The Rewatcher (aka: Again and Again and Again)

Since Twitter told me that today is #NationalBookLoversDay, I totally thought I would write a post about books. That makes sense, especially since I’ve read about five books per day since I was three years old. I could pretty much write your ears off about books.

But then I started thinking about how much I enjoy it when a book I’ve loved has been turned into a movie or TV series. It is a kind of magic to see the artistic interpretation of a beloved story, to watch it all unfold on the screen. Sometimes, the story becomes unrecognizable (*ahem* Ella Enchanted/A Little Princess/The Stepford Wives *ahem*). But sometimes, the result is just as wonderful — and occasionally better — than the book (The Lord of the Rings / Harry Potter 1-4 / Game of Thrones).

Then my thoughts took yet another twist. As I contemplated favorite titles of books and movies and TV shows, something important occurred to me. Here we are, living in the age of endless movies and TV shows at our fingertips. Just press a few keys, and you can stream one of thousands of titles. You never have to watch the same show twice! It is rather fitting for today’s disposable culture. Watched that series already? Move onto the next one. Tired of your stuff? Replace it all. Tired of your family, your friends? Toss them out, get new ones.

It is quite possibly my least favorite thing about modern American culture.

I am not fond of the disposable lifestyle, preferring, instead, to own few quality possessions, which I try to take care of. I rarely choose to dispose of friends or family, either, unless their presence in my life is harmful. People are too precious to be thrown away or forgotten.

My fondness for permanence spills over into my film and TV show selections, as well. Though I occasionally enjoy finding new series to binge on, or fun new movies to watch, I am, and have always been, a rewatcher. What’s a rewatcher? Someone who watches the same films and movies again and again and again, because she adores them and can’t get enough.

I have watched every episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer at least twice. Every episode of Friends at least three times. Every episode of Alias, The Office, Smallville at least twice. I latch onto the characters, await familiar scenes with anticipation, laugh yet again at their antics and cringe at their follies. And films? I can recite every line of The Goonies and Back to the Future. I have fallen in love with Noah and Allie’s romance again and again. I have memorized the charades of Will and Viola in Shakespeare in Love. And my favorite film of all time? I have watched Pride and Prejudice once every single year since it was released in 2005.

One might think that rewatching might lead to boredom. But not for me. Each time I watch, I learn something new about my favorite characters. I see a gleam in his eye that wasn’t there before, or hear a tone in her voice that changes the meaning of that scene. I find new things to appreciate — the camera angles, and how they added to the tension. The way the sunlight cast the perfect light and shadows to add to the mood. The timing. The costumes. The way the score consisted of the same song, played over and over, and yet, it works beautifully.

I find new reasons why this film, this character, became my favorite.

Books are the same way. I guess you might also call me an avid re-reader, too. Brave New World. The Harry Potter books. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Hunger Games. There will always be room for more books in my repertoire, and more films or TV shows on my screen. But every so often, the newness gets old. And I must return time and time again to the arms of the stories I treasure most.

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A Bloody Good Topic (aka: A Conversation Stopper We Should All Be Talking About)

I guess I should bloody well dive into this topic.

Well…not literally. Because that’d be gross.

Today, I’m thinking about something that’s sometimes thick and oozy, like a milkshake, and sometimes drippy and wet, like a melted ice cream cone. It flows through all of us. And um…vampires love it. Oh, and it’s pretty much always red.

I guess I’m not making these clues very mysterious, am I? Maybe because the moment I started to write about it, my head began to feel all lightweight and spinney. Oof. I think I’ll just put my head down for a moment. That’s better.

That’s what I get for writing about blood.

But seriously, why is blood such a taboo topic? I mean, blood is so cool! Well, technically, it’s warm, but you get my meaning. Blood = life. It carries oxygen and nutrients and hormones and proteins to every part of our bodies. It fights off nasty infections. It’s one of the most important things about our bodies.

And yet, just mention the word, and half the people in a room will squirm with discomfort. Some will grow lightheaded, like me. A couple might even vomit, which is much ickier than blood, if you ask me. Mention how you sliced your arm open on the sharp edge of a barbecue grill and bled like a sacrificial lamb, and everyone in the room will make the same wince-face.

Blood is a conversation-stopper.

Unfortunately, in some cultures, blood is more than just a conversation-stopper. It’s downright verboten. Especially when it’s the blood that comes out of women’s bodies every month. Like lots of American women around my age, I learned all about menstruation from good ol’ Margaret and friends (Thanks, Judy Blume!). Also, from the drop-dead-embarrassing filmstrips they made us watch in school, and the little booklets the nurses handed out to every 10-12 year-old girl, filled with pre-teens who were for some reason super-excited about the idea of “becoming a woman.” Those of us with big sisters knew perfectly well that there was NOTHING exciting about getting monthly visits from Aunt Flo and wearing the equivalent of a diaper to keep from bleeding all over the place. Periods suck. If there was a special pill we could take to make them disappear, believe me, we’d all buy it.

