Rule Britannia

So: we just got back from the Coldplay concert, which has inspired me to log on and write before bed.

I know, two posts in one month: a sure sign of the apocalypse! But really--Ike, the NHL and I have all turned over a new leaf. We've changed, baby!

We'll keep this essay of respectable length. (Now there's your herald of the end-times!) My eyes are blurry and my bones are weary, which is no time for an epic ramble-thon.

This is my thinking:

The British are just better. We should surrender now. Silly colonists, stirring themselves up into a revolutionary frenzy and ruining my chance to be truly and undeniably cool!

Common Sense, my foot! Sure, good ol' fashioned American practicality had you thinking we were big and prosperous enough to rule ourselves, but if you had a shred of creativity in your soul, Tommy Paine, you would have realized we were forfeiting the right to be true paragons of culture.

No, not in the museum-ballet French way. In the only way that truly counts: pop culture.

Oh, please, you say. Elvis! Hollywood! Andy Warhol! The Brady Bunch! Packaging pop culture for international consumption is the American way! If anyone's standing atop the cultural ladder, it's US!

...or so the man would have you believe. Truth is, those aren't exactly current references. We're not so relevant anymore.

And while I could get into international relations, the resentment and hegemony and Team America: World Police of it all, let's set that aside and focus on the facts. Right now, there's no worldwide street cred in being American.

On the other hand: like Kate Winslet's frostbitten heart in Titanic, BritCool will go on and on. It's the genuine article, tried-and-true, built to stand the test of time, and all manner of other ad slogans I've semi-stolen to prove my point.

It's such a cliche, really. The Anglophile English teacher.

I've always run on the assumption that I was just romanticizing the notion of all things Great Britain. So, if I were to actually go there and hang out for a bit, maybe take a job for a year or so, the spell would be broken. Then, I would realize London is just another place that happens to have poorly planned streets and irritable drivers, (hello, San Francisco) lukewarm soda and sickeningly sweet catsup (hello, Capetown) no space to yourself and a general dearth of Mexican food (hello, D.C.) or miserable weather and a shockingly plain-to-ugly general populace (sorry, Boston).

You know, face what you've been dreaming about and you'll inevitably be disappointed by the reality? Like in Senior year, when I was told that I was romanticizing the idea of Calculus Camp, and if I went, I'd be over it in 2 seconds. (Come on! A whole camp devoted to studying for AP Calc? Where's the unsexy in that, I ask you? NO romantic overstatement there!)

But I can buy the possibility...maybe there's some junk mixed in with the jewels in Britain, and maybe I had been "romanticizing."

Fine.

Which brings us back to this evening. Coldplay. Proof conclusive that it's not in my imagination.

Check and Mate, Brits...you're better! Why?

Let's talk about general admission lawn seats. Let's talk about how useless they are once everyone stands up. Let's talk about not even being able to see the lighting rig on top of the stage! Let's talk about sound quality rivaling a CD played at moderate volume.

Let's talk about the grim realization that you've spent Ticketmaster bucks to huddle together with a bunch of strangers on a muddy slope straining to catch occasional glimpses of deflected stage light and leaning in close to catch snippets of song between anti-scalping rants of passing drunks (Thank-oo, eBay! These're grrreat seats!)

True: seats (or lack thereof) blew. Still? One of the best shows I've been to--and trust me when I say I have a solid base for comparison. Okay, we wiggled into a better standing position and improved our view, but (to risk sounding like a dirty hippie) it was all about the music, man!

And (let's face it) I'm not just talking about myself, and I'm not just talking about the giggly teenybopers who dissolve to goo when an accent hits their ears. I'm talking guys. Rocking out to piano-driven, lilting melodies best suited for bedtime.

Okay, maybe not Lushy McWineBag and his monologue of rage. But everyone else in posession of his or her faculties by the time Coldplay hit the stage was entranced. Chris Martin's lyrics, Gwyneth-inspired and otherwise, are amazing. Only three albums in, you're hard-pressed to find any American band that has constructed as many instantly recognizable guitar riffs and intros.

And, yes, by the encore, I was a) singing inappropriately loudly (Sorry, Irvine-Dwellers!) b) Jumping up and down to make sure my far-distant cheers registered in the ears of the band, much to the peril of my now mud-slicked shoes and already tenuous balance, and c) making that Coffee Talk With Linda Richman "I promised myself I wouldn't cry!" face, totally overcome with emotion--all the while trying to keep belting along and dancing in full-on spaz mode without slip-sliding away down the hill.

