Syrup and Honey*
I cannot be the only person in the world who has accidentally started reading a series, only to be both excited and dismayed when the next book appears in the bookstore. And yes, I’ve done it again.
I use the fact that I am a high school English teacher – by training, even if I don’t have a real job – as an excuse to read lots of young adult novels. In reality, I enjoy them quite a lot. When
Luxe first appeared on my cart to shelve at work, I was
really excited by it. Set in late 1899 high-society New York City, the novel follows a girl whose sister and best friend are both in love with the boy she is engaged to marry – whom she does not love. She is in love with her family’s valet, who is also being pursued by the family’s grasping maid. It’s historical fiction that borders on trashy, except for the fact that it’s the turn of the twentieth century and girls just didn’t do that. Think
Gossip Girl, but these girls aren’t slutty; they’re just mean. The first novel ended in a place that I thought was pretty good, and I had no idea that it was going to go on to be a series.
Imagine my surprise when I pulled
Rumors: A Luxe Novel, from my shelving cart a couple of weeks ago. I just finished it yesterday afternoon, and I find myself excited to read the next one. Especially since this time I know there will be a next one.
I have a weird interest in this whole wealthy, high-society life.
Not the sort of things that we read about in People magazine that the celebrities do, but those people who are truly a part of the social elite. Again, think Gossip Girl. Growing up in Small Town, Missouri, I never saw anything like this, so maybe that’s where my fascination comes from. Honestly though, I find myself wanting to know what it would be like to be a part of such a scene. Knowing every morning when you’re getting ready that a whole slew of people are going to see exactly what pricy, designer clothes you’re wearing and are going to criticize your every move. But also knowing that you will be given privileges and will be admitted to places only available to you because of the name on the American Express Black card inside that Birkin bag.
Does this make me shallow?
*The title of a Duffy song that I'm in love with. It's pertinent, I swear. Labels: books, everyday musings
Attraction to Power
I’ve always been a girl with a bit of an addictive personality. At least, I think I am. I don’t really become addicted to things that are awful for me though. Yes, I drink occasionally,* but I’ve never smoked a cigarette or a joint or ingested any other kind of illegal substance. The idea of losing control like that scares me. I am, after all, a bit of a control freak. Still, I do have my addictions, unhealthy or not.
Gilmore Girls, the color pink, coffee, reading, writing in my journal, texting – the list goes on and on.
I’ve always been fascinated by English history, particularly during the Tudor reign. I found the life of Henry VIII both repugnant and fascinating. When I was introduced to Philippa Gregory’s novels via
The Other Boleyn Girl,** my interest when to an entirely different level. Showtime’s creation of
The Tudors, then, was super-exciting to me, even though I knew I was going to have to wait for the series to come to DVD to watch it.*** I borrowed it from a friend at work, watched all ten episodes in about three days, and then bought them for myself.
While re-watching them this past week, I have made a few observations:
First,
Henry Cavill is my new celebrity crush. Seriously. Second, my boobs will never, ever look that amazing. Even if I had a costume designer putting me in specially-designed period dresses, I’m fairly certain that mine would never look like that.
Finally, I do not understand this attraction to men in power. I’ve never
been presented with anything that makes me think that Anne Boleyn was actually in love with Henry VIII, so what exactly was the point? Yes, furthering her family and all that, but what was she getting out of it? Okay, so she was queen; wouldn’t it have been frightening to be in the same position that you just usurped from someone who was, probably, rightfully there? How on earth do the benefits outweigh the costs in this situation?
I know I’ll never get a real answer to my questions, but I can’t help wondering. I suppose I’ll just have to placate myself by watching Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Henry Cavill being attractive on my television.
*Occasionally, I drink excessively. I’m also twenty-two, so I think that’s to be expected.
**That movie was seriously disappointing. I was sad; I really wanted it to be good because the novel is fantastic.
***I was, until about a month ago, a very poor college student. Not much is different now. I am now a very poor college graduate.Labels: boys, television
Seen and Heard: Piano Bar
There is, I think, something to be said for getting into the swing of things with blogging. Back when I was doing it every day, I constantly found things that were interesting enough to write at least a couple of paragraphs about. Lately, however, I’m finding nothing interesting enough to even tell another person when I'm struggling for conversation, let alone interesting enough to type out and expect you kind people to read.
