3 unfortunate things I am unable to eject from my brain right now

1) Heidi and Spencer eloped in Cabo San Lucas over the weekend. The blonde bandits exchanged “personalized” vows, and I hear that Heidi even managed to squirt some tears down her plastictastic face. My BFF Perez Hilton tells me (and only me) that Spencer’s “self-penned” vows went a little somethin’ like this:

Heidi, from the moment you came into my life, I knew my life would never be the same without you. You are the light in my life like the sun to the earth! Your loving warmth makes me want to be a better person. Being with you, I feel complete. I’m honored to even be able to call you my wife. You are the most amazing, loving and caring woman on this planet. I will love you forever and always. (Source: PerezHilton.com)

Ohhhhhhh, Spencie… Spence-the-Dense… I’m sure you’re probably not really used to writing. Or thinking, for that matter. I mean…seriously, do you even work? WHAT DO YOU DO? WHAT DO YOU DO BESIDES GROW STUBBLE, PROMOTE GUN USE, AND WHORE YOURSELF TO THE PAPARAZZI?!?

Sorry, tangent. My point is that Spencer’s ridiculousness shouldn’t surprise me, but… for some reason, I feel compelled to comment. Couple things:

a) so… your life “would never be the same” WITHOUT HER? Umm… but you’re WITH her. You’re NOT without her. So, are you saying your life *IS* the same WITH her? like, she didn’t affect you in any capacity whatsoever, good or bad? Or are you already foreshadowing your relationship’s end and imagining that your life would not be the same if she left your sorry A? Which, no offense, Spence, but, I mean, DUH. CLEARLY your life wouldn’t be the same without her. Because then you wouldn’t have anyone to act like a stalker-obsessed-childish freak around… and around her bosses, who would then fire her because of what an A-hole you are.

b) are you implying that Heidi’s lovelight does not exist nocturnally? Or, like, when it rains? I mean, what happens when the sun goes bye-bye? Because it DOES, you know. What happens when the moon comes out? 

c) I’m not sure if wedding vows can be brought up on plagiarism charges but, if they could, I’d slam Spencer’s stubbly @ss with charges of knocking off both As Good As It Gets and Jerry Maguire in an attempt to present his betrothed with some personal words never uttered to another human soul. ”You make me want to be a better man” and “You complete me”?!? REALLY?!? REALLY, SPENCER?!? Is that REALLY as good as it gets with your sorry A?!?!?!? 

Anyway, the first photo above (of the happy couple ‘o gun toters) was found here: VideoGum.com. The last photo of the US Weekly cover is courtesy of PH, of course.

OK, next…

2) I know I should be better than this, and I swearSwearSWEAR that I am generally a positive educator and rarely EVER “complain” or talk negatively about students, but… BUT… there’s this one student who has been making my skin crawl lately. Like, just in the past few weeks. Let’s call him Winston. Winston has been challenging me both via e-mail and in the middle of class, in front of everyone. Challenging my intelligence, asking me to give concrete examples of certain theories I mention, criticizing my writing assignments and, just today, he essentially told me that my entire course has been a sham (not in so many words, but…the intent was there. I felt it. I’m very intuitive.). So, yeah… it’s been getting to me. It’s especially been getting to me because I’m not the most confident, assertive person in the world. My skills of self-defense have been inwardly honed (I’m a big internalizer and often emotionally/psychologically protect myself), but… when it comes to confrontation, I pretty much run for the mountains. Preferably the Alps. So… I guess, what’s really bothering me about this is that I actually feel like Winston’s winning. Only, I’m not really sure what the prize is or what we’re even racing for? Control? Ego? I think we’re each fighting for different things. But, whatever it may be, I feel like he’s winning. And that sucks. Because… I should be winning, shouldn’t I?

3) I had to make some photocopies before class today, so I was all “ma-kin’ co-pies” for about 15 minutes when, suddenly, out of my peripheral I noticed that someone else had sidled up to the copier to my left. So, I turned my head to see what colleague it might be, prepared to offer a friendly greeting, when, suddenly, WHOOSH!!!!!!! My head snapped back as if I were one of those unfortunate canine victims of electric fencing. The aforementioned “colleague” just so happened to be my dissertation adviser, whose contact I have successfully managed to avoid THIS ENTIRE SEMESTER. You could definitely say I feel guilty about this fact, and it would not be incorrect. You could also say that I think about writing her daily, but that I ultimately reach wuss status and never click “send.” You could also say that the approach of Thanksgiving means that only about 3 weeks remain in the semester, and I still haven’t made a pen length’s of progress on my dissertation. Have I mentioned that you could also say I feel guilty? Yeah. Lovely.

