Watch "Kate" split. Watch "Kate" win the media game.

I'm calling this "Katie/Before"

But I'll get to that in a minute. Late-breaking news from the Pinterest Realm (which I only begrudgingly even bother with, because I'm tired of the universe posting "3 ingredient desserts that are the best thing you'll ever put in your mouth." Frankly. Anyway). Under the heading of "best sorta famous people who Pin" -- Rose McGowan and Ann Romney. Rose McGowan has a major shoe hangup and posts some EXCELLENT heels. Ann Romney finds the best recipes for healthy stuff. Good salads, good shoes: pretty good afternoon of work-dodging, right there.

So about that Watch Kate Split, bit:

Seriously: all of a sudden I have a crazy-unexpected brand of respect for that Katie Holmes. Enough respect that I definitely just fired up the entire first season of Dawson's Creek on Netflix because I never watched it, originally, but wanted to be reminded of the Young, Fresh Katie that I remember existed before the dead-eyed, mom-jeans-wearing version took over. Bring back Young, Fresh Katie! That girl's still in there! Smiles -- WITH TEETH -- are still in your future, darlin! "Grab that net and catch that beautiful butterfly!"

Anyway -- obviously we know she filed to escape Xenu last week. BUT, that was just the start of a media blitzkrieg that's debuted a happier-looking version of what has turned out to be an exceptionally PR-savvy starlet. Want to get public goodwill on your side? Ice cream dates with Suri, complete with big, toothy (Tom Cruise-esque, ironically) grins. Plenty of "regular gal" runs to Whole Foods. Normal-person-clothes.

And this is "Katie/After"

Seriously, the girl has looked 10 years younger in the last 8 days -- it's a wonder what ditching the cult will do for a girl's glow. That's not the only thing she has working in her favor.....

APPARENTLY, her decision to file for divorce in New York was strategic -- first off, she's snagged herself a new apartment, is setting up a good case for permanent residency there (which will likely come into play with custody hearings, as I understand it?), and, even if Tom tried, he's unable to counter-file in California, because it's "Not possible to file in separate states at the same time." That means more legal jumping-jacks for Tommy if he's particularly set on hashing this out in a California court, for what it's worth. Rumor has it that he'd have a better chance of snagging joint custody of Suri if the entire divorce mess went down in California.

Radar has good details here, the gist is that he's planning to "file a response in New York, asking that....proceedings be halted in the Big Apple because California is the proper venue for the matter to proceed. Team Cruise is going to assert that Katie doesn't meet the residency requirements to file in New York, and that both live full time in California, specifically Los Angeles." That's according to a source for Radar.

Then there's a second "vein" of gossip that deals with Katie's intimate knowledge of the inner workings of Scientology (auditing, etc), and that she's carrying on very visibly, and being photographed repeatedly in a bid for protection against the Scientology goons she's rumoured to believe are following her. The more flashbulb hounds she's being followed by, the more remote her chance of some sort of....."altercation" with the Xenu clan.

The Hollywood Reporter has an entire feature about The Katie Situation becoming Scientology's biggest nightmare.

Because she escaped.

After watching the light dribble out of her eyes over the years, this Katie Rebirth is engendering a huge sense of empathy toward her from most of us gossip-mongers. Seeing her look happy again is the best PR move she could have made -- but being legally savvy and covering her bases: that accomplishes something that wasn't even in the periphery for most of us before -- she comes off as smart, sharp, and alert -- and as the presumed underdog in the battle to come, America can't help but love her -- we love an underdog.

Also: not to jump on this before the ink on the paperwork is even dry, but how much fun is it going to be to play my "Who Should Katie Date Next?" game? It'll be fun.

Who knew: choosing a wedding dress is a psychological hurdle....?

Have discovered recently that when I'm feeling strongly about ANYTHING (from a house purchase to a book I just read), it helps to write about it. Forcing myself to get linear about what I'm thinking always helps me sort out intense feelings and make sense of things.

Today's "feeling strongly about" topic: buying my wedding dress.

Mr Wonderful and I are planning to tie the knot this December. That means I need to find "The Dress." Actually -- with exactly 5 months (and counting) until The Big Day, there's a hell of a lot of other stuff we need to find, and do, and organize, and "vision-cast" about, too -- but -- for today's purposes: The Dress.

It's not that I've NEVER thought about what sort of dress I might like to wear, I think I just assumed that, like bees to grease or Heather to Shoes, The Dress would just.....present itself once I walked in the store, AND (naturally), my friends and family's opinions would all coalesce in this cocoon of "oohs" and "aahs" choruses of "that's the one!" and, very simply, that would be that.

SO -- after yesterday's marathon of Dress Trying On appointments, I'm facing what I'm calling "The Morning After" effect, where I start to over-think everything and doubt myself and realize that this dress purchase is more like a microcosm for my entire decision-making paradigm, and that, when it comes down to it:

I've almost never made a single decision in my life that was ALL ABOUT ME.

Let's break that down a little bit:

The buying of the wedding gown -- it's a very personal decision. Sure, we're considering our Groom, sure, we're considering our venue, we're considering what friends and family will think, but really, as they've taught us so well on "Say Yes to the Dress," it's really all about what THE BRIDE wants.

That means me.

What do I want?

Not: "What dress am I okay with that my mom also loves?"

Not: "What dress basically fits really well that Mr Wonderful would dig?"

Not: "Which dress does my sister like the best?"

Not: "Which one is my family MOST in agreement on?"

Just: "What dress do I want?"

Turns out, when left to myself, I have almost NO idea what I want. This ceases being all about the a dress and becomes a matter of HEFTY personal reflection that sends me into this dizzying spiral of conflicting emotional junk.

This dress purchase is difficult because I am a people-pleaser. Difficult because I am self-conscious and easily influenced by what other people think. Difficult because I want everyone to be in agreement about what I want, or what I should want. Difficult because it would be nice to have other shoppers in the bridal salons also see me in one of these possibilities and give me big smiles of affirmation that help me make up my mind. Difficult because I want things to be crystal clear, from the moment I lace the back up, no doubts, no second-guessing, no panic that I've made the wrong decision.

It's silly, but it turns out I really have a VERY hard time listening ONLY to myself and being quite selfish.

Turns out this is really not so much about a dress, but about focusing on ME.

