Bottles Of Joules

Post-ballet thought (Cinderella)

2009-03-13T22:38:00.004-04:00

The pushover/enabling father in Cinderella: the real villain?

"The opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference" -Elie Wiesel

What if you are not indifferent, but you are still inactive. Does the thought absolve you of the indifference rendered in the inaction?

Everyone generates ATP

2009-03-07T19:39:00.007-05:00

In The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen writes in a passage about Denise, who is a cook and also feels like an outsider (doesn't everyone?), "Cooks were the mitochondria of humanity; they had their own separate DNA, they floated in a cell and powered it but were not really of it." (p. 379)

I think everyone with a career must feel this way. Because, ultimately, we all have our own individual DNA that directs the way we each "power" the members of humanity. Whether it's by cooking for them, cutting their hair, publishing their books, analyzing their minds, healing their wounds, or teaching their children, isn't EVERYONE a mitochondria of humanity in his or her niche?

figuring beauty

2009-02-24T23:59:00.005-05:00

I love curves.

And this is new.

Generally I have liked bony angular bodies that form sveltle, lengthy lines, b/c I spent my youth drooling over ballerinas' long, lean, muscular legs and teeny torsos.

But for the past 3 weeks I have been taking a figure drawing class and have spent hours staring at very normal, natural, real naked female bodies.

And so far these bodies have been anything but angular.

I'm not sure if everyone approaches drawing this way, but if I am going to capture something, I want to search every crevice to find the beauty, and honestly, looking at these normal weight, curvy, untoned bodies, it isn't hard. There's the difference in the ratio between the waist and thighs, the multiple hills that are layered over the hip bones, the cinched-in part of the leg that punctuates the thigh from the calf: it's like a piece of chiffon flowing back and forth. Everything flows and grows into the next wave. Female bodies are all just interesting casings that enclose a universal template.

It makes me want to run home after class and stare at my naked body in the mirror and find the equivilant curves in my body. The template for them, courtesy of reproductory needs and estrogen, is under there in everyone. And the way our bodies hug this template in various forms is really beautiful. And worthy of art. In each example.

objectifying evidence

2009-02-23T21:46:00.001-05:00

I much prefer shoes that make noise when I walk. I think it confirms my existence.

View from Street

2009-02-19T12:37:00.001-05:00

hot guy + suspenders = hotter guy

How do boys become friends?

2009-02-09T11:05:00.001-05:00

Curly hair and tiny feet: physical traits that help me bond with random women. Random curly-haired and/or petite women. Therein lies the explanation.

Ira & Abby

2009-01-26T23:19:00.003-05:00

What draws you to a person is, in many cases, what also threatens you the most.

-KJS in hetero/Freud-heavy form.

Nostalgia from 3 months ago

2008-05-20T16:47:00.008-04:00

This was sitting like a little orphan in my Outlook drafts box. It was at a very difficult time in 2008 when I thought I might be becoming lactose intolerant. I have since rejected this hypothesis. Please enjoy (, Cara).

disclaimer: these are disjointed scraps of thoughts not entirely sewed together. (Patchwork writing?)

My body is rejecting milk. My mom turned lactose intolerant in her 40s, so I figured if I was so unlucky as to follow in her genetic fate, at least I would be middle aged, probably so busy with kids and a job that I wouldn't have time to sit down and savor the white liquid heaven.

It all started (the love affair that is) in 1995.

When I was 10, my endocrinologist put me on the very scientific "whole milk diet." Whole milk accompanied every meal. I felt special confidently (and legally) sacheting into the Camp Pocono Ridge cafeteria kitchen, opening the massive institutional refrigrerator, and pulling out a half gallon of milk for me and my special needs.

It was my identity. It was me.

When I have a healthy portion of milk available, I will occasionally eat cake or cookies just so I can create the perfect milk-consuming environment in my mouth. I can gulp it down with a glass of milk. Nothing neutralizes and refreshes a buttery/sugary mouth like milk.

What I am saying is, this is more than just a beverage. This is who I am. It is my friend, and losing it will be a disaster.

But my heart will go on.

Me To You: Language Help

2008-04-14T00:33:00.006-04:00

The expression is "buck naked," not "butt naked."

Proceed.

Blogs to Riches

2008-03-26T16:58:00.002-04:00

There's this new rags-to-riches fantasy permeating society. Rather than being discovered by Prince Charming and being perched into royalty or being discovered by a wealthy Jewish doctor and being lifted into temple-approved riches (or for the non-archaically gendered version of this, see: The American Dream), we can now be discovered by America by never leaving our houses, and then we can consequentially become legitimate, respected artists. Or at least [book-bound, sold-in-Borders] published writers. No agent or self-marketing required.