 

Another Monday, another list. Check out Anna’s list and others here:

ps) One Monday — one Monday soon – I’m gonna do a listy pog all about the mind-boggling universe-’o-estrogen-induced-madness known as: THE BABY SHOWER.

Photo Ops.

 

wasn’t going to pog anything today because, well, quite frankly, I just ain’t feelin’ it. Get this: I was up from 3:30-7:30am this morning. “Why?” you ask in your most sympathetic tone? Well, thank you for your concern, I’ll tell you: because apparently Insomnia’s one of those unfortunate (and annoying) visitors that just can’t take a hint and take a freakin’ hike. Talk about overstaying your welcome…! Come on, Insomnia, clue yourself in, for crying out loud! Sheesh. Anyway, so I’m a borderline somnambule right now.

WHOA. TIME-the-F-OUT. I’m watching the testament to journalistic brilliance that is Extra, and Dayna Devon just turned up on a red carpet with Paula Abdul, who seems to think that Sarah Palin is copying/exploiting her hairstyle. Umm, I seem to have missed the memo about “The Paula” sweeping the nation this campaign season. By now, you know I’m not exactly an SP fan, but I sincerely doubt that she’s been looking to the Abdulameister for stylistic inspiration. I mean, come on: SP’s too busy packin’ pistols, applyin’ lipstick, and awkwardly passin’ around her baby Trig for photo-ops.

Time-out over.

So sorry. Paula Abdul isn’t the reason why I decided to pog in my zombie-esque state. And SP certainly isn’t. This is:

See how those walls are covered with pages from old books (in French)??? Umm… WHY HAVEN’T I THOUGHT OF THAT?! My life is enough of a whirlwind between fiction and reality, I suppose… perhaps living within fictional walls wouldn’t be the healthiest for me? Anyway, I just came across this lovely website called Sweet Paul. In fact, Paul is so unbelievably sweet that he made me swoon over the above lovely photos. He also introduced me to my new favorite French design site, called Harmonie Intérieure. If my interiors were this harmonious, I bet I’d be able to sleep through the night.

The fact that I’m going to become an AUNT (!!!!!!) for the first time (TO TWINS!!!!!! Un garçon et une fille…) probably has something to do with my current adoration for all things childish and whimsical… But also, come on: French + adorable kids playing + letters + bright colors = perhaps my most favorite equation.

By the way, Harmonie Intérieure also offers brilliant things such as these:

Oh that I were independently wealthy. And done with my dissertation. And a guitar-strummin’ folk singer. And… ok, I better stop.

I hope you enjoy these photos/sites as much as I do. Or at least a little close to “as much as I do.”

OK, but where can I order that hairdo?

lright, I realize that this pretty much qualifies as “old news,” but… I’m sorry, I just have to pog about it on the slim chance that even one teeny, tiny vestige-of-a-soul remains that has yet to hear of this exquisite piece of fashion merchandising (and, yes, I just turned “pog” into a verb. Work with me here…).

So, just when you thought that Laura Ingalls Wilder and Mary Ellen Walton selfishly took their floor-length dress patterns to the grave, woefully leaving the rest of us in an ankle-baring No Man’s Land, I give you this: FLDSDress.com . Please feel free to send me a virtual bouquet (or, you know, tens of thousands of dollars to pay off my school loans) to thank me for this oh-so-generous offering.

Prairie couture is, like, soooo underrated after all.

In an article on a CBS affiliate’s website, FLDS sister-wife Maggie Jessop had the following to say regarding their desire to capitalize on polygamist fashion: “We don’t know what to expect on demand, but we have had a flood of interest. Our motive is not to flaunt ourselves or our religion before the world. We have to make a living the same as everyone does.”

If you click on the link to FLDSDress.com, you will find that the sect offers a vast array of clothing, including dresses, overalls, shirts, pants, nightclothes, onesies for babies, and — wait for it — ankle-to-wrist underwear. Women’s apparel could be added if there is demand. And I don’t think I’m alone when I say: “OH, THERE’S DEMAND!”