When we wrapped up yesterday's appointments, I believed I had it narrowed down to two (VERY DIFFERENT) gowns. I thought I'd sleep on it, wake up this morning and just KNOW which one I was supposed to wear to walk down the aisle and marry the most brilliant, wise, dependable, handsome, future baby-daddy God's ever made.

Turns out.........not so much.

Let's get more specific:

Dress A is very classic. Very traditional. Rather chic, rather well-suited to my figure, rather what I'd imagine people sort of expect me to wear. When the bridal consultant asked me where I'd rate it on a scale of 1-10, I gave it a 9. When she asked why, I said, "there's nothing bad I could say about the dress. It fits well, it looks nice......"

Turns out, there also wasn't really much GOOD I had to say about the dress, either, other than that it fits well, and looks nice. Something about that sort of uninspired ambivalence doesn't seem like the attitude a girl with a major clothes collection should have when buying her wedding dress. So much of the last twenty years have been about clothes -- I love them. I collect clothing, really. I love pretty things. I buy a lot of pretty things. To wear a dress that feels predictable and safe and fits well somehow feels like we're missing the other half of the equation. Shouldn't this be FUN? Shouldn't the dress make me feel something other than "satisfied with it's proportions" and relieved that there was "something sort of interesting around the hem?"

Well then -- there's Dress B.

Dress B is rather opposite. While it also fits well, it's on the more unexpected end of the fashion spectrum. Very different from what I think people would expect me to wear. Different than what I'd been drawn to on bridal websites and magazines. Very Princess. I rated this dress a 9 out of 10. Why? It was FUN! It was silly, and whimsical! I was initially delighted with how whimsical it was, how big and fluffy and romantic if felt. How the giant tulle skirt made me feel like a little girl playing dress-up.

And then I began to doubt myself about this one. Dress-up? Little girl? Princess? Was this a wedding or a Halloween party for 12 year-olds? And did I really just try that on with a tiara? Fun, but then another bride and her mother walked past and made a cutting comment about how "that girl's going 'Full Princess'" and I suddenly felt like they were making fun of me. And like I did look like a girl who aspired to be a cake topper or a Disney on Ice understudy.

As a self-conscious person, I certainly don't want to wonder if people are snickering behind my back at the Costume Wedding Dress wondering if I was acting out some sort of latent Sleeping Beauty fantasy that would end with princes and fairies and singing horses and magic wands.

Big sigh.

So, I'm left with either feeling a little boring and predictable, or I'm left feeling like the butt of a joke. And, like a good little decision-making-averse kiddo, I'm wishing that mom and sister were more vocal about which one they liked better, wish they were giving me a definite "Yes, this one!" reaction, but, of course, it's not about them or what they want.

It's what I want.

And when I wake up this morning, rather than feeling more sure about which dress to buy, I'm feeling like throwing them both out.

I made an appointment to go back to the dress shop and try them both on again, ALL BY MYSELF, hoping that, when left with only my OWN opinion, I'll be able to listen to myself better. When I'm not searching my sister's face for approval, and when I'm not expecting mother and girlfriend to give me an emphatic "YES!" to guide my decision, maybe I'll be able to tune into what I want.

Honestly:

It will be neither of them.

And so: I'm going to find this dress without an entourage with me. I'll go try them on by myself, look in the big mirrors by myself, come out of the dressing room to no one's opinion but my own, and, for the first time I can really remember, make a decision that's all about what HEATHER wants. No doubts in my mind about shadows crossing other people's faces, no emotional memory about the ones they liked the best, no worries about how anyone else reacted or failed to react or what they expected or didn't expect.

I'll just go buy The Dress I Like the Most.

And I feel relieved when I think about it that way.

Because, for what it's worth, I don't want to worry that I've pleased or disappointed anyone but me. It's my wedding. Good time to start thinking for myself.

Sack 'em all -- bring in Harrison Ford and Diane Keaton

Tough couple of days for Ann Curry.

Your job's up for grabs, the webernets are all atwitter over the (yet unconfirmed) idea that you've been FIRED, there's rampant speculation about who ought to replace you (Savannah Guthrie? Natalie Morales? Another generically earnest brunette lookalike?) and, in Murphy's Law-esque twist, you give this uncomfortably ill-timed interview to Ladies Home Journal in which you admit to all sorts of insecurities and to taking the entire Morning Show Ratings War game very personally. Next thing you know, every morning show-watching schmuck in the comments of every gossip website is coming down on one side or the other of the "DOWN WITH HER!" debate.

I feel for the sycophant.

I don't watch morning television, I can count on one hand the number of times I've even watched Matt Lauer on screen, I wouldn't know if I was watching The Today Show, or Good Morning, America, or whatever else is broadcast during those coffee and yoga hours. BUT. But -- this seems to have captured the imagination of America, certainly, and I suspect it has something to do with a national love of schadenfreude. All of a sudden, we're not the only ones out of work, we're not the only ones watching out job go to cheaper, younger talent, or watching the choice projects go to the newer, fancier chumps. All of a sudden, it's happening to That Lady With The Over-plucked Brows Who Asks Bland, Leading Interview Questions.

So, I did some googling. I dug up some Today Show Interviews. I started understanding what people meant when they complained about her coddling and pandering to the celebrities. I understood what they meant when they complained that she did all of the speaking and left too little air space for the interviewees. I understood why they called her out for asking stupid questions to which there was no, nice, soundbite answer, just an uncomfortable opportunity to parrot whatever she said back at her.

That's when it dawned on me:

The problem with The Today Show, frankly, is that there is altogether too little Rachel McAdams, Diane Keaton, and Harrison Ford. Hire plucky Rachel to produce that action, drag in Diane and Harrison to bicker and grumble their way through OctoMom interviews (for instance), and watch ratings shoot through the roof.

"Morning Glory," anyone?

Lordy, I love that movie. Have watched it probably.....twenty times? It's my "I'm cooking dinner, let's put a movie on," movie. It's my "I'm not quite tired, let's watch a movie to bring on the sleepy," movie. It's my "I'm moving out of my beloved apartment and have to pack up everything I own in three days, so will be up all night, I need company," movie. It's a delightfully saccharine schmaltz-fest with a delightfully happy ending and a delightfully perky soundtrack.