Unsuprisingly, my textbook example of this is Diablo Cody.

And a few days ago Christian Lander, the writer behind Stuff White People Like -- the blog I have been insatiably devouring for the last month -- just got a book deal with Random House.

Another case of democratized fame inching us closer and closer to social homeostasis. At least among the sect of "the right kind of White People."

Please click for the [cynically-inclined] timeline of events.

Monkey House Wisdom from Timothy Gunn

2008-03-05T22:01:00.008-05:00

I was just re-watching last week’s episode of Project Runway – honestly out of boredom, not as a pre-gamer – however, I am certainly glad I did, because if I didn’t I may not have opened myself up to a 3 minute life pondering session courtesy of the bottomless wisdom residing in Tim Gunn’s brainsoul.

It went like this. So Chris March (the huggable and always good-spirited designer with a knack for ostentatious drag) is showing Tim his collection that he has accentuated with human hair. Tim is horrified. Chris says he loves it. In order for Tim to convey the negative shock value that this hair will elicit, he shares this analogy:

“I have this refrain about the monkey house at the zoo. When you first enter into the monkey house at the zoo, you think, ‘Oh my god this place stinks!’ And then after you’re there for 20 minutes you think, ‘it’s not so bad’ and after you’re there for an hour it doesn’t smell at all. And anyone entering the monkey house freshly thinks, ‘this stinks!’ You've been living in the monkey house.”

This little ditty can apply to anyyything. Feeling complacent with an unappealing job, relationship, life choice that we initially knew was against our best judgment, but we became accustomed to and comfortable in anyway.

Though when it comes down to it, the human hair looks pretty cool…especially the skirt version. Very modern flapper-esque. So on the flip side, perhaps sometimes we need to become desensitized to the immediate discomforts before we can open ourselves to gems that hide within. And perhaps they are gems we never sought out to gain. They just collide with our lives. Organically. In the monkey house. So sometimes it’s good not to let a little stench turn you away.

Monkey House: friend or foe? Circumstantial!

Making decisions is scary. Right you are, New York Times (2/26)

2008-02-27T00:40:00.003-05:00

I have 3 potential life paths drawn up. At this point in their theoretical development, the options feel so clear that I could paint a picture of a grassy forest path that comes to a fork. The intersection branches into 3 paths. Each path is an option, and each path has pros and cons, and each path is attractive for its own reason. I have done plenty of work to pencil in the stops and sights to expect on each journey, yet I remain static at the tip of the stem. The second I move in one direction, if I change my mind, I will have to turn around. And to make a mistake and risk wasting precious life time and energy is very frightening. So I hesitate. Continuing to fine tune the details in each path, hoping something unexpectedly beautiful will pop up and simplify my decision. And perhaps this get-all-the-facts(-as-I-stall) method isn’t the worst approach, but sometimes you need to shut some doors.*

*thanks to Wendy for directing me to this delightful reading material.

Cara Heller's current v-day thoughts:

2008-02-14T14:52:00.000-05:00

-regifting a valentine is so mean!
-it is also mean to feed a lot of chocolate to singles, therefore destroying any near hope of having a valentine

Candy is gooooooood

2008-02-05T22:37:00.001-05:00

Last night I slurped down the last drop of Candy Girl that I left for myself. I wanted to gulp the entire thing over the weekend, but I knew that I had a little more food to munch on, so I left a small but satisfactory 1 inch pool at the bottom of my cup.

Quick overview of book: Diablo Cody (screenwriter of THE ART OF 2007, colloquially called Juno) wrote this little "memoir" pre-her in-demand Hollywood days. I use the word memoir lightly. While this is how the book is marketed, I tend to think of a memoir as a recounting of an experience after all of the meaning has sunk in. Diablo's experience to be logged was very much sought out for the purpose of written reporting. I'll call it a pseudo memoir. And I don't mean that in a demeaning way.

OK, so our heroine has this typical corporate "girl" job of monotony, and she decides to sign up for a stripper amature night for some kicks. Along the way she develops something of an addiction to the high she acquires from the experience of using nothing but her raw person to earn the dough. She jumps around the sex industry from strip club to strip club to strip club to sex store peep box to strip club to phone sex operation, etc etc.