And, in closing, I ask you to consider a mind-bending hybrid. Just another gift, from me to you. Now then… please feast your eyes on the two images that I am about to display before you. The first is a lovely shot of Ms. Alexis Bledel, otherwise known as Rory from TV’s now-canceled “Gilmore Girls” (R.I.P. GG).

The next image is a beautiful self-portrait by the very talented Ms. Frida Kahlo.

Now then, consider these two images very carefully. Scrutinize them down to the very last detail. OK? OK. Now, imagine a faithful combination of these two women, and what that Alexida hybrid might resemble. I bet your ankle-baring As it’s something like this:

 
Oh, I know: I’m going to burn in hell-fire. Sheesh.
(But come on, that is freakin’ FUNNY, right?!? It is.)

Well, I don’t know about you, but my holiday shopping’s done! If only they had custom-made wigs with that cool snow-drift-of-hair feature and accompanying Crystal Gayle braid…

Hmm… I smell FLDSHair.com!!!

Poguetry in Motion

received an e-mail yesterday from my lovely friend G., who informed me that the word “póg” in Irish (Gaelic; pronounced “pogue” like “rogue”) means “kiss.” G. knows this because G. is an Irishman. Though I suppose it’s possible for non-Irishmen to know such information as well. Maybe even IrishWOmen! Anyway, isn’t that funny? Funny/annoying, not funny/haha, because I definitely did not intend for my little pogs to serve as little kisses. I’m not that sweet.

If you ask nicely, they might write you a poguem.

The whole “pogue” pronunciation thing logically reminded me of the ’80s Irish punk rock band The Pogues. So I did a quick Wikipedia search, and check this out: 

“The Pogues were founded in King’s Cross, a district of North London, in 1982 as Pogue Mahone—pogue mahone being the Anglicisation of the Irish póg mo thóin, meaning ‘kiss my arse’.”

Póg mo thóin!!! I like it.         I need to ask G. how to pronounce the “thóin” part. There was another Pogue-related tidbit that amused me and, since I am sometimes semi-sweet, I thought it would be nice to share it with you:

“The first of The Pogues’ albums, Red Roses for Me, borrows much from the punk tradition of MacGowan’s previous band, The Nipple Erectors (later dubbed ”The Nips’).”

Between kissing my “thóin” and erecting nipples, I believe my deed here is done.

Happy Tuesday!  :-)

Pen Without Ink

hus marks my first post.  Or should I say “blog” instead of “post”?  Hmm. I think I’ll just compromise and call it a “pog.”  So…thus marks my first pog.  To dirty this canvas strikes me as an intensely daunting task; therefore, I choose to be brief (which rarely ever happens in my writing, as I’m sure you’ll see) and simply say that I look forward to future pogs and wherever they may lead me.  And you.  And creation.

A word (or 50) regarding the title I chose for my blog… I’m not a skilled translator or anything, but “Je ne suis qu’une pauvre plume” was a line written by the 19th-Century French Romantic author, Alfred de Vigny, in his posthumously published Journal d’un poète. Translated into English, this line would mean “I am but a poor pen”… poor in every sense. Basking in the imposing shadow of the great Victor Hugo, Vigny felt enormous pressure — from his contemporaries, but primarily from himself. Both his mother and his wife fell ill and required his care, which he dutifully gave. And which drained him. Add a temperamental mistress who was the star of the Romantic stage, and you have a pretty exhausted dude. Sometimes, when we most need the ink to run freely and consistently, the well can dry up, leaving us flat.

Incidentally, good ole Alfred is the subject of my as-yet-to-be-completed dissertation, so… he often flitters about and readily makes himself available to me. Vigny both gently soothes me and violently shakes me, head to toenail.  And he understands me better than most. But much time remains to discuss such things in future pogs. Don’t get too excited.

For now, my inkwell crusts over and barely a drop remains. I am drained. (And I’m kind of thirsty and craving a Mountain Dew.) So, until the cool, liquid darkness threatens to overflow and stain me, I shall remain creatively impoverished and shamefully silent. (Yet full of Dewy love.)

À bientôt.

(*Note: I am not sponsored by Mountain Dew. But I should be.)