No you're not."
"No discussion?"
"No."
"No compromising? You wouldn't suggest, for example, that she graduate from college first and then decide whether or not to sign up?"
"No."
"Just a straight-out 'No you're not'?"
"Correct."

One of the most interesting themes in Goodell's book deals with the conflict of women in the Marine Corps. She mentions often that women aren't accepted as proper Marines but always qualified instead as "Female Marines." Second class soldiers. Not strong enough, or fast enough, or tough enough, or...MARINE enough. To the male Marines -- the real Marines -- women are classified in vulgar categories as "either bitches, dykes, or whores." For those women, fighting not to become a stereotype means isolating yourself, chosing not to socialize, deliberately distancing yourself from the very solidiers who's lives you've sworn to die protecting. They've sworn to die protecting yours, too.

Add to that isolation the fact that she volunteered to be part of the Mortuary Affairs unit in order to get to Iraq in the first place. These Marines were particularly separate by virtue of the work they performed. When you're wading through unidentifiable remains all day, when you're responsible for identifying body parts blown to mush by roadside bombs, or when you're piecing missing limbs back together into some semblance of a soldier in order to return those fragments to the family back home, you're too close to death. You smell of death. You're unable to eat: burnt food smells like the burnt flesh you process all day. You live among the dead, you're unwelcome among the living.

Jessica Goodell's deployment ends after eight months. "Coming home," emotionally, takes years. Social anxiety, drugs and alcohol, abusive relationships -- they're all standing between Goodell and "normal life." The discharge from active duty does nothing to prepare a soldier for life back home. A quick questionnaire about libido and appetite and a terse suggestion to see a counselor back home are all the help that's offered. Medications are prescribed. That's about it.

Upon arriving home, she makes the observation that "everyday life had the feel of a shopping mall on Black Friday and you were there alone, among total strangers, wandering around or, at most, transacting business. The Mall of America.

"All of this--the rampant consumption, the materialism, the self-centeredness--the Corps had purged from us; then we were dropped back into the middle of it all. The experiences of war, of combat and death, left us jittery in public places, jumpy at the sound of fire crackers, sleepless at night. And it was these changes in what we saw as important, in who we were, in how we lived, in the bonds that connected us, or didn't, that created deeper problems in adjusting back to our old lives."

As she gradually re-engages with society, she begins re-forming her world view based on difficult questions she asks herself about the nature of war. Questions for which there are no easy answers. She reads voraciously. She points to Chris Hedges, to Peter Berger, to C. Wright Mills and draws parallels between life in a Marine platoon and life in society at large, ultimately concluding that, "the close bonds and deep meaning that characterize a Marine platoon can be created in the wider social world, even if not so easily in our own. And, importantly, the conditions that foster closeness and meaning in the Marines needn't be forced upon us. We can choose to be good based upon knowldge and truth, and upon freedom and choice. The traits that make a person 'good'--knowledge and wisdom and courage and justice and honest and humility and an ability to focus on what is important outside of oneself, among others--can be cultivated and used to make relationships and communities 'good.' A good community in turn will encourage virtues and will promote sacrifice, and sacrifice will generate meaning and love, both of which will be all the sweeter because they are freely chosen. This is what I believe. This is my hope."

It's a beautiful book that tackles difficult subject matter delicately, sensibly, colorfully. As she recounts her return back to "normal life" the storytelling was vivid enough that I felt uncomfortable with life in America as well. As she struggled to get out of bed, I empathized, felt a certain dark discomfort settle in at the thought of what a frivolous, selfish and consumer-driven nation we're shockingly proud to have become.

Toward the end of her interview with Terry Gross she's asked whether she believes the treatment of women in the Marine Corps will ever improve and, if so, how. She says that "...there's an easy fix, and that would be not to have women in the Marine Corps, but that's not the correct solution.....but rather to teach both the men and the women about the roles that we play....."

It's hard to reach the end of the book without giving serious consideration to the roles we're asking military service members to play. We're able to sit at home and watch sensationalized news stories about the grim conditions, but we're still fairly uncomfortable thinking about the toll those conditions take on the men and women who serve, particularly once they come back home.

HIGHLY, highly, highly recommend this book. It's a quick read, it's beautifully written, it's emotionally and spiritually and philosophically compelling, it's difficult and uncomfortable and vivid. Should generate great conversations.




"Shade it Black: Death and After in Iraq" (Jessica Goodell and John Hearn)

Worst Fridays: Forgotten Topic Edition

I'll get to the point of that silly picture in a moment.


Remember when I used to do those "People having a worse Friday than...." bits where I bolstered my sense of self-importance by finding celebrities having terrible days? Let's do that again. Link-fest time. I know, I may never top the moment where I declared myself less lame than David Beckham, but the man WAS holding a giant plate of fish sticks in the middle of the soccer field while grinning wildly. I just can't reconcile that with any conventional definition of "cool."