That being said, Tuesday nights at Piano Bar are becoming my favorite time to people watch. When you go out to a bar, there’s the first hour or so when you haven’t had so much to drink that you’re completely self-absorbed, but you also don’t feel that everyone else should be paying attention to you either. I have come to realize that this is the best time of the night to observe all of those crazy people around me. I am eavesdropping* on conversations and watching the way that those people around me interact, and I believe that Wednesday posts should now be devoted to my people-watching adventures.**
Last week, Gallagher’s roommate, Harrison*** and I, stood at the side bar, sipping beers and watching a girl fight with her boyfriend. Apparently the boyfriend had stood up the girlfriend for going out that night. Frustrated, she told him that she was going to stay in, then changed her mind and headed to P Bar with her friends. Assuming that the girlfriend wasn’t going to change her mind, the boyfriend – clearly a winner, let me tell you – decided to go ahead and take his date to P Bar. When he walked in and saw the girlfriend, he didn’t even pretend that it was a mix up or a mistake; he owned the fact that he was with another girl, was already drunk, and didn’t understand why the girlfriend was so upset. The two spent thirty minutes having a very drunken fight where he told her that he wanted to hit her – Harrison was waiting for it happen so he could then hit the boyfriend. Any time the two of them weren’t fighting, he kept looking me up and down.**** I was grossed out, but the exchange was amusing.
Sitting at the tables with our group later, I glanced over at the front bar and saw a couple standing there with their tongues down one another’s throats. Seriously. Harrison saw, started giggling like a thirteen-year-old girl, and proceeded to give me the play-by-play so I wouldn’t have to turn to look. Eventually the guy decided that standing at the crowded bar was not the best place for making out and declined to partake any further. The girl he was with didn’t feel the same way. The evening ended with her in tears, following him down the street outside the bar.
Here’s my question though: If you’re going to fight with your significant other, aren’t there better places to do it than a loud, crowded bar? At some point, don’t you decide that it’s time to go home to fight? Or do these people just lack that filter that tells them that the things they are doing aren’t socially appropriate?
I’m going to take the time someday to write the stories of all these people, the way that I imagine them playing out. I think it could make for an interesting collection of stories. I am now officially taking title suggestions for the collection.
* This is not unusual for me. I'm nosy and listen to lots of conversations. I figure that if people didn't want to be heard, they would find more private places to have these conversations.
** At the P Bar. Except for when I don't go to P Bar. Then I will find something else to eavesdrop on and share with you.
*** Harrison amuses me endlessly. He is a sports-obsessed, ice cream-loving guy who would probably walk through fire to save someone who was in trouble.
**** I wore the gray dress again. Apparently it's also a magnet for icky boys.Labels: eavesdropping, piano bar
Pause for Reaction
Living three hours away from my best friend, Bradshaw, is not an ideal situation. We’re both busy and coordinating our schedules enough to be able to visit one another is more than a challenge; it’s nearly impossible. Still, once a week or so, we have to engage in a marathon phone call. Tonight’s reminded me of exactly why we’re such good friends.
On discussing nudity and sex: “I’ll never understand those girls who think that guys are ugly naked. Excuse me if I look at a guy and say, ‘I want that. I want that in me.’”
On weddings: “I’ve seen people get married that I know are making the wrong decision, but what do you say? I’ve also seen people who have been together forever and are so happy. Who am I to say that what they’re doing is wrong?”
On drinking less liquor, less often: “I’m going to lose my tolerance if I keep this up! I won’t be able to drink a bottle of wine without being tipsy! I’ll become a cheap drunk and I’ll lose all my street cred!”
We’re going to a wedding together at the end of the month, so it’ll be good to be able to actually hang out together for more than ten minutes for the first time since April.
Labels: Bradshaw
Here's Your Sign
I pose the following question to all men* who may be wandering the internet and reading my blog: Is being a female wearing a cute dress the equivalent to being a female wearing a sign that says “Please hit on me”?
After graduating from college and realizing that I have no plans for the fall (despite my hard-earned teaching degree), I decided that I was going to make the most of my summer. The first step in making the most of my summer was ensuring that I look exceedingly attractive. This of course translates to spending my time in cute little dresses.
So I went shopping.
I found what I have now dubbed my little gray dress at a store which I refuse to name (to protect my innocence, you see). It’s a very simple jersey dress with spaghetti straps that hits
just above the knee. There is some gathering on the bust line, but it doesn’t show an excessive amount of cleavage. I decided, after evaluating the appearance of the dress, that it was appropriate for running errands as well as sitting in the pub having a beer. It is, in fact, the perfect summer dress.