But believe it or not, millions of young girls — you read that number right — millions of young girls around the globe are not taught anything about menstruation. They are not taught the difference between pantyliners for light days and the ultra-super-duper pads with wings for the heavy days. They are not taught how to insert a tampon without dying from pain (some of us still struggle with that part decades later). They are not shown any cutesy period commercials or handed any cutesy informational pamphlets. Basically, these girls are sentenced to a week of shame and humiliation every month, barred from schools and temples, and sometimes from their own homes. Millions of girls are told that their periods make them spiritually unclean. They must remain isolated from the rest of their families and communities and use whatever rags, grass, twigs, or paper they can find until Aunt Flo decides to pack it up and head home.

Now that’s an idea that should make us all squirm in discomfort.

We can all agree that periods suck. But they suck because they are inconvenient and a little messy. Because we might have to skip out on a morning swim, or sex, or wearing those cute white jeans for a few days. Not because society will shun us and treat us like filth because our bodies — our normal, healthy, female bodies, are doing something nature intends for them to do.

Today, I just read about Duchess Meghan Markle (yes, the wife on Prince Harry) and how she has been an outspoken supporter of the Myna Mahila Foundation, an Indian charity whose goal it is to provide the women of India with access to sanitary supplies and education about hygiene, and to end the long-held stigmas surrounding menstruation throughout the country. The more I read about how this charity and others like it are helping to change perceptions and the lives of so many girls and women, the more my eyes were opened. You might say my heart bled a little for the work they’re doing.

Oh, stop squirming. A little blood never killed anyone. Okay, fine, maybe it has. But mostly, blood is pretty good stuff. And no one should feel ashamed to talk about it. Period.

maternity (a poem)

maternity

No one from outside

would ever know that you were my mother

our differences vast

A lush, hidden rainforest birthed from

blazing salt desert

Nervous hare escaping

traps of words, poisoned barbs

flavored with cola and ashes

sepia-tinted memories of hiding in a corner

fingers white with tension, clutching a book

swallowing tears

feeding myself with ideas

lest I starve

on your thin diet of gruel.

The Good Girl

The Stubborn Girl

The girl who knew everything yet nothing

and spoke a language you could never understand.

Even today, your version of love

Is blind obedience

Open your mouth and drink the bitter tonic

rub it into your wounds

or leave the party

if you won’t dance, little puppet.

My best teacher of hardness

invisible shield to hide my deformity

too-tender heart, easily crushed like mint

flees from your heavy brand of love

that smothers every spark.

 

la maternidad

Nadie desde afuera

sabría que tú fueras mi madre

nuestras diferencias vastas

Una selva rica y escondida nacida de

una desierta abrasadora de sal

liebre nerviosa escapandose de

las trampas de palabras, púas venenosas

de sabor cola y cenizas

recuerdos teñidos de sepia de esconderme en un rincón

los dedos blancos de tension, aferrando un libro

tragando las lágrimas

alimentandome con ideas

no sea que me muero de hambre

a causa de tu dieta de gachas aguadas.

La Buena Niña

La Niña Terca

The niña que sabía todo pero nada

y que habló una idioma que jamás podías entender.

Aún hoy, tu versión del amor

es la obedencia ciega

Abre la boca y bebe la tónica amarga

frótala en las heridas

o salga la fiesta

si no bailarás, titerecita.

Mi mejor maestra de la dureza

escudo invisible para esconder mi malformación

corazón demasiado delicado, facilmente machacado como la menta

huye de tu marca pesada del amor

que ahoga cada chispa.

 

Cozy Còsagach and Hygge Happiness

Some of us are just better off barefoot.

A coworker of mine didn’t buy this. For Christmas, she gave me not one, but two pairs of warm, fuzzy slipper socks. I love the heck out of slipper socks! So comfy, and that fits well with my philosophy of hygge. (More on that later).

Sadly, it took less than three days before I was down to a single, mate-less slipper sock, its partner and buddies nowhere to be found. I’m sure they wound up in the secret place to which all sockmates vanish, and are drinking and dancing the night away. At a sock-hop, no doubt. My feet, as usual, remain bare.

But no worries. Socks are not required to live the hygge life.

Oh silly Jupiter Girl, says my inner snob. Hygge is soooo 2016. We’re all about còsagach now.

Ok fine. Whatever. Danish hygge, Gaelic còsagach, the idea is the same. Get cozy.