BritPop blows away the rest of the music world: at least, that's what my CD collection thinks. They have paragons of rock and dreamy up-and-comers, while we have great piles of hip hop and American Idol-inspired yodeling.

They have Travis and Franz Ferdiand (Scotland) Radiohead, Oasis, Athlete and Keane (England). Kathleen tells me that, strictly speaking, I can't include U2 (Ireland) 'cuz they're a completely different country, but whatever, think region. Think "it's all British Isles..."

They even had Spice Girls to encourage Girl Power and saucy-cute flash while we still had Fiona Apple encouraging self loathing and oversized clothing to mask anorexia.

BritLit is the high watermark for the rest of the world--meaning can BritCinema be far behind?

They have William Shakespeare, Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde--which means they have us beaten on the sexy literary films, too. Mmmm...English teacher porn.

Want something more current? They have J.K. Rowling, Douglas Adams, Helen Fielding, and Nick Hornby. They have us beaten on contemporary movie fodder!

BritFolk are lovely and elegant and hardcore and intriguing.

They can pull off fey and womanizing with manly panache (see: Hugh Grant). Our gents trip all over ourselves to appear as much like a side of beef as possible (see: Vin Diesel, et. al.)

They have sports fans who have angry riots and hooliganism on a regular basis, not just when victorious Laker fans want them a teevee.

They have Tony Blair and insult-laden shouting matches in parliament. We have "What is the White House like?" GW: "It is white." Thank you, 365 Stupidest Things Ever Said calendar!

What are the most fun swears? Bugger. Wanker. Arse. Bloody! Seriously, you have to admit, even their potty mouths are classier than ours.

You call that romanticizing? I call that well-deserved respect for a cultural victory hard fought and won.

Touche, Great Britain. Touche.

Adrift in Dagobah '04-'05 (or, How I Spent My 10-Month Vacation)

Ugh.

It's been an odd year. A grey year. An oatmeal year. A plain-wrap canned vegetable year. A Barry Manilow year. A "blink and you'll miss it," year.

Or, if you prefer SAT words to half-formed similies, '04-'05 has been banal. Humdrum. Vapid. Pablum. Nebbish. Prosaic. Jejune. (Okay, seriously, point for working that in. I do so love precise word choice, even if I never really do it.)

Not a bad year, not a good year, just...

Ugh.

Actually: an awful lot has happened. Some messed up, upsetting kinds of things, okay, but really, this isn't the place to rehash that.

This year has had some great stuff, too: educational triumphs, amazing travels, following long-held dreams, tackling new challenges, building new talents, trying new jobs, making new friends, living new places, having a new baby son whom I adore...

(Don't worry, Tom Cruise, I'm not talking about post-partum depression, so hop off that couch and calm down a second!)

...that is, everyone else is doing these things. I vary anywhere from the wacky sidekick in these adventures to a random extra hovering on the edges of a crowd scene. Of course, that's bound to happen. I mean, mathematically speaking: there's only one ME, and an awful lot of YOU out there. So most of the time, exciting/interesting/noteworthy things happen to someone else, right?

But me? It's like I can barely remember this year. I've been floating along, going through the motions, and another summer has suddenly zipped away. Seriously, guys: what just happened?

For the first time, I felt completely...stuck. And more than a bit confused about how I got here.

Now: I know I'll look back on that a few years down the road (or possibly, a few minutes) and think how embarrassingly naive it is to say I felt stuck at 25. Like when I wrote "I must be the only girl on the planet who feels this way!" in my journal when I was eleven. I mean, puh-lease, right? But, indulge me here. (And that's as much for you, THE AUDIENCE, as it is for FutureMe...) That's what I've been feeling. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

Abductees talk about "missing time," moments of their lives they can't account for, so they conclude they must've been abducted by aliens. At least, that's what Fox Mulder told me. And honestly, I haven't a clue where this year went. It's not strictly missing, and there were no probes involved, but that kind of captures the feeling I'm going for. Unless you want me to unpack my SAT-worthy ennui or similar.

Check the dates above and below: it's been more than ten months since I've last written. That's no accident. I never retired my blog, but I never logged on until tonight, either.