Why is this good? I originally went into this book thinking it would be drenched in anthropological analysis. She had a suprisingly meager amount of analysis. While she commented excessively on every bizarre socially relevent observation, she didn't break it down into tiny molecules. What gave the book the worthwhile stamp is Diablo Cody's (now very) clear signature language. In the same vein as Juno, every observation is loaded with pop culture and high culture references. The kind that make you feel like you're nodding directly at the writer. You get it. You're in the club.

I wouldn't call it one big empty calorie. I learned a crapload about the sex industry. This knowledge will undoubtedly come in handy for obvious conversational reasons.

What else did I learn? A new angle on feminism. As someone that has fallen into the Women's studies, liberal frame of mind, when you hear about any livelihood that involves voluntarily objectifying oneself, you think: AWFUL. Sacrificing what we've earned to fall into what men have dictated. Except then you go back to the voluntary part. To strip is a choice. To choose to exploit the power that society has assigned to breasts, artificial tans, and applied friction is to take advantage of the system, and it makes logical sense. To do this without losing one's own sense of self is a different issue.

This is a pro-choice book.

Choose to dance naked and hump money out of horny men?
Choose to not get an abortion?*
Choose to not vote for Hillary because you don't like her leadership style?
Choose to not let the hammered-in rules of fundamental feminism dictate your decisions despite identifying oneself as a feminist?

Holla.

*Juno has been called anti-feminist and anti-abortion. I believe it to be pro-choice.

Cooking and dressing require the same skillset

2008-01-26T19:07:00.000-05:00

In both experiences you must maximize the ingredients at hand in order to create the most pleasing combinations to the senses. Requirements: basic knowledge of taste + confidence + creativity.

You can purchase high-end readymade ensembles, but they quickly grow old.

I am sure many more life activities require this same skillset. Probably combining instrumental sounds to make music. Though I know nothing about that. A C in third grade recorder was enough to convince me that I had no musical abilities.

What else may be harboring in each of us had we not received that C in third grade recorder?

Maybes are the worst, but noncommitment is how we grow up. I agree.

2008-01-26T11:49:00.000-05:00

I wish I could fly out of my tattered collection of twigs and land in someone else’s.
I have partial memberships to a few others, but partial isn’t good enough.
And I build my own nest and send out invitations...
Sometimes on facebook,
But everyone else is just a maybe.
A nest is only as strong as its residents.

So I’ll hope the other nests don’t disappear.
And if they do, I’ll hide away in calcium carbonate,
And pull a few others in.
We'll hatch a new life.
And maybe
One day
A nest of our very own.

Originally my blog was not to resemble an LJ nor was it to focus exclusively on ME ME ME but on LIFE LIFE LIFE. When you read the excessive I's, think of them as a universal I. Not I as in Julie, I as in HUMANITY.

A letter to Hillary. Yours truly, Aunt Mollie

2008-01-24T23:57:00.002-05:00

If you've never heard me talk about my Great Aunt Mollie, all you need to know is this: she's absolutely fabulous.

She is 95, but her universal ideals of equality and goodness transcend her age. About a week ago, while in the hospital mind you, she decided that Hillary Clinton could really use her advice. So she wrote her a letter. Not a letter about the war or really much about politics at all. A letter advising her not to partake in gossip. The unlikelihood of her words actually reaching the campaigning senator doesn't faze her. But to be on the realistic side, Aunt Mollie decided that if she doesn't hear back soon from Hill, she'll try to send it to the Philadelphia Inquirer.

So this past Monday, she passed a copy to me to read. To get the full experience, try to imagine it double spaced in font size 22. I give you, AUNT MOLLIE:

---
January 12, 2008 Honorable Senator Hillary Clinton,

I am 95 years old so you must realize I have lived almost a century of experiences. In all that time I never missed a single voting opportunity. There were good times and there were bad ones. But at the worst, not as bad as today.

When I heard on the radio that you were thinking of being a candidate for the presidency, my feeling was--maybe this is the solution.

I think you are a caring, sympathetic, and smart lady. Experience you have, if even second hand.

There have been very many great ladies going back to Deborah in the Bible. Later, Margaret Thatcher, Mrs. Roosevelt, Indira Ghanda, and Golda Meir. My fervent prayer is that you would not stoop to innuendo, rumors, gossip. And when confronted you would look them in the eye and say-- "I will not stoop to this. I only want to talk about what I want to accomplish." And every time this comes up just repeat this reply. And you could quote a leader who once said, "let he who is without sin cast the first stone."

I also thought you stress the fact that no matter what you promise it cannot be accomplished without a senate and a House to accomplish it.

