Archive for December, 2012

Step aside, Coffee. This is a job for alcohol: saying goodbye to 2012

The presents have been unwrapped, “Miracle on 34th Street” has been watched, “Happy Birthday Jesus” has been sung, the man in the red suit has done his annual drive-by (or is it fly-by?) under cover of darkness and childhood fantasies, and the last cookie crumb has been carried off by a hopeful house-mouse. That means only one thing: 2012 is officially breathing its last, so grab a hip flask and your favorite alcoholic beverage and settle in for a year-end review. If yours looks anything like mine, you’re going to need a drink or five. So, here goes:

Weight:………Ha! Made ya look. I don’t think so.

Jobs: 1 (hurrah. Am career woman extraordinaire…or impoverished graduate student with delusions of grandeur. It all depends on your point of view).

Status of Dissertation: almost complete (unless you count the fact that all chapters are in draft form and at least 5 pages short of the minimum required length. Re: point of view, positive attitude, glass half-full ETC.)

Boyfriends: 1 (V.G. Definite improvement in life situation).

Number of obsessive thoughts about Mark Darcy/Colin Firth: 16000000 (conservative estimate).

Number of times watched unveiling of Colin Firth’s wax figure on The Ellen Show: 3 (minimal due to irrational waxyfirthophobia).

Number of times watched “Hobbit” trailer to hear Martin Freeman exclaim, “I’m going on an adventure!”: 3054830 (approx. Is natural and just, though, considering adorable factor of Martin Freeman).

Number of books read: 44 (disgusting, illiterate slob. Must improve).

Number of books read from the BBC’s list of 100 books everyone should read: 1 (positively Philistine).

Number of films scene: 4 (serious lack of dedication to supporting the arts. Must really try harder in 2013).

Number of films seen in theater: one (Bad. Clearly have become victim of technology and convenience of Netflix, online streaming, ETC.)

Number of Colin Firth films seen: two (pathetic beyond what words can express. Have resolved to redouble efforts and complete Firth filmography project by end of 2013).

High points of year: My trip to Boston (though not, perhaps, the incident involving a very muddy guidedog and a disgruntled bellhop); discovering that I can, contrary to previous belief, attract decent heterosexual males (*crosses fingers*); Sherlock series 2 (except psychological trauma re: fake suicide and suspense over pending return of supposedly-dead detective)

Low points of year: Discovering that, according to this article in the Daily Mail, Colin Firth actually claims to hate Christmas. Something inside of me has died. All hope and joy have gone from the world. This must be how Dorothy felt when she pulled back the curtain and saw a shriveled old prune of a man instead of a god-like sorcerer type figure in manner of Gandalf or Albus Dumbledore…or how Bridget Jones felt upon discovering that Mark Darcy votes Tory. I’m completely overlooking the fact that the above Article appeared in The Daily Mail and consequently contains about as much truth as a politician’s promise. There’s just no cure for that kind of paradigm-shattering trauma. If you were planning to tell me that the Easter Bunny isn’t real, now might not be the best time; I’m just a bit too fragile at the moment.

2013 Resolutions: Finish dissertation (because, well, this isn’t negotiable), eat healthier, drink less alcohol (except for medicinal purposes…like stress…or watching any movie in which Colin Firth dies), put DVDs back in cases after watching, keep up with laundry, washing up, and other house chores, work out at the gym at least three times a week, work on inner poise.

Question: How has your 2012 been? What are you looking forward to in 2013?

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The Fondness of a Father: a Tribute to Jane Austen and Mr. Bennet

I stood in my closet, hands on hips, tapping my foot as I surveyed my wardrobe. The floor around me was a tangle of jeans, sweaters, and black leggings.
“Woman of substance. Inner poise,” I repeated. “You can do this. It’s just a work holiday party.”
“No, it’s not,” said the small voice of insecurity that generally likes to make its opinions heard when I’m least interested in hearing them. “It’s a holiday party with your new sweetie. The first holiday party you’ve ever attended with a date in your nearly 30 years on this planet.”
“Shut up!” I hissed. “That’s classified information.”
“It’s blog fodder,” said the voice.
“That too,” I conceded. “Now, if you’ve finished lowering my self-esteem, I’ve got a party to go to.”

After much deliberation (and quite possibly the first game of eeny-meeny-miny-moe I’ve played since grade school) I’d selected what I hoped would be the perfect outfit and was debating the merits of comfortable and sensible versus sexy and stylish in the footwear department, when my phone rang.
“So, what are you wearing to the party tonight?” (It was my dad.).
“I don’t know,” I answered, contemplating the potential danger of blind woman and high-heeled shoe versus hard wood floor.
“What? What do you mean you don’t know? You’re going to a holiday party with your new beau. This is an essential detail.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, endeavoring to calm my breathing that had quickened through a combination of nerves, frustration, and tight pants.
“So what are you wearing?” he continued. “You want to look nice. Something that straddles the line between ‘professional’ and ‘slut.'”
“I-what?” Christopher Columbus! I wasn’t having this conversation with my father. I have a very short list of things that I never want to hear in my lifetime; it includes cats caught in a garbage disposal and Colin Firth’s American accent. Now we’ll just add to that any conversation with my father that includes or in any way references the topic of sex or sexuality.
“I, um, Dad, I don’t…want to have this conversation.”
“Well, whatever you wear, just don’t look too sexy, and behave yourself.”
No, not the “Remember-your-catholic-morals” conversation. Please. I mean, if the fact that I’m not dating a catholic already means I’m shopping for a condo in Hell, we might as well just move in together and have done with it.
“Dad, I’m going to be late,” I hissed into the phone.
“OK, but just one more thing.”
I sighed. “Yes?”
“Have a good time. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

With what relatively little experience I’ve had playing the dating game, my father’s involvement can probably be best described as something between Steve Martin (think Father of the Bride here) and the Godfather. The thing is, my dad understands my taste in men about as much as he understands my taste in pineapple pizza. That being said, I have a long-cherished fantasy about the moment when I will some day announce my engagement to my father—a fantasy that is scripted along the lines of this conversation between Lizzie Bennet and her father about Mr. Darcy.

“Lizzie,” said her father, “I have given him my consent…I now give it to you, if you are resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your disposition, Lizzie. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable unless you truly esteemed your husband…Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage…My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life.”

Elizabeth, Still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object of her choice…and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s incredulity and reconcile him to the match.

“Well, my dear,” said he when she had ceased speaking, “I have no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with you, my Lizzie, to anyone less worthy.”

This passage echoed in my mind as, with one deep breath, I checked my purse for emergency cosmetics and headed out the door, and—literary geek that I am—I can’t help noting that I’m typing this on Jane Austen’s birthday; perhaps I’ve somehow managed to channel her spirit. I should try writing a historical novel set during Regency England, though I’ll leave out the zombies and seamonsters, thanks.
I might blame Jane Austen for enabling my romantic notions, but amidst the Darcy dreams, she taught me a valuable lesson: boyfriends come and go, but the fondness of a father is forever.

Happy 237th Birthday, Miss Austen.

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