Let Me Talk About Harry Potter, Thank You

I don't remember the exact day, and considering how important Harry Potter is to my life I really wish I could remember, but it was in the Autumn of My Sixth Grade Year-eth when I came across Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling tucked away on a bookshelf in the young adult section of Ye Olde School Library.

Hey, 13 years ago is a long time for us spritely folk.

My school was undergoing some serious budget cuts, so I was surprised to find a new book on the shelf, especially one that wasn't covered in a suspicious sticky substance resembling hot dog vomit. It looked extremely out of place with its shiny, colorful dust cover and clean white pages. I was instantly drawn to it, and I quickly grabbed it from the shelf before that one kid in my class licked it because, uh, he licked everything.

There's always one in every class.

Anyway.

You know how Moses found that burning bush in the desert and it was blindingly beautiful and frightening and he was in awe and God was there and was all, "What's up, Moses?" from His place on high? It was kind of like that for me, but I was in my school library and I didn't hear any voices.

Yet.

But seriously, people, this book changed my life. It was like Lumos! up in my head with my imagination running wild across the Hogwarts greens and Quidditch field. I don't think I put it down the entire weekend. I would say that that is a challenging feat for a 12 year old in the middle of the school sports season, but I was an extremely pale and nerdy kid with bad allergies and I was in band, so staying inside and reading a book was not very unusual for me.

Harry Potter isn't just about spells and charms and chocolate frogs though. It's about love and friendship and doing what is right all the time. I know that sounds OH SO TOTALLY BORING ZZZZZ AM I DROOLING, but it's not, I promise. It's easy for us to dismiss the HP series as a bunch of children's books, and while children have enjoyed reading this beloved story about their favorite wizard, these books aren't just for kids.

I re-read all seven tomes virtually every year, and I think I enjoy them more and more every time with my increasing accumulation of wisdom and life experience. If that makes me a little bit of a loser, then I don't want to know what your idea of winning is because YOU ARE SO COMPLETELY WRONG.

Supposedly, scientists and the celebrity fragrance makers have discovered that scents trigger memories and nostalgia and other mind stuff. So that bottle of Britney Spears' Curious that I have about 3.9 drops left inside of? Middle school rages through the VCR of my brain and I see myself in braces and itchy wool sweaters at top speed whenever I spritz some through the air. It's like a yearbook for my nose.

Well, the Harry Potter books? Totes do the same thing, but better because I don't have memories of my bad dental and frizzy hair, and no spritzing is involved.

Instead, I remember a kid who was extremely happy and book-ish and excited about libraries. Waiting for each additional book to be released was more difficult than waiting to open my presents on Christmas morning, and whenever I crack open the worn out spines, I have the same holiday rush of anticipation.

It doesn't matter that I know what's going to happen (SIRIUS DIES EVERY TIME). It doesn't matter that the last book was published in 2009, and Rowling swears that there are no sequels or Hermione spinoffs in the future (sob).

None of that matters because the books are like some of the dearest, oldest friends in my life. And while we learn that friends come and go, it is wonderful to know that there are seven of them that will always be there for you waiting on some shelf and ready to give you advice, make you laugh and cry, and remind you that love and loyalty are all you'll ever need.

OK, that might seem a little esoteric and, quite possibly, rather sad because books as friends?

Really, Shasta?

But I have never felt such a powerful connection to any particular story until then, and while many books have come close, the Harry Potter series will always be closest to my heart.

I didn't care and I still don't care if that's not very "cool" of me. I will gladly be a nerd or a geek or a dork or whatever for this series. If my daughter comes across a book that gives her happiness and makes her not care about being "cool" then I want her to love that story for her whole life as well.

Would it be wrong of me to re-read the series twice in one year? Because I'm thinking about it now.

I Was Not Ready to Rumble

Originally, this post started about gluten-free foods and how I hate them because I ate a slice of gluten-free cheese pizza last week, and I just about died on my way to the bathroom. As it turned out, though, I must have contracted a stomach bug because gluten-free foods might be disgusting, but they are not responsible for ripping open my digestive tract for the last six days.

