I have the best husband on the planet.
Just thought I’d throw that out there.
We’ve never had a conventional relationship. We’ve been married for six years (come March) and have been together for over eight. Even though we’ve been together a really long time, we’ve never had a fight, a fact that we’re super proud of. (Yes, I just ended a sentence with a preposition. I’m okay with that.) One of Chris’s friends swears up and down that we must be huge consumers of a certain herbal substance because he doesn’t understand how we can be so chill. We’re the hippy couple who’s always giggling and making stupid song references.
And I wouldn’t trade that goofiness for anything.
We’ve never been huge fans of the “average” Valentine’s Day fare. And with Chris’s job, he gets off too late to make it to a florist before closing time. So, this year, I had absolutely no idea what he was going to do. He woke up at 4:45 a.m. and taped sweet, corny little notes all around the house and made chocolate-covered strawberries before leaving for work.
Sweetest. Husband. EVER.
The notes were adorable, and a few of them made me water up just a little, I’m not gonna lie. I spent 20 minutes running around the house trying to find them all. Chris gave me an awesome Valentine’s Day for almost no money. When he got home, we made Oreo balls and popcorn and watched “The Princess Bride.” I’m pretty sure it was the best Valentine’s Day ever.
Why did I do this to myself?
I have thought that Doctor Who sounded, I’ll be honest, a bit dumb, since I first started hearing about it. However, when Sherlock season 3 came to an end, I grew desperate for another source of Britishness in my life. Since the two shows seem synonymous, I decided to give Doctor Who a go. It was the best and worst decision of my life thus far. It is a beautiful wonder of a show, full of flamboyant Britishness, cheesy science fiction, and absolutely stunning acting.
I just finished watching the last episode of season (or series) 2 and bawled like a baby. The tears are drying on my cheeks as I type. I won’t give any spoilers, but the last two episodes were some of the funniest and saddest thing I’ve ever watched. I was really iffy on David Tennant becoming the Doctor, because I loved Christopher Eccleston with his oversized ears and incredibly sassiness. But David Tennant IS the Doctor. No doubt about it. Not sure I’ll be able to handle it when Matt Smith takes over. But seeing Tennant cry during the last episode of season 2 broke my heart into tiny pieces. DON’T LEAVE HIM, ROSE!!! Sorry, I had a small fangirl spasm.
Sherlock will always be my favorite show, without question. I will continue rewatching all of the (very few) episodes that exist and scanning the internet for any theories I can find. But Doctor Who is now definitely up in my top four, with Firefly and Chuck. I totally understand how one could slip into Whovianism. If you haven’t given Doctor Who a chance because you thought it sounded silly, you’re absolutely right; it is silly, but in the best possible way. Give it a chance and you won’t regret it. Well, not much, anyway. 😉
It’s been more than two weeks since I’ve written a single word. I have plenty of excuses. I’ve been in a tremendous amount of pain from the weather and various other things, and when I’m in this amount of pain I can’t even think well enough to read most of the time. So how can I be expected to write? I’ve had doctors’ appointments and MRIs and have been introduced into the painful world that is physical therapy in hopes that I can be fixed. I’ve been trying to be a good girl and do the at-home therapy they’ve given me even when my hips and shoulders hurt so viciously that I develop migraines and just want to be left alone in silence and darkness. I’ve been exhausted. And when ever I do have a good day, I’m running around trying to catch up on everything that I let slide during my bad days.
But all of those things are just what I said before: excuses. None of them, pain or busyness or exhaustion or fogginess of mind are a real reason not to write. I’ve been making excuses like I have for years. I’ve always wanted to write, but at the same time writing terrifies me. I’m so afraid that I won’t be good at it that I make excuses to not even try. I thought that creating this blog would stop that, that it would give me some sort of incentive or responsibility to write everyday, but obviously that hasn’t been the case. I’m still just as afraid of writing as I was when I was trying to write straight fiction. Because I still don’t feel good enough.
But, even if I’m not good enough, even if no one ever reads this but myself and my family, I owe it to myself to try. I would rather try and fail than just give up because I’m afraid. So, if you do happen upon this site and read these words, thank you. Thank you for taking the time to see what someone you’ve probably never met has to say about mostly trivial things. And if, by chance, you happened to be a too-terrified-to-truely-aspire writer as well, drop me a line. Maybe we can help each other. If I find things you’ve written, I’ll be sure to let you know that you’re wonderful, talented, and should never stop trying to reach your dream. Everyone deserves to be encouraged and believe in themselves. And that’s what I’m going to try my best to do.
A couple of weeks ago I read “The Catcher in the Rye” for the first time. How I almost made it to my 25th birthday without having read it is beyond me. I know that “Catcher” is considered the literary anthem of teenagedom, but I don’t live in an exceptionally literary part of the world. No offense, Vernon Parish. Reading was encouraged at my school, but books that were considered “classics” weren’t high on the recommendation list, as teachers just wanted their students reading something. I don’t know of anyone else in my graduating class of 21 students who read “Gone with the Wind” and “Lord of the Flies” or “Fahrenheit 451” while we were in school. But reading was one of the things I really excelled at, so I read everything I could find. “The Catcher in the Rye” wasn’t a book I came across until I was in college, and by then I was too busy reading books I had been assigned to make room for more classics.
Being unemployed right now has given me much more time to read, when my mind is clear enough to think. And I’ve had a desperate need to feel good at something again, so I’ve been reading and rereading literary works that have in some way defined our modern world, “The Catcher in the Rye” being one of them. And even though I didn’t read it while in high school, I still remember who I was then, because I haven’t really changed. I was an awkward bookworm with a talent for music who didn’t really fit anywhere. I was super nerdy, athletically challenged, a singer and female guitarist (which was weird for our area), a very shapely goody-goody (which is evidently oxymoronic), and was always reading.
I wasn’t unpopular; I had plenty of friends. But I never tried to fit into any group because I knew it wouldn’t work. This was an issue when I was younger, but by the time I hit my junior year I was pretty well accepted for who I was. And I think that’s the biggest difference between Holden Caulfield and myself. My differences were accepted and his weren’t. I can understand why he viewed everyone as a phony; for a nation founded on the principle of freedom, there has been a silent dictation to conform in our society that was in Salinger’s time and remains in ours much too strong. Holden was a completely believable character and, even if it was a little later in life, I’m very glad to have met him. Without him, I don’t think we would have ever had the young adult fiction genre. I don’t know if the works of John Green and Markus Zusak and countless others would exist in their current form or be embraced the way they are if J.D. Salinger hadn’t paved the way for them with the creation of Holden Caulfield. We owe Salinger a debt for giving us Holden. If you’ve never read “The Catcher in the Rye,” or if it’s been a long while since you have, pick up a copy and understand yourself and the world you live in just a little bit better.