(Also: sidenote! This was written by a woman, about a woman, really, so there's none of that "This Means War-" style of insult to female intelligence. The primary goal of the Rachel McAdams character is professional success, not "finding the man of her dreams," making this, actually, a really girl-power-worthy movie in the most..."cutesy" sense of the already-cutesy girl-power phrase.)

Get that? It's D-E-L-I-G-H-T-F-U-L. Goofy, dweeby, determined girl wins in the end. Disgrunted, grumpy old guy comes around and warms up to dweeby girl, they forge touching, father-daughter-like companionship.

I mean, Matt Lauer's fine and everything, but, much like Ryan Seacrest, he just seems to ENJOY it all too much. The beauty of a little "Mike Pomeroy"-style Harrison Ford in the host's chair is that he's utterly nonplussed with the entire experience. Which makes things like Royal Weddings and Celebrity Divorces and Juice Cleanse Crazes and Weight Watchers Endorsements all that much more watchable, because you get the proper dose of "this is asinine" perspective thrown in.

There's my official recommendation. To suck the show out of the rating dregs: fire 'em all. Fine, leave Al Roker or whomever is still floundering around from the Olde Days, but -- fertheloveofpoptarts -- ditch those predictably cheery hosts and bring in the fine folks of Daybreak.

Also -- go watch "Morning Glory."

It'll make ya smile: promise.

Why this stupid comment didn't offend me:

Guess what: Adam Carolla pissed off lady-folks by calling us unfunny. Several times in a row.

Here are the New York Post quotes:

Interview guy (Larry Getlen) says: 

The lesson you learned from a sexual harassment seminar was “Don’t hire chicks.” Do you hate working with women? 

Carolla says: 

No. But they make you hire a certain number of chicks, and they’re always the least funny on the writing staff. The reason why you know more funny dudes than funny chicks is that dudes are funnier than chicks. If my daughter has a mediocre sense of humor, I’m just gonna tell her, “Be a staff writer for a sitcom. Because they’ll have to hire you, they can’t really fire you, and you don’t have to produce that much. It’ll be awesome.” 

Interview guy: 

The “are women funny” debate has grown very contentious. You’re not worried about reactions to this? 

Carolla says:  

I don’t care. When you’re picking a basketball team, you’ll take the brother over the guy with the yarmulke. Why? Because you’re playing the odds. When it comes to comedy, of course there’s Sarah Silverman, Tina Fey, Kathy Griffin — super-funny chicks. But if you’re playing the odds? No. 

If Joy Behar or Sherri Shepherd was a dude, they’d be off TV. They’re not funny enough for dudes. What if Roseanne Barr was a dude? Think we’d know who she was? Honestly.

There ya have it. 

So, I'm a girl. 

Actually, apparently, I do have a little, anemic bit of "funny" in me. Every spring I teach some seminars at a national conference, and, because it's (exceptionally, incredibly, unbearably) fairly dry material, I like to jazz things up with as much "witty" banter as I can manage. Just off-the-cuff, whatever-comes-to-mind sort of self-deprecating stuff that's usually reasonably sarcastic, and -- if the giggles in the audience are any indication -- funny. Funny enough that the conference people (accountant types) have themselves a drink or four on the company and get up the nerve to tell me that I should be in stand-up, that I've missed my calling, that I crack 'em up. 

Is this clearly the uncomfortable-chair-fueled delusion of someone high on diet coke and lukewarm buffet food? Absolutely. Does it mean that I'm qualified to evaluate his comments from the funny girl platform, just the same? 

Ehhhhhh.

Let's pretend. 

Right -- so, I'm a girl. 

And this inflammatory, aging, rich, white guy tells me that I'm (statistically) not funny. And that he'd only hire me because he has to, and that I'll probably underwhelm the rest of the Man-Writers. And if his daughter had a lame sense of humor like mine, he'd affirmative action the ever livin daylights out of her unfunny self, no looking back, and that if I were as obnoxious as Joy Behar AND had a set of balls, that I'd be super-unemployed. 

What would I say to that?

Well, first of all, I'd say, "dude -- there's nothing funny about Joy Behar, men and women alike know this -- so, lame example."

And then I'd say, "As long as we're dividing ourselves down gender lines, let's WAIT a second, because you have another BOOK coming out, right? And you need to pimp that book as hard as you can, right? And so you're going to say inflammatory stuff and sound like a bigot, because it will get people TALKING about you, and then, somehow, that will translate into either 'I hate that guy so I better one-click that straight to my Kindle,' or it will translate into 'Women are so unfunny, I'm totally gonna find his book on iTunes......' right?"

And after THAT, I'd say, "and I've read the first two chapters of your Not Taco Bell Material book, and I KNOW that you had a weird relationship with your weird mother and that relationship can't help but color how you feel about women in general, because -- face it, jackass -- you're mostly human."

And he'd say, "you're not making a very good case for your 'I'm funny' bit, sweetheart." 

And I'd say, "Totally -- but you're still the one who published that you grew up in a joyless, dead-eyed household with a mother who's message was:

'Good luck enjoying your childhood while other people starve, the planet goes to shit, and we nuke each other. Oh, and it's all our fault because we're evil greedy white people.'"

And he'd say, "Lady, if you're protesting my generally misogynistic view of humor, why did you just link back to my book on Amazon -- that's like, a sales pitch, and you're totally backing me up on the 'shock em til they buy it' campaign. WTF?"

And I'd sort of blink, and probably crack my knuckles, and maybe, like, flip my hair or something, and say, "yeah, but I get it. You're pulling a Howard Stern or a Rush Limbaugh and trying to whip people into a 'women are TOTALLY funny' frenzy that's completely UN-funny, figuring all publicity is good publicity."

And he'd say, "Thanks for doing the work for me."

Anyway -- that's all. If he had a hilarious mom, he'd be more open to the idea of funny chicks. 

Also, also: uh, there are still PLENTY of gender role stereotypes in the media that have prohibited women from being the same sort of "raunchy-funny" in public that's made stars of out of plenty of dudes, because it's still not terribly acceptable for ladies to be crass (if that's even funny, in the first place), and we're only just NOW coming anywhere near a place where women can appear on camera, or in writing, or on stage in a less-than-ladylike way, using the same sorts of language that men have been using for decades, so, give us a break -- we're not only expected to be funny, we're expected to still seem pretty, and dainty, and feminine, and not not scare men away from wanting to take us home to mom -- SO -- there's an entire Double Standard Stream up which we're swimming, fighting the notion that we have to be vulgar to be funny, but not too vulgar, because that wouldn't be sexy, and we're definitely still supposed to be sexy....so.....

