Meditations on Undergrad IV: Sh*t Wake Forest Alumni Say

“Y’all talkin’ ‘bout them glory days?” (actual quote)

“Gotta make a Bud Light run!”

“I slept in Calloway for a week during exams junior year.”

“You’ve NEVER been to Lovefeast?!”

“Bless her heart, she went to a state school.”

“When I was your age, we went to the Orange Bowl.”

 “Elon and High Point are so pretentious.”

“I was completely devastated when they cut down the trees on the Quad.”

“Nothing like the Dixie Classic to remind you what normal people look like.”

“ROMNEY/RYAN 2012.”

 “Remember when Subway was only open until 2 am?”

“I’m going to start tailgating five hours before kickoff, but I’ll be home by the time the game starts.”

“I forgot how much I hate critter pants.”

 “F***ing Jimmy Newman.”

The Camelbak, or I Still Hate Nature

A few weeks ago I went to Bed Bath & Beyond and purchased a new water bottle. I’m such a ridiculous cheapskate that shelling out $15 for a stupid purple Camelbak seemed exorbitant (passing over the fact that I also bought at least 4 refills for my Yankee Candle air freshener, because I have a problem). The Camelbak has a straw and a special top that’s supposed to prevent you from spilling, but thus far it’s mainly prevented me from drinking. It’s fortunate that I’m not actually taking the bottle on a hike like you’re supposed to, because I would die of dehydration within a day. Huffing and puffing away at this thing in class is bad enough, when I start attracting looks and realize that this water bottle has become the latest addition in the ode to ineptitude that is my life. Perhaps there is some leftover vodka gumming up the works, but who can say.

When I bought the water bottle, I found myself thinking of my best friend Rachel, who also has a Camelbak and actually uses it while pitting herself against forces of the wild. She has been living in New Zealand since February, hiking and camping and being adventurous, whereas I have a serious aversion to being in such intimate contact with nature. When Rachel and I both studied abroad in Christchurch, I was 20 and I kind of struggled with that: I didn’t want to be lame and stay home. Now at the ripe old age of 23, I’m fine with being lame. If God had intended me to sleep outside and pee behind trees, he would have made me more impervious to cold. Nevertheless, I thought of Rachel’s Camelbak’s intrepid spirit and realized that the most dangerous place I’ll be taking this baby is I-40 in downtown Winston-Salem at rush hour.

Speaking of danger, an organization I’m part of at school is holding some team-building event in November which I have recorded in my planner as “Team thing in the woods” (or as I like to read it: “Plan to be sick that day”). My sole interaction with this event will be collecting the participants’ checks; I’m the organization’s treasurer because apparently I hate myself. But not enough to go interact with the great outdoors, because I’m going to be sick that day. Fighting with this vodka residue is really wearing me out.

How to Remain Sophomoric at Weddings

Inasmuch as I am 23 years old and fighting maturity tooth and nail, I have spent a large chunk of time over the past few years being shocked that people my age are getting married. Last time I checked I was ten years old and playing with Barbies at the neighborhood pool, only to hear a kid from school say to me, “Barbies? You’re too old to play with those!” And thus, my inability to both be cool and keep with my peers was established. I manage to fake it these days; I have my own car and an adult apartment, I am in a graduate program that often drives me to weep and/or drink, I’m addicted to caffeine, and I have somehow become involved a functional relationship, though fortunately with someone who also thinks growing up is overrated. But nowhere is my charade of sophistication as challenged as when I’m sitting in a church for a wedding, especially one whose bride and groom are (brace yourself!) younger than I am. How did this happen?

I have attended two such weddings in the past five months. I want to be clear that in all seriousness, I am awe of anyone who feels equipped to make a commitment of such magnitude, and it gives me chills to be in the presence of a brand-new marriage, before conflict and selfishness come into play. It’s really a beautiful thing. And part of me questions whether I’ll ever be part of something like that, and if I could handle it.

So instead of allowing my friends’ vows to suck me down a vortex of existential questioning, because Lord knows my grad program does that for me at least twice a week anyway, I choose to focus on how to make the whole wedding-guest experience as palatable as possible. (Should any of my married friends read this, I hope you know that I respect you a ton and wish you the best; and that if I attended your wedding, I absolutely enjoyed it.) However, for people like me, who spend no small part of the wedding secretly losing it, I have some tips for survival (i.e., denial).