But they are responsible for the longevity of this season's NBA lockout.

If you can't already tell, this post will be about bodily functions, so if you're squeamish or can't handle these kinds of discussions, then please enjoy another blog post at this time!

I really thought that pizza was what did me in because about two hours after lunch, I felt a rumble in my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. An additional hour later, I was writhing on my office floor trying not to throw up on my pregnant boss. I was doing the nausea mambo - dry heaving and butt cheek clenching simultaneously.

I know that sounds like a good time to you weirdos out there, but I do not have such inclinations. I usually have a pretty strong stomach, and I have been known to eat entire cartons of ice cream without so much as a burp, so this was miserable.

Once we were done for the day, I bolted into my car and started to head home, but in my nausea-induced panic, I forgot that you can't get anywhere in a timely manner in the greater Puget Sound area between the hours of 4 and 7pm.

I spent the next hour suffering through my 10-mile drive home trying not to shit myself in the car. If you haven't had to endure this, then consider yourself lucky because that was definitely in the Top 5 Worst Experiences of my life. I was frantically calling everyone on my iPhone (Bluetooth - what's up!) trying to distract myself from the pain, but no one was answering and I WAS ABOUT TO POOP MY PANTS from the stress of it all.

When I finally made it home, let's just say that hell hath no fury like a simmering stomach of indigestion because what happened thereafter is probably illegal in most states. For the rest of that evening, I crawled between my bathroom and couch like some sort of broken ass snake. I was cursing that pizza like you would not believe.

Wednesday was no better, and while everyone was enjoying a work-provided turkey lunch, I was sipping on Gatorade like it was the best damn thing I ever sipped!

But it wasn't.

There was hope on Thanksgiving. After picking up my husband from the airport, we made a ham and some mashed potatoes, thanked the Pilgrims, and ate a late lunch. At this point, I was positive that the pizza was the culprit for my digestive troubles because I was cleared out by then! I was enjoying solid foods! The toilet rested quietly in the bathroom!

Then Friday happened, and I have a new reason to call this day Black Friday. It just was not a good day for me and the plumbing. It started with some paralyzing stomach cramps that rendered me immobile and clammy, and it ended with a lot of whining and Googling "death from stomach problems."

Saturday was more of the same. We tried our best to enjoy the long weekend and attempted some eating out and Christmas shopping, but even though I hydrated with water and ate only different varieties of breads, I still felt like there was a time bomb in the seat of my pants.

During one of my quests for an empty ladies restroom, I ran into a friend who was out shopping AND OH MY GOD, PEOPLE, I never wanted to see her less. I mean, she's great! We've known each other for years! We both hate our jobs! But I was thisclose to either throwing up on her shoes or exploding out of my jeans, so I really, really didn't have time for small talk.

I wish I could say that Sunday was better, but it wasn't. I spent most of the day alone because my dear husband went back on an airplane to his work, and while I loved, loved, loved having him home with me because he is the most wonderful man ever, it was really inconvenient running to the bathroom and worrying about whether or not he could hear everything that was happening in there.

Because he could.

Now I'm on Day Six of this ordeal, and I don't know how stomach bugs work - bacterial, viral, magical, I just don't know - but I'm pretty sure I'll never be the same after this.

And neither will my toilet.

A Disclaimer Would Have Been Helpful

Long story short (though I will inevitably make this long anyway), our lease runs out in March, and we are considering not renewing it. We really do like our apartment, and the location isn't that bad. The neighbors are quiet; we don't have a long commute; everything is set up just the way we like it; we are the perfect distance away from Seattle without making me feel like a country bumpkin.

But, you know, it could be better. We would like less traffic, more grass, and maybe a bigger closet so that I can hide more clothes, err, I mean, have more storage. So, with that, we're slowly scoping out some other living situations, and by "scoping" I mean that I am trolling real estate websites for houses that are way, way out of our budget.

"We don't need a 6-car garage and 3 master suites and a giant, swan fountain in the driveway, Shasta."