And it wasn't for lack of inspiration! I've drafted entire essays on:
---The presidential election (how?!?)
---Slumping box office returns (yea, moviegoers! Vote with your wallet!)
---How my iPod converted me into a woman of the 21st Century (I liked the 20th Century. It was my home, as Sports Night articulated much better than I ever could)
---What kind of person would ever be a teacher (a nut) and am I really one of them? (absolutely)
---Some freakishly incredible books you really should read(the six choices for my summer reading assignment! Go me!)
---Why music is shrinkwrapped sanity in an otherwise scattered mind (how much do I love Coldplay's "Fix You" right now? No, really, right now! As in, I'm listening to it for, like, the tenth time in a row)
---My single biggest source of mind-bendingly acute shame (no, I've rethought letting that factoid out into the public domain, who knows why I was feeling confessional a few months ago)
And, of course:
---The NHL Lockout (okay, y'all dodged quite a few bullets by missing those, I'll admit. Really want hockey angst? Check out my second to last post, 9/26/04. That's enough for anyone.)

...to name a very small few!

They were gorgeous essays, too. Insightful, witty, relatable pieces...at least in my opinion. (Which, as we're all painfully aware and professors lament, is the ONLY opinion I consider while writing.) You might have enjoyed them, too. Too bad they never left the four walls of my skull.

But I never wrote them down. I couldn't. Really. Physically. Couldn't write this year. Couldn't do much of anything, really. Remember those abductees? Missing time?

I wasn't here.

Where did I go? I'm not even really sure. I've knocked around the whole "nothing kind of year" idea with a few people, and they can't help me account for my missing time any better than I can.

Here's my best guess: quarter-life crisis.

I swear, I thought I already had mine. For those of you (un)fortunate enough to be with me in angsty college emails 7(!!!) years ago, you'll remember I had a total meltdown at the beginning of sophomore year in which I was unfathomably jealous of young mothers, sparkly diamond rings, and rubber-tipped mini-spoons of squishyplums.

I've since learned a) this is a commonplace rite of passage into the twenties, and b) you never REALLY get over that. Who knew? I've also learned c) not to cry every time a diaper commercial comes on, and, perhaps most importantly, d) not to watch soap operas ever, ever again, because that's when the majority of sob-inducing baby-themed commercials air.

Here's my second best guess: whiteknuckle panic.

I love order. My alphabetical-by-genre DVD and CD collections are the closest experiences of meditation and sheer nirvana I may ever experience (Nirvana: H for Hard Rock, nestled between Nine Inch Nails and Pearl Jam. Aaaahhh.) My alphabetical-by-serial-number wallet is one of the genuine oddities of the western world. (No, really, go check your money...I can wait...Did you even know each mint has its own letter at the beginning of the serial number? And, as a Californian, I have mostly Ls. (San Francisco!) So, yes, you can alphabetize money. It's way better than keeping the denominations together or making sure no president is standing on his head...although I do that, too.)

Rainman tendencies, no foolies.

In fact, I love order SO much, that if I can't have total, obsessive control, I'd rather not try at all. Why bother? Do or do not, Yoda. Let the world be piled over by mess. Exhibit A: my bedroom. (Gasp!) Exhibit B: my classroom. (Why???) Exhibit C: my bathroom. (Noooo!!!)

Exhibit D: The 2004-2005 school year.

The "alphabetical-by-genre-by-serial-number-by-height-by-color" world I've constructed for myself leaked out into everyday life, too. I had order. I had structure. I had boundaries.

Landmarks to measure the passage of time.

And then, last year, for the first time EVER, I wasn't in school. I wasn't writing. I wasn't waiting for my sister to come home.

And, for the first time in a long time, I wasn't struggling through a losing hockey season. I wasn't spending Christmas with All M'Women. Wasn't emailing...anyone, actually. Wasn't whittling down my paycheck every new music Tuesday. Wasn't tied to umpteen primetime series. Wasn't waiting to see fourth of July fireworks. Wasn't rushing out to see films on opening night. Wasn't catching mass for weeks on end...either sleeping through, "correcting," or having plans crop up on Sunday afternoons. Wasn't making it to parties or get togethers unless they materialized in my own front room. Wasn't remembering to come home after work.

I...wasn't.

And I can make up a bunch of nonsense about how I must have needed the rest, how teaching will take up all your time if you let it, so I got engrossed in my work, how my kids benefited from the extra time, how I spent more time with my Abuelita, how this was a year to take stock of my life, how this was a planning year, how I had a wonderful opportunity to break down old constructs and build a new life from the ground up, and these things take time!

But you're too smart for excuses.

