...In which our heroine is tough as nails.

 I've always struggled to balance my femininity with liking "boys stuff." There was this article from Cinematical about a month ago, and I totally identified with the little girl being teased for having a Star Wars lunch box. I'll trade a zombie movie over a chick flick any day.

It's taken me this long, 21 years, to realize liking "boys stuff" is just fine and a lot of boys quite appreciate when a pair of boobs can out gross them. In my always male dominated film classes, I always make it a point to bring up something totally perverse within the first few classes - in Production I, I brought up how Patrick Bateman walks around with a severed head on his dick in week two, and suddenly, I had the respect of my male peers. Obviously there's a larger problem that I have to prove myself to said males, but I digress.

There is one aspect of my life where am I totally, unabashedly beauty obsessed. While most days require a five-minute make-up, blow dry, and a pair of jeans, my nails are always impeccable. This practice comes from my mother - hers were always lovely, and she instilled in me that nice nails say something about a woman, what she does, what she cares about. These are the things she told me when she'd do my nails when I was little.

Being well-manicured (and pedicured too, but not as much of a priority) is one of my favorite beauty rituals. My roommates make fun of me for how much time I spend, my OCD about even the smallest chip, but for me, impeccable nails always make me feel pretty, somehow put together. Even working at Bob Evans or operating film cameras didn't keep me from keeping them long, always polished.

Perhaps it is an old school tradition, one that screams housewifery and antiquated values, but it's my thing. And it takes a lot of goddamn work: filing, base coat, three coats of color, and one top coat after each color. And all for at most, ten days of perfection. Then start from scratch. Nevermind mishaps, like slamming my right ring finger in my dad's car door, thus the left hand photo...

But I love the ritual. It's girly, it's my mother, and now it's mine. Professional mani-pedis GROSS me the fuck out. Someone else's tools and polish? No thanks. I'll stick to the DIY attitude.

So while I may still like boys stuff, and use the ten impeccable manicured nails to break up "tobacco," or load film, or assemble bookshelves, I'll always have nice hands doing it. To me, nothing says I care about my appearance like well-done nails because we use our hands always, and to keep them perfect shows care. I've been asked many times if my nails are fake, which is about the best compliment I could get.

Favorite products? Nail Magic for base coat. OPI ideally for polish, but it's expensive so I also like Sally Hansen Complete Salon Manicure, and Hard as Nails if I'm going on the cheap. Shades of red, pink, and coral only, except for toes. None of that novelty multi-color shit, or porn star french tips. And then for top coat, Sally Hansen's Insta-Dri Top Coat, which really does dry in about a minute. It's my favorite beauty product ever...except for Smith's Rosebud Salve.

The snow is falling like forgiveness...

...In which our heroine has recent raves.

I consume a lot during the semester. Things you should observe, in a sentence or two:

Films-
Black Swan better get Natalie Portman her goddamn Oscar - a beautifully shot, perverse fairy tale, like a female version of The Fly.
Cronos is Guillermo del Toro's first film, and really yucky and sweet, a good companion to The Devil's Backbone and Pan's Labyrinth. Currently on Criterion Blu and streaming in Netflix HD.
Whip It is a much better movie than it should be - well-written, decently acted - and hey, who doesn't like badass roller-derby foxes?
The Lovely Bones is a shitty adaptation of a really great book, and a waste of the talent within.
John Waters: This Filthy World is a delightful, raunchy trip through film and his own personal history.
I Love You, Beth Cooper wasn't as adorable as the book, but definitely not as bad of a movie as reviews would have it.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 is infinitely better than the last two films, and made me get back into that world wholeheartedly. NERD.

Music-
It's kind of pathetic that it's the end of the year, and I don't have a favorite album of original music. Really pathetic, actually.
All Day, Girl Talk's latest phantasmagoria, is pretty excellent, though I don't think as good as Feed the Animals. My favorite mash-up is Rihanna + Fugazi.
Jeff Mangum might play with the Elephant 6 collective, maybe, but of course I have to grab a ticket just in case.
Jim James in Louisville the day after Christmas needs to happen for me.

Books-
The Things They Carried is an amazing collection of war stories, but an even more amazing collection of human stories.
Ishmael could be alternately titled the bible for "hippie granola living," but made me question some of my very core beliefs.
Touching from a Distance, a post-script on Joy Division's Ian Curtis by his widow Deb, makes him out to be such an asshole I haven't listened to his music since.
Natural Health, Natural Medicine is a good practical guide to living healthier without suggesting seaweed for every meal and nine hours of yoga a day.
Eating the Dinosaur is more brilliance from hipster everyman, Chuck Klosterman. You should check it out for the Primer/time travel/Shane Carruth essay, ChemGuy.
The Books of Blood 1-3 collection lost my interest after book 1, but maybe I'll finish it.
Currently, there's the interview collection, Lynch on Lynch.

TV-
The Walking Dead had a really compelling, if uneven, first season, that needed a better finale.
Boardwalk Empire totally lost me, despite the gratuitous sex and violence.
Eastbound & Down had a lesser second season than first, but the finale was perfectly touching and hilarious.
Winter is coming to HBO in the form of A Game of Thrones in April. So excited to see what they do with the most well-written fantasy books ever.
And the ladies of Cathouse, who espoused the essential life lesson of "No Romance Without Finance," will be back for a new season.
Still have to watch the Twin Peaks homage episode of Psych.
Glee's writing has gotten lazy, and infuriating.

Etc.-
Tumblr really needs to get its shit together and stop crashing.
DVD sale at Facets Cinematheque tomorrow and Sunday with $10 Criterions and out-of-print discs - it's a must.
New tattoo photos soon, I promise, especially since I'm modeling it for my friend Abby today.
Two parties today, two parties tomorrow, and it's finals week. Give my liver strength.
New favorite beer: Pacifico.
Year in Photos from Life Magazine - lots of fantastic photos.
The AV Club fucked up.
Managed to write a term paper on Twin Peaks, adapt a Stephen King short, pitch the teen girl sex comedy, and have an instructor tell me to grow my own pot this semester, not bad.

Nothing like a little This Mortal Coil to cheer you up...

...In which our heroine is grateful.

I left for Cincinnati early last Tuesday, for a 7:00 AM bus. On the cab ride, the sun was just rising over Lake Shore Drive, reflecting off of the buildings, particularly well in my favorite spot of the city, just over the Chicago river. I was exhausted, but I felt so overwhelmed by how grateful I was for my city, to be going home, to see my friends. I was overwhelmed at how lucky I was to have such oppurtunities.

The feeling of exception gratitude carried throughout the week. I had a beer with my grandmother, and got whipped cream smashed in my face at El Rancho Grande for my birthday. That night, Josh came over and we had stoned conversation with my mom about chupacabras. My dad made a list of all of the Youtube videos he couldn't wait to show me. I got a tattoo - a photo of which is forthcoming, pending healing - with my very best friend in the world for 15 years, Kara.