1. Sit with cool people at the wedding.

By cool people, I mean people whose attitudes are identical to yours, or best summed up as simultaneously congratulatory and terrified. As the giggles and inappropriate jokes reach a certain volume, someone is bound to whisper, “Shhh, guys! We are being ‘those people’ at this wedding!” And if you look around and realize that everyone is totally ok with being “those people,” then you have found your wedding buddies, my friend.

2. Remind yourself of what other stuff is happening today.

A good way to do this is to come prepared with an ESPN ScoreCenter app on your boyfriend’s phone so you can watch your football team lose in real time. (On the drive to the church, we listened to the game on the radio, and I like how even the commentators are surprised when Wake Forest defense does something right.)

3. Drink.

Both the aforementioned weddings had dry receptions. There are plenty of good reasons not to have alcohol at your wedding reception—for one, it’s damned expensive, and if you have conservative family members whose resistance would not be worth fighting, then I totally understand just bagging the bar. However, this is no reason for the guests to actually be sober. Some of us brought tiny liquor bottles in our bags; some of us stopped at a drugstore on our way from the wedding to the reception and picked up champagne and orange juice. Some of us even did both, though you will not catch me saying so in print. (When we walked into that CVS to find a bunch of old classmates and fellow wedding guests doing exactly what we were, I said, “I’ve never been prouder to be a Demon Deacon.” And I meant it.)

4. Make a game out of item #3.

Boyfriend and I have been together six months. Apparently our relationship is at the point where people think it’s funny/acceptable to ask when our wedding will be, although anyone who knows us is aware that the word “wedding,” when brandished in our direction, strikes us both with selective deafness. If this is you too, don’t be alarmed. Just decide that for every person who makes such a remark, you’ll take a shot later. All I have to say is, I am dating a genius.

I’m really hesitating to post this because I don’t want it to seem like I’m attacking people who are engaged or married, or even people who don’t experience anxiety at weddings. And if that’s you, that’s great, it really is. But I hope people who know me will understand that for some of us, the thought of marriage is pretty scary, and the way I deal with that is by making jokes and taking things lightly.

So don’t be offended if I pregamed your wedding reception. At the end of the day, I was very happy that you chose to include me on your wedding day, and I prayed for a strong, lifelong commitment for both of you.

And then I had a beer. Because maturity and reverence will never take me alive.

In which I am a total nerd about Batman and heroes

"A hero can be anyone, even a man doing something as simple and reassuring as putting a coat around a young boy's shoulders to let him know the world hasn't ended."

I cried during The Dark Knight Rises.

I was a little late to the game, since I had only seen Batman Begins once years ago and had never watched The Dark Knight all the way through. So in the two weeks before The Dark Knight Rises was released, I saw the first two parts of the trilogy and loved them; and the third movie blew me away. I’m sure there will be any number of interpretations about the class warfare Bane exploits to create his dystopia and how that relates to the 99%, especially as Bruce Wayne/Batman’s identity as an underdog and a billionaire fluctuates throughout the film. But to me, the most salient aspect of the movie was the thread that runs through Nolan’s trilogy: what is a hero?

I found myself thinking about epic heroes (surprise!) and where Batman would fall on that spectrum. Unlike the heroes of the Iliad, Batman sacrifices a great deal for the people of Gotham (like Selina Kyle says, "Once you’ve done what you had to do, they’ll never let you do what you want to do"); but Batman receives nothing in return, unless you count all the cool toys he gets from Morgan Freeman. Particularly at the beginning of The Dark Knight Rises, Batman has more in common with Aeneas—he’s conflicted, internally focused, and struggling with private guilt more than public shame.

I can’t imagine that Christopher Nolan spends a lot of time thinking about ancient epic, because that would be too wonderful. But there’s no doubt that his exploration of heroism is central to Christian Bale’s Batman. Though unbelievably wealthy, Batman is just a guy. He’s not from another planet, like Thor or Superman. He doesn’t have any innate superpowers. He just chooses to behave heroically. And sometimes not so heroically. Remember in The Dark Knight when he hacked all the cell phones in Gotham so he could find the Joker? Effective, yes. But Bruce Wayne is still Big Brother in that part of the movie. In their video "Why Batman is Secretly Terrible for Gotham," Cracked.com asks, "Why don’t you just admit that Batman is a violent, maladjusted sociopath who is using his parents’ death as an excuse to work out his aggression?" While I wouldn’t go that far, I think the point here is that Bruce Wayne/Batman is a real guy. He makes questionable judgments. He oversteps boundaries. He’s relatable.