The truth is, I'm a bit of a pansy. I did have a chance to try new things, and I wimped out.

I got lost. Swamped, literally. It started to feel a bit like quicksand...but, no. Less sinister than that. No real danger of drowning, no depression I was sinking into, none of that high-drama mama Lifetime angst you think I'm describing.

Put it this way: I was like Luke Skywalker's X-Wing adrift in the Dagobah swamp. Sure, he crashed his big, fancy, rebel-issue, flying machine on a strange star system, but he was never really scared or worried or panicked or anything hopeless you'd expect from run-of-the-mill "Eeek! Gotta move fast or it'll take me down!" quicksand.

Essentially, Luke was annoyed. Wanted to whine a bit. Might have even been a bit ticked at the delay.

But really? He was just in a big ol' mud puddle. Temporarily inconvenienced. And here comes wise Yoda (for the second time in this post) telling him he has the power to pick up his ship. The kicker is: he's had the power inside of him all along. But remember that annoyance? That pity-potty? That wee bit of anger? It was clouding his power.

And sure, Yoda lifted the X-Wing up out of the swamp like it was nothin'! But when you're the one adrift in the muck, it's harder to focus long enough to pull yourself up.

So, I wallowed.

I got up to my eyeballs in work, because there's a comfort level in being too busy to notice you've forgotten to do anything else. I waited for friends and family to call me up, to come visit me. I slept A LOT. I lost touch with quite a few people.

And I walked. That's about the only substantive thing I can remember doing from about the holidays on. I walked to think. Walked to escape. Walked to enjoy the music. Walked to write essays I would never commit to paper. Walked to avoid correcting. Walked to admire landscaping. Walked to keep myself in the habit. Walked up hills and down pant sizes. Walked because the one thing that ever seemed utterly out of control in my life was suddenly the one logical formula I could wrap my head around. Walked to see how far I could go.

And suddenly: it's mid-August. And a new school year's starting. And--miracle of miracles--a new hockey season's starting, too. And I've seen more friends in the past month than I've seen all year. And I've caught up with a lot of my family. And I'm checking my email and answering my phone and I'm even that guy who texts people! (Damn you, iPod, throwing open the door wide for technology!) And I'm reading and reading and reading and reading, which suddenly makes it a lot more important to start writing again, too.

Thus: the long-overdue log on.

Simply put: I know me. Once school starts, it's a whole new ballgame, and I could easily get fall back into the swamp.

But that's not going to happen this year.

Why not?

Because no one likes Luke Skywalker when he's a whiny little Padawan. Every kid worth his salt in the 80s wanted to be Luke Skywalker for one reason: light saber, baby!

In hindsight, watching the original trilogy as an adult is a strange experience, because we realize our big hero was really bogged down by a lot of mud for most of the first two films.

And that's fairly disheartening, because the Luke we admired was a Jedi knight, a man of action, someone who faced down the biggest baddies in the universe and made them reform or die trying! That's pretty hardcore.

Meanwhile, the Luke most of us became was the whiny moisture farmer who got SERVED! when he faced down a mud puddle on Dagobah.

Or, to steal a more current reference, it's like Zach Braff tells his Dad (Bilbo! Okay, enough dork shout-outs) at the end of Garden State why HE has to take some drastic action to pull his own life out of the Dagobah swamp, as it were:

"This is my life, Dad. This is it. I've spent 26 years waiting for something else to start. So no, I don't think it's too much to take on because it's everything there is. I see now it's all there is."

Any time I wasn't walking or sleeping this year? I was watching Garden State. Psych 101 finally reared its ugly head recently and made me realize, "duh! Could it be that you relate?"

Well, obviously.

For someone who tells anyone within earshot that she started teaching "by accident!" That she's only teaching "Til I graduate!" That she's living at home "To save money for tuition!" And who issues all manner of ghastly silent pleas to the universe that people don't even mention dating...it sure took me a long time to realize that, in doing all this, I had completely put living on hold.

And last year, when those landmarks all evaporated, all I was left with was...waiting for something else to start.

Thus, the million dollar SAT words that basically boil down to total emptiness. I felt like there was nothing left other than waiting.

To make a long story...well, embarrassingly long, (even by my standards!) here's where I've been the last 10 months, folks:

I've been enormously busy realizing that nothing I do--and nothing I've ever done, is a placeholder. Nothing is "by accident." And nothing, I repeat, nothing in my life makes me feel empty. Or hopeless. Or adrift. Or put-upon.