On Thanksgiving, prompted by going through our own family photos, I got my aunt and grandmother to go through a box of my great-grandmother's photos, also forthcoming. I saw baby photos of my dad, my great-great grandparents in the holler of Hazard, Kentucky. After my cousins and I took a plate of food to my grandmother's neighbors, Jim and Tammy, I learned that they met after he rescued her from a concentration camp in WWII, and she agreed to marry him only if he agreed to bring her mother to America as well. Viall and I braved Black Friday crowds to much success, and I visited Bob Evans, with Jeannie telling me she missed me.

But Saturday - Saturday was a big day. I saw Paul for the first time in two years.

On the way down, Nate told me all I needed to give was a wink wink nudge nudge and we could exit, but I was determined to see my friends. I wasn't going to let him stop me, again, from being happy. We had been there about an hour before he arrived, and before even getting through the door, Matt had told him to leave me the fuck alone. His hand on my shoulder, I felt overwhelmed at him stepping up for me. Throughout the evening, my friends, some better than others, some who knew more than others, came up and said how well they thought I was handling things. It was odd - I was a little drunk, so my judgment may have been a little off - but Paul was just a person. Admittedly, a very troubled, obviously substance using person, but just a person. I kept catching him giving me the eye, walking in front of me, but I never said anything. I've said everything I needed to say to him.

I had great talks with old friends - Aaron, Flo, Dani, Matt, Nate, Katelyn, Kara, Paige - and I honestly could have cried with how overwhelmed I was at the love in the room.  Paul was there, but they talk to me, told me how proud they were of me, thanked me for coming. Here I was, seeing the person that hurt me the worst of anyone, and I couldn't be sad - I simply felt too loved. It was an amazing thing, and a perfect end to a great week home. After high school, I got a bit bitter about time spent with people I shouldn't have, but Saturday, all I felt was grateful.

I don't know if I'll see Paul again, and while I wish him no ill will, I can say his present circumstances are precisely what he deserves. Nate told me I won the battle, not the war, and he told me he was both glad and surprised things went as well as they did. No tears, no punches thrown. Did I want to see Paul? No. But as Andie says to her father, right before the prom in Pretty in Pink, a quote I have always looked to in the face of adversity, "I just wanted to let him know he didn't break me." He didn't.

There aren't enough words to describe how lucky and loved I felt this past week. We spend so much time thinking about the negative, I just wanted to take a moment to talk about the positives. I just registered my very first screenplay with the Writer's Guild of America, turned in my second draft of my Stephen King adaptation, saw Patti Smith today, and am giving advice to a Screenwriting II class tomorrow. Next week, I'll submit a screenplay to Columbia's screenwriting contest, and then my family will visit for their annual Christmas jaunt.

This might be too cheerful, too optimistic, but I just feel so blessed for all of these good things in my life. For you. For all you do. Tomorrow I might bitch about the 10 degree windchill, or my itchy tattoo, but I love it, all of it.

And like Mr. Ferris Bueller, I just wanted to make sure I took a moment to stop and look around for a moment at this too fast moving life of mine, and all of the wonderful people in it.

...In which our heroine is finally, officially legal.

There'll be more photos to follow, but that was my first legal drink, the ever-classy combination of Malibu rum and pineapple juice, from Jake's Pub last night.

Your trusty heroine is twenty-one years old. And I got carded twice last night! Made me feel good about myself. It's a weird feeling something that's forbidden is now everywhere.

By some gift from the universe, I'm not even hungover today! After the redheaded slut which I really just think was Jager and tequila, it was a rough moment, but I survived the evening without even a headache.  More drinks with Julia at lunch.

21! WOOOO.

...In which our heroine presents her guide winter watching.

2010 is the worst year I can ever remember for movie-going. Right now, my top five is something like Kick-Ass, Winter's Bone, Toy Story 3, Inception, and ... Yeah, it's that terrible of a year. I'm being crumedgeondly about things like The Social Network, but if a Facebook movie is the best Hollywood can do, then I'm all good sticking to Netflix.

But that doesn't mean that the awards season doesn't bring things to look forward to. With that, I present Katydid's Guide to Winter Films.

November 26th - The King's Speech
I adore Colin Firth, and A Single Man was one of my favorite films from last year. I definitely have to be in the mood for these haughty period British movies, but the winter is the time that generally puts me in that mindset. I also love Helena Bonham-Carter and Geoffrey Rush. Should be a winner. 



December 3rd - Black Swan 
All in all, despite some missteps, I really love the diversity of story in Darren Aronofsky's work. The film festival reviews on this have been a little mixed, and I think this trailer gives too much away, but  Natalie Portman as a ballerina trying to succeed Winona Ryder? So there.


I Love You, Philip Morris
It's really a shame Jim Carrey doesn't get a chance to do more drama, because he's so damn good at it. I've honestly been reading about this movie for about, oh, three years, because it's had a really difficult time finding distribution. The story its based on, which is true, is pretty fascinating.


December 10th - The Fighter
Speaking of actors who need more dramatic work, let's talk about Marky Mark. There's a moment in this scene, from Boogie Nights, in a long take when it's just his face on the couch that blows my mind every time. It's remarkable acting, and yet he does shit 99% of the time. The Fighter, which has also gone through years of development hell, looks promising. And we get creepy-skinny cracked out Christian Bale, Amy Adams, and a Jersey Shored-Melissa Leo. I smell Oscar nods.



December 17th - Tron Legacy 
Tron Legacy is this year's Avatar for me - I'm not expecting much, except some awesome visuals, the Daft Punk score, and some beardy delightful Jeff Bridges. This is a dream movie for stoners everywhere.



Rabbit Hole 
Nicole Kidman hasn't done a goddamn thing for me as an actress since To Die For fifteen years ago. She bores me. BUT, I do love me some Aaron Eckart, and some Dianne Wiest. This film is directed by John Cameron Mitchell, who rose to prominence with his first infamous film, Hedwig & the Angry Inch, then topped it with real actors having real sex in Shortbus, which is one of the best films about love and relationships I've ever seen. So I'll deal with some non-moving porcelain faced Kidman, it's a concession I'm willing to make.


December 22nd - Somewhere
Sofia Coppola is my favorite working filmmaker, along with Paul Thomas Anderson. There are better filmmakers, but as a woman who wants to be in the industry, I worship her style and vision as an auteur. Again, the reviews have been mixed on this film from the festivals, but I'll be there the day it opens. Anyone who can look at Stephen Dorff and think "lead in at arthouse film shot at the Chateau-Marmont" has fucking commitment.


True Grit
Blood Simple, Raising Arizona, The Big Lebowski, The Hudsucker Proxy, No Country for Old Men, Fargo, Burn After Reading, A Serious Man, Barton Fink, Miller's Crossing, O Brother Where Art Thou - I really think the Coen Brothers might be consistently the best filmmakers of the past thirty years. Nobody else has that many fantastic films, and True Grit just looks amazing. And the Dude is playing the John Wayne part? Cannot fucking wait.


