Summer Brain.

Something about summer makes my brain go all haywire, it seems.  Not that it’s the most orderly place every other time of year, but somehow its chaos reaches full tilt once the days get longer and the temperature gets higher.  Is it all that exposed skin?  Sunstroke?  Porch wine?  My brain still isn’t used to not having summers off?

In short, this post has no focus, just like me these days.  Here is, in no particular order, some stuff that’s been occupying my (cluttered) mind.

Game of Thrones:

After listening to a number of friends going on about this show, I decided to give it a try.  The first episode I watched was the penultimate episode of the second season (you know, the one with all the fighting and blood and guts and exploding ships and such), which left me a) absolutely bewildered and b) overwhelmingly curious.  So, during an earlier stretch of Phish-widow-ness, I jumped in from the beginning.  I’m now five episodes in and have gotten the husband on board as well (which now means I can’t watch while he’s off gallivanting with hippies, alas) and am far less confused and far more hooked.  I guess I’m just a sucker for (made-up) period costumes and intricate, intertwined story lines?   (Or it could just be all that sex and death.)

Heat-Free Curls:

If you are at all like me, you’ve probably seen this “no heat curl” tutorial popping up all over Pinterest lately.   Having recently chopped my hair off, I figured my days of long luscious curls were behind me (or a year or two in front of me?), but decided to give it a go anyway.  And behold!  I’m not sure that those technically can be called “curls,” but my hair’s natural wave definitely comes out to play with a little coaxing from a night spent in a classy disco-style headband.  Plus, anything that gives me an excuse to avoid washing my hair is good in my (lazy, dirty) book.


I know, this is absolutely not grown-up of me, but so help me god, I can’t help but laugh at pretty much anything preceded by “ermahgerd!”  It’s tragic, really.   Sophisticated evenings spent sipping wine on the porch have devolved rapidly into giggles and “PERCH WERNNNNN!” thanks to this absolutely ridiculous meme.  But really.  Try it.  Add an “r” in there.  Seriously – suddenly everything is funnier.

Fifty Shades of Grey:

Okay.  So I have this thing sometimes where I like to avoid a particularly hyped-up pop culture phenomenon, all the while engaging in a great deal of eye-rolling and condescension towards the people who enjoy said phenomenon  (see: Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, “Call Me Maybe,” et al).   It’s douchey, I know.  But I also have this thing where I eventually give in and, quite often, end up absolutely enamored with that which I formerly derided (see: Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, “Call Me Maybe”).   So after a great deal of aforementioned eye-rolling on my part (you know how dangerous that is if you’ve read the book), I decided I’d fork over the ten bucks to download Fifty Shades of Grey onto my Kindle (cause I sure as hell wasn’t going to advertise to everyone on the T that I was reading that).  I wasn’t expecting to have a change of heart on this one; rather, I just wanted specific details to justify my scorn.  And man, was my scorn justified!  In case you were lucky enough to not know, Fifty Shades was written originally as Twilight fanfiction (I feel like this alone should have been enough to prevent this book from coming to fruition).  And it reads like, well, Twilight fanfiction.*

That’s not even how you spell that.

Oh, the horror.  Never before have I been so angry at a book and yet so unable to put it down.  It was like a car wreck: how I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t!  Oh, the supposedly American characters “fetching” things and “having a shower.”  The thousands of times someone’s mouth “pressed into a hard line” or “quirked” up at the corners (that’s not even a verb, guys).

I mean, I think I get it.  Erotica is hot.  People like to read flowery descriptions of people doin’ it.  We’re only human!  But there are ways to get your raunchy sex scenes while still reading good writing, folks.  If I’m going to be witnessing the goings-on in a character’s bedroom (or bathroom, office, or “Red Room of Pain”), that character should actually be believable as a human being, not just a crotch with (frustratingly vapid) thoughts.  And readers certainly don’t need an “inner goddess” to personify female sex drive.  Ladies have libidos, too!

Of course, here’s the problem: the first book ended in a cliffhanger, and regardless of how little I care about these characters, I MUST KNOW WHAT HAPPENS.  Why?  Because shut up.  Can someone out there just give me a quick and dirty (pun intended) synopsis of how she inevitably ends up marrying and living happily ever after with that emotionally unavailable misogynist, so I can get on with my life?

The Mysteries of the Female Reproductive System:

not me.

No, that’s not my chart. Mine looks more like an EKG. Of a heart attack.

In perhaps one of the most grown-up moves in my recent history, I have gone off the Pill.  That’s right, folks: not only is Emily An Adult, but she is now contemplating creating (with a little help) a Whole New Person.  Nothing’s sprouted yet, mind you, but seeds are being sown.  (Okay, eew, I need to abandon that metaphor. )

I guess it’s a little difficult to know how to write about this; it doesn’t seem particularly common for people to talk about what happens in the time between the decision to start “trying” and that magical three-month mark when phone calls are made and ultrasounds posted on Facebook.  However, I’ve never been what you’d call a private person.  When something is going on in my life, I talk about it, and this blog isn’t any different.  The act of sharing and listening to each other’s experiences is a vital part of the way I relate to other people.  And when something’s on my mind, I devote all my time and energy to learning, reading, talking about it.  In this case, that has meant that suddenly I’m downloading ovulation-tracking apps to my phone (and Kindle, and iPod…), ordering used copies of crunchy 1970s-era fertility books, and agonizing over just what my body is going to do now that I’m off birth control for the first time in 14 (!) years.  I’d like to think my initial pre-possible-pregnancy-mania has died down now, which is probably good, since people don’t seem all that interested in discussing their cervices** at parties.  Who knows, though, as this strange journey continues, what will escape from my all-too-willing mouth.  (Apologies in advance, friends.)

I can promise you one thing: I will not resort to Internet-speak acronyms such as TTC, BD, AF, BFP, and so on.  Because really.  We can’t type out the whole phrase?    We are old enough to be actively trying to get knocked up*** and yet we type like 12-year-olds texting?  WTF?***

* To be fair, Twilight is actually one of those pop culture phenomena that I have managed to successfully resist.  But I have read a page or two, enough to know the writing ain’t too good there.

** Yes – I looked up the plural of “cervix.”

*** Don’t worry, the irony of me talking like a teenager while claiming to be an adult is not lost on me.

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