Heh. That's quite a sentence. 

Anyway -- you get it: we're gettin there, but, from where I stand, we're coming from a generation with a gross-out handicap (Jackass, anyone?) -- a handicap that presupposes Gross = funny. 

Because any girl could stand in front of a blue screen and (poorly) recite the crap that Daniel Tosh recites, and it wouldn't be any more or less funny: just equally teleprompted. 

So there. THAT is why I'm not particularly offended by one rich white guy behaving like a product of his upbringing (in a self-promoting bid to sell books). 

It's just up to us ladies to prove him wrong. 

Still here.

Funny thing, how many times I've abandoned this project ("The Blog") for long periods of time because I convince myself I don't have anything to contribute to The Webernets that isn't done better, elsewhere.

I usually end up deciding that since I'm not making huge attempts at being traditionally "funny" and since I try to avoid any words that might make either of my grandmothers too terribly uncomfortable, AND since I don't post lots of pictures of myself in pretty clothes....I may as well retire the effort.

I've convinced myself of this something like seven times over the eight years that I've been blogging.

I prefer to write book reviews. Film reviews. Yeah, makeup reviews. I occasionally make fun of some celebrities, I occasionally write letters to myself.....there's not a nice, cohesive THEME to The Blog -- it's enough to feel like a lost cause, a wasted effort, like a project that some publishing house, someday, might deride as "not doing enough to build a fan base or to advance readership," for instance -- I don't get invited to guest post on Esquire's website, you can't find me on Slate or Salon, I don't bother with cute MS Paint drawings, I don't have a fancy camera and a buddy following me around snapping pictures of my cute Zara dress, or my pretty Miu Miu heels (not that I own them....), and I don't make a point to use the word Penis as many times as possible in a wryly ironic, Super Funny way of demonstrating how comfortable I am with Things Biological and Traditionally Embarrassing.

I Am Not That Blogger.

Yeah, after eight years, you'd think someone would have "discovered" me by now. They discovered Diablo Cody, back in the day, the way they discovered Tucker Max and Emily Schumann and a host of other bloggers-turned-minor-celebrities who were "at it" a hell of a lot fewer years than I've been "at it."

It boils down to Envy, I guess. Yes, with a capital "E." It's one of my "things." Capitalization.

So, Envy.

I'll even admit that I even envied my sister when she decided to fire up a Tumblr account and write things about her life that, I decided, made her seem infinitely more exciting, and interesting, and relevant, and likable than my little project managed to accomplish for me. And look at that -- when she linked back to herself on Facebook, people "Liked" it immediately, people lauded her witticism, her chutzpah, her honesty*. I looked back at my site and found it....considerably less lauded.

It should be an Olympic sport, the herculean task of comparing yourself to everyone else and finding yourself sorely lacking in every case. My self-loathing muscles get an astonishingly thorough daily workout. My self-loathing muscles could teach my abs and thighs a thing or two.

I wish they would.

Uh, what's the point of admitting that?

I suppose because it forces me to admit WHY I do this, even to a readership of 8 (counting both grandmothers and two aunts and my momma).

I don't blog because I hope to get a book deal. I don't decide to write a review of a poorly written book because I care if anyone really reads it. I don't bother posting written assessments of every piece of makeup I purchased this year because I have pipe dreams of creating a hot spot for cosmetic lovers to coalesce and share horror stories about the staying power of one eyeshadow brand over another.

I blog because I love to write.

I write because it reconnects me with the six year-old girl who listened to her mother read her The Chronicles of Narnia every afternoon and looked forward to being able to write her own "chapter books" some day. I write because it reminds me of those imaginary chapters of Ramona Quimby books I would craft in my imagination while falling asleep at nap time.

I write because a finely-executed sentence still gives me the same chills today that it gave me back in high school when I knew I'd nailed some sort of expository essay about Dante's Inferno, with the added glee that only I knew this essay was written *sarcastically* to please the teacher, half as a challenge -- to dare them to call me out on how perfectly I nailed that first paragraph, to dare them to pass a copy of that essay around to the class as an example of accomplished writing. They always did. If there's one thing I could do back in school, it was ace the "thesis sentence." No sports, no boyfriends, no fancy choir solos, no expensive jeans, no driver's license, just one hell of a command of the five paragraph essay.

I write because -- at the end of the day -- it's one thing that brings me more joy, and more peace, and more calm, and more satisfaction than anything else I know how to do. It's one thing I can point to and say, "Heather is good at that."

And so I do it ("The Blog") MY WAY, because I know all too well how easy it is to fall prey to prevailing media images about what girls are supposed to write about. We're supposed to post pretty pictures of ourselves in fancy little outfits with flawless skin and "beachy waves" and creative manicures and perfectly groomed eyebrows.

Or we're supposed to make funny jokes about boobs.

Or we're supposed to come up with fancy recipes with zero calories and manage to cook AND photograph the cooking at the same time.

Or we're supposed to have lots of babies and entertain other ladies who have lots of babies by talking about OUR baby-having experiences in new, funny ways (especially if it involves self-deprecating stories about vaginas -- the webernets love self-deprecating vagina stories).

Or we're supposed to be obsessed with weddings and parties and videos about creative engagement announcements.

Or we're supposed to be angry. Angry at men who have wronged us, angry at bosses who've underestimated us, angry at The Kardashians for misrepresenting us (and making lots more money than us!).

Well I am none of those things.

I'm Heather.

I like champagne enough to name my website after it.

I like makeup, but don't care to post fancy pictures of myself wearing it.

I have a "real job," but it isn't interesting enough to mine for anecdotes or dramatic enough to write even three sentences about. It's software support: it's not a place for Personality.

I watch a lot of movies, I read a lot of books, I buy a lot of beauty products and -- can we believe it...?? -- I end up writing about a lot of movies and books and makeup.

I'm a writer.

And I'll keep writing, even if no one reads this, because, at the end of the day, God gave me the itch.

I hope it never goes away.


*Hey guhl -- by the way, you deserve every one of those compliments, you're a natural, with lots of interesting things to say and, obviously, everyone loves reading what you write - !