Er, full disclosure: this was not a bad day at all in The Office Full of Old Men Who Discuss Weight Watcher Points Ad Nauseum. In fact, it was a lovely day - our phone lines suffered some sort of Friday-itis and refused to accept incoming calls for several hours. This left me with plenty of time to catch up on important online discussions about whether or not we ladies should aspire to look like Kelly Brooke. The consensus: of course, dolts.


First up: Today's viral favorite, The Sean Bean Death Reel, courtesy of the fine minds at Pajiba.
 What you need to know: Sean Bean has swagger. Sean Bean looks good in period costumes. Sean Bean has perfected the "I had no idea you were gonna shank me" expression -- equal parts surprise and smug resignation. Resignation because Sean Bean always plays characters who look good in period costumes and then DIE. I'm struggling to remember a film in which Sean Bean lived to the end. Sean Bean should probably never be cast in a romantic comedy alongside either Emma Stone or Jennifer Garner in which he plays an unexpectedly romantic bloke who'd previously only been good as a pub crawl buddy. Because he'd DIE. Ooh! Speaking of pub crawls: we remember Sean Bean was in a bar fight last month, right? He may or may not have been wearing a period costume when he was stabbed in the arm by a patron wielding a shard of broken glass, and like a true stud who's used to being surprised with sharp objects, spun right around and ordered up another round? Atta boy, Sean Bean.


Anyway: go here to see the (GRAPHICALLY VIOLENT) Sean Bean Death Reel.


Right then.  

Next up: Jon Hamm & Matthew Lewis.
What you need to know:  This Matthew Lewis kid is apparently in Harry Potter. His character has the unfortunate name of Neville Longbottom. I had never heard of him until today, BUT, apparently this 22 year-old man-child has pulled something of a Laney Boggs transformation. Read that as....he's all that. Ehhhhhh.....I'm calling Hollywood's bluff. Just because an awkward British kid grows into his nose, gets his teeth fixed and puts on a smart suit does not immediately give us license to fawn. Fer serious. So what's that got to do with the price of Hamm? Welllll - people are drawing Jon Hamm comparisons. Darn, I wish I had the patience to dig up a link to the site where I first read that, but, yes, folks are calling this toothy Lewis kid the Second Coming of Hamm. Again: ehhhhhhhhhhhh.....until he manages to make exploding out of a womb, covered in slime while playing a saxophone seem like the perfectly logical ending to an SNL skit involving dream catchers, I'm keeping this guy solidly perched in the camp of other Potter alums who will have to work long and hard to break out of the magical prep school mold. Some days I wonder if JK Rowling shouldn't just round them all up and whisk them off to some sort of commune where they can relive the glory days in peace, free from the weighty expectations of forward career momentum.

The larger question -- why does this mean these guys are having a bad day? From my vantage point, it doesn't bode well for Jon Hamm that tabloids are already trying to replace him with someone younger and more gangly. It doesn't bode well for Matthew Lewis, because there's no way he can live up to that comparison, and it's all downhill from here. And it doesn't bode well for my peace of mind knowing that I may be subjected to more pictures of this kid in the near future, but I can always go watch The Sean Bean Death Reel to clear my head. Therefore: their Fridays are worse than mine. That picture up there, by the way? That non-blonde is Lewis. He's not helping to sell me on the skinny tie trend much, either.

Last up: Rock Stars
What you need to know: It's very hard to avoid Harry Potter Mania this week. So I won't try. I'll just embrace it and revel in this oddly genius Rolling Stone feature they're calling "Rock Stars Who Look Like Wizards." Aw, my man Eddie Vedder puts product in his hair and wears a natty velvet sport coat. It's actually a pretty creative concept....I mean....you can't exactly call Taylor Swift or Bieber "rock stars" proper, BUT, they're famous music people. And if Biebs wasn't frightening enough already, they made him into He Who Must Not Be Named (or however that phrase goes. I'm not down with the Potter Lingo).

Again - why does this mean rock stars are having a bad day? For one, they're in a Harry Potter Photo Feature. How the mighty have fa-----nevermind. Also: I'm pretty sure it's not fair to Eddie Vedder to appear in any sort of photo essay along with Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga. Ugh. Either way - score one for photo editing, but it's a knock to the Rock Star Image, fair and square.

Here - to guarantee nightmares, I'll sign off with this:

An open letter to all 19 eager Nordstrom sales associates who so desperately wanted to direct me to their Cropped Tees.