And I'm not stuck. I'm here by choice.

In fact, everything I do makes me...Happy?

Can that be right?

Well, so it would seem. And I'm pretty slow on the uptake, so it's taken me the better part of a year to realize that, given the freedom to fill up my life however I'd like, I'd pretty much put the exact same things back in my cart.

So: dig this, weary reader.

Here's how I "fixed" my grey-Manilow-oatmeal-quarter-life crisis (and how I'm still in the process of pulling it all back together):

1) I think I really AM a teacher. Really. Not a placeholder job, not a way to fill the bank account 'til some backwoods newspaper drafts me. I think it's my vocation. Now, there are things I ha-ate about the job, but mostly? I adore it.

For the second year in a row, I withdrew my letter of resignation I thought I wanted to write so badly, and asked (okay, begged) to return to the school.

One item back in the cart!

2) Bearing in mind that this teaching thing really seems to be working out? At 24, I graduated from J-School (journalism, kiddies) and fully expected to go find a newspaper to work for. Knock-knock-knockin' on 26? Well, that might be on the distant horizon, but I really do dig my current career. Where does that leave my writing? Well...

Can I just TELL you how many people have asked "So, you're over the 'writing thing'?" or similar, unintentionally condescending queries in the past year? Honestly. Like being a writer is something you can start and stop being. "Hey, you're blinking right now? So, you're over the 'seeing thing'?"

I don't know if and when writing will my main source of income, but I will always, always be a writer. It's so deeply encoded in my DNA that I could never deny it. I'll find my own ways to work it in, and this blog is one of those outlets for me. That's actually what it was always intended to be. Find a way. Publish yourself.

So writing's back in, too.

Am I turning pro in the long run? Stay tuned.

3) In the short run? Hello, I *teach* writing, remember? I've hardly turned my back on the craft. But it's time I make this teaching thing official. And so, after one year of NOT being a student, I'm headed back next fall.

...AKA in two weeks. Yikes!

Out of everything that's happened this year, would you believe that's what has people most worried about me? "School as life avoidance," "climbing back into the ivory tower of academia" "blah blah blah blah blah" gimme a break!

Dude, I'm getting a teaching credential, not shipping off to Iceland to work on my PhD in dead languages of the North Atlantic. It's hardly a vanity degree, I think I'll survive...and it's class twice a week, not a three year cloister.

(Don't get me wrong, I'm *totally* going back for my PhD someday...just not quite yet, that's all.)

And okay, sure, it's a co-term program, so I'll walk out with an MS in Education, but NO ONE likes people who ask, "Don't you already have a Masters?" Come on! Have you been waiting to ask that question your entire life, and were psyched to have someone to finally say it to? I mean, honestly. DON'T BE THAT GUY!

Ahem. So, with school? More of the same back into the cart. Which brings us to the ultimate luxury item in the grocery store:

4) Oh, Ike! Remember when I hoped we'd abandon you and leave you in an empty arena, playing hockey for no one?

I still think you were fantastically abusive to abandon us in your pursuit of bigger contracts and more of MY money. Your Ike Turner-esque disregard for those who love you is really quite disgraceful. I mean, what kind of feminist would I be if I were rooting for Tina to take you back after all those whupins, no matter how sincere and repentant you looked when you came back?

But...there are certain biological imperatives that should not, nay, CANNOT be ignored, and the need to see toothless men beat each other--on ice, to boot!--is clearly one of them.

We love LA, Randy Newman! How could I ever hope that my life could go on without the Kings? I'm an addict, I admit it, now pass me the bottle.

My boys are back, and I stayed strong for...um, a few days, before I called up my ticket rep and renegotiated the chance to see my boys a few times during the next season. How often? Ssshhh. That's none of your business.

Anyway.

There are still things I need to work on, and work out, and change, and take on...but there's plenty of time for that.

But no more waiting. And no thinking this is the temporary, time-waster, bank account-filler life I've taken on to occupy my early 20s.

This is it. This is my life. It's everything there is.

And, after months adrift in Dagobah-muck, I get it. I see now it's ALL there is.

So: I'm back.

The question is: have I lost you, dear reader, in the 10-month interim?

Or, horrifyingly, have I lost you sometime in the last zillion words? Have you wasted away in front of your computer screens? Is there nothing left but a starving skeleton where my reader once sat?

Turn off your monitor! Save your eyes!

You have a life to live, too.