Hey -- go read this book. Then, when the movie comes out, we can make fun of Blake Lively together.

These days, I'd probably site four different writers who've most influenced my own fiction writing, some subtly, some more directly. In most cases, it's more of a fantasy standard toward which I aspire rather than a skill I come anywhere near mastering -- BUT, either way, I'd be less inspired, less driven to write, less comfortable trying new techniques and less imaginative were it not for the talented Jeffrey Lent, George Pelecanos, James Ellroy, and (recently) Don Winslow. I'd give Jodi Picoult an honorable mention, not so much for her prowess with the pen, but for her beach-read appeal and massively successful formula that makes every one of her novels equally palatable. Which translates into dollars. Which I admire.

Anyway -- I read Don Winslow's latest, "Savages" on a flight last week, and after finishing it, I notice that there's a quote from Ellroy on the cover wondering why Winslow isn't a household name yet.

I thought the same thing.

I also thought, "this guy definitely grew up reading James Ellroy -- they do the short, snappy prose and visually-important dialogue better than anyone."

In a nutshell, this is the sort of "quick-and-dirty" story of a couple of southern California marijuana growers who produce a product SO GOOD the Mexican cartels decide they want a piece of the action (and then basically pull bad "Mexican Drug Cartel"-type stunts in a violent effort to force the So-Cal dudes to wholesale their product to the drug lords south of the border). Kidnapping, extortion, blackmail (and beheadings!) follow.

It's a sort of "The Hills" meets "Traffic" take on the Baja drug trade, written in a style more akin to literary Tweets than serious fiction -- lots of unexpected paragraph breaks that visually separate one thought from the next -- words and phrases repeated several times over the way we might bat them around in our own head while we're trying to solve a problem. Just enough southern California drug lingo to make me feel old and outta-the-loop, but not so obscure I couldn't figure out what things meant in context. Speaking of context, Winslow does a great job of tossing in some conversational Spanish in a way that non-Spanish-speaking readers are able to infer what's being said. Which takes some skill, actually.

I would gripe about the ubiquitous "female character as little more than sex vehicle," dilemma, since the "O"phelia brat is precisely that -- a girl who's stoned out of her mind so chronically that she's just a warm body down for threesomes with her 2 "best friends," (the weed-growing-gentlemen), BUT, Winslow manages to toss in a reasonably tough, street-smart, surprisingly feminine Cartel queen who outsmarts her hangers-on and actually puts up a great fight in the end. So, we'll call the book Net Zero in the female department. Pass-around Girl gets canceled out by Badass Den Mother.

It's a quick read -- I finished it in about 6 hours of flight -- and I'd be lying if I said the ending was....satisfying, BUT -- the writing is exceptionally crafted, the action well-paced, and the characters flawed enough to be compellingly sympathetic. Yes, it's violent. Yes, it fairly glamorizes the drug trade (particularly with the addition of the Humanitarian Grower who forsakes his million-dollar pad in favor of a third world Habitat for Humanity habit in an obvious bid by Winslow to cast the American kingpins as The Good Guys), BUT, it's such a fun, quick trip through the sordid that I'll call it a "Pharmaceutical Escapism" brand of niche fiction that puts Bret Easton Ellis to shame (I'm admittedly Anti-Ellis, so there's my disclaimer).

I'm curious to see how they tackle the movie -- I suspect it will be a great screenplay, because the book itself reads more like a script.

First peak at Les Mis: how'd they do?

I am a Les Mis DWEEB.

If there were a Bieber-level Broadway Play fangirl equivalent, I'd be the president of that club. But without the death threats and pushing other girls and trying to have the play's babies sort of thing.

Er, well -- if you could knock me up with a little Royal Albert Dream Cast, I might think about it. Little sweaty-faced Broadway Singers kicking in my gut sorta sounds fun.

Anyway -- some background statistics that might embarrass a lesser woman:

I got my hands on the cassette tape soundtrack when I was about 9 years old. My sister and I learned every word of that thing after a few listens and sang along with the earnestness, and fervor, and complete lack of emotional understanding that only elementary school students can manage.

Saw the play for the first time when I was about 10. Loved it. At ten, I loved that "On My Own" tune the best -- even grade-school kids understand unrequited love. Actually, I was a pro at the unrequited part for probably the first twenty years of my life.

My sister and I owned a L-O-T of Barbies. Enough, in fact, to recreate the entire Les Mis cast and act it out with the dolls with the cassette tape soundtrack in the background. We particularly liked to giggle while staging the "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" scene with all of our Ken dolls hovering like spooky ghosts in the windows of our rather over-sized Barbie house.

In middle school, I took it upon myself to read Victor Hugo's entire Les Miserables novel, cover to cover. It was a lot for my Mossimo-wearing, Ace of Base-listening geekster brain to process, but I was a particular breed of literary fiend, even back in those no-hips, frizzy-haired days of braces. I was a Smart Kid. I could wave all 1376 pages of that beast in front of my other Smart Kid friends like a bastion of nerd superiority.

It was an agonizing read, frankly, with too many historic details and too few make-out scenes, but an equally Les Mis-enthusiastic friend of mine created something of a literary Race to the Top and she who finished first....uh....probably had fewer friends and no after school sports (yours truly).

THEN this Les Mis-enthusiastic friend of mine and I discovered the PBS broadcast of the 10th Anniversary Concert at London's Royal Albert Hall. We recorded it from TV, got pretty skilled at fast forwarding through the PBS sales pitches, and watched that thing EVERY AFTERNOON after school for a good few months.

My super-smart girlfriend (who went on to MIT, and has a closet full of fancy degrees from places like Berkeley and can call herself Dr Les Mis Fan now) had the good sense to be romanced by the Inspector Javert character. Truly, there's a good deal of complexity and raw internal conflict there. He's a more sophisticated character by whom to become entranced at the age of 15. Me, I was still an Eponine enthusiast, waxing emotional over the unrequited love bit. Ah, to die dramatically in the arms of The One Who Got Away.

This was our Twilight.

I saw the play again in college, and every time it came to town thereafter. I think I've seen it half a dozen times by now, I've bought every iteration of the soundtrack that exists, I love it every bit as much now as I did then.

As I've aged, my allegiance to Eponine has drifted.....I began to recognize the heartbreaking poetry of Valjean's prayer in "Bring Him Home." I shivered, goosebump-ee when Javert pitched himself off of the bridge at the end of his suicide tune.