Senator, you have a daughter and maybe progeny later. Do you want them to live in this kind of country? I have 2 children, 6 grandchildren, and 4 great-grandchildren--and I grieve for their future. So please-- Ignore the bombasts, the criticisms and come to the facts only. Show the world that you are what you really are. I shall close with our most beautiful word, "Shalom."
----

Aside from the fact that her message is solid -- gossiping is a no no. True story -- the internal inhibitions that hold back people's voices -- age, gender, seeming ordinary-ness, fear -- are not factors to Aunt Mollie. She believes that her opinion is of worth, so she makes it heard in the best medium that she can find. And she never censors herself. And she's always learning. And she adores Judaism and infuses it into her messages, but never lets blind faith stupify her sensibility. And that is why I think she's absolutely fabulous.

The Lorde and the Democratic Candidates

2008-01-17T16:02:00.000-05:00

If you took Oprah and made her a lesbian and a poet that came of age in the 1950s, and you gave her the breadth of insight that coming from that world of multi-faceted oppression yields, you would have Audre Lorde: a woman who’s last name does her a lot of justice. For coming from such a seemingly narrow niche of humanity, her insight is applicable to every arena of life. Her main principle is this: live wholly and own everything about you.

As children we are socialized to disassociate from the different pieces of who we are that might seem weird, and we prop each fragment of ourselves up with a disclaimer: “I was just having a nerdy moment…a ditzy moment…a deep moment.” We give more power to the seeming transience of our emotions than to our actual being. No, we weren’t just having a nerdy moment, a ditzy moment, or a deep moment. We embody all of those descriptions. We each have strong passions that build up and burst over. Some concepts are hard to grasp and that doesn’t make us stupid. And everyone has some frame of reference based on how they grew up that gives them tremendous insight…about something. We market ourselves with edited language that fits in with social norms, and by doing this we miss out on representing the best part of ourselves: our weirdness.

When relaying these ideas of embracing weirdness and seeking wholeness to the task of identifying the qualities that make a woman a “STRONG WOMAN,” I find that the women that repeatedly appear on my list have married the academic and the emotional. By breathing passion into raw knowledge and experience, Natalie Angier makes science provocative and relevant and sexy. Why be either a technician or an artist, when being both is so inspiring? And is this yardstick of wholeness and power equally applicable to both genders? And how does this implicate who is a better choice (for those who are politically leaning in this direction): Hillary or Obama.

Hillary has made a case for herself out of discipline and knowledge, Obama out of passion. Both of them clearly also embody the half that their PR platform lacks, but is it enough? And can we really know? At first I was rolling my eyes at the democratic debates, because all they seemed to do was personally attack each other instead of the issues and rah rah we all know it should be about the issues, but because their stances are so similar, this is a battle of character. And identity and race and gender, but only because these backgrounds inform who these candidates are: it’s a delicious sociology seminar wrapped into modern history.

What is more important, passion or knowledge? Knowledge can be taught and hired and is absolutely essential for laying the foundation of an exceptionally functional administration (in any arena), but the overarching tip should be ignited with passion. Especially now when we have this unusual window of nearly-universally wanting such change that we might be able to actually elect something so out of the box.

And I want out of the box. Not out of the box in terms of race or gender. But out of the box in terms of character and passion. And right now Obama just gives me the warm fuzzies.

"Matters" follow-up

2008-01-09T14:22:00.000-05:00

Reading Shopgirl makes me feel enclosed and depressed (solid)*, but listening to a Diablo Cody** interview causes me to internalize and echo her effervescent voracity for pop culture observation (gas). Eating a fresh meal -- one that Sara’s beloved Michael Pollan would greatly approve – makes me feel easy-going and content (liquid). Get it?

*Doesn’t mean I don’t like it. The character development happens to yield those feelings. And art that yields any type of emotion is good.

**other sidenote: my new best friend Brian-from-the-Philadelphia-free-library is ordering “the Philadelphia Community” (read: me) 5 copies of Candy Girl. Grab ‘em!

Matters

2008-01-06T18:26:00.001-05:00

Solid, liquid, and gas are different states of the same material. The state is dependent on the movement of the molecules. Slow, content ones are packed, secure, and definite. Slightly antsy ones are still visible, but they easily mold into whatever situation they find themselves. And the nutters that are all over the place are invisible and occasionally undetectable. Though sometimes you add a sensual marker and everyone knows you're there, albeit from artificial sources.

But nothing is permanent. With a flip of surroundings you can freeze into a rigid lattice or dance around uncontrollably. And you can switch back and forth. Some things might get stuck in you, and you might lose droplets of volume along the way, but basically--regardless of form--you are you.