"But it's A MILLION DOLLARS LESS than when they first put it on the market!"

"I thought we were thinking about renting again since we might move out of state soon?"

"But this is obviously our dream house! You've been saying how much you want a garage!"

"We don't have six cars or six cars worth of stuff for this garage though!"

"Oh, well, I thought you liked swans."

"...."

What can I say? I love looking at crazy houses, and for the most part, I can see myself living in one, but I have a normal husband who deserves to live in an area where we aren't known as The Basket Cases With the Swan Fountain.

And you thought I couldn't compromise...

After browsing apartment complexes and living communities in the neighborhoods of Not Ghetto and No Vandalism, I found a potential place. The description was perfect. Like, seriously, read this:

"Life is about making big plans but keeping things simple. That's where we come in. [Our apartment community] has the comforts of the home you know and love without the maintenance or headaches of ownership."

That sounds bomb diggity, right? All of the reviews were like 5+++ stars with sprinkles on top, and the surrounding neighborhood is a great part of Washington where there aren't any meth labs or police officer shootings. We would be a bit further from work, but for granite countertops? I think I'll drive the extra 15 minutes.

I need to see it to believe it, though, so I decided to call their leasing office yesterday to schedule a viewing and, you know, get more information...and this is what happened:

"Hello, my name is Shasta, and I was just looking through your website, and I was wondering if you had any available units next March?"

"Why, yes, we will have some vacancies by then, and we can reserve a unit for you as early as January."

"That's great, and when can we schedule a viewing and discuss your policies?"

"Any time next week - we are available whenever, as I am sure you are too these days! Ha ha!"

"Uhhhh..well...no, I have a very busy work schedule, so do you have any morning or lunch openings on Monday or Tuesday?"

"You're still working at your age? Ha ha! That is very proactive of you! But yes, Monday at 8am we would be happy to meet with you."

"Wait, what do you mean at my age?"

"Most of our residents stopped working years and years ago, but there are still a few of you spritely ones with that gung ho spirit!"

I couldn't tell what she was talking about for the longest time, and her upbeat, cheery attitude and little laughs were starting to get to me. Maybe you're already picking up what the receptionist was laying down, but I was a little slow on the uptake.

Was this a rehabilitative center for homeless people or something?

Why don't these residents work?

Was this a Charles Manson type thing?

Would I have to be a sister wife?

Then, finally, the truth surfaced.... 

"So that we know what you and your husband are looking for, how would you describe yourselves? Outdoorsy and athletic or more meditative and artistic?"

"Uhhhmmmm, well, he's athletic...and I'm an aspiring writer of sorts..."

"OK, we can work with that! We offer tons of activities for active adults with different interests!"

Active...adults? What......?

Wait.

ACTIVE ADULTS? LIKE OLD PEOPLE? I'VE BEEN LOOKING AT APARTMENTS IN AN OLD PEOPLE COMMUNITY? OH MY GOD, WHAT THE WHAT?

I felt like I got slapped in the face by some crazy bitch with a bad weave and acrylic nails who I originally thought was from Beverly Hills but is more like Compton material once I got a good look at her roots. Unexpected and disillusioned.

What kind of old people community doesn't SAY that they are for the SENIOR POPULATION? Their
website has no stipulation about resident age - I just thought it was awesome that they offered knitting courses and shuffleboard game nights in their community areas! And while all of the pictures of the (fake actor) residents were all of a, uh, mature age, I didn't really think anything of it because paid models deserve to be of all ages, not just those young twiggy girls you see in magazines. I figured they weren't discriminating, that's all.

It probably wouldn't be such a bad deal being the youngest folks there. We would be doted on like grandchildren with fresh baked cookies and milk all the time. Maybe they even have a complimentary, lifetime supply of prune juice and those little butterscotch candies that grandmas always have in their carpet bags.

But I don't know if I could really live in a place where the primary reason residents leave is because they died.

A swan fountain doesn't seem so bad now.

Britney Spears is Turning the Big 3-0...How Old Does That Make You?