But the most attractive and heroic thing about Bruce Wayne is his commitment to his ideals. He decides that valuable things are worth fighting for, like law and order in Gotham. For those causes he becomes whatever he needs to be; and when his dreams don’t materialize, when the Joker breaks the man Wayne considered the best in Gotham, his vision is shattered and he withdraws from everything. I think one of the best lines in the film is Miranda Tate’s: "You have a practiced apathy, Mr. Wayne. But a man who doesn’t care doesn’t spend half his fortune on a plan to save the world. And isn’t so wounded when it fails that he goes into hiding." Nolan conveys Wayne’s brokenness effectively with a limp that miraculously disappears when he decides to get back in the game and fight for Gotham again. (Digression: I read a lot of reviews right after the movie came out, and many writers complained that Batman’s leg healing so quickly was unrealistic. Come on, people. It’s symbolic. Read a damn book.)

Bruce Wayne, like John Blake, turns his rage, sorrow and pain into a drive and a commitment powerful enough to effect change. There is a lot of ugliness and evil in the world, and according to the League of Shadows, places and people who seem hopelessly damaged should be destroyed. At his core, Batman is someone who believes battered and fragmented things are still worth saving. Sam sums this attitude up in The Two Towers when he says, "There’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for."

In other words, people like Batman because he fights for an idea that we would all like to believe and often struggle to remember. Yes, there is a plenty of ugliness and devastation in the world. But that ugliness also presents a thousand opportunities for restoration.

Note to Self

The other day my 24-year-old friend Heather posted on Facebook that “youth is wasted on the young,” which I know sounds ironic, but it got me thinking. In our constant effort to avoid doing work at work, she and I decided to write a note to our 18-year-old selves, telling them what we wish we’d known then.

1. You’re not going to date your future husband in college. So stop pressuring yourself to find him.

2. Some people are going to think you’re weird. You are a little weird. That’s ok.

3. You go to a university of pants-wetters, which is preparing you well to enter a graduate program full of pants-wetters. But you don’t need to be one of them. Not now, not ever. Blow off your homework and have a beer on the quad. 

4. Speaking of which, drink responsibly.

5. Enjoy not having a car while it lasts. Between buying parking passes and spending a solid eighty percent of your waking hours at the auto shop, the shine will come off that apple real quick.

6. Don’t be too hard on yourself for having two “useless” majors. Once you graduate, you will miss Shakespeare and Ovid every day of your life.

7. Go out without makeup on. You’re a teenager, for heaven’s sakes.

8. Start standing up to your roommates early, because you’re gonna deal with some crazies.

9. Refuse to waste time on Lost. However, don’t bother kicking that Scrubs addiction because it will be with you until the day you die.

10. Don’t be disappointed when you graduate without having kissed a boy in the library. Be patient. You’ll get there.

Farmer Hoggett Takes the Stage!

About a year ago at new student orientation, I was looking at the conversation cards on the table in front of me and debating whether I was really socially inept enough to use one of the topics with the person sitting next to me. Surprise! I decided that I was. The card in question read, “If you could go back to any event in history, what would you witness?”

The woman next to me said, “I would go back to 1963 and hear Dr. King give his ‘I Have a Dream Speech.’ Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

“Yes, it absolutely would,” I responded enthusiastically, realizing that I was about to drop very quickly in her estimation. “That would be so wonderful. Honestly though, I would probably choose to go back to the late ‘70s and see Boston play when Brad Delp was still alive.”

Crickets.

No, actually, she was very nice about it. And sadly no one has invented a time machine to fulfill my musical wishes, so Brad Delp will never be more than a dream. But I did get to see Van Halen perform this past April. My friend Emily came along to help me decide whether David Lee Roth has still got it.

The short answer to that question is: it depends on how nostalgic you are. (David Lee Roth himself certainly thinks he’s still got it.)

Allow me to express to you how excited I was for this concert. Before the show, a group of us went to my favorite restaurant in Greensboro. In addition to making excellent food, this fine establishment always plays classic rock, carries Thomas Creek beer, and employs a cook I have nicknamed “ZZ Top” for obvious beard reasons. (This man also told boyfriend that he once had sex on the 16^th green and did not get caught. Don’t ask me how they got on that topic; what’s important is that this guy contributes to the greatness of the restaurant.) Anyway, the five of us were ordering at the bar when we saw a take-out order taped above the grill. It was folded in half, and the outside read simply, “Van Halen. 9:30 pm.”

I nearly wet myself. “Guysguysguys VAN HALEN is eating this food tonight! We’re basically DINING WITH VAN HALEN!” I had to sit down for a moment.