Important info re: America's Choice

2008-01-04T12:54:00.000-05:00

If you are deciding between Superfresh brand (very appropriately called AMERICA*S CHOICE) s'more breakfast pasrties vs. Pop Tart brand breakfast pastries, I strongly advise in this scenario that you go with Pop Tart brand. America is chalky and crumbly (in the bad way).

More importantly, how did Superfresh have the balls to market their products as "America's Choice." Very American.

D.1

2008-01-03T00:00:00.000-05:00

Two people on a couch sit with their backs facing each other. Each person is furiously typing on a laptop. Respective typing becomes less sporadic and rhythmic exchange between the two becomes apparent. Back and forth. To the right: Type. Enter. Wait. To the left: Type. Enter. Wait. Laughs occasionally synchronize. Individuals never turn to face each other. Belly laughter peaks, subsides, and is replaced by subtle smirks. Facial expressions become suggestive. Deep typer’s hunch. Assymetrical symmetry. Definite periods of mutual writers block. Palpable awkwardness. Typing exchange pumps and shrivels in bursts. Rhythm picks up. Pace escalates. Recedes again. Less typing. Less typing. Less typing. Both parties turn 180 degrees and romantically entwine.

El fin.

Holiday time makes big kids seem not so big.

2007-12-13T17:43:00.001-05:00

My coworker Mary Ann loves to refer to the Managing Editors as “the big kids.”

I was thinking about it, and according to rules of proportions; they mathematically are the big kids.

OK, this is my prime those-are-the-big-kids memory. Sitting in the Cheltenham Elementary cafeteria: the older you got, the further you shifted to right side of the room (the less supervised side). I remember being in Kindergarten looking to the other end of the lunchroom, and thinking those fourth graders were overwhelmingly old and huge. And, percentage-wise, they really were. I was 5; they were 10: double my age. The EAs range in age from 22-24. By the Law of Big Kids, our fourth graders are about 44-48: about on target for the ages of our bosses.

Math saves the day yet again.

My Literary Best Friend

2007-12-12T17:34:00.001-05:00

My good friend Lee Fiora and I just had a major reunion. I laughed; I cried; I remembered how it used to be. She may have experienced these emotions too, but she always just looks like this

so I couldn't really tell.

It had to end though. We bid farewell for the second time this past weekend. Like most hearty reunions, we shared some nostalgia. We thought about where we were the first time we shared her poignant adolescent life moments: in the bath during spring surprise, on my mom's couch during Assassin, NJtransit to NY during the completely unnecessary but entirely welcome Sin Jun revelation, in my bed during Cross's first visit (juicy), on the R5 coming home from Philly during the painfully degrading in-the-classroom scene.

And we made some new memories too! Remember that day in Starbucks when I sipped peppermint mocha and slurped down your delicious words? I sat at my favorite relaxspot in Philadelphia: the brown lounge chair that allows me to simultaneously people-watch everyone that passes the corner of 15th and Walnut.

Last year in Hava Java Andrew asked me and Jackie what single item we would bring with us on a deserted island. We were sitting at the table closest to the door. I was facing the window, Andrew was to my right. Like my original reading of Prep, every sensual memory associated with this conversation is stamped on my brain. The obvious answer was another person. Living things are exciting and frightening all at once, because they are unpredictable. Especially humans. There is an infinite number of responses within someone else's head. Hence the constant pursuit of conversation. I think that's what I love about Prep so much. Reading it feels like having a cathartic neverwantittoend conversation. Thus, my definition of one type of ideal book (or any art for that matter): one that feels alive. Not in and of itself. But with me.

I have a huge crush...

2007-12-05T14:18:00.000-05:00

On the movie Juno. I am listening to interviews while I work, and my stomach feels silly and excited. Perhaps this chemical reaction to listening to people speak about a movie I have not yet seen is evidence supporting a theory out there for why I do not have a significant other? Dopamine gets used up.

That boy from Superbad is so cute and awkward; I want to take a big chomp out of his face. His eyes are always smiling.

I am excited for:

-An intelligent take on teen pregnancy. Teen mom status automatically drops you superfar down the social hierarchy. Lez de-stigmatize it. Awesome.
-Cute boy from Superbad to awkwardly smile a lot and talk in that pleasant tenor monotone that he sings so sweetly.

I guess two things don’t justify bullets. Anything that emits the essence of Freaks and Geeks makes my heart skip.

Delicious.