December 31st - Blue Valentine
I'm really concerned for this film. It just got an appeal to get its NC-17 rating, the kiss of death for commercial releasing, kept, meaning it'll play about 500 screens across the country. Chop heads off, but don't have something resembling real sex - good job, MPAA. Fuckers. I'm all about exploratory films about relationships, a la Cassavetes, and this seems like a good one. The buzz out of Cannes and Sundance has been great, and you really can't do better than Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams for actors of their generation. Getting my tissues ready.


I'm definitely most excited for the last three on this list, and I hope Cincinnati has enough foresight to play them while I'm at home. Doubtful for Blue Valentine. But these are my recommendations for what I think is worth seeing in the months to come, just another baby film snob, take them for what they're worth.

...In which our heroine is in the right place.

This is my first Chicago Halloween that didn't didn't make a massive kerplunk sound. I should be writing claims and subclaims for my exploration of Lynch's auteur style in Twin Peaks, but I owe you and myself a check-in.  Hello - how have you been? How fucking great was The Walking Dead tonight? SO GREAT. Really scary, and really well-shot. I would be worried about the sustainability, but since I hear the comics give lots of rich source material, I'm less concerned. Also - way to cut off the end of Dawn of the Dead, AMC. Dorks.

Today I'm talking about Halloween and music, and memory. It's a Halloween post, but not really.

It was party time at the residence last night. Alyssa seriously was the best costume - a giant pot leaf - but Grace as Misty from Pokemon was pretty legit as well. We had about thirty people show up, and after a lot of whiskey apple cider and much due revelry, the stragglers started to abandon ship. Ben was the first one to get here, before we were even dressed, because he was working early and leaving early. Well, guess who was the last one sitting on my couch at three in the morning. Predictable unpredictability. Look who magically got their shift changed.

We were always trading music, giving songs to each other, sharing what we loved. He gave me Neutral Milk Hotel, Animal Collective, My Bloody Valentine, etc. - I gave him Pixies, The Cure, Neil Young. And there he was again, stealing Horses and other things off of iTunes. We listened to Meadowlands by the Wrens, then Monsters of Folk, then Since I Left You by the Avalanches. I'd never heard the first and the third albums, and now their mine.

Last night solidified something for me. "The Right Place" by Monsters of Folk came on and I really listened to the lyrics, and thought about this boy in my bed. This boy who I loved so my freshman year, the answer to my everything...and how different I felt. I'll always love him a little bit, but something about that song made me realize that I'm in the right place. I watched him sleep this morning, and nothing about him made me want to leap into his arms, proclaim my love, worship him. He's just a boy, imperfect and perfect just like everyone else. I'm so far away from the person I was two Halloweens ago, when we got busted smoking pot in his dorm room I can't believe it. We've moved into a comfortable place where it isn't just awkward glances at parties any more, but it isn't doing our grocery shopping together either. It's the right place.

Yes, I know sleeping with my ex-boyfriend is probably not the smartest choice I could be making, but it's my choice. I keep getting warned about falling back in love, how it always get messy, but listening to that song, watching him sleep, I realized it might get messy and it might not, but for that moment, I was in the right place. My roommates made me feel pretty shitty about it this morning, well one did, who said I "should work out another arrangement," but she made me realize too that her maturity just isn't in the same place as mine, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Maybe it's meditation with yoga, but I'm in this really clear headspace where I'm finding that things will happen, and we can make them happen or not, but mostly they just happen to us. And most of them aren't worth freaking out about. It isn't worth worrying about your roommate's arrangement or whether you just missed the goddamn train. Just let it go, let it sink into the floor with savasana, the corpse pose for meditation, and breathe. People will come into your life and go out of it, so why not appreciate them while they're around? Why does it all have to mean something greater? Just enjoy the moments you have.

Halloween has been a major holiday for me since I realized it was a holiday - I enjoy it more than Christmas - and there's always been a pull and a power to this time of fall for me. Maybe that's just the hippie bullshit head trip I'm on right now, but damnit, I'm on it, and I'm in the right place.

There will be boys and songs and parties and Halloweens yet to come. The past is past, and what comes is better than what came before. All I do is smile in this moment about the fucking horrendous paper I still have to write because it's just a paper I won't remember six months from now. But what I will remember are the songs, the music, and the comfort of Ben's arms around me so tight then, so tight again. It could happen again, it couldn't, but worrying about it either way doesn't take the place of how good the songs are, or how nice it is to have his glasses on my nightstand occasionally.

Is this a weird post? Do you need to know this? I need to confess this, because there's no need for me to feel like a bad person (cough roommates cough), and I feel like putting these thoughts out into the black hole of the internet is easier than telling them to people, because here, I can just talk and be judged silently or not at all. They're my choices, of an almost twenty-one year old living in Chicago with a predilection towards zombies, chai tea, and obsessive pop culture saturation. My choices, to live and deal with as I please. But it always helps to write them down, to give a voice to the thoughts in my head.

Cause I like where I’m livin’, and I like what I do, and I like what I’m seein’ when I’m lookin’ at you. I still like what I’m saying when I open my face. I think I got the right feeling. I think I’m in the right place. I think I got the right feeling. I think I’m in the right place. 

 The Ladies of Mad Men: Betty Draper, Joan Holloway, and Peggy Olson

...In which our heroine is kind of a big deal.

Over the summer, we found out at CCAP we'd won a $1 million grant over the next four years to provide technology programs in some of our community schools. Because we've had $600,000 cut from our budget this year, the grant was a huge boon for us, and provided lots of happiness in the office after ten people were laid off.

In addition to this bit of good news, we also got, and I quote, a major award: the 2010 National Arts and Humanities Youth Program Award, presented to us by Michelle Obama. Our executive director David, Herzl Elementary resource coordinator Rachel, and head of community schools April were in DC to accept it, as well as one of our students.

It was, I believe, our sixth year applying for the award, and we were picked as one of only 15 recipients. We watched the live stream this morning, complete with fist pump from the First Lady when our name was announced, and celebrated with cupcakes.

The Chicago Tribune wrote about us. The first lady gave us a plaque. We're kind of a big deal.

UPDATE: Now with photos!

Of all the great things Columbia and Chicago have given me, I think my work with CCAP might just be the greatest.

PS - I'm dying for not being at the five-night, discography spanning My Morning Jacket shows at Terminal 5 in New York this week. DYINGGG. They dressed Pooch in a leisure suit for chrissakes!

...In which our heroine celebrates a milestone.

It's my 250th post. I should have something profound to say. I do not. Instead, here are eleven of my favorite scenes from my eleven favorite films.

Almost Famous - Cameron Crowe, 2000


The Sweet Hereafter - Atom Egoyan, 1997


Blade Runner - Ridley Scott, 1982


Blue Velvet - David Lynch, 1986


A Woman Under the Influence - John Cassavetes, 1974


Boogie Nights - Paul Thomas Anderson, 1997


Leon - Luc Besson, 1994


Lost in Translation - Sofia Coppola, 2003


True Romance - Tony Scott, 1993


The Big Lebowski - The Coen Brothers, 1998


Evil Dead II - Sam Raimi, 1987

...In which our heroine has only one thing.

COULD THIS LOOK ANY FUCKING BETTER? I MEAN, REALLY.