Fast-forward to the actual concert. David Lee Roth wore sparkly black pants and danced enthusiastically, twirling and jumping, somehow managing to be both less coordinated and more endearing than Axl Rose in the “Sweet Child O’ Mine” video. Also, at one point, he commented philosophically on the NC weather: “Humidity is invisible… unlike lust. That sh*t is VERY visible.” I have no idea where he was going with that, but it didn’t seem to matter. Roth was just being the entertainer; and between him and Eddie Van Halen playing as well as ever, I could have easily pretended it really was the early ‘80s if not for one thing.

The concert was almost over. All I wanted to do was hear was “Panama” and then go home, but David Lee Roth actually put up a video of himself playing with his sheepdogs and talked about it for ten minutes. Did you know that he owns sheepdogs? Better question: can you bring yourself to care? I couldn’t believe it. Before my eyes, David Lee Roth had become Farmer Hoggett.

But you know what? He still thought he was cool. The man is 57, which is roughly 40 years older than I was when I stopped trying to be cool, and he’s still doing his thing. Yes, it is pathetic at times. But I respect him for it.

At one point, Roth attempted a very ambitious dance move and didn’t quite make it. Emily shook her head sadly and said, “He would’ve been able to pull off the split if he’d worn the leopard-print leotard.”

And knowing David Lee Roth, I imagine he at least considered it.

Funeral for a J’s Planner

About a week ago I was standing in the Barnes and Noble, intently staring at a display of planners, mumbling to myself about calendars and appointments and sizes and colors. I had to find the perfect planner to satisfy my need for order and preparedness, a decision no J takes lightly. This went on for a solid 20 minutes at least, until boyfriend became mildly concerned and asked if I wanted to take a lap around the store to think about it. Anyway, my new planner is shiny purple (I’m naming it “Barney”) and has big monthly calendars, lots of space for notes, and most importantly, almost none of the unnecessary information some planners include now (time zones, area codes and country codes, the meaning of different flowers, historical trivia, landmark court cases, lengthy excerpts from The Remembrance of Things Past, etc.). No, actually, the most important thing about this planner is that it runs from July 2012 to December 2013, which is the month I graduate and bravely greet the real world from my cardboard box. I mean, the month I find gainful employment. In any case, this is the planner that will finish out my academic career.

Last night I emptied my old planner of its Sudoku puzzles and Post-Its, and just for nostalgia’s sake, flipped through it one last time, shuddering at the highlighting that I resorted to using during Advanced Prac—green for class, pink for work, blue for personal stuff, and yellow for clients, case notes and supervision. (I once left my planner open on my desk when I was meeting with a prospective student, and her eyes flashed raw panic.)

Dispensing with the planner, there are a lot of titles I could have chosen for this post, such as “The Year I Finally Started Hating School,” and “The Year of Anxiety,” and perhaps “The Year I Became Really Obsessed with Finding Free Food.” Or to sum them all up, “The Year I Started Grad School.”

I vividly remember certain second years telling us during orientation last year that counseling their first clients was the high point of their year, and that Diagnosis was their favorite class. I also remember asking several of my classmates this past spring if they knew who had paid the second years to lie to us; or if they were telling the truth, how long it would be before our nerves calmed enough to look back on the year with fondness instead of needing a drink.

I submitted my last assignment on 30 April, and it turns out two months has been enough time for me to recover and think more kindly about the past year. There was some great stuff, like the trip to Atlanta last Labor Day Weekend in which Schell and I spent the better part of a Braves game checking out Martín Prado. I got to watch my beloved Demon Deacons lose their Bowl game in Nashville in December. The February day that I got the first internship I interviewed for was pretty great. In March I finally yielded to maturity, showed some restraint and only threw myself two birthday parties. I’m a little proud of the day I matter-of-factly told my clinical entrepreneurship professors that if somebody would pay me to be a humor writer, I’d forget about counseling in a second. And of course, there were the five Fridays in February and March that our admissions office interviewed and chose the next round of Master’s students, who are about to experience all this.

So yes, it was the year of sometimes hating school and being really anxious and planning my day around the free commuter deli. But it was also the year I learned I can be a good counselor, the year I bonded with some amazing friends, the year I started dating a pretty cool guy, the year I learned to depend on God more than anything. And let’s not forget it was the year I finally crossed “Van Halen concert” off my bucket list. So as my beat-up little black planner passes the torch to the Barney planner, I hope the next year is as full of surprises and laughter as this one was.

I guess what I’m saying is, I get it, and I forgive you, former second years.