“I want to have a boy and a girl. The girl is going to be named ______”

2007-11-30T16:31:00.000-05:00

Girls love to talk about their favorite names. These conversations quickly veer into the discussion of potential names for future babies, desired number of children, wedding fantasies, ideal dress, etc, etc...

Because these conversations come up so frequently in girlhood, I always have a few names ready to pull from. When I was 12 I invented the name Camarie and debuted it to the world as "my favorite name." It's ugly, and I knew that. And it was quickly pointed out to me that Toyota already makes a very popular car with an almost identical name. I didn't care. I stuck by Camarie, and to this day I still can't shake Camarie1085 from following me as my semi-permanent online identity.

I stopped saying Camarie was my favorite name about 5 years ago, and started adapting regular but not-so-popular names. Natalie was a big one. I never really cared about the names I was saying, unlike some girls who felt so sure of their choices. It was kind of like how I felt about talking about boys in high school. Umm, I guess I like him? Sure, I'll say him.

But recently I've finally discovered my name niche in the world: Vintage.

Names like Eleanor (Ellie), Edith (Edy), Beatrice (Bea), and Winifred (Winne).

I find these all insatiably adorable. They're like floral silk scarves and gingham wasp-waisted dresses. So vintage they feel fresh and modern. They convey the history carried in a grandmother but embodied in a youthful mold.

We'll save my insecurities with the rest of those recurring girl conversations for another entry.

Name: CHECK.

Postscript: according to facebook there are at least 23 people named Camarie.

Julie + Project Runway: A Punctuated History

2007-11-27T12:03:00.000-05:00

Underground art scenes tend to wither or commercialize. The good news is that Project Runway hasn't done the former. The bad news is that it has succumbed to the latter. (Bluefly.com?! How I miss the classy days of Banana) But alas, such is life. If TV is life. I mean it mimics life, thus creating life (a la The Hills). I digress. Back to Project Runway. I still derive (loads of) pleasure from it, but about 33.33% of the affection is out of nostalgic dedication (similar to my feelings about Megan McCafferty's J. Darling series from my adolescence). We go way back.

Here's a timeline explaining how:

12/04: first viewing. Julie and Mother consume three consecutive episodes of engaging new television program. After viewing Austin Scarlett's ingenious corn husk dress in the Supermarket Challenge, said viewers are declared fans. Project Runway becomes a key bonding instrument between Julie and Mother.

1/05: Julie unsuccessfully tries to introduce Project Runway to her roommate and hallmate friends. Friends whine and say the program is "boring." Julie questions quality of friends.

1/05- 4/05: despite Muhlenberg's poor reception of Bravo, Julie watches the rest of season one in solitude. She feels invigorated by the creative energy and forms minor parasocial relationships with the contestants who are quirky characters without being edited caricatures. She is pleased with reality television.

--Hiatus--

12/05: Season 2 begins. Reception still poor. For an inexplicable reason, Bravo comes in beautifully off-campus. Julie enlists Albright Streeter, Julia Zur, to tape show on weekly basis. Life comes into focus.

2/06: Julie finds a fellow fan in advisor and neurobiology professor, Favorite Person (Muhlenberg Alpha Male, i.e. - gay and fabulous). The two discuss the latest ProjRun in Neuro lab. Julie is thrilled with strong new rapport with FP.

3/06: Favorite Person informs Julie that one of the current season's duds, Marla, is a local and had been spotted in the Student Union buying coffee and around campus walking her dog. Julie and friend visit Marla's store in Bethlehem and chat it up. Julie was not in a state to process information, so she regrettably can not share any of the gossip that she learned, as she forgets it.

4/06: Julie writes an article for the Muhlenberg Advocate dissecting the show's appeal and equating the characters to those found in Muhlenberg's theatre department.

4/06: Julie attends talk given by Marla meant for business students, and Marla points her out to the audience as someone who has visited her store. Shame and embarrassment ensue. Superfandom has peaked.

--Short Hiatus--

7/06- 3rd season begins, albeit a little prematurely.

9/06- Julie notices that "Project Runway!!!!" is beginning to appear every Wednesday in away messages of friends who formerly declared show "boring." Signifies demise. How much of what we believe we like is constructed by societal trends?

?? - 10/06: Julie finds that it's a little too hard to follow the program what with Muhlenberg's poor Bravo reception and the lack of a far off-campus taper.

Which brings us to present day. I now have terrific Bravo reception and a surplus of time to dedicate to Project Runway. Hello, Season 4.