But the moment that caught me off guard came more recently, while watching the Final Goodbye Tour (or whatever they called it) when the Company came through Seattle a few years ago.

Fantine took the stage to sing I Dreamed a Dream.

Within measures: tears. Tears dripping down the cheeks, tears running off the tip of my nose, tears collecting on my chin. Whoa -- this woman has SUFFERED. This woman has loved and lost, and given up her child and seen her man abandon her and she has to fight to find enough to eat. This woman KNOWS what it's like. Forget that unrequited love nonsense -- this is the REAL deal. This is the soft-spoken agony of a women who's stony cynicism is borne of seeing everything and everyone she loved ripped from her bosom, who's suffered public shaming, seen all of her dreams dead and buried, who's sold her hair and teeth for a bit of bread, who's walking dead. Life killed the dream, dumped her in hell, kicked her around a bit, left her for dead.

That's intense.

That's emotional.

That's.......the song that Anne Hathaway sings during the trailer for the upcoming Les Mis movie.

Uh, yeah. I mean, who cares about the head-shaving and the thinnification of The Hathaway if she can't sing The Important Song, right? RIGHT - ?????????

Well, I have good news and I have bad news.

The bad news: Anne ain't Broadway caliber in the pipes department. She comes no where NEAR it.

The good news: I'll give the girl credit -- what she lacks in vocal control or power or technical prowess, she manages to ALMOST make up for in pitiful, raw emotion and a face that actually does manage to look like it's seen the death of a thousand puppies every night before bed.

I skipped the Liam Neeson film from a decade ago -- I loved the play too much to even give that movie a chance. BUT -- there's been so much press, so much speculation about casting, so many gossip rumours about who snagged which role that, I'll admit, I'm actually thinking I'll see this iteration.

Okay, I'm no Hugh Jackman fan, but we know the man can sing. And honestly, while I'm no Amanda Seyfried fan, her wide-eyed, grinning, innocent girl-face actually seems like a pretty good fit for the Cosette character. And Russell Crowe as Javert? That *might* be a small bit of genius. He's older, rustier, more jowel-ee these days -- that look works, in this case.

I'm willing to give this whole brouhaha a chance.

Here's the trailer. Give it a go. It's not so bad. That whole "grizzly, bearded Valjean taking on the open ocean" bit seems more than a little overwrought, but hey -- it's Hollywood -- the boyfriends of the droves of woman flocking to (hopefully not) sing along need at least a few special effects to hold their attention, right?

So, if you write abhorrently bad, soft core BDSM books for the mommy set, you get HUGE movie deals.

This post probably needs a disclaimer. 

Not quite what you think. Not along the "NSFW" lines, though I am prepared to be fairly frank. 

No, it needs a big "I can't be held responsible for the vitriol I'm about to spew," sort of disclaimer. Like, "Warning: 50 Shades of Crap."

It happens when I come in contact with Really Bad Writing that nets Really Big Dollars, the vitriol does. Maybe this should just become a site that examines book and movie deals and then decides if the pay is commensurate with quality. I'd never run out of material......

But anyway. 

Here's the scoop: this British lady, E L James: she had a massive lady boner for The Twilight Saga. She decides to write some "Adult Fan Fiction" based on Edward and Bella and creates an alternate universe in which the Edward character is a crazy-wealthy business tycoon who's into BDSM-type "kinkery," as I'll call it. He meets the young, virginal Bella character and draws her into his world of ropes and belts and canes. 

This was apparently SO very popular with the Twihard set that it became an entire series of eBooks (BUT, the characters' names were changed and became Christian and Anastasia.). The resulting eBook series was a huge (albeit slightly secret, guilty) hit with the ladies, and a small-ish Australian publisher picked it up for a small-ish initial print run. 

The books continued to be a runaway hit in print, it became nearly impossible to lay hands on a copy of the print version, and, BOOM, per the New York Times, earlier this month, "Vintage Books, part of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, known for its highbrow literary credentials, won a bidding war for the rights to all three books, paying a seven-figure sum."

If that wasn't enough: just today we're hearing: 

Universal Pictures and Focus Features announced this morning they have acquired film rights to the novel authored by TV executive and mother of two, E.L. James, with plans to create a trilogy out of the novel and its two sequels. “At its core, this is a romance of the most emotionally resonant, but delicate, order — and we look forward to working with our colleagues at Universal to transform E.L. James’ vision into a great film,” says Focus Features chief James Schamus. 

From Entertainment Weekly's "Inside Movies" blog

Even better: they've offered James a rumored $5 million for the rights to the film. 

So, if we're doing the math, this woman stands to make at least a million from the book deal, then another five million from the movie rights. 

Okay, the fact that that she's receiving a million from the publisher in an era of declining publishing revenues is a lot to swallow at face value, and it's further difficult to digest that this woman snagged more cash for the film rights than did JK Rowling for Harry Potter. According to the New York Times, publishing executives describe the excitement surrounding this book as similar to novels such as "The Da Vinci Code," "The Kite Runner," and "Eat, Pray, Love." Demand has grossly outpaced supply. It's an insane amount of cash. 

BUT, it all gets even more PAINFULLY LUDICROUS when we actually READ the novels (which, by the way, are the top 3 best selling eBooks in the whole of the Milky Way right now). Really, they're sort of parts of a whole, I don't get the feeling they were intended to be published as standalone volumes, it feels more of a profit tactic from a publishing perspective......

And, yeah, I've read all three.

Perhaps saying I've "read" them is too generous. I've SUFFERED through all three. I've smirked my way through all three. Rolled my eyes through them. What can I say...... I do what I can to keep on top of literary pop culture. I want to  know what makes readers and publishers go ape on a global basis. I feel this sort of professional obligation to find out why a certain book (or series) merits seven figures. I'm curious to know what America wants to read (particularly the part of America most likely to toss money at digital books). 

From what I can tell: 

Women are happy to read hundreds of pages of the stupid "heroine" Anastasia exclaiming "Holy crap!" and "OMG!" and "Wow, holy cow!" when her moneybags boyfriend threatens to put her over his knee. 

If I could count the number of times EL James allows her characters' "eyes to darken" or her characters to make "Mewl"-ing sounds of pleasure or for the proverbial loin-burning to be described as a "clenching low in her belly" I'd have an entire novel right there. 