Hygge Defined

I am all about coziness in our family’s home. There is nothing better than to come in after a day in a cold, loud, and hectic world, and be surrounded by warmth, family, and good food. Thick, hearty soups and chowders. Soft sweaters. A crackling blaze in the fireplace (for those of you with fireplaces).

My family loves nothing better on a chill winter’s day than to curl up with soft blankets and throws on the couch and read books, or watch a TV show, or just converse with each other while scented candles glow across the room. Throw in some steaming mugs of earl grey, or perhaps some rich, sweet cocoa, and you have just defined our version of hygge. Or còsagach. No matter what you name it, it means the same thing. Home.

No socks required.

Badass (A Poem)

Does anyone know when the rules changed?

When once women

smiled upon, praises heaped

for her whispers, powder-soft feminine grace

delicate charms

rewarded for fragility

her tears like treasures raining from lowered lashes

Stay pretty, they told us.

We were cherished once

honored

Bought, never borrowed

safe beneath his wing.

Until

the world thought it best to change the picture

sudden shift

grafitti-marred brick wall displays

the new Femme Fatale

strong, savage beauty

clad in black leather

full lips like blood, eyes like flames.

Though born soft, she is tossed in the arena

to fight alone

Badass

Rogue

Swallow the dark elixir they feed us

inject fantasy into our skin like tattoos

Be HER, they tell us.

Buffy, Katniss, Khaleesi

Forge the spirit of Athena

the hardness of the Amazons.

Fight with the strength of a man

dance the lead like a man

be ever more like a man

but stay…

pretty.

female warrior

The Best Part of Wakin’ Up (aka: Coffee Time!)

In the beginning, there was coffee. And the coffee was black and bitter. Then someone said, “Let there be cream!” And there was cream. And later, someone else discovered that sugar made coffee sweet and delicious. And thus, America’s favorite beverage came to be.

perfect cup of coffee

I discovered coffee when I was a ten year-old kid. Of course, back then, it meant a milked-down, over-sugared mug of Folgers or Maxwell House alongside my bowl of Wheaties each morning. Still, it was coffee! The best part of wakin’ up. Good to the last drop.

“You’ll stunt your growth,” my family members warned. I ignored them, sipping my hot drink, engrossed in a novel. They were mistaken, of course. Fast forward to the present, and I still engage in my daily cup of java, which didn’t hinder me from reaching a comfortable height of five-foot-six. The only difference between then and now, is that I’m less likely to drink good ol’ Maxwell House or Folgers, and more likely to sample a variety of roasts grown in different regions of the world. I’m also far more like to drink decaf. (I know — blasphemy!)

Keurig Green Mountain Inc. Product Illustrations Ahead Of Earnings Figures

It’s interesting how the way we drink coffee has changed over the last several decades. By the time I was in middle school, flavored creamers hit the stores. Coffee wasn’t coffee unless it was Amaretto or Irish Cream-flavored. Throughout high school, I went back to black. And then, during university, some friends invited me to a local coffee shop that changed my life: Java City. Suddenly, coffee was not merely coffee. Coffee was Espresso! Cappuccino! Mochas and Lattes! Fancy, exotic coffee drinks blended with foamy steamed milk, drizzled in chocolate or caramel.

Then Starbucks came along and chased the other coffee shops out of town with their ever-growing selection of mouthwatering caffeinated beverages. Despite the fact that a cup of Starbucks coffee costs the same as an entire family meal, hordes of people began to flock to the popular coffee shop for its hip, ultramodern decor; milkshake-like Frappuccinos, and most importantly, free wi-fi. Some might say that Starbucks is the reason behind the large uptick in U.S. coffee consumption that began around the turn of the century.

fancy starbucks coffee drinks

Some of the more recent trends in coffee-drinking are a little more puzzling to me. Cold brew? Seriously, peeps — now we’re paying $3 for a cup of cold coffee? Come over my house, and I’ll sell you a cup of the coffee I left sitting on the counter all day. I’m sure it’s nice and cold by now.

Cold Brew Coffee Trend

Luckily for the 62% of Americans who drink a daily cup of coffee (hot or cold brew), there’s great news. Coffee is good for us. No, really! This article by Medical News Today and this comprehensive study published in the Annals of Internal Medicine are chock-full of information about the benefits of drinking coffee, both caffeinated and decaffeinated (yes, decaf). That daily bean juice habit is connected with reduced risk of death from cancer, stroke, diabetes, heart disease, and then some. Other studies have proven additional health benefits from regular coffee-drinking, including reduced risk of certain types of cancers and improved liver health. (Not a single study proved that coffee results in stunted growth, by the way).