...In which our heroine provides the necessary updates.

See, I told you updates would be sporadic. If you could see the mountain of laundry in my closet, you would understand these things. While I LOVE my apartment, the hour and a half total it takes me commuting every day really does make me have to plan my time much more effectively. But I have an hour before I have to leave for yoga, so let's play ketchup.

Speaking of the devil, yoga is the best thing I've taken up in a while. Every part of my body feels better, especially my brain. It's affecting how I sit, how I stand, how I sleep. At points during the week my joints will pop or I'll feel a muscle I didn't know existed, and it's wonderful. I can even buy into some of the spiritual aspects of it. WHO AM I? A baby hippie. My teacher Nadine is really awesome, and makes things really approachable and works with everyone on their specific body needs. The coolest thing I can do so far is stand with my feet spread, then bend at the waist and touch my head to the floor. The next part of that pose? Standing on your head.

I'm pretty happy with all of my other classes, actually all of them except my television class, but I get to spend the semester on a term paper about Twin Peaks so it isn't all bad. Adaptation is incredibly laid back and my professor is a legit filmmaker. I'm finally working on my teenage girl sex comedy, called Mantises for the moment, in Screen Treatment & Presentation, in which my ten minute pitch went well this week. I have this terrible ability to be able to just fucking wing it when I pitch and still sound good, which is not smart. Preparation, not perspiration. Peace Studies is like story time, only the stories are about the fundamental human questions in yourself. No big deal.

Our hot and hilarious neighbor Logan moved out this week but he left us some great stuff. We now have 5 more chairs including every stoner's delight, a mushroom chair, a big area rug for the living room, a new DVD cart, the cinema tour de force Hollywood Hineys 19 on VHS (!), and five bottles of the finest alcohol that can be bought for eight dollars. All three of us totally had a crush on him, and there are some gross DePaul girls moving in, so I'm sad. Their first question to us was "So do guys like, have like, sick parties here?" Barf.

And there's a new boy, but with complications. Will is my friend Steve's roommate: 23, film major graduating in January, from the suburbs, working on Ride Along which will be on Fox this winter. I like him - he's charming and very kind, not an asshole, not a drunk or a degenerate drug addict. Cool, great. But the boy is shy. Painfully shy. He drove me home Thursday night, and since we've been flirty for a while, I asked him out. To this, he pulled his baseball hat over his eyes and said only, "yeah, sure," then left like a bat out of hell. It isn't that he's not interested, Steve took care of that question mark for me, but he has no idea how to deal with a real, live female like most of his film school brethren. We've been doing a month or so of flirtation, and I'm impatient. Will graduates in January and is moving back to the 'burbs, so it begs the question if its even worth my time at all - I really don't see him magically developing social skills during this week, so if I have to be the aggressive one, should I even pursue something that'd be over in three months? All of this just further proves my theory I need to fulfill Beth Harding's prophecy and date someone older. Someone who has their shit together and has maybe touched boobs or gone on a date in their lifetime. I feel like a terrible person, but I can only be so forward.

I only have two full books to read before Wednesday, awesome! All of my cool pop cultural finds now live on tumblr, so pardon the lack of them on here. This is ramble-only space now. But it's OCTOBER, meaning fall, meaning my absolute favorite time of year. Music Box Massacre 6 - 24 hours of horror movies at the uber-cool Music Box Theatre - is next weekend, but I'm just content to watch all the cheeseball shit on AMC, TCM, and the local channels. Did I mention SIX WEEKS from tomorrow I will be TWENTY-ONE YEARS OF AGE? Festivities are already being planned. Halloween is looking like Hit Girl from Kick-Ass. I always miss being at home during this time of year - fall does something to me that brings all of these new exciting possibilities to the surface for me. And I really fucking love Halloween. And my birthday. And cardigans. And pumpkin-things, accompanied by cream cheese.

Yes, I do in fact enjoy this version of "I Put a Spell on You," and the video is footage of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, which may well be the first zombie movie. Deal.

...In which our heroine crunches the numbers.

I made a last.fm account last year when Cassie came to visit for Regina Spektor. It's one year anniversary was September 19th. Let's assess some stats, shall we?

Total Number of Scrobbles:
8529

Seems like a huge number - it counts for about 23 songs each day. Commuting will certainly make this number jump in the next year, I think.

Most Played Artists:

My Morning Jacket: 724
The Beatles: 284
Radiohead: 208
Pixies: 209
Fleet Foxes: 197
Depeche Mode: 196
Led Zeppelin: 172
Kings of Leon: 157
Girl Talk: 156
Neutral Milk Hotel: 141

This is pretty accurate, I'd say. I've gotten into MMJ in a huge way over the past year, and that shows. I don't know that The Beatles and Girl Talk should really be so high on the list, as my listening of them has fallen off as of late.

Most Played Tracks:

Cry - Godley & Creme: 52
Another Night Another Dream - La Bouche: 52
Like a Virgin - Madonna: 50
White Winter Hymnal - Fleet Foxes: 48
Nights in White Satin - The Moody Blues: 45
Rhythm is a Dancer - The Real McCoy: 45
Never Let Me Down Again - Depeche Mode: 43
Heavy Cross - The Gossip: 43
I Say a Little Prayer for You - Aretha Franklin: 41
Sex on Fire - Kings of Leon: 41
Tyrone - My Morning Jacket: 41
Touch Me I'm Going to Scream Part 2 - My Morning Jacket: 39
Do You Believe in Magic? - The Lovin' Spoonful: 38
Me & Mia - Ted Leo and the Pharmacists: 36
My Sweet Lord - George Harrison: 35

SO embarrassing to have bad 90s house music so high on the list. I'm generally more of a singles than record person, so once a song is stuck in my head, it's there for good. "Nights in White Satin" and "My Sweet Lord" will always be on my most played list.

Maybe this is boring, I dunno, but I thought it was kind of interesting, at least for my own personal sake.

...In which our heroine doesn't know what to think.

Sometimes life surprises you, like last night.

I know I'm getting to be the age where marriages and pregnancies will start to become less shocking and more commonplace, but for the moment, they remain in the shocking category.

For those of you keeping score, my closest group of friends freshman year was Emily, Bugs, Lane, and Ben. Emily dated Lane, I dated Ben, Bugs dated Evan. All of those relationships have since ended, but we've kept it cordial, admittedly, ahem, some more than others, but we're still always glad to see each other. Last night was Ben's 21st birthday, and the first time we had all been together since my birthday, nearly a year ago. Lane has a new girlfriend, Brenda, and has moved back to Aurora. I knew something was up when she politely declined her beer at beer pong: Lane's going to be a daddy.

It could be the context under which I spent most of my time with Lane (read: smoking or eating or smoking more) or the fact that he dated one of my best friends for a year, but I just can't wrap my head around it. Lane still seems so young to me - he was happy about it last night, but my perception was slightly altered by a bottle of Tanqueray. They've only been together since May and are going to be parents. Brenda, who I had met one time previously, just straight up told me.