Dear Startlingly Perky Sales Associates of the Northgate Nordstrom:

Yes, I'm fine, thank you. No, I'm not looking for anything in particular. No, no -- I'm not "going out" tonight, I'm simply killing time on a lunch break. That's so great? Why yes, yes, I suppose it is.  Am I having a good day at work? Oh. Well, it's an average Tuesda---no, wait - Yes, it's an AWESOMEDAYOHMYGOSHTOTALLYTHANKSFORASKING.

Thank you for your concern, but I'm doing just fine finding my proper size and color while I stand in front of this rack of nicely organized cotton t-shirts grouped under the "Small" section of the rack. But I'm certain if I needed help, all 19 of you would rush to search through the shirts exactly 8 inches to the left, in the "Extra small" section.

Thank you for directing me to the rest of the racks of "super cute cropped jeans that you just got in," but then, I suppose, perhaps self-consciously you decided to qualify that with "but you obviously already knew that." Yes, I was holding three pairs of cropped jeans while browsing those small t-shirts.

Did I see your rack of Really, Really soft cropped tees?

No, no I didn't.

Would I like to?

No, no I wouldn't.

Oops, sorry -- I apologize for the blank stare I caused all nineteen of you -- presumably girls who are Not Going Out Tonight And Are Killing Time On Their Lunch Break would ordinarily leap at the opportunity to snatch up your Cropped T-Shirts.

I, however, am not one of those.

I do further apologize, however, for throwing a complete loop in your otherwise flawlessly executed sales pitch, for I fear very few lunch break shoppers are ever so brazen as to say, "I'm just not that into the whole short t-shirt thing, sorry."

I did learn, however, that if I'd like to send all 19 of you scattering, I only have to act patently disinterested in something over which I ought to be gleefully excited.

Like $20 belly-baring cotton shirts.

I'm fairly certain that seven of you were named Chelsea, and fairly certain that one of you named Jennnnnnnifer helped me with my dressing room. Yes, everything's working out just fine for me in here. The lighting is perfectly sufficient to make my saddlebags look pale and jiggly, the three-way mirror just excellent for reminding me that I forgot to tend to the back of my head this morning when heading out the door, and absolutely flawless at identifying that bit of back-of-the-arm fat that I never realized I had.

Yes, thanks, everything is still working out just fine for me in here.

No, I don't need any other sizes, thanks.

Yes, everything is -- surprisingly -- still working out just fine in here.

Truly - the next time I need to mobilize an army of girls in unseasonably slouchy boots to recite particularly inane customer service hooks, you'll be the first I'll call.

Taking my jeans and running now, before anyone can point me toward the Totally Super Cute Denim Shorts.

Yours,

Heatheradair.

Everything I need to know about life I learned from {sheepishly} watching "Twilight."

Forgive me. Truly.

I caved.

I watched "Twilight."

No - I'll be honest : I watched ALL THREE. And (GASP) I actually went and found a Breaking Dawn trailer of my own free will. And enjoyed it.

Shame, shame, shame.

Maybe it was a morbid curiosity about whether or not these movies would live up to the terrible hype. They did. They were pretty terrible.

Maybe it was the fact that Mr Wonderful was the first one to suggest (in earnest) that we hole up at our vacation cabin and "watch the Twilight movies."

Maybe it was the fact that I do love bad teen movies, regardless (let's go way back to the inexplicable heydays Freddie Prinze and Julia Stiles in movies like "She's All That" and "10 Things I Hate About You"). They're fun. They're filled with that geeky brand of angst that's hard to fathom now that I'm a "grown-up."

Maybe I just felt marginally pop-culture illiterate when the stars of these movies became such hot Hollywood commodities and I had no idea if these kids could act to save their lives or not (for the most part: nope).

WHATEVER my weak little rationale, one thing's for certain -- much like my foray into "The Hills" yielded so many indispensable life lessons, the same is true for the Sparkly, Mouth-Breathing, Swaggering, Shirt-Eschewing, Brooding, Twilight characters.

Everything I need to know about life I learned from watching Twilight.

1 - Teenage girls are stupid, melodramatic twits who ought to be avoided at all costs, particularly when they think they're "IN LOVE." You can't trust 'em not to dive off cliffs, or run off with werewolves, or thrill-seek on the back of a sketchy guy's motorcycle, or wear nothing but flannel shirts. Twits, I tell ya.

2 - Gloomy, rainy climates make people moody, morose,  maudlin, and -- GASP --  prone to drab clothing. Seriously - there is a "NO SMILING, NO COLOR PINK" policy in dreary weather.

3 - It doesn't matter what part of the country you're in: cops love a good mustache.

4 - Someone's ACTUAL age doesn't matter as long as they LOOK like they're about 18 and are at ease in high school classrooms. In fact, you can be a spooky, concave-faced centenarian, but as long as you stake your claim to a table in the cafeteria, you're no longer a creepy predator. Boom. You're a brooding, mysterious sex symbol.