I <3 Cow

2007-11-19T16:35:00.000-05:00

To ignite my spirit this holiday season, I would recommend giving me a smoked meat/cheese basket. I am currently paging through a catalog at work (my boss got it in the mail...I have to approve it as worthwhile pass-on material...definintely salaried work), and in spite of being completely full, I am drooling. That's how much I loved smoked appetizers.

I never considered my love for smoked meats and cheeses until Julia expressed her hatred for such delicacies. It is only in times of great opposition that we realize what we truly believe.

What more could a girl want?

Tights are not always sensible, and here's why.

2007-11-12T21:50:00.000-05:00

If your mom's glass door shatters and you forget and fall backwards through the door frame while locking up, your left (unprotected-by-pants) thigh might scrape against a pointy shard resulting in a bloody gash. Pants, however, would not have prevented the deep violet, baseball-sized bruise from forming on the westernmost peak of your butt.

This tragic story happened to me just this Saturday. Here's a paintbrush reenactment:

Seriously, this is not your average black and blue. This shade of purple should only come in a paint can. Julia thinks it’s beautiful; Adam gave me a maternal, “you really hurt yourself!”; my mother refused to look.

While I was falling, I actually screamed. It wasn’t a high pitched shriek of fear. It was an alarmist, “I’m hurt; help me!” scream. Totally my survivor instincts kicking in. I give myself an A+ for natural selection abilities. My friends/family would zoom right over in the wild, and the butt-wounded Julie would NOT become prey.

Overall, I’m deriving more pleasure than pain from this injury. I totally blew it when I tried to tell the story at work though. Too much mental rehearsal. No laughter. Planning will always getcha. Maybe I’m even blowing it now. Was the paintbrush reenactment too much?

In other weekend news, Adam Neal made a stunning Edward, the pampered, girlyman half of the brotherhood in the Suffern Playhouse's production of Blood Brothers. To see a video of him rehearsing (British accent and all), please consult this. Don't mind his lack of eye contact with the camera. (Isn't he cute?)

I need to nurse my bottom (aka: lay on the couch and watch The Hills). The one-time-only Broadway Dance Work Out is this Wednesday at the gym, and I can NOT miss it.

Dreams of terror visit me at night

2007-11-08T16:35:00.000-05:00

I have been having nightmares lately. A lot. They don't involve falling or witches or big bears chasing me. They involve unplanned pregnancy and hard core drug addiction.

Why am I telling you this? Just to share my dream with you? A little, but I wouldn't do that to you without reason. Generally, I really don't like hearing about people's dreams (unless I really really like you...then I'll listen to you talk about every dream...and gayboy sexcapade...you ever had), so I try not to inflict this information on others. Sometimes I have enough trouble paying close attention to your real life, now I have to listen to your fictional life too? No. (grade A info from the source: being quiet does not always = being a good listener). But for real, no, I will listen to your dreams if you want to share them with me. Promise. Your words are important.

OK, back to me. I am sharing this with you, because these dreams cause such an enormous amount of anxiety while they are occurring! And they always happen right at the tail end of my slumber, so my prefrontal cortex (AKA, "the seat of rational thought and critical reasoning"-- thank you Natalie Angier.) is starting to wake up and be rational and tell me, "no! this isn't real!" but PC can't function enough to tell me WHY it's not real, so I freak. A lot.

The theme in both of these dreams is clear: anxiety over losing control. In both cases a foreign substance (or person...though let's not get into that debate) is claiming control over my body, and for whatever reason I am unable to stop it. In REM, I always seem to not realize I'm with child until my third trimester. And with the drugs, I always go in thinking, “I will certainly have the willpower to not become addicted to this heroin that I am shooting up my arm.”

Wrong. I've learned my lesson. I did get addicted. And I'm learning it repeatedly. Real-life simulation.

What if you could give impressionable adolescents pills to induce these dreams? I'm really not pro the WAR ON DRUGS approach to middle school health education (b/c I had an unfortunate experience where I truly bought every single word they told me and let it negatively impact my late adolescent social life), but if I were pro WAR ON DRUGS, I wonder if that would be an effective means of preventing the kiddies from engaging in BAD THINGS. Would it be ethical to enforce a mental experience like that? Hmmm...

Anyway, these are my current nightmares. They'll probably continue. And that's ok. It's kinda nice seeing myself doing the badass things that I don't do in real life. But ya never know. And now I am totally kenahara-ing myself.

Ahhhh, will you still be my friend when I'm an unfit mother addicted to intravenous drugs? I promise I'll listen to your dreams! K, bye.