Maybe I should be less surprised or maybe I'm just glad it isn't me (have I mentioned what a beautiful, simple invention the pill is?) but it's still blowing my mind. I know peers with kids, but Lane is definitely the closest person I know with an impending little one. So many questions: are they getting married, moving in together, finishing school? None of them are my place to ask. As Bugs said after he mentioned that he'll be a gay uncle, he concluded with "Well this will be a fun little adventure to watch unfold."

Sometimes, I think I should join a nunnery.

Also, cold Domino's pizza does not pair well with the aforementioned Tanqueray.

When the fuck did we get so grown up?

...In which our heroine is back with a vengeance, just like you knew she would be.

So I lied. I said I was killing the blog, and I thought it was dead, but I cannot stay away. Consider this Katydid in the City a zombie of a version that it once was - unpredictable, bite-y, and hungry for brains  I have too much to write about, and it's the writing that helps me process my day to day activities. I can't promise frequent updates, or even meaningful ones, but I have to have this here when I need it to be. Briefly: kept my job until next September and am now the Joan Holloway of CCAP. Started junior year, can't even think about all the work I have to do if I want to go to LA next year. Started taking yoga to calm mind and body. Have a few new script ideas.

We had to write an autobiography of ourselves for Peace Studies about where we come from, where we are, and where we are going. I took that abstraction and ran with it -

I come from a stance between two worlds – one foot rooted deeply in Catholic guilt, the other placed in the baby makin' bluegrass of Hazard, Kentucky. I come from a home where matters of chief importance are best discussed over tomatoes grown in a newspaper-covered garden, and movie quotes become the chosen vernacular. I come from the place of imagination that being an only child can create, where the characters in books and stuffed animals on the shelf speak volumes. I come from late nights spent slaving away over pages and pages written about Hamlet, lest I graduate with something less than a perfect 5.0.

I come from nights spent in basements, garages, fields, homes with out of town parents where sipping grain alcohol and smoking out of a pop can seemed oh so sophisticated, and the merits of Led Zeppelin II are discussed in the most exhaustive detail. I come from strains of Neil Young on summer nights, midnight movies on couches in the winter, and tastes of spring in well root beer, the tang of salty popcorn on lips.

I am on a couch in this, my very first big girl apartment, in the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago. I am wondering whether practicing the sun salutation from my very first yoga class this week should take precedent over the three hundred or so pages of reading I have to do. I am still feeling very something about sleeping with my ex-boyfriend this weekend - I care for him deeply still, as much as I don't want to admit it. I am feeling even more guilty that he has taken up residence in my thoughts, despite the fact that I met a perfectly nice, driven boy who should be there instead. I'm still wondering if when I woke in the dawn to him kissing my cheek he actually whispered “I really miss you” into my ear, or if it's one of those convenient spots my memory has tricked itself into believing because it wants to. I am looking up when the next information session is for the semester in Los Angeles – do I even want to go there? - and wondering how much a shitty studio would cost. Too much is probably the answer.

I should have talked to my mom for longer today, told her more about my classes. I am looking forward to my usual Tuesday morning conversation with my father, when he'll tell me some old song to listen to, taking his Townes Van Zandt and Nancy Sinatra records and finding a spot for them on my iPod. I am craving my grandma Daisy's french silk pie, and my grandma Mary Alice's pork roast with mashed potatoes with a stick of butter. I am still stuck on “The Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong,” and I wonder if it is just strange enough to be true, and if the necklace of tongues was truth or fiction – probably a little of both. I am in love with the chill in the air and the possibilities of fall – the horror movie marathons, the homey taste of my mom's pumpkin squares, not pie, and my twenty-first birthday.

I'm going to do my laundry tomorrow, because I'm out of clean jeans to wear and almost out of quarters. I'm going to find out about that semester in LA meeting, really, and make Leah come with me because she has the great ideas and I have the great words to express them. I'm going to finally pay that urgent care bill when my paycheck comes on Wednesday, even though I would much rather buy some pairs of jeans so I can have to drag my laundry up five flights of stairs less often. I'm going to get really tired of watching Monday Night Football with my roommates, but it is certainly going to help me write this. I'm going to make plans with the perfectly nice boy this weekend, because it's a smarter decision. I'm going to apply for that internship doing the summer camp with Facets Cinematheque this summer, and get to tell kids all about why they should love Citizen Kane even though it isn't in color. I'm also going to try and tutor at 826CHI because I think my real passion is working with youth, and I think it makes up for the bad karma I try my best not to generate.

I'm going to figure out more ideas for screenplays, even though everything I come up with sounds banal and trite in my head – I'm going to have more faith in my writing abilities. I'm going to smile and nod politely at work on Wednesday when I have to make individual copies of sixty parking receipts belonging to my executive director at work, even though he could do it just fine on his own, and I know he really, really needs that $87 reimbursement on top of his $100,000 salary. I'm going to get through the stack of twelve “to be read” books eventually, even if it takes me five years. I'm going to succeed where my parents haven't because nobody likes living paycheck to paycheck, and those $80,000 (and counting) in student loans certainly aren't going to pay off themselves. I'm going to visit where I come from – the chilly green countrysides of Ireland, and the coal country of Hazard some day, and think about what my grandparents thought when they left there. I'm going to have a child by age thirty-three, even if I'm not married, because being a mother is the only thing I've ever known that I really, really want. I'm going to stay in school for as long as I can, because there's a safety in writing papers and turning them in on time that doesn't exist in the so-called real world.

I'm going to take things as they come to me, and ride all of the bad decisions out with the good, and be thankful I can tell the difference between the two. I'm going to stop worrying about a career or those questions my parents friends ask me and just be happy that I can make such choices, that I don't have a four-year old or a drug problem or a full-time menial job, like some of my friends. I'm going to take a moment each day to take some big yoga breaths and be content with being here now, writing this paper, with this chill in the air, and all the possibilities that are lie ahead. 

So I'm back. Even if this is the only entry I make in the next six months, I'm at least back in the head space of writing again. Maybe you're back too, and even if you aren't, at least know that writing this always makes me feel better.

...In which our heroine bids a fond farewell.

So, friends and readers, it's come to this: I'm thinking about killing Katydid in the City. Posting has gone from infrequent to pretty much non-existent, all the comments I get are spamalicious, and Chemguy, Achilles, and Calen are the only other blogger folks who seem to update with any regularity anymore.

I think this blog has served its purpose. Let's look back at some of the first post, shall we?

"So I've finally decided to give this blogging thing an honest go. I feel that its a good time to start as some things in my life are ending and a lot more are beginning. What's to know about our illustrious blog host? Well I graduate high school in less than a month, which is dually fantastic and horrible. In the fall, I'll be attending the only college I really wanted to go to, Columbia College, which is in Chicago. I am going to pursue my passion for film there--lately I've been thinking Cinematography for a concentration. So stick around if you'd like to read about the pratfalls and successes of my first year away from home, in a major city, as I try to swim with sharks. Should be fine. I hope."