If we mix in references to orgasms as "finding release" (did you lose it? was it hiding?) or being described as "coming undone," (pretty much the only two phrases James ever uses to describe that "event"), I'd have a sequel. 

If I kept track of the number of times the character bites her lip or rolls her eyes or refers to her luvah as "mercurial" I'd have my very own trilogy. 

Seriously: this E L James needs a big, heavy t-h-e-s-a-u-r-u-s. 

You know what else E L James needs? 

A BASIC UNDERSTANDING OF HOW 20-SOMETHINGS SPEAK. 

I know, I know, stands to reason a 40-something British writer will end up with characters who sound decidedly 40-something and British --  IF SHE'S A TERRIBLE WRITER. 

And you know what? These books were hardly the "scandal" they're hyped to be. If a little blindfold here and a spank there and some consensual handcuffs thrown in with some "dark looks" that make a girl's "belly tighten" are the extent of the "domination" the world is so abuzz about: they can keep it. 

Frankly, it's fairly standard-issue romance novel material: the girl can conveniently (pardon me) "find her release" on command. And it takes all of 4 seconds. He's up to go again 2 minutes later (naturally). She's always "so ready" for him (yes, that's another go-to euphemism for I'll-let-you-guess-what). 

He's forever "beguiled" and "bewildered" by her. And he says so, like a good, normal, 28 year-old dude does, naturally: "You beguile and bewilder me," is uttered more than half a dozen times over the course of the books. They use words like "unseemly," casually in conversation. This would be fine were the novel set in 1912. But it's not. This might be fine were the characters in question AARP-ish, blue bloods. But they're not. 

I'd be completely stumped over the sheer AMOUNT of press this series has received, except that I think I understand what's going on. This, from the NYT article titled "Discreetly Digital, Erotic Novel Sets American Women Abuzz:"

...this book has been credited with something else: introducing women who usually read run-of-the-mill literary or commercial fiction to graphic, heavy-breathing erotica. And in the cities and suburbs of New York, Denver and Minneapolis, the women who have devoured the books say they are feeling the happy effects at home. 

“It’s relighting a fire under a lot of marriages,” said Lyss Stern, the founder ofDivaMoms.com and one of the early fans of the series. “I think it makes you feel sexy again, reading the books.” 

One Long Island woman, who insisted on anonymity so that she would not embarrass her employer, said the book had gained an obsessive following among her friends, the first erotic novel they have ever discussed. 

“Women just feel like it’s O.K. to read it,” she said. “It’s taboo for women to admit that they watch pr0nography, but for some reason it’s O.K. to admit that they’re reading this book.” 

The trilogy has its detractors. Commentators have shredded the books for their explicit violence and antiquated treatment of women, made especially clear in the character of Anastasia, an awkward naif who consents to being stalked, slapped and whipped with a leather riding crop. 

“What I found fascinating is that there are all these supermotivated, smart, educated women saying this was like the greatest thing they’ve ever read,” said Meg Lazarus, a 38-year-old former lawyer in Scarsdale, whose friends and acquaintances have been buzzing about the book. “I don’t get it. There’s a lot of violence, and this guy is abhorrent sometimes.” 

Online reviewers have criticized the author for her plodding prose and habit of printing lengthy contracts and e-mail exchanges between characters in the text. 

“The books are just so long,” said Sarah Wendell, a blogger and the co-author of “Beyond Heaving Bosoms.” “They suffer from the same lack of content and pacing. They’re very dense, with a lot of detail. They just don’t go anywhere.”

Let's address that a little bit.

First, the claim that it's introduced women to erotica. 

Given that romance novels constitute an enormous bulk of the titles available on eBookstores' digital "shelves," I'm suspect here. Women with eReaders are reading romance novels -- it wouldn't have blossomed into the massive industry we see today were the likes of Harlequin not cranking them out as quickly as the average woman can read them. 

Is this perhaps a slightly less conventional subject matter? 

Perhaps. 

It's panty-ripping as opposed to bodice-ripping, if I were to couch it in Fabio-friendly terms. The characters have computers (and Blackberries...and use Skype) rather than butlers and postal carriers. They drive Audi's rather than ride horses. They live in urban areas rather than Scottish countrysides. BUT, the fact is that we have an innocent, but (OF COURSE) petulantly willful, female character naive in the ways of, uh....."love," and we have a horny, domineering male character bent on teaching the girl everything he knows. We have forces at work to keep them apart, we have over-the-top, post-coital declarations of never-ending love and lots of "smoothing of hair back from faces." There are masked balls. 

Yes, soirees attended while wearing masks. 

So, to say that it's introducing a new demographic of readers to the Brand New World of Erotica is to do a disservice to the massive industry that's been built on the backs of women who read these romance novels fairly regularly. 

Next point: 

Women feel like it's OK to read it and OK to discuss it. 

Welllllllllll: give any book enough press and people will admit to reading it or feel comfortable talking about it, subject matter aside. And people (I won't be so narrow as to say "women") like talking about sex. So, I don't think we ought to pin a gold star on these Shades of Grey just yet: people talk about books. People talk about books, people talk about sex, this is hardly new territory.

Next: the matter of violence and treatment of women? Because I'd be the first to run screaming from something that espouses mistreatment as an arousing experience......... and absolutely: if you were to say, "it's a book about a guy who wants to tie women up and slap 'em around" I'd be screeching in agreement -- BUT, the matter of violence is a touchy one. Reminds me a little of the supreme court's definition of Obscenity. It can be hard to define, but "...you know it when you see it." 

Actually, this guy doesn't so much as lay a finger on this girl without her express permission. In fact, he doesn't lay a finger on any of his past "submissive" partners without their express permission, either. And, when it comes down to the matter of that riding crop mentioned above: The Girl Requests It. Fantasizes about it, in fact. So, does that make it an abusive act of violence against a consenting partner when it's done with firm limits in place, one or the other can back out at any time, and it brings both partners pleasure, even if it's unconventional and sounds dangerous out-of-context? That's a tough call. Where do we draw the line between fuzzy handcuffs as bachelorette party gifts (that a couple may have NO desire to use) and some spanking action that both partners are interested in exploring? 

All-in-all, I'm actually going to come down on the side of E L James in this case and suggest that it's not an abusive relationship that this Anastasia character finds herself in -- interestingly, she's the one requesting almost ALL of the unconventional activities, and the dude is the one acquiescing in most cases.