Listen, Brit Brit's birthday is on December 2nd. She hasn't invited me to her party yet, but I think that's because she's still on the Femme Fatale tour down in Mexico, and she knows I don't have time to renew my passport, so I forgive her.

I have been a vehement Britney fan ever since "...Baby One More Time" premiered on TRL.

Yes, TRL? Remember that show? I always wanted to call and vote for my favorite video ("TOXIC!") but I was usually in school still when we were supposed to cast our votes because, unlike MTV, I was on Pacific Standard Time, so imagine my disappointment whenever I came home to find Britney in the number two spot.

WHAT IF MY VOTE COULD HAVE BROUGHT HER TO NUMBER ONE, YOU KNOW?

WHAT IF SHE WAS COUNTING ON MY PHONE CALL?

WOULD MY VOTE HAVE SAVED HER FROM MEETING K-FED?

Now I'll never know...

I just can't believe she is turning 30. Like, THIRTY. When my brother turned 30, oh, I don't know, a hundred years ago, I was like, "Damn, you are old. Your life is over."

But I do not feel that this is the case for Brit Brit. She is getting better and better with age. Her weave has been looking really good and less janky, and whoever spray-tans (sprays tan? I don't know.) her has obviously concocted the perfect shade of orange to match that weave. Both of her little boys are super duper cute and look just like her. I don't see trucker hats or grizzly stubble or pathetic stints on Dancing With the Stars in their future, if you know what I mean.

My only issue is that I am a little hesitant about accepting this Jason Trawick guy as her official boyfriend because:

1) She didn't tell me about him prior to Making It Official, just like that one episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Kim ambushes her sister, Kyle, into meeting her ugly ass boyfriend, Ken, whom she has kept a secret FOR OVER A YEAR! I am so Kyle in this situation.

2) He is not Justin Timberlake.

Yes, I still have hope in my heart that the love between JT and Brit Brit will be resurrected because they should be together forever xoxo.

ALLEGEDLY, she cheated on him with some dancer guy who was not K-Fed, but we have no proof because that happened in 2001, and if we don't have Facebook pictures or an iPhone video of this unfair allegation, then we obviously can't fault Britney. Innocent until proven guilty.

For all of you JT fans who think that he is just "so much better" than Britney and that he "deserves more" and whatever, I just want to remind you of what he looked like back in the day:

Bleach fro, beige turtleneck, and lavender shades. Yeah.

If he is able to bounce back from that visual situation and be this "awesome" movie star circa now, then really, our girl Britney deserves another chance too.

I don't know, maybe she is too good for him, OK? I mean, if by being "too good" we mean the person who still creates pop music and dances her ass off and performs amazing concerts for her legions of MUSIC fans because her background is POP MUSIC and NOT STARRING IN MOVIES WITH MILA KUNIS, then Brit is the clear winner.

Clearly.

So, I'm definitely trying to give Jason the benefit of the doubt because he seems to make her happy and less crazy and JT is a Hollywood poser to the extreme (WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT THE ACADEMY AWARDS, JUSTIN?) but if they ever got back together, I would be 100% supportive and I would be the first in line (online on iTunes?) to buy their inevitable joint-album that announces his return to music (finally!) and their future child of pop music royalty.

But until then, I guess I'll just have to wish our Brit Brit a very "Happy Birthday!" on December 2nd from my corner of the Internet.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

When I am in the mood to clean, I am a force to be reckoned with, no-joke, poker face.

Like, think of the Tasmanian Devil from those cartoons with the wiley wabbit and that Fudd guy, put my face on it, fill my hands with Windex, and BOOM, that's me. I become a tornado of sanitation and domesticity, and if cleanliess is godliness, then I am the Goddess of Detergent.

Don't mess with me when I'm cleaning beause I will throw your ass into my washing machine, line dry you by your hair, and bleach the shit right out of you.

I'm a Filipina, partial and proud, and that's just how we roll.