The swimming with sharks has gone splendidly: This will be my third August in Chicago, and I'll be a junior/senior at Columbia, working on a BA in Film & Video: Screenwriting. I haven't been back to Cincinnati in almost four months, which is a new record. I live in a lovely 4th floor walk-up in the Lakeview neighborhood with Emily Krieger, who is the most unlikely BFF ever. I was helplessly in love with Paul Cocco when this blog began. After finally giving that up, I was helplessly in love with Ben Montgomery, who was my first real boyfriend. I survived freshman year in a haze of marijuana smoke, found out that the ectasy is aptly named but makes you feel like death in the afterglow, and that yes, magic mushrooms do in fact produce and I quote, "majestic crystal peacocks." Ben broke my heart, and I spent last summer taking some much needed time to wallow in the hurt that both he and Paul caused. From that hurt, I finally figured out that my own happiness was paramount, and I was pretty fucking tired of settling for guys who turned out to be not so swell.

HOWEVER...last summer was a turning point for me. Amazing things happen when you aren't stoned everyday! I found my passions revived with a little help from Don Draper, and in three weeks, I wrote my first screenplay, "Sharp as a Razor, Soft as a Prayer." On a whim, I applied for a job as a "teaching artist apprentice", whatever the fuck that was. Through that, I was introduced to Joanna Barrios and the wonderful folks at Columbia's Center for Community Arts Partnerships, where I've been working as an administrative assistant since January. Mentoring with kids from the lower income neighborhoods of Chicago and using art to help them with academics has made me realize that my bullshit is not so important, and they're are more important tasks at hand. I wrote another screenplay, "Of Tangled Roots," and found a writing partner in the divine Miss Leah Williams, a Bob Evans hostess of Cleveland, Ohio. I spent every day this fall and winter with Heidi and Telly, only to have Telly move back to Maine, and then have find out Heidi was the most dishonest person I've ever met. I moved out of the dorms in May, and love being in an actual neighborhood. I've had a great love affair with myself and all of my delightful weirdness, and save for a few classy as ever friends with benefits escapades, been totally happy without a boy.

I got rained on with Flaming Lips confetti, and just plain rained on at Fleet Foxes. I stood ten feet away from my love Jim James in Columbus, Ohio, with the two most decent males I've had the pleasure of being friends with since high school, Nathan Artrip and David Albertz. I belly danced with Cassandra Gallagher on night two of seeing my favorite band, the Pixies, at the Aragon. I even let my mother drag me to a Pearl Jam show, and even sang along. I got to eat real deep dish pizza on the floor of my new apartment with my dad, and a heavy metal cheeseburger with the best chemistry teacher in Ohio, or at least Cincinnati. I cried my eyes out at Up, The Wrestler, In the Mood for Love, found that my passion for cinema was greater than I even expected. I learned what mise-en-scene and eyeline match meant, and how to shoot a 16mm film on a Swedish camera from the 1960s. Being in a field that is 93% men, I figured out the best way to deal with their chauvinist vulgarity is to simply one up them. 

The future? Giving the real screenwriting business a go in Los Angeles? Grad school at DePaul? Becoming Mrs. Jim James? Who knows. I do know that now, this girl, on a bed in Chicago, Illinois is a happier, older, and much less green lass than the one who started this blog on a mattress in Cincinnati, Ohio. She's living the big city life she's always dreamed of, become with her broken hearts indeed, more adventurous, and still remembers where that Katydid can hop back to, the people and places that have brought me to right now, this moment: too hot, drinking blood orange soda, and waiting for True Blood to come on.

So, thanks for reading my ramblings, my confessions, my pop culture obsessions. Thanks for the comments and the support that has cheered me up on many a Sylvia Plath day. Tumblr has taken over, and I REALLY encourage you to come find me at Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon. If for some reason that isn't enough, there's "Faceplace," as my boss calls it, or that electronic mail all the kids are talking about.

Thanks for reading Katydid in the City, I've quite enjoyed the writing. It's kept me sane on many days. To you especially, Chemguy, Calen, Lakes, Emily GV. I hope you've gotten an insight into the crazy little space I call my brain.

I end with this, written the night before I left for college. It applies to me just the same as it did that day as it does now: I lived all the thrills and spills of a life coming into adulthood. And tomorrow, the adventure really begins. As Penny Lane would say, "It's all happening."

Love,

Katydid

...In which our heroine has the goods.

Somewhere, the newest film from my imaginary BFF Sofia Coppola. Is it December yet?


Centurion; Or, Michael Fassbender is really sexy and sometimes I need some gratuitous going medieval on one's ass testosterone fueled violence. 


Speaking of going medieval on one's ass, greatness in the future from HBO. A Game of Thrones, the deliciously intriguing and violent nerd fantasy books I love.


And Boardwalk Empire, from Scorsese and Sopranos writer Terence Winter with a killer cast.


John Prine featuring some guy I kind of sort of like doing "All the Best" from Letterman.



 A stream of the John Prine covers album, Broken Hearts and Dirty Windows, featuring the above as well as covers from Bon Iver, Bright Eyes, and Drive-By Truckers, from NPR.

This is the cutest thing you'll see all day.

Except for Don Draper in the first official image from Mad Men season 4.

 The week in media: Upgrades on Almost Famous and Leon in Blu-ray, new purchase of Beetlejuice. Blake Snyder's screenwriting bible, Save the Cat is on its way and I think I have a new idea. Probably not going to Pitchfork anymore. Looking forward to The Criterion Collection release of The Thin Red Line in September, announced today.

In other news, carrying two weeks worth of laundry up five floors on an 80 degree day is the fucking pits.

...In which our heroine returns to form.

"Protection" by Massive Attack is one of my favorite songs and this is the first time I've listened to it in over a year. I'm typing this at an awkward angle, laying on my chest, feeling my delightful pangs of carpal tunnel. Watching Mad Men kill JFK tonight made me realize my uncle was born two days later in 1963 - why doesn't anyone ever mention this? Why is it so hard to delete people on Facebook...there's so many people I despise for their updates in my news feeds yet I can't commit. What a strange form of voyeurism. This little boys Cubs shirt is my best clothing purchase of the past month. Nothing I ate today was wholly satisfying. Perused eBay for cat eye glasses frames - don't wanna look like a grandma, but also don't want some bullshit modern retro-y frames. At work on Friday I read through tax returns for non-profits and found out that giving to health organizations and religious organizations seems to be mutually exclusive. I don't update this or write in my journal enough anymore, except for the good dreams. I've been lucid dreaming in the mornings lately, and it forces me to stay in bed another hour, in the hopes that some great fantasia will happen. This building is so old I can hear the floors creaking from downstairs. I almost felt bad for screaming at the television during the Blackhawks game tonight, but the country music usually drifting through the floorboards made me reconsider. "Rebellion (Lies)" is such a great song title, though the new Arcade Fire tracks are disappointing in the worst way. My job might change to be assistant to the work infatuation, which is now strictly an infatuation, no longer a crush. That plays into far too many issues than I need bring upon myself. A movie a day is keeping me mostly honest. I need to read more, tackle my huge pile of books. And better work clothes. Two songs away from 4,000 on iTunes. Why is the first picture of Chris Farley on Google of him dead? MORBID, even for me. I've been sleeping a lot lately, but eating better and walking all over tarnation. There's beer in the fridge and Blu-ray discs on their way from the UK. I won't be going back to Cincinnati until late July, and this should bother me more than it does. I never finished Mean Streets. He said he would call tonight, and he didn't, again. I turned on the MTV Movie Awards for about five minutes and it was fucking intolerable. The only movie I'm still excited for this summer is Inception. My Morning Jacket in August probably means to Pitchfork? I don't know.

