oh the lux jury: Sukkot break part I

Well, thank G-d for Sukkot! Each year in September/October, I am treated to a slew of holidays by the Hebrew calendar. First comes Rosh Hashanah, then Yom Kippur, and then the mother of the fall holidays, Sukkot. Sukkot isn't super serious like the first two, but it lasts a while, so I usually get close to two weeks off from work.

First a little background about Sukkot.

Sukkot is a seven day celebration for G-d's faithfulness to the Jews during their 40 years in the wilderness, before finding the Promised Land. In order to commemorate this time in their history, Jews build sukkahs, little outdoor huts or lean-tos, and have all of their meals in them during the holiday. Some people call this holiday Sukkos, and it's taken me three years to figure out why and to decide on the pronunciation "Sukkot". Nevermind why, since unfortunately, the explanation I would give would take so much qualifying and explanation of the various definitions of Ashkenazi and Sephardi that you would lose interest.

Now, a lot of things that have nothing to do with Sukkot.

Tuesday. Day 1 Eve. What an amazing night of P & H trivia. Our team turned out to be all