To say that I am critical when I walk into other people's homes is an understatement of epic proportions. When I walk into your house, I'm looking at the dust on your lampshades and the scratches that you didn't polish off your table, and people, I have x-ray vision, so I can see the unfolded clothes in your closet from the front door. You cannot hide your dirty secrets from me because I will find them, and we can chismis all you want, but I will still be able to see that coffee ring under your mug.

If I walk into your guest bathroom and you have that gunky spittle spattle on your mirror, I will clean it. I will look under your sink to grab that Lysol that better be there, and I will clean your bathroom. That splish splish splish that you hear going on around or near your toilet is me working that brush wand in a counter-clockwise motion to scrub that iron residue down your pipes.

You're welcome.

I would like to walk into a house and not be all Judgey-Mc-Judgester because I know you are all busy, and when you got one/two/three/ten kids and their friends over after school, I bet that it gets messy really quickly because they all got those sticky hands. I get it. I feel for you.

But when you walk into my home, and you tell me that it's too clean, I don't even know what you're saying. It's like you're not speaking English to me, and despite my vernacular of attitude going on here, I know my language, so you really have my head spinning on that one.

I've actually been told this many times before about my bedroom and then my dorm room and then my apartment and now my real, grown-up-married-woman home. When I was growing up with my Filipina mother, my friends and their moms told us the same exact damn thing too.

"It's like nobody lives here it's so clean!"

Bitch, are you kidding me? Of course somebody lives here! How else do you think it got so damn clean? Mice?

My mama scrubbed this floor with her perfectly manicured hands, fool! And she didn't even chip a nail!

Take off your goddamn, Payless shoes before you walk all over it, but keep your socks on so I can watch you slip and slide on the tile!

Here is a towel that can sit between you and my mama's pristine couch, and yes, it's a white motherfucking towel, that way I know how dirty your ass is when I bleach the hell out of it later!

That was me then, and that is still me now.

That is how I feel when you tell me that my home is too clean for you, and depending on how long it took me to vacuum that diamond pattern onto my carpet, I'll probably tell you how I feel because this? All this cleanliness you're gesturing at and complaining about took a lot of skill and practice, practice, practice! This is my Olympic sport, so you can look at my gold medal but you better not touch it.

Is my home like that all the time? No. My husband can vouch for that with certainty. I do not like to make the bed or wash the dishes right after breakfast/lunch/dinner, and if I have to take out the trash, it's like a journey to the great beyond.

But if I have guests coming over, the bed is fluffed and tight-cornered and the dishes will dance themselves into the cabinet all squeaky and sparkle-like and the trash? What trash? I don't have trash in my home. You trippin' girlfriend.

In my mind, it's not even a common courtesy to clean your house for guests, it's The Law. I don't mess around with the law because I don't have the time or money for a good lawyer since I'm so damn busy cleaning my bathrooms and making the bed. When I'm scrub-scrub-scrubbing, it's a solo effort. I don't want your help because you will do it wrong and leave water marks, so let me do it myself.

I know that this might seem crazy, but when I'm mopping the floor where my refridgerator just was because, yes, you bag of lazy bones, I moved that big ass thing to clean underneath it, I'm in the zone. That is my element. That is where I belong, and you better believe that I'm cleaning this place with my eyebrows drawn and my diamonds on because you have to look good to make good.

Maybe I'm succumbing to a sexist tradition against women, but I own it/live it/breathe it/love it because there is nothing better than smelling that lemony fresh scent of an immaculate household and watching your eyeballs bulge as you try to search for a speck of dust.

Because there ain't no dust in here. I killed it, and it went on the endangered species list, didn't you know?

Saying Goodbye...to Pants

No, this is not about me giving up on a daily wardrobe staple and going pants-less for the rest of my life.

However, that is not a half-bad idea.

Mental bookmark.

But back to pants and my farewell.

What I am saying goodbye to is a particular pair of jeans that I bought back in late 2007. These are my Skinny Jeans. If you are a woman, you know exactly what I'm talking about, and if you're a woman who doesn't know what I'm talking about, then you and I can't be friends because I'll throw my tampon-laden purse in your face if you order another salad in front of me because I'll be TOO BUSY EATING BREAD STICKS to say anything else.