...In which our heroine finds a home.

"Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread. Through shadow, to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight.  Mist and shadow, cloud and shade, all shall fade... all... shall... fade." - Pippin Took, The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King

The notion of home is an odd one. Cincinnati is one - in the living rooms of my grandmothers, in the pulpy smelling comic shops I visited with my father, the earth of my mom's tomato plants. Chicago is another - in rooms 2602, 2714, and 813, in late night diners, in my now sparsely decorated new Lincoln Park living room. I don't think a person can have simply one home: we make it wherever we tread, hopefully, and there are many places where we can find a home.

I knew this was a new place to call home on Sunday. I went on a trip to explore the new neighborhood, and amongst the bitchin' vintage stores, eateries, and baby/dog army, I found a used book store called Bootleggers. Used book stores and I go way back, and I've struggled to find a decent one in Chicago. Now that isn't the case. I perused the dog-eared fantasy paperbacks, the film books, the vinyl in the back, the smell of paper and the elevator jazz welcoming me home.

But this isn't the important part of the story, no. For about two years, I've been trying to recover something I lost. Maybe "lost" isn't the right word - I know who has it - but it's something I can't ever get back. I never should have let him borrow it in the first place, before spring break our senior year, and it's been gone ever since: my favorite book ever, the first edition hard cover copy of Stephen King's The Stand. 

I first read the book when I was fifteen, and its narrative was so rich, so compelling, I promised myself I'd re-read it every five years.  Seeing as age twenty is half-over, I was getting discouraged. I refused to settle for a paperback or abridged edition - I wanted exactly what I used to have, the same copy.

There it was at Bootleggers, the book I'd been searching for, staring back at me from between some of King's lesser, more recent works. It was $11.03 with tax, my lucky number. It's staring at me from the coffee table, one Emily pilfered from her old apartment, like the huge tome that it is. It has a dust jacket. There's are penciled initials on the first page, "RM." The red foil men on the front are more worn than my copy, but the gold lettering on the edge isn't.

No, it isn't the same as my copy, but it's the closest thing I'll ever find. I'm thinking about how very different of a person I am at twenty than I was at fifteen - I was reading it around this time, the very beginning of summer. I'm thinking about who I gave it to, how it isn't truly lost, but even if I were to get it back, I don't want it. I'm thinking about what'll be like to start again. We need help, the poet reckoned, says the first page.

Home is in all kinds of places.

The smells of hot cocoa on winter mornings and the ants that swarm on purple peonies in the summer. The rats that scamper from my dumpster when I heave a bag in.

The late night conversations at Waffle House, or the midday ones at the new diner hangout, Golden Nugget.

On a couch in Cincinnati, Ohio, after school. In the pages of a book read by a girl who had never kissed a boy or been to Chicago. On a couch in Chicago, Illinois by a girl in her very first real apartment, who needs to tackle a pile of laundry and to ask the boys across the hall for some help on her television, although she could just as easily call the cable company.

The book begins with a page announcing "The Circle Opens," and tidies itself up nicely with "The Circle Closes," on the last page. Within the book, one of the generals mentions that lovely quote: "Things fall apart, the center does not hold" before eating a pistol. These things are certainly true, and while I live in the city now, you'll find me using the phrase home interchangeably for both here, and Cincinnati. Lots of things have fallen apart since I first read The Stand, circles have closed, forever irrecoverably damaged. But, now, in this, Oakdale Avenue, Apartment 4, that circle seems to be quite open. And still, there is Randall Flagg, threatening to give me the creeps before bedtime, though I know the creeps from the real world are much scarier. However oddly enough, I take comfort in this.

"To the one I now know most, I will tell them of your ghost like a thing that never, ever was."

...In which our heroine is back from the dead: Return of the Living Heroine Part 3

It's been a while. A long enough while that I'm typing this is my new living room, in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood, where I'm technically neighbors with Jeff Tweedy and Roger Ebert. Things are in general chaos, but I have a bed, and food in the fridge, and books on the shelf.

I feel like doing a paint by numbers of the past month or so since I've been away is a little ridiculous because so much has happened. But here are the CliffNotes:

-The semester is finished. Got righteously trashed yesterday starting at 2PM with my 30 year old co-workers, and continued the party well into the evening. I hate to play that card, but I needed it.
-109 page screenplay is complete, for the moment. Won a pitch contest in Screenwriting II. Got a 98 on my script analysis final and he liked the paper so much he asked for it as an example. A on Biology final...it was a busy, but great semester.
-Lots of great film stuff I didn't get to mention! Eraserhead, Gas Food Lodging, Kick-Ass, The Return of the Secaucus Seven, Pink Flamingos, and The Doom Generation are all wonderfully weird and fantastic.
-My Morning Jacket did not disappoint. "Dondante" was the single best song I've ever seen live. The collaborating with the Preservation Hall Jazz Band was fantastic. And Mr. Jim James was even more beautiful in person. Also had a great time eating great food over great conversation with Emily, Nate, and David.

There's so much more to talk about, but those are the major things. Goals for the summer include: tackling Stephen King's The Dark Tower, catching up with Dexter, going to Pitchfork, making friends with the cute boys across the hall, improving my foodie skills, and working my way through the Netflix list.

As always, I continue to update Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon. It's blogging on an ADD scale.

I'm really happy right now. I feel like this is going to be a great summer. How are you, friends?

...In which our heroine announces a hiatus.

What a strange day.

-I went into work Thursday to Joanna telling me "shit went down yesterday." The budget has been a major area of concern for CCAP over the past month, and not only is Columbia making cuts, but Chicago public schools are in serious turmoil. So of course I wasn't shocked when she told me 8 of the 24 staff workers at CCAP, including herself and my other boss Mecca, were being let go as of July 31st. For the moment, I'm not fired, and I had several people in the office mention how I needed to be kept on somehow, but it's still a shitty situation. Ironically enough, we had a really lovely day though - everyone was hungover and we spent most of the day walking around in the glorious weather.

-If you've seen Black Hawk Down, you know Ewan McGregor is in it. In my script analysis class, the real life Ewan McGregor talked to us tonight about being a stunt double for him in the film, and how he was in fact on that mission in 1993. I had noticed the gentleman before because a. he's much older and b. he was wearing a proudly gay t-shirt. Couldn't make it up if I tried!

-The lease is signed on our apartment as of Monday. I feel slightly more like a grown-up and just want to get out of these dorms like yesterday. May 7th!