J

Stupid Lyrics Round-Up

After a two-month blog hiatus due to finishing the semester and recuperating from the entire glorious first year of grad school, I decided to write about the dumbest pop lyrics currently on the radio. Because it’s important to stay in your wheelhouse.

5. Let’s start off with this gem from One Direction’s “What Makes You Beautiful”: “So, girl, come on, you got it wrong/ To prove I’m right, I put it in a so-o-ong.” Right, because that’s a thing. In the interests of full disclosure, I’ll go ahead and say that I LOVE this song. It’s got all the unbridled simplicity and joyful energy that we lost when America deep-sixed the boy band genre. This is coming from a 23-year-old woman who’s not ashamed to admit that a couple of years ago she saw the Backstreet Boys in concert. Even if that statement erases any respect you somehow had left for me after the Adam Levine post, keep in mind that One Direction is probably among a mere handful of bands talented enough to make records without Auto-Tune, and that means something, right? One Direction also gave me an opportunity to introduce my 20-year-old brother to a crucial Milestone of Aging: when you suddenly find yourself older than the majority of popular entertainers. Four of the five guys in One Direction are only 19! They’re BABIES! Maybe that’s why I like classic rock so much: Keith Richards may never die, but at least he’ll always be older than I am.

4. The most offensive line in Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe” is: “I threw a wish in the well.” That’s not how wishing wells work. That’s not how wishing wells have ever worked.

 3. In his insidiously catchy hit “Boyfriend,” Justin Bieber sings raps says, “I could be your Buzz Lightyear, fly across the globe.” Never mind that Justin Bieber was ONE YEAR OLD when Toy Story came out, as my friend Pat has so ably documented via Facebook status. More to the point, why would the Biebs invoke a swaggering, delusional space-man voiced by Tim Allen to convince a girl to date him? That’s distinctly not sexy in, like, five different ways.

 2. It really bothers me that Nicki Minaj’s “Turn Me On” includes ridiculous lines like, “I just want you to father my young/ I just want you to be my doctor/ We can get it crackin’, chiropractor.” ‘Scuse me? Who is this guy? Apparently on whatever planet Nicki comes from, the same man can serve as doctor, chiropractor and sperm donor. Anyway, the whole doctor-doctor-turn-me-on theme makes me think of both Robert Palmer and treatments for female hysteria, two ideas I don’t like to have connecting in any way. Nicki Minaj: inspiring nightmares since 2010.

 1. In Pitbull’s “Back in Time,” he says, “Know that I don’t give a number two,” which is hands-down the most cringe-inducing lyric on the list, or perhaps even of all time. Come to think of it, if you ever want to prove that human intelligence is in a steep decline, read the rest of the song’s lyrics. It’s like word salad produced by a wildly manic Tourette’s patient. Also, here’s a pro tip for composing the theme song to the third Men in Black movie: don’t borrow music from Dirty Dancing! Seriously, Pitbull, are you an idiot? This movie is about Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones being sarcastic while cavalierly shooting giant guns; but thanks to your plagiarism, everyone in your target demographic who is over the age of twelve is going to have vivid memories of Patrick Swayze crawling around on the floor with Jennifer Grey while Lenny from Law and Order harrumphs in the background. Also, don’t throw Ray Charles’ name into one of your musical abominations ever again. Just don’t do it.

 I hope these songs satisfy everyone’s need for musical derision until the new Maroon 5 album comes out next month. (I can’t wait.)

Porn for Women. Yes, It's Back.

Being a writer is my oldest dream, and I figure the easiest way to make that happen is to write a romance novel and name it after a Thomas Kincaid painting (“Morning Dogwood,” “Savannah Romance,” “Stairway to Paradise,” etc.). I posted last summer about how romance novels are similar to and different from traditional comedies, but this post is more of a step-by-step guide to my future fame. My romance novel won’t be some crummy thing that sells at the dollar store. Oh no. Brittany and I have dissected this genre, and we have a formula for success: Yearning + unfulfilled expectations + “fixing him” = bestseller.

(If irreverent jokes about sex are going to offend you, then you should probably skip this post.)

THE SETTING

History is the best setting for a romance novel. Everything is so drenched in mystery and myth that the rest of this list seems believable in context. Plus the heroine never has to shave her legs or put on makeup, leaving more time for contrived plot elements.

For THE HEROINE, there are 3 essentials.

1. The heroine either considers herself unattractive, a la Bridget Jones, or just has never been appreciated by a man before, like Bella in Twilight. In a really solid romance novel, she is always a virgin.