Ladies, really? You have to know what Skinny Jeans are, and I'm not referring to those matchstick jegging situations or those pants that the hipster boys wear in crazy ass colors.

But let's get rid of those jeans too because men should not wear pants that might potentially castrate them.

Anyway, my Skinny Jeans represented hope for me - hope that my body could get back into them. I think every woman owns a pair of pants just like this. They are the pre-pregnancy jeans or the pre-mid-life crisis pants or the pre-love-chub jeans or whathaveyou jeans. They are the pants you want to fit into forever because you think they're going to do shit for you, like get you laid or erase your stretch marks, but NEWS FLASH, no pair of pants is going to do that for anyone.

There's even an episode of Sex and the City where Miranda is able to fit into her own Skinny Jeans after she lost all of the baby weight, and I know every woman who has watched that thought about her own pair of skinny jeans hiding in her closet. I saw that episode, and I was like, "Girl, those are nice jeans, but you don't need them."

No one needs these Skinny Jeans malingering in their closets.

When I tried on my Skinny Jeans in the dressing room, I was in the best shape of my life in terms of lung capacity and shit, but I absolutely hated my body. Every inch was too big. Where I curved, I wanted to be flat. Where I was already flat, I wanted to be invisible.

These jeans had potential to be great on me, or so I thought. They covered what I wanted covered and the little size tag validated all of my hard work, or so I thought.

They were already tight, and when I say tight, I mean like, they were plastic wrapped around my legs, but I bought them anyway because I wanted to lose more weight to fit into them.

Let me repeat the ludicrousness of that one more time: I BOUGHT PANTS THAT DIDN'T FIT SO I COULD LOSE WEIGHT AND FIT INTO THEM LATER.

Who. Does. That?

Women across this country that's who.

When I did fit into these jeans, it was like victory, but not really. I gave up bread and pasta and chocolate to fit into those pants, and I ran myself into the ground to make sure that zipper could zip up. I just couldn't let them not fit because not only were they $200 (WHY, SHASTA, WHY?!) but they also represented my youth/my peak/the best years of my life/etc, or so I thought.

What I've come to realize is that every year is the best year of my life, and I am never going to tap out at the top of the mountain, and I am too damn busy to worry about what the hell kind of pants I'm wearing. Life is a crazy ass uphill battle that is both fantastic and terrifying, and regardless of where you are in that battle, the way your ass looks in an overpriced pair of jeans IS NOT IMPORTANT.

I know that magazines and celebrities and witch doctors and those bitchy girls from high school promote these conflicting ideas about loving yourself and your natural figure while simultaneously wearing only pants in the 0-2 range, and it's confusing and hurtful and entirely unnecessary.

Ladies, that is some bad juju, and our womanly butts do not need that sort of energy.

Don't be friends with people who tell you should look a certain look and weigh a certain weight. Don't look at pictures of objectified models and want to look like them. Don't treat other women like objects just because they have some junk in the trunk. Don't buy a stupid article of clothing you can't fit into with a psycho ambition to become small enough in order to fit into it later because that is kray-kray.

Eat that extra cookie. Spend your money on clothes that fit. Exercise. Don't exercise. It's all good so long as you don't have a pair of pants holding you back.

I'm all about being healthy and living a balanced life and whatever, but sometimes, I want to eat a whole package of Double Stuf Oreos while watching episode after episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians because I have to see the hot mess that is Kim's 72-day marriage.

And then after that, I usually open a bag of chips because you know what? I got a man, he put a ring on it, and since he prefers my pants off anyway, who cares what the calorie count is on these damn chips?

And even if you don't got a man or a woman or whomever you like to sleep over, and your ring is rusty or broken or nonexistent, you should eat some chips too because no pair of jeans is worth your favorite snack.

I know there is a lot of capitalization and girl power going on here, but what I'm trying to communicate is sort of a big deal. It's one small step for womankind, but it's a giant leap of epic proportions for me and my butt.