5 - Doctors with lots of fully-grown, adopted children have the coolest houses on the block.

6 - Movie prom dress fashion will ALWAYS be lame.

7 - If you're going to shape-shift into a giant, fluffy dog, make sure you wear homemade Bermuda shorts. Shirts are a pain when you're shape-shifting, but those denim cutoffs make the transformation to were-creature a lot easier. Plus, no one messes with a pack of dudes in homemade denim Bermuda shorts.

8 - Kids in capes are creepy. They're probably up to no good.

9 - Being grounded is flexible. If your mustachioed cop-dad grounds you, just be really, really punctual about his curfew. It will drive him nuts, he'll accuse you of brown-nosing, and will lift the grounding in order to force you to spend some face-time with your were-buddies. Just sayin. Punctuality and obedience are real buzz-kills for cop-dads.

10 - If you're un-dead, go with the darker hair color. Blonde is really unforgiving on dead skin.

11 - Cute, perky girls give the best graduation speeches.

12 - You may really struggle with maintaining the will to live when your pasty-faced, predatory, centenarian boyfriend dumps you and leaves town, but after those screaming nightmares abate and the food aversion subsides and you start going to school again, watch out. You may just need to dash off to Italy to save that boyfriend's life, and when he agrees to Vampire You Up in exchange for marriage, you'll probably get all sketchy and waffle about the purposelessness of marriage and run off with the primate-looking werewolf in Bermuda shorts, which is really a dick move. But then, see #1.

13 - It doesn't matter whether you're 5, 15, 25, or 105, having the "birds and the bees" discussion with your dad will always be uncomfortable. For both of you.

14 - There may be some generational conflicts of expectation surrounding said "Birds and bees" when you date (pardon....court? become betrothed to?) your centenarian. You've been warned.

15 - No dude ever looks masculine, commanding, or virile while SPARKLING.

16 - Alaska has "really good science programs."

17 - When  you're forced to choose between a knuckle-dragging Bermuda shorts-wearing half-wit who probably eats raw ground beef and loves you for NO GOOD REASON AT ALL and a wimpy, pale, whiny, dead guy who gets all glittery in the sun: probably best not to snuggle up against one for warmth while making the other one watch.

18 - Secret engagements. Never a good idea.

19 - Pissing off super powerful vampires with better hair than yours - also, never a good idea.

20 - Mobilizing an army of brooding, trendy vampires to fight the vicious baby-vamps that are subservient to that good-hair-lady? Surprisingly GOOD IDEA. Turns out they're all brooding and trendy for a reason. Mostly that has to do with the civil war, and scorned lovers, but it makes for some burly fighting.

21 - Supernatural boyfriends are, in general, simply not a good idea. It's difficult enough to manage cross-cultural relationships, or relationships with a significant age difference, or secret relationships parents don't approve of. Roll all of that up inside a "he'll never die and you're desperate to become soulless like him" wrapper and its simply too much for the average mouth-breathing 18 year-old girl to handle. Again - see #1.

22 - Dinner dates with sparkly un-dead are sort of a drag. The upside: you'll never have to worry that he won't like your cooking.

23 - Given the choice between nomadic baseball groupie and un-dead fangirl: go with baseball! Baseball players are the sexy. Clammy, cold, dead guys with an ooky tendency toward stalking, dumping, returning, and stalking again are not the sexy.

24 - We all look better doing homework in fields of purple wildflowers. It's impossible not to look positively Shakespearian while being nuzzled in a field of pretty purple flowers.

25 - I'm not sure how you can managed to get knocked up by a dead guy, but judging from the previews, that's exactly what happens. That's another conversation you probably don't want to have with your dad.

26 - Hang around with werewolves long enough and you'll probably get slashed. Mauled. Bitten. Snacked on for dinner. But hey, they'll lobby that at least they're alive and their body temperature is reasonably above room temperature. You're supposed to be wooed by this. This is insane.

27 - Humans have a very lame sense of smell.

28 - Synthetic versus down? Synthetic would be better. Werewolf in Bermuda shorts only in an absolute pinch. It'll make that secret fiance very testy.

29 - Yellow is a pretty fetching color for graduation caps and gowns.

30 - Melodrama is highly, highly, highly overrated. And, in general, is a huge repellant to the gentlemen. SO, if you're high-drama, wishy-washy, indecisive, given to tantrums and dramatic cliff-jumps: avoid human men, stick to the beasts and the dead guys. They'll -- for some INEXPLICABLE REASON -- pine for you to no end.

There ya have it. Now go live prosperous, highly successful lives. Because I've just shared everything you need to know about life. Really. It's all you need to know.