-Obsessing over John Cassavetes. We watched Faces in class, which my professor describing as a film we would either hate or find life changing. I fell into the latter category. I also watched A Woman Under the Influence this week and The Killing of A Chinese Bookie. Faces and A Woman Under the Influence were immediately favorites. I just love the conversations, the hand-held camera, the alcohol, the exploration of love, of people. What a brilliant, brilliant filmmaker.

-For the moment, I think this is going to be the last blog post on here. As you can see, they've been coming fewer and further between. I'm just too busy. BUT, you can also visit me on Tumblr, to which I finally caved. I just don't have enough time right now, except to post some pictures. So, stop by Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon in the meantime.

Falling back in love with Dolly Parton. I inexplicably was allowed to watch this movie when I was no older than 5.

...In which our heroine ponders the strange and wonderful world of technology.

I'm sitting on my home couch watching UK kick some Wake Forest ass and my tummy is full of my momma's cupcakes. It's a lovely feeling.

Here's the thought for the day: The internet is a strange and spectacular place, most of the time. Through happenstance, I've gotten very into reading various Tumblr accounts on a regular basis because why read when you can look at lots of pictures...kidding. I haven't started one myself, but I find the format to be really interesting in terms of how information gets disseminated so widely.

Case in point: In my ongoing quest to love my body just as it is, one of the Tumblrs I check is called Fuck Yeah Chubby Girls. It's a body positive site that encourages reader submissions and posts them. It provides me with a daily self-esteem boost, and a lot of times there are cute fashion tips. Another way I've been working on embracing my curves is to take pictures of myself on days when I'm feeling cute. One such picture ended up very cute and I thought - hey, why not share my narcissism with the world. So I submitted to FYCG, and it got posted. 

34 people have liked, and 4 have reblogged the picture of yourself. I wasn't doing it to fish for compliments, but more so for 15 year old versions of myself that found FYCG and could have more positive role models - we all know the media is devoid of them. One of the likes was from a 15 year old, whose Tumblr mentions her low self-esteem. I know it would've helped my 15 year old self if I would have found such a site sooner.

However, 2 of the reblogs were porn sites. I clicked on them, and there I was between a couple hardcore shots. I realize that putting yourself out onto the internet opens you up to all sorts of that stuff, but it was still weird. Aside from some cleavage, my picture in no way shape or form resembles the other stuff on the sites.

It presents an interesting conundrum to me: I submitted a picture as a means of self-empowerment and obviously people liked it, but just enough to get posted on pornographic Tumblrs. It also begs the question of how not anonymous people are anymore. While I don't post my business all over the internet, I do have a Facebook, a Twitter, this blog, and now have submitted to a site where a photo of me takes you to sites featuring content unmentionable for this blog. It certainly wasn't my intent, but it's done now and forever out into the black of cyberspace. It makes me wonder if I'll ever submit anything again, even though I really do like the site and what it does for chubby girls like yours truly.

Isn't the internet a strange place, that one photo of you, or a post made, or a video made, can be seen throughout an entire network of people you don't even know. Nothing is private, and we're doing it to ourselves. I don't even mind so much that the photo ended up where it did - I opened that up when I submitted it - but still, it isn't everyday that I as your pesky, verbose heroine faces such a situation.

In other fantastical news, WE FOUND AN APARTMENT. It's right in Lincoln Park, the yuppiest part of Chicago (my mother called me a "yupster," a yuppie and a hipster, of which I am neither) and near a Borders, an Aveda, and an arthouse theatre. 4th floor walk-up, 3 bedrooms, huge living and dining rooms, newish kitchen, lots of breeze and beautiful natural light. I'm so in love with the place, and can't wait to make it my own. We signed the initial paperwork yesterday, and I had one of those moments - despite the blister from having to wear the cute flats to visit apartments and the fact I didn't do as well on midterms as I should have - when you realize that sometimes life gives you exactly what you could only dream of.

RIP Alex Chilton - this is one of the sweetest songs ever written.

...In which our heroine needs a necessary distraction.

Midterms this week. Zero motivation to write my producing analysis on A History of Violence or study for my biology exam tomorrrow.

So instead, since my internal clock is all fucked up from the time change and I took a nap at 6PM:

      I'm sitting in the spot where Kara slept this weekend. When the adorable bald clerk at Sephora asked how long we'd been friends, the enormity of the answer - 15 years - struck me then. We had so much fun drinking wine as sweet as grape juice and getting scared by low budget horror films and making faces at the St. Patrick's Day drunks and eating dinner at 10PM. The bones in front of my ears hurt and I don't know why. We looked at apartments today - Emily called, and I e-mailed eight potential dwellings for the next year. Lots of promise, lots of excitement. Somedays I have to remember I'm capable of such decisions. My parents gave me a check for $500 that they certainly don't have for, as my dad said, "life, school, etc." I think I'm going to buy a new television with it, HD, because I can't watch movies on the same blue television that I've had since I entered double digits.

      The forecast predicts weather in the 50s all week and I bought a pair of tights at the grocery store today to wear dresses. Why must everything in women's clothes be different - numbers, letters, names. The thighs of my jeans always conveniently rip out when I'm about to go home, which I am on Saturday. OSU and UC spring breaks are the same as mine and this is a delightful fact. PITCHFORK OR LOLLAPALOOZA...this is the most significant decision facing me right now, and for this I'm thankful. My dishwasher always makes noises befitting of demonic possession, and with the apartment to myself, I'm sure to run it before I go to bed always.

       Today I saw that Ben had one of his articles published online, and I was overwhelmed at how happy I was he's being productive and succeeding, even if we barely ever talk. Little joy - I couldn't get that phrase out of my head. I bought a red writer's notebook at the feminist bookstore in Andersonville and am keeping my thoughts in it. Kara touched it, saying she knew a million dollar idea would be stored within. I had a table read of my first 25 pages of the new script and it sounded good. My friend Steve told me I write like the Coen Brothers and it was the best compliment of the week. NOT, the security guard at work who calls me baby doll. Chicago public schools are a mess - I'm learning this from the inside out - and I feel so badly for the kids trapped within. I visited ACT Charter High School, which is being shut down by the city, and felt like I was in an episode of The Wire. In some small part, even though I mostly just write e-mails and file papers, I feel like I'm helping with CCAP. "'Cause everything be great, and everything be good, if everybody could," is the quote on my Facebook and that's how working at CCAP makes me feel. Maybe it doesn't matter in the whole big dance of it all, but at least we can try. 

I love this song so much. It makes me think of University of Iowa blankets made it forts and sleeping until 1PM and the boy I stopped loving a year ago. It really is the "Album of the Year," - this song, that he gave to me on those nights.

...In which our heroine recaps.

The Oscars were the biggest yawn-fest in my viewing history, which began in 1995 when I wanted Babe to win Best Picture over Braveheart. I was six. Oscar nights make me nostalgic for when I used to dress my Barbies up for the red carpet. Bad or good, the Oscars are my thing.

Highlights of the evening included:

 

  

Yeah, it was a boring show, but triple foxy redheadedness, the first female director to win!, a tribute to John Hughes that made me cry, and some divine company (with the elusive Sofia Coppola sparkling wine) the night was certainly uber-bingo.