That One Time I Read Romance Novels for 4 Months

I have an English degree. Sometimes, this is a cool thing, like when people ask if they need to add a comma somewhere (no) or what Shakespeare meant in Sonnet 116 (no idea) and, you know, that sort of English-major-y type stuff.

Most of the time, though, this is a trivial thing.

I majored in English because a bunch of books by a bunch of dead white guys seemed interesting to me, and I wanted to know what they had to say, and then I wanted to know what old white professors had to say about the dead white guys.

I might sound like I'm joking, but that is a fairly accurate summary of what happened during my four years of college.

I also majored in English because other than writing, I'm not very good at many other subjects. If I could have written more papers about math instead of doing math, I might have a different story to tell you, but I gave my TI-83 calculator to my brother during my senior year of high school (and I haven't seen it since), so allow me to feign ignorance when you talk to me about balancing my checkbook BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. NUMBERS? HUH?

Don't get me wrong - I loved being an English major! I didn't have class before 10am. I could find my books for fifty cents a pop at used bookstores. My classes never required full attendance (Mostly because I avoided the professors who took attendance....) so I spent a lot of class hours sleeping in my bed every quarter. Other than reading and writing papers, I didn't even have homework.

It was awesome.

When I actually went to class, I studied a lot of wonderful literature. John Milton, Anne Bradstreet, John Donne, and Sherman Alexie are some of my favorite writers, and had it not been for my major, I would never have picked up any of their works.

Reading English lit books day-in and day-out can take a toll on you, especially when you can't find the Cliff Notes versions, so I decided to stop taking English classes for a little bit. I wanted to read books that weren't assigned and discover authors who weren't Pulitzer prize winners. I started reading personal blogs more regularly. I picked up the occasional magazine and newspaper. I wanted to read fluff and enjoy reading fluffy stuff again.

That is when I decided to read romance novels, and those, my friends, are the fluffiest and some of the best damn books I've ever read.

When I say these books were of the romance variety, I'm talking, like, England regency era novels with, like, horse-drawn carriages and butlers and parasols and shit. There were rogue bachelors with family fortunes and scullery maids with hidden, royal lineage and a lot of cravats and corsets. The woman was always beautiful and free of love handles, and the man was dashing or daring or devilish, and they always ended up married after a lot of courting and riding in carriages and going to balls, etc.

I don't even know why I'm telling you this because that is sort of humiliating to admit, but then again, I am that girl who wrote a paper about sparkly vampires and spoke on that very same subject in front of a group of English literature smartypants-types in a giant auditorium. Had it not been for me, they never would have known about Edward Cullen and his impossibly perfect hair.

You're welcome, Stephenie Meyer.

But yeah, the one quarter that I decided to take a "break" from my English courses and register for a bunch of "fun" courses (SCI-FI FILM? NOT FUN! NOT FUN!) was the same quarter I reserved every Lisa Kleypas and Julia Quinn novel at my city library to balance my brain against the upcoming tide of Beowulf and Paradise Lost.

Despite what you might think of my college experience, I have never done drugs, so I don't know what that's like, but I think that the addictive quality that makes, uh, drugs addictive must have been sprinkled onto all of their books. I have read everything those women have ever written, and that's like 50 corset-ripping novels apiece because romance novelists? PROLIFIC TO THE NTH DEGREE!

Because there are so many romance novels and romance writers out there, I can see why The People Who Decide What is Good English Literature turn a blind eye toward them and ignore one of the biggest sections at any Barnes & Noble. There is just too much to read, and after awhile, all of the novels start to bleed together into one giant MidnightKissofStolenEmbracesForeverandAlwaysTheSequel. I get it.

But romance novels are happy, and they make for happier readers and happy people don't kill other people, so really what is so smutty and awful about reading a fluffy romance novel and believing that it is a legitimately good book?