Shower Curtain Spurs Serenity

2007-11-07T12:56:00.000-05:00

Life is a balancing game.

Work: a balancing game called doing the minimum amount of work to efficiently accomplish all my pre-determined “objectives” so that I can do what I really want: read my fave blog, page through the mostemailed list on the NYtimes website, enrich my mind with random wikipedia pages, write silly emails, etc…

Now that I spend every evening thinking about the Zodiac (thanks to my brilliantly colored Zodiac-themed shower curtain) and some days (thanks to my horoscope-dedicated coworkers), I’ve come to realize that I am much more a Libra than I used to be.

In 6th grade when we took Latin (Fun fact: my Latin name was Zelda) and learned about the Zodiac signs as if they were an academic subject, I felt really jipped when I colored in my black and white ditto of a scale. A scale?! I wanted to be an animal, or better yet, one of those really hot Gemini twins that looked like mermaid goddesses. And yes, despite being in 6th grade (and taking LATIN), we were coloring.

And then when I came to understand the symbolic meaning of the scale: balance, serenity, being calm, etc…I realized that Libra was the least appropriate sign for someone with such extreme obsessions and hatreds as Julie Eisen. Yet now, I embrace the (concept of the) scale.

Yes, I am still a woman of extremes (When it comes to thoughts, people, ideas, I have tended to be full-on passionate or utterly apathetic).

But not as much anymore. My feelings for more things are in the grey region. I still max out on certain interests (recent overdose: the L-word, only to have come to a temporary halt b/c the Philadelphia public library system is unable to sponsor this educational experience beyond season 2). But for the most part, Julie of 2007 has mellowed significantly as compared to the Julie pre-2005. I attribute this to good friends, Oprah Winfrey (who is one of my good friends), and a host of other things.

And speaking of the library, library is libra + ry. Perhaps this is a message that books keep us balanced and whole.

Also speaking of the library, my online account tells me that I owe $1 for something I already returned (on time).

Peeved...but...calm!

After this I am going to improve my blogger image

2007-11-06T11:49:00.000-05:00

Voting Update:
So it turns out I am currently in "active status" (says my friend, 'ST, VOTERREG [st-voterreg@state.pa.us]') which means that I AM registered to vote. In Montgomery County (obviously…that’s where I “live”).

I know I should make the schlep home (train, wait for mom to pick up at train, drive to voting destination—reverse all steps to return to the city), but…no thanks. Now is not the time. I am not sufficiently knowledged. But I did consult https://www.pavoterservices.state.pa.us/ so I AM on my game.

Best of luck without my support, Montgomery County.

No one's perfect (my political aspirations)

2007-11-04T22:00:00.000-05:00

I have no idea if I am registered to vote. Moreover, I don’t even have the desire to google this question and figure out if/where I am registered.

This is a weighty confession.

I google to solve absolutely everything. Ashley Olsen’s height? Googled (5'1"). Any original Nickelodeon Guts Agro Crags for sale on ebay? Googled (not right now). MC’s jail status? Googled--biweekly (still pending). I am trying to be honest with you (Cara and Julia and whoever may read this in the future). When it comes to politics—local, state, national, international, ALL OF THEM—I know very little, and what’s worse, I don’t really care. It's not that I don't care about people or society or how life's institutions are carried out. I care a lot about these things. And if you would like to discuss gay marriage or abortion, I am not completely dispensable. But Iraq, Iran (!?), Nutterformayor, Hillary vs. Obama, etc...lord, am I ignorant.

And this is going to change. Why exactly is this the year this is going to change, you ask? Because I am out of school. The imposed intellectual reading has now vanished. Without obligatory scholastic opinions, I need to shift this focus (something many of my peers managed to do as early as high school - HOW?). I am going to become decently politically literate.

Need: Knowledge.

I need to be invested. It’s a little late to get invested in the Philadelphia Mayoral race (and I’m 99.9% sure it’s too late to register to vote in Philadelphia by Tuesday, nor do I want to do that because I am hoping really really hard that Philadelphia won’t notice that one week when I paid my citywage tax, and then promptly changed my address back to Elkins Park), but I will be invested by this time next year. Because it’s the big one. And I know that. And I’m going to have opinions right and left (pun obviously intended).

Good night.

Inception

2007-11-04T18:35:00.000-05:00

In honor of finally ushering the world of tights into my life, (and thereby freeing myself of the burden of HAVING to wear pants in the winter months) I am starting this blog.

Welcome!

(I’m starting it for other reasons too)