Are the characters obnoxiously cardboard caricatures of domination and submission? 

Yep. 

BUT, does that make the character abhorrent, or just the writing? 

I think it's a weighty subject, in this case clumsily tackled by an unskilled writer, leaving something that tastes vaguely like "chauvinist" in our mouths a few chapter in, but I have to fall back on the example of archetypes common in MANY romance novels -- more often than not, the man is at the helm telling the woman what she "really wants." The genre really hasn't evolved much past a James Bondian sort of "no means yes" mindset as a whole, so I *could* argue that 75% of the genre is, in fact, creating a sexual fantasy out of oppression, patriarchy, and forced submission. I won't, but I *could.*

As for the suggestion that well-educated, ambitious women shouldn't enjoy reading erotica (even if there are cuffs and blindfolds involved): well, that feels a little sexist right there. We wouldn't say the same thing of ambitious, well-educated men who oogle Maxim or buy Playboy. And making readers wrong for the types of fiction they chose to read in the privacy of their own homes feels a little like a government making women wrong for wanting birth control covered as part of a medical plan. 

Heh. See how I just did that and worked in something irritatingly political? Yeah, you're welcome.

Finally -- the mention of plodding prose, of working email conversations into the narration, the generally over-long and clumsily slow pace of the novel? All true. 

Really, this woman's prowess with a pen is insultingly wan. THAT is the crime being perpetrated against women. We're getting suckered into paying for and reading Really Bad Romance Novels. In the hands of a better writer, these characters might have taken on more convincing dimension and an actual discussion about sexuality in America might have been more possible. We might better understand the transition of a young woman from scared and blushing to brazen and blindfolded rather than feeling like we were being given email threads instead of dialogue, and "Holy crap!"'s in place of an articulate evolution. 

BUT -- don't take my word for it: go read it yourself. 

Sincerely hoping they don't follow through with a movie: there would be no way to make this story compelling without stooping to cliches and pandering and stereotypes in the the hands of anything but a ruthless screenplay adapter .

(sorry, this is NOT about the Hunger Games)

Okay, so, it flies in the face of "Relevant Blogger Standards," BUT, I'm totally filleting traditional expectations and am NOT dedicating this sudden reemergence to The Hunger Games (though I *did* get a huge, evil CACKLE out of reading THIS story suggesting that Her Majesty The Dragon Lady (Angelina) has her panties (does she wear them?) in a jealous twist over Brad's apparent "obsession" with Jennifer Lawrence).

That was pretty hilarious.

Because Jennifer Lawrence is lovely and fresh-faced with a terrific, healthy-looking figure and a remarkably self-aware outlook, and I *highly* doubt that Ol' Senor BillyGoat (Brad) has enough sense left in him to be attracted to someone young enough to be his daughter. Put another way: when you're wired to want to sink your teeth into Dragon Lady's gristly, sun-eshewing sinew on the regular, I doubt you have it in you to get it up for something healthy and sun-kissed and baby-faced and pro-food.

And when the story says Angie's livid, I immediately call that source's bluff. Dragon Lady doesn't get livid -- she gets....pointed. Withering. She rolls her eyes and goes back to sucking the life blood out of sacrificial sheep or whatever she uses for sustenance these days.

Okay, okay. SO - since I wasn't going to dedicate this to Hunger Games, what on earth was I gonna yap about?

I was thinking I might do something "In Defense of Lana Del Rey" since the entire webernet seems to hate her for some reason, when her album is really, actually, an almost insanely, criminally, ridiculously fun guilty pleasure.

But then I thought, "nah -- how boring is that? take a 3-month Blog-Vacation (blogcation?) and pop up again just to review some CD that's been out for months? That's weak."

Okay, yep, sort of weak. My next thought was, "Just unleash that angry, political rant you've been working on for a few weeks -- come out of the Republican Closet and rail against the inability of the GOP to come up with anyone a younger generation of conservatives have any respect for...."

But then those thoughts were derailed with the thought that coming back Red and Angry after such a hiatus would just alienate me and make it seem like I'd gone away to "Conservative Summer Camp" or something and come back with An Agenda and that would just make me seem chilly and strange and fundamentalist (which is pretty close to the truth), but also, frankly, a little off-putting.

Next thought was, "just make a lot of Really Obvious Pinterest Jokes" about Cute Outfits (!!!) and smoothie-making and turning your old discarded cottage cheese containers into beautiful DIY art installation pieces for your walls -- or turning old shampoo bottles into beautiful fire hazard-ish pendant lights -- ooh!

But, uh, that was about all I could come up with there.

I will say, however, that thanks to Pinterest I've made some mighty delicious homemade peanut butter cups, some strange Italian Parmesan Sandwich-THINGS out of eggroll wrappers, and some delightful frozen yogurt bites.

I've also purchased bright red pants and grey skinny jeans (oooh, ahh) and re-considered the (perhaps) indelible merits of denim vests -- all perfectly noble endeavors.

But, yeah -- that's not really enough to warrant more than a paragraph or two. Because it felt a little stale and re-hashed. Because, sure, girls our age apparently love to share pictures of wedding dresses and inspirational (tho mostly borderline "thinspo") pictures of girls with great abs and picture tutorials involving re-purposed antique picture frame/cake stand/hubcab thingies that, when spray painted, make great places to store our makeup and de-clutter our bathroom counters (right?????).

I thought about tossing up a photo collage of Megan Fox's face since 2004 and then DARING to suggest that it's her eyebrows and yo-you weight that makes her face look so dramatically different, not necessarily a ton of cosmetic surgery. Definitely a nose job, but mostly just dramatic eyebrow enhancements.

Because I've discovered that nothing makes gossip bloggers scream "SHE TWEAKED HER FACE!" more quickly than someone changing the shape of their brows. Ask Kate Winslet.

But I thought that dedicating an entire post to Megan Fox's Face just seemed outdated, irrelevant, and "done to death."

So there we have it. Rather than make up my mind, I rambled a little, called it good, and here you are: at the end. After a 3-month vacation, we're a little rusty.

I'll get back in the swing of things.

Probably with an angry political post that has something to do with copying Whole Foods' Chicken Salad while listening to Lana Del Rey after going to see The Hunger Games.

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.