Now that I'm all graduated and not around my  English major peers, I have the confidence to give a voice to my fellow romance novel aficionados and tell the rest of the world to not judge a book by its airbrushed, mustachioed and bicep-bulging cover because it is probably better than that one book about a bunch of random people going on a pilgrimmage to visit a shrine.

Actually, any book is probably better than The Cantebury Tales.

I have a degree in this sort of stuff, so I have the authority to make such claims.

It's November? And I'm Still 11 Years Old

I know. I know. Where have I been? What happened? Did I stop blogging? Did I die?

No. I'm not dead, and don't worry, this blog has already lasted longer than Kim Kardashian's fake marriage.

I was gone for most of October. It was a, uh, work thing, but it was also kind of like camping, and definitely a lot like prison (so I've heard from other people). I don't even want to get into it because the important thing is that I'm back, and my cats didn't kill anyone while I was away.

But what I really want to write about is something for the fifth grader that's still inside of me. Let us focus on the word "get" actually. When I was a wee fifth grader, my teacher was named Mrs. Keller. Her first name was Georgiana, and she was the first woman I had met with a pseudo-man-name.

Sure, there are female name counterparts to male names. Michael/Michelle, Alexander/Alexandria, Christopher/Christina - good examples. Even some unisex names are OK - like Riley or Morgan or Skylar.

But Georgiana? Are you kidding me? The female George name was not meant to happen.

My eleven year old self commented on this one day to a friend, and to reinforce my point, I thought of another horrible female/male name situation.

"Georgiana is a weird name, but at least it's not, like, Franktwina! Francis is terrible too, but Franktwina is AWFUL!"

"....My mom's name is Franktwina."

"Oh of course it is."

And on that day, Emily and I stopped being friends, not because she hated me for hatin' on her mama's name but because I couldn't look at her in the face anymore without seeing hot franks, Frankensteins, and the French franc floating around her head.

But this isn't about Mrs. Keller's name, this is about how she didn't understand the word "get" and my usage of it. Now, "get" is a verb about receiving something or coming into possession of something else. You get presents for Christmas. You got presents for Christmas. You are getting presents for Christmas. Etcetera, etcetera - it is verb-tastic.

You also can use the word "get" when you understand something that isn't physical, like you received knowledge or came into possession of the knowledge to understand a concept. Most people, aside from psycho English majors, don't think about the word "get" in this way because you JUST GET IT ALREADY and you don't need to put this shit into words!

You see what I mean? You guys getting it?

Mrs. Keller did not understand the word "get" in all its many definitions. We were writing these papers wherein we pretended to be children locked inside a concentration camp during the Holocaust, and we were supposed to communicate how awful it was and how much we wanted to escape and live like Americans.

It was kind of a messed up assignment that reinforced arrogant patriotism, but whatever.

I wrote a complicated, long-drawn escape plan in complicated code-speak that was way cool, and at the end of my letter, I wrote, "I hope you get my point and find the spotted dog."

By "spotted dog" I was referring to the opening that I would have cut out in the fence-lined perimeter of my fictional concentration camp.

Subtle.

I was marked down on my shining example of genius and asked to re-write it because, according to Mrs. Keller, I didn't use the word "get" correctly. In fact, my homework that night included writing the definition of "get" from the dictionary.

Also, I may have had to re-write my assignment because I wasn't grasping just how tough it must have been for a child in a concentration camp because, you know, I was a healthy American child in the 1990's. Since when does an eleven year old have the empathy to actualize the traumas that the Nazis inflicted on an entire population of people anyway? SINCE WHEN, MRS. KELLER?

I came home that night fuming, and in a teenage fashion that was well beyond my years, I locked myself up in my room to finish my damn homework. I re-wrote everything, and if you think I hate re-writes now, it's because of this first re-write in my young career.

Without a second glance, I turned my crappy story back into the "Additional Homework" box the next morning. After recess, I came back to my desk to find a smiley-face sticker on my paper and a note from Mrs. Keller that read:

I think you really got the story right this time!

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She thought I really GOT the story right?

Thanks, Georgiana, for proving that fifth graders are smarter than their teachers.