I [heart] Joan Didion

I have been on a reading jag of the works of Joan Didion. It started with a book on California she had written called Where I Was From and then I decided I should read The Year of Magical Thinking about her life after her husband John Gregory Dunne passed away. And most recently I picked up her collection of essays from 1968 tittled Slouching Towards Bethlehem. And while I would recommend anyone read all three of these books, I had to share something from an essay in Slouching Towards Bethlem titled "On Self-Respect." I would recommend everyone read this essay, but the pearl of wisdom I wanted to share is this:

It was once suggested to me that, as an anti-dote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable; it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one's head in a Food Fair bag.

This gem, which made my roommate and I laughed hilariously for sometime, also gave me a sense of perspective. A lot has happened recently that tempts me to drown myself in a pool of self-pity, but this sentence is the shove into reality that I need. This world is hard and not fair and I have had more than my share of wonderful things, so I shouldn't let some worries and some sorrows turn my usual rational self into a melodramatic wallower. But just in case, I'll keep the Food Fair bag handy.

This Is What Happens When You Leave Your Comfort Zone

You find yourself trapped between a bay window and a table while everyone around you oohs and aahs over the Stampin' UP! lady's wares and begin contemplating crawling under the table to escape. You then listen to Metallica, Garbage, and 30 Seconds to Mars while driving home in an attempt to induce some sort of feeling other than self-pity. Until you give up, indulge in a pity party, and end up listening to Stacey Kent sing "They Can't Take That Away From Me" and posting pathetic missives on your blog in the middle of the night. All because you decided to go to a Stampin' UP! party at which you were the only single person in attendance and couldn't even drown your sorrows in the chips and salsa, because someone had put cheese in the salsa. I miss cheese.

Because I Can Totally Rock The Plaid

Or, more correctly, the tartan. I want to move to Scotland. I found this BBCAmerica show on PBS on Sunday nights called Monarch of the Glen and now I'm in love with the idea of moving to Scotland. The show involves a dishy young man being called home from London to Glenbogle to run the family estate. It involves a lot of lovely scenery and wonderful Scottish and British accents. Also, like I said, the main character is quite attractive. Imagine a Scottish John Cusack. If that is your cup of tea. It is most definitely mine.

So now my wildest fantasies involve being located by some sort of official and inheriting, through one of the Scottish lines on either side of my genealogy, some sort of lovely estate. Of course there would at first be a lot of issues with the locals, because I would be seen as an interloper, from America no less. But I would of course win them over with my lovely personality and willingness to adapt to local customs and what not. And of course at some point there would be a dashing dark-haired Scot to sweep me off my feet. Also, don't you think the Scottish countryside would be an excellent place to write novels? Think of the inspiration. Or, homesickness could inspire me to write a brilliant ode to my homeland. See, I think this could be the answer to all my problems.

And when Miss Parker read this, I will be forever banned from watching BBCAmerica or PBS ever again.

Sting Is Dead To Me

I never really thought I would say such a thing because a) I like his music and b) he seems like a genuinely nice and socially conscious individual. But it can't be coincidence that on Saturday, when my alarm went off, interrupting a dream in which I was on a date with my #1 Comedic TV Boyfriend Jim Halpert, it was a Sting song. A Sting song was also on the radio last Monday when my alarm went off, interrupting a dream in which I was flying with my #1 Dramatic TV Boyfriend Dean Winchester. Coincidence? I think not. Therefore, Sting is Dead To Me. As is whatever station my radio was set on those mornings. Because I have enough bad news these days, I could use a few more TV Boyfriend populated dreams.

I did hear back from the firm I interviewed with and while I didn't get the position, they did say they were impressed with my interview and that they would keep my resume on file if anything else came up. Which could be what they tell everyone, but it did make me feel pretty zen about the whole situation. In fact I'm pretty zen about my life right now. It could be that a continued lack of sleep has robbed me of my senses (Insomnia is mean, people!) or a preternatural apathy about work in the first place, but I'm not nearly a stressed as I thought I would be. In fact it has been kind of nice to have time to read book for hours or do research for my planned novel or just walk around downtown and people watch. I guess I was far more miserable at my old job than I thought.

So even though I am actually enjoying the free time that goes with being unemployed, I must get back to the thirty job ads I emailed myself last night. Or maybe I'll have words with my alarm clock. It can't be interrupting my best dreams like that.

Movie Rec

I recommend that you readers go and see The Illusionist if it is in a theater near you. It is one of the most visually stunning films I've seen in a while. I don't want to say much about it for fear of giving plot points away, but go and see it. It is worth the $7.