You Know You Love Me
Today, I watched eight episodes of
Gossip Girl. It's one of those shows that I couldn't seem to keep up with even when I did have cable access, and by the time I felt compelled to start watching episodes again, I didn't have access. In any case, the mood was right and I had a long, empty day stretching in front of me. In watching the episodes, I have realized a few things.
First, Blair, Chuck, and Dan get all the best lines. The best puns, the best snarks. And you would think that the endless plays on the name Chuck Bass would get old, but somehow they amuse me every time.
Second, I am jealous of Blair's appearance of perfection. I'm not sure where it started, but for as long as I can remember, I have wished that I had the kind of self-control and ability to appear perfect in any situation. Because I like scapegoating today, I'll blame the Disney princesses.
Finally, I will always want the bad boy. In my own life, with Project and Hershey, who I chose over Iris and the very nice, attractive, intelligent boy I went on a date with a few weeks ago. And on television. On
Gilmore Girls, I begged Rory to leave Dean for Jess - and coveted Logan. On
That '70s Show, I adored the relationship between Jackie and Hyde. My short-lived interest in
Dawson's Creek - in seventh grade, in my defense - led to a crush on Pacey. And, now, watching
Gossip Girl, I'm very much in love with Chuck and Blair.
I would very much like to have a burlesque party, though I have a sinking feeling that it would turn into a grope-fest faster than I could say garter belt. I shall continue to live vicariously through television teenagers. And like it.
Labels: everyday amusements, television
Reality Check
I have a superficial fantasy. In this fantasy, I leave my house on a rainy evening in a khaki trench coat and brown heels. I end up in a small, imaginary bar with a group of people that I'm very fond of. I spend my evening in a belted dress, wandering among these friends and feeling fantastic. I am sipping something pink and feeling delicately tipsy when we close the bar down, and a very polite young man walks me home - my imaginary home is apparently very close to this imaginary bar. He kisses me on the front porch, standing under the amber light next to a blooming pot of fragrant pink hyacinths.
The young man leaves, because that is what proper young men do, and I go inside and put the bright pink kettle on the stove. While I wait for it to boil, I change into a black silk nightgown and wash my face, smoothing on the last bit of moisturizer just as the kettle whistles. I climb between the sheets - white, and just washed that afternoon - beneath the soft pink down comforter with a floral china cup of peppermint tea and a perfect book.
There are massive flaws with this fantasy. First, I have a roommate, who doesn't seem to exist in the fantasy. The house is adorable and perfect and immaculate, which is the first sign that it can't actually be mine. No man that I know would be gentleman enough to walk me all the way to the door and leave with just a kiss - because I clearly know great guys. I do not own a black silk nightgown, a pink tea kettle, china cups, or a down comforter.
Then, of course, is the fact that I see no room in that fantasy life for an evening spent at home in sweats watching multiple episodes of
That 70s Show on DVD and reading
Vogue while snuggling with the kitties. Ah, well. Baby steps, right?
Labels: my insanity, television
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
Epiphanies are Scary
I’ve said it before, but being home makes my brain go non-stop. Consider that a warning.
I spent part of Tuesday afternoon driving around Small Town’s back roads, listening to
Christina and wasting the ridiculously expensive gas.
I drove past
Project's house because I’m nosy and wanted to know if he came home for Christmas. The Mustang wasn’t behind the house, so I immediately wondered if he spent Christmas with that girl. The
one that he was dating the last time I talked to him (in July). The one that he said he had considered marrying. Yeah, that girl.
This made my thoughts jump, irrationally, to K. K and I have a
really weird relationship—if you can even call it that—making the connection between he and Project, my ex-fuck buddy and catalyst for rebellion, extremely weird. I forced the connection out of my consciousness.
I then inadvertently drove down a gravel road where I once stopped my car and jumped
Iris in the passenger seat. I drove faster when I realized where I was, beating the hell out of my poor Mercury in my haste to retreat from the memories.
Before you read the rest of this post, remember that I warned you about my brain when I’m at home—and remember that you know I’m a crazy, obsessive freak.
When I got back to my house, I started watching season two of Gilmore Girls. Poor Rory and the Dean and Jess drama. Suddenly, it was scarily clear: I was Rory Gilmore, Project was Jess, and Iris was Dean. I pushed away “Mr. Perfect” in favor of the “bad boy,” and, in the process, massively screwed myself over.
It was then that I realized that my insanity has reached such a level that someone should commit me.
Or maybe I shouldn’t watch fourteen episodes of Gilmore Girls in two days.
Scratch that. I love those girls, I’ll watch whatever I want.
Maybe they’ll put a DVD player in my padded room.
Labels: boys, my insanity, television
Proof That Nic is an Obsessive, Over-Analytical Freak
Let me preface this by reminding you that I overanalyze things a lot. A lot.
I finally burned some of the music that’s been sitting in my computer forever the other day, including Something Corporate’s
Leaving Through the Window. I was listening to the song
“Drunk Girl” and was suddenly struck with a thought: Is this how K felt
that Friday Night when I called him?
I’m fully aware that I would not have gone home with just anyone. In fact, I’ve never left a party with someone I didn’t know pretty well and I’m almost certain that I never will. I texted him while I was just tipsy, and while I was certainly drunk when I went to his apartment, that wasn’t why I went. But does he know that?
I mentioned that the boy had no initiative because he never even tried to kiss me, and I’ve been sort of torn about that ever since. Was he being a good guy and not taking advantage of a drunk girl on his couch? Or was he just to afraid to make a move? Past events lead me to believe that he was afraid, but, yet again, maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Was it wrong of me to call someone while I was drinking? Was it wrong of me to go home with him? I went home with him because he’s a good guy and I think there’s potential there—but does he know that?
Who else thinks this post makes me sound like an obsessive freak? I certainly do
Labels: my insanity, television