Since
GFW was moving out of College Town, we all** decided to gather at the Pub to have some drinks and hang out. We were meeting around eight, but I had some errands to run first and I wasn’t really excited about changing my clothes three times in one day, so I decided to wear the little gray dress. At the bank, the teller – through the glass of the drive-up window – eyed me and complimented my necklace. I stopped at the pet store to pick up a bag of kitty kibble and some treats for my babies, and the boy who checked me out asked what kind of pet I had. While he was scanning my bag of Cat Chow. I stared at him blankly for a moment before answering, “I have two cats.” He blushed. At the grocery store, the checker spent the entire time he was scanning my frozen pizza and Dr. Pepper chatting me up. I answered his questions flatly and put the bags into the cart.
It was at this point that, rather perplexed, I texted GFW and posed the same question that I opened this post with. He said that no, it isn’t the same as wearing a “hit on me” sign; the exception, he added, was if the dress showed a lot of skin. I don’t feel like this one does, but I decided that I would poll the boys that evening. The general consensus was that the dress looks good on me – damn good, one said – but that my wearing of it was not a direct invitation to hit on me. I trust the guys that I asked, so I decided that the dress was safe to wear out in public again.
Adding a little teal cardigan makes the dress work appropriate, so I wore it this evening while I was shelving books. A gentleman approached me and asked if we had any books on jumping rope. After looking it up – who knew that there actually were books on jumping rope? – I took him to the section and tracked the title down for him. As I knelt there beside him, my finger tracing along the spines of the books looking for Jump Rope Training by Lee, he chatted. He asked questions about my job, which I answered politely. I found the book, put it in his hand, and went back to my shelving.
Twenty minutes later, he approached and asked if we had a meditation section. I walked him over there, as per my job description, told him to let me know if I could help him with anything else, and walked away. I stopped on the other side of the shelf to fix some books that had fallen over and overheard the gentleman say to himself, “You could take that dress off for me.”
In related news, my gag reflex is in perfect working order.
*And women, of course. I’m a feminist too!
** The group of people that I work with who don’t suck.Labels: flirting, girl stuff
Mission: Completed
Tuesday nights at the Piano Bar become a tradition for most people* here in college town immediately following their twenty-first birthday for one significant reason: There is no cover charge on Tuesday nights. Gallagher and I - with some friends - decided that Tuesday night was the perfect sort of evening for P Bar.
Before leaving, my friend Bizz in Arizona** told me that my goal for the evening was to take a photo of the least attractive person in the bar. I believe I succeeded, though the quality of the photo is questionable.
Before he moved back to his hometown, GFW has been going out with Gallagher and I on an extremely regular basis. As in, at least three times a week the three of us were drinking together. (This is making Nic sound like an alcoholic.) As a result, any time I'm out drinking with Gallagher, I think about him. And, since I am a bit fond of him,*** I miss him. I texted him to tell him so.
The next three hours I turned into the texting whore of the group. It was the sort of texts that
lead to something...when the person you're texting isn't two hours away. All reception in the bar went to hell when the tornado sirens started going off outside. While I was being a text-whore, Gallagher flirted with the bartender to get us all free drinks. In turn, I became very intoxicated.
Oh yes. Tornado sirens. Do you think anyone in the bar was aware of these? Of course they were. The real question: Did they care? Nope. Not even a little bit. Why worry about a tornado when there is piano music and lots of free alcohol?
*The ones who want to have fun. Why, yes, I am judgmental!
**Also known as "some girl in Arizona."
***I'm more than a bit fond of him....
Labels: alcohol, flirting, piano bar
really excited by it. Set in late 1899 high-society New York City, the novel follows a girl whose sister and best friend are both in love with the boy she is engaged to marry – whom she does not love. She is in love with her family’s valet, who is also being pursued by the family’s grasping maid. It’s historical fiction that borders on trashy, except for the fact that it’s the turn of the twentieth century and girls just didn’t do that. Think Gossip Girl, but these girls aren’t slutty; they’re just mean. The first novel ended in a place that I thought was pretty good, and I had no idea that it was going to go on to be a series.
Not the sort of things that we read about in People magazine that the celebrities do, but those people who are truly a part of the social elite. Again, think Gossip Girl. Growing up in Small Town, Missouri, I never saw anything like this, so maybe that’s where my fascination comes from. Honestly though, I find myself wanting to know what it would be like to be a part of such a scene. Knowing every morning when you’re getting ready that a whole slew of people are going to see exactly what pricy, designer clothes you’re wearing and are going to criticize your every move. But also knowing that you will be given privileges and will be admitted to places only available to you because of the name on the American Express Black card inside that Birkin bag.