2. She needs a hero for something, usually protection from death. Because that happens a lot. No, really, because any woman who’s ever had a problem she didn’t feel like fixing knows she can turn those sad, bewildered eyes toward a man and say pitifully, “I just don’t know what to do!” He can’t help himself, not that you will catch me saying so in print.

3. Beyond these two, it’s important that the woman’s character remains relatively undeveloped, so the reader can project herself into the story.

Construction of THE HERO is a little more involved.

1. Non-negotiables: he is sexy, he is rich, and he is emotionally damaged. If he happens to have characteristics of the Dark Triad, then the game is over before it begins. Best-case scenario, he has experience in the boudoir, but he’s never truly connected with a woman emotionally. Well, that is about to change.

2. Physically, the hero never exhibits anything short of god-like perfection. He is never short, the slightest bit flabby or balding, and he always smells good. Every hero looks like Fabio, preferably with some sexy scars. (It goes without saying that no part of either character’s anatomy is ever left to the imagination.)

3. The hero considers the heroine uniquely beautiful, because what woman doesn’t want that?

4. He is possessive to the point of abrasiveness. If he gets jealous when he sees her chatting with another man, if he wants her so much he rips her clothes, etc., it’s hot instead of a reason to notify the police. Of course he’s rich enough to buy her a whole new wardrobe anyway. And personal freedom? Who needs it?

On to THE RISING ACTION (too easy).

1. The hero and heroine are stuck together for some asinine reason (see #2 under THE HEROINE), but they can’t sleep together.

2. Therefore, there is so much yearning. So. Much. Yearning.

3. It takes about a week (if they are showing inhuman restraint) for the hero and heroine to decide that they are made for each other and will happily spend the rest of their lives together. Sometimes it only takes an hour or two. As the Jackson 5 sang, “one glance was all it took.” And boy, was that glance lecherous.

4. No means maybe and maybe means yes.

Finally, THE GYS.

1. The sex is never awkward. Kind of like sex on Glee.

2. Multiple orgasms are a given.

3. The writer always includes poetic euphemisms for certain parts of the characters’ anatomy. Our personal favorites include “the hardened jewel of her womanly center” and “purple-helmeted warrior of love” (I warned you). And no, we are not making this up.

4. Anything can lead to sex. Anything. Why bother with lingerie when fuzzy socks and flannel pjs inspire the same amount of lust?

5. As soon as sex is in the picture, meaningful conversation is out of it. The heroine is angry at the hero? Sex can solve that. The heroine is worried because some psycho killer is out to get her? Shhhh. Sex can solve that too. Basically, once they get past that crucial yearning stage and hop into bed together, it will take an act of God to get them out again. (Assuming they make it to the bed, that is.)

6. Oh and they fall in love, each thoroughly erasing the other’s disillusionment with romance. That’s important.

The DENOUEMENT

Happily ever after. Obviously.

I honestly don’t know why I can’t help picking this particular literary scab. In any case, publishing the ultimate romance novel is on my bucket list now. My English professors would be so proud.

Deep Thoughts II

The last time I titled a post “Deep Thoughts” was two and a half years ago, which kind of makes me question my life on an existential level, but is it my fault if writing about Adam Levine is more fun?

At some point this school year, maybe around Christmas, I heard this Scripture verse in a sermon: “The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still” (Exodus 14:14). It’s become my mantra this semester, putting grad school in perspective and reminding me that someone so much stronger and wiser is in charge. Being still is pretty far down on the list of things I’m good at, between math, drawing and not talking during movies. But during this year, I’ve come to appreciate the value of stillness, of letting thoughts come as they will and just letting them go, of resting in the God I trust more than anything.

This isn’t to say that I’m especially good at any of this. Real stillness is more elusive than a full night’s sleep. That’s why my favorite translation of this line ends with, “…you shall hold your peace.” There’s so much in just five words. First, “hold your peace” also means “be quiet,” which is not my strong suit. I tend to think of this as more of an injunction against the crazy thoughts that skitter through my brain all day long. When their furor dies down, usually only for a few moments, life seems purely magical and blessed.

Second, the word “hold” connotes a certain force, and I like that. Being still is a huge effort. Peace doesn’t just happen upon me. I have to seek it out and hang onto it for dear life.

But here’s the best part: “you shall hold your peace.” Not “maybe you’ll manage to hold your peace,” or “you have to hold your peace all by yourself.” This translation draws attention to the fact that when God lays out a plan, it’s a promise. Holding peace is not my responsibility alone, because God said it would happen, and he never fails.