Folgers coffee old-fashioned

No matter how you brew it, one thing is clear: coffee is a worthwhile habit for most of us. So get those percolators popping! Get your Mr. Coffees dripping, your Keurigs Keuringging, and your cold brewers chilling your favorite gourmet, roasted, ground-up beans. After all these years, coffee is still the best part of wakin’ up, and even though our brewing methods and favorite flavors have changed, it’s still good to the last drop.

 

Barefoot is Better (aka: Online Pairing)

Two days ago, I decided it was time to go shopping for a package of socks. It’s not that I really felt that I needed to wear socks. I’m quite content to pad around the house in my bare feet. There’s a lot of freedom in going barefoot, in fact. My feet are always cool and comfortable, and my toes have all the space they need to wiggle around. I can dig my toes into the sand, or let the grass tickle the soles of my feet, just like when I was a little girl. I can even get creative with my own feet, painting my toenails any fun color I want, without an oppressive pair of socks coming along to cover them up.

It is liberating, being sock-less.

barefoot is better

But every so often, I glance around at the feet of other people. And I realize something — many, many people wear socks. And the ones who are not wearing socks are often out shopping for socks, or lamenting over their lack of socks. Some people even seem to wear a different pair of socks every day.

Sole-Mates Socks

Going barefoot all the time, it seems, is rather unusual in the world of grownups. Everyone else acts like the purpose of life is to find a sole-mate. (See what I did there?)

I have also noticed that there are certain things that one doesn’t do without wearing socks. At least, not as well. For example, I do not ever go out to restaurants in my bare feet. Nor to concerts, or live sporting events, or out-of-town fun trips, or wine-tasting, or a number of other things that sound like they would be really, really fun to do one day. But not barefoot. That would just be…awkward.

And so, I signed up to go shopping at a popular (and expensive) virtual store that specializes in socks for the sock-less. Just as advertised, after I answered a series of questions ranging from silly to deeply personal, the site’s algorithms selected a variety of socks for me to consider, some of which were selected as being highly “compatible” with my feet.

At first, it was amusing to sift through the socks. They came in every imaginable size, and lots of patterns. There were some with serious, no-nonsense pinstripes, some with goofy, rainbow-colored polka-dots, and even a couple of plain ones filled with so many holes, I wonder how on earth they made it past quality assurance to wind up on my dashboard.

lots of different socks

I even got a couple of messages from some of the socks, and responded politely (because apparently, exchanging polite chit-chat is something socks can do on online stores). Some of the messages made me smile, and a couple, well, made my bare feet want to run away. I wondered, though, what was supposed to happen next. Was I supposed to utter some magic words in order to check the socks out of the store? Is there some point when I’m supposed to wear them around once or twice, maybe to a restaurant,  or a sporting event, or a concert? Or is it up to the sock to make that happen?

And would it be frowned-upon to write “I don’t know what the heck I’m doing,” on my profile? I feel clueless, like a child who has just wandered into a casino, and is overwhelmed by the loud, clanging, buzzing machines, and choking on the smoke of cigarettes.

It also occurred to me that a large number of the socks were silent. No polite conversations. No peeks at my barefoot profile. Part of me understands that this is normal. That it’s all part of the sock-and-foot matching world. And that its only been two days. But another part of me feels indignant, certain that it has something to do with the toasty-brown shade of the skin on my feet. Because, I’m guessing, not a single one of my chosen matched socks has ever been worn by a toasty-brown foot before. Peachy-tan feet, probably, or rosy beige, or creamy ivory. But perhaps they see toasty brown feet and get nervous, their little sock minds filling with all kinds of ignorant ideas about what I must be like, due to my brownness.

I am halfway tempted to create an identical profile to my own, but put up pictures of a woman who looks similar to me, but with lighter skin, just to test that theory. But I won’t. Because if that really is the issue, then whatevs. Any er…sock who is unable to look past the color of my skin in order to see the kind, intelligent, thoughtful, witty, talented woman I am does not deserve to grace even one of my feet.

Sim Tiare

White Sim Tiare

And anyway, it’s okay if nothing comes of my browsing around the online sock store. In fact, it would be a bit of a relief. Then I will not have to reveal myself as a fraud — one who is so perfectly comfortable going sock-less, and so horribly out of her element with socks on her feet. They will be expecting me to love wearing socks and shoes, like so many other people do. Then I will have to wear them, because I am committed to do so, and will have to go back to tiptoeing around my home in discomfort, my poor toes squeezed and pinched, my feet blistered from friction…

It is oh-so-easy for me to talk myself out of visiting the sock store. Maybe it means I am still not ready, even after years of being sock-free. Maybe it means that I will never be ready; that I am a rare individual who simply was not meant to wear socks. I guess I will go and take a nice long, barefoot walk in the grass and think it all through. Because that is what I do best.