In conjunction with this verse, I always think of Romans 14:4: “… he will stand, for the Lord is able to make him stand.” I’m so thankful my God does not expect perfection, but instead a willing heart and surrender. The strength is his, the courage is his, and the peace is his. I need only to be still.

I Decided I Don’t Like Zooey Deschanel

I’m sure you’re shocked, since a more accurate but less pithy title for this blog would be That Awkward Moment When I Realize I Hate Everything. (Actually that’s not half-bad.) In my defense, this blog is the best break I get from my Masters in Counseling program, or to put it another way, being so self-aware that you cry at least twice a week.

Let me glance back at the title of this post to remind myself of my topic. Ok, Zooey Deschanel. Or more particularly, her character Jess on “New Girl,” but we all know Zooey’s playing herself. I was not interested in watching that show when it first started, mainly because of this weird bias I have against the manic pixie dream girl: I hate it when people describe someone (or worse, themselves) as “quirky.” Technically everyone is a little weird. I don’t think anyone deserves a cookie for being human. Fortunately enough people convinced me to give the show a fair shot, and now I always keep up with it (despite the fact that the people who cast the show apparently think black people are interchangeable). My motivation to watch "New Girl" is 95% everything Schmidt says and does and 5% Nick is hot. But Jess? Eh.

Now before we dive into the inevitable vituperation, I should point out that there are things I like about the character of Jess. I cheered when she yelled at Winston for being a jerk to the kids she plays handbells with. I thought it was admirable when she included Julia in whatever hippie thing she and her friends were doing with yarn. In spite of myself, I liked it when she bothered to connect with the landlord, until it got creepy. She’s not a bad character by any means.

But for a long time, my real problem with Jess/Zooey was a vague, unarticulated discontent that lurked while I tried to distract myself with Schmidt’s antics and Nick’s angst. Then I read an article by my favorite Cracked columnist, Daniel O’Brien (Dan, if you’re reading this, my life is complete) and it all crashed into sharp focus. Prepare to be disillusioned.

“Jess & Julia” was the first episode I saw where I truly liked Zooey’s character. Remember the part in the courthouse where Julia made fun of Jess for, well, being herself, and Jess owned it all, saying, “That doesn’t mean I’m not smart and tough and strong!”? I was like, Yeah! Tell that mean old lawyer! And then it hit me: I didn’t connect with Jess because I respected her. I connected because I felt sorry for her.

I don’t like Jess because she’s just one more version of a helpless female. If a guy hipster sat down and penned a misogynist’s parody of my sex, it would be her. She spends an inordinate amount of time flitting around in distress, shrieking hoarsely and waving her inept little hands. And you know why she gets away with it? She is ridiculously attractive. I mean, come on, it’s not even fair. Think about it. If you had an ugly friend who was as socially incompetent as Jess, everyone would feel sorry for her rather than being intrigued by her. But she’s beautiful, so it’s charming instead of stupid for her to wear overalls on a big date, or slur ALL HER WORDS, as if between takes she skips behind the studio and drinks gin.

Maybe I’m just jealous because no one thinks my ineptitude is adorable. My inability to type properly or change a tire doesn’t engage anyone’s interest; mostly I just get “Didn’t you have Mavis Beacon in elementary school?” or “Here, let me make you a list of things that will carry you into adulthood. Step one: buy a jack.” But here’s Zooey Deschanel, with carte blanche to act like a twelve-year-old sniffing paint thinners, just because she wears bright blue tights and her eyes are the size of Texas.

I should point out that I recently saw Ms. Deschanel making fun of herself on SNL, which went a long way toward redeeming her in my eyes. But I still think that if Schmidt has to put money in the Douchebag Jar every time he makes casual mention of his shark-skin laptop sleeve or his Irish walking cape, Jess should have to fill up a MPDG jar every time she waves happily to a man brandishing a gun, or whenever her eyes widen beyond the standard size of Michelin tires. Who’s with me?

And honestly, when are she and Nick just going to get it over with?

Chaucer, Chocolate and William Wallace

I just skimmed the history of Valentine’s Day on Wikipedia, and it has about as much of a coherent plotline as your average Jonah Hill movie. Something something a Christian martyr’s death in ancient Rome, something something Geoffrey Chaucer and courtly love, something something Hallmark, and the rest is history. Seriously though, it was medieval and Renaissance poets who reframed Valentine’s Day as one big glorious roll in the hay rather than a Church holiday. Let this be a lesson to everyone who said English class was boring and pointless. Thank you, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Donne and Spenser (just kidding, I hated Spenser) for your contributions to modern GYS.

Last year I posted about all the great things about Valentine’s Day, and I stand by that list, inasmuch as I will be spending tonight with Anne Marie, drinking beer and watching William Wallace kill a LOT of Englishmen with nunchucks and daggers. I can’t wait. But more to the point, I have updated the list:

10 Reasons I Love Valentine’s Day 2012

10. I will be spending approximately zero percent of my day watching sparkly vampires do whatever it is sparkly vampires do.

9. I might have a Justin Timberlake dance party. No shame.

8. I don't have to shave my legs.

7. I can use people’s Valentine’s Day-themed Facebook posts and Tweets as a drinking game, not that I am suggesting it per se. (Extra points for every time someone spells “love” with a lot of superfluous e’s, or posts a picture of Titanic-era Leonardo DiCaprio.)

6. I don’t have any relationship drama or unfulfilled expectations.

5. I don’t have to share my candy with anyone.

4. And when the candy goes on sale tomorrow, I'll have the opportunity to rub elbows with the rich folks shopping at the Harris Teeter.

3. Writing this post is a great excuse not to do work at work.

2. My 23rd birthday is coming up in less than a month now, and if you think I’m going to yield to maturity and realize that celebrating unimportant birthdays is for children, you obviously don’t remember how many times I made people celebrate my 22nd (47, at a conservative estimate).

1. Y’all. Seriously. This is a holiday based entirely around chocolate, alcohol and sex (yes, in that order). I understand wanting to be bitter because you’re getting none, but lighten up and be happy for your friends in relationships.

I hope everyone enjoys this, the mother of all non-holidays, as much as I do!

How To Ruin Movies For Your Friends

Last month I was hanging out with some friends and we watched two or three romantic comedies. I was making my standard nerd comments about how this moment reminded me of something-or-other in Shakespeare and this other plot device goes back to Greek New Comedy. In my defense, the evolution of the comedic genre genuinely fascinates me. Throughout most of literary history, people associated comedies with cookie-cutter plots where boy and girl meet, encounter and overcome obstacles, and get married. We still have that basic outline for comedies.

However, past audiences also expected their comedies to consist of sheer, outrageous absurdity, like grossly implausible miscommunication, flagrant cross-dressing, siblings switched at birth, and family tokens that prove identities in just the nick of time. In other words, stuff that would never actually happen all at once. Also, you think comedies are formulaic now? Ancient Roman comedies run like this: the rich lovesick young man, who is barely smart enough to put his toga on the right way around, must rely on his clever slave to lie and manipulate everyone, thereby ensuring that his beloved doesn’t get sold into slavery as a prostitute. All this is to say that when folks saw comedies performed for most of history, they knew that what they were watching was straight fiction, for the purpose of pure entertainment.

What ticks me off is that nowadays the plots of rom-coms are still wildly unrealistic, but with enough believable elements that people take them seriously. And then—I know this has been said before, but it’s true—people have unrealistic expectations of relationships. Katy Perry is no help—“If it’s not like the movies/ That’s how it should be.”

Ok, Katy Perry, I’ll take up that gauntlet. Let’s talk about The Notebook. Forget how identical every Nicholas Sparks story is. And yes, forget the Alzheimer’s for a second. Noah first gets Allie to go out with him by threatening to kill himself if she says no. And then when she walks out on him, instead of getting drunk, cursing her memory and moving on, like a sensible person, he stays obsessed with her for years. He writes her hundreds of letters. He buys a plantation house and decorates it her specifications. I guess Sparks’ editor deleted the part about Noah’s shrine to Allie in the basement, because they have to draw the line somewhere.

Ladies, if a man ever emotionally manipulates or fixates on you, no matter how handsome he is, it will not be romantic. It will be super creepy, not to mention between moderately and significantly alarming.

(Please note that I have the class not to mention Twilight.)

This is getting a little too preachy, so I’m going to pass over everything else I was going to complain about (mainly Tom Cruise and Zooey Deschanel, and probably Keira Knightley, as usual). Interestingly, as I was mulling over this topic, I realized that the most traditional comedy I’ve seen in the past few years is Superbad—it’s ridiculous, it’s vulgar, oh, and it’s completely ridiculous. Wikipedia tells me that the movie’s writers had finished the script by the time they were 15, which explains the film’s breathtaking subtlety and depth.

Damn. No wonder people don’t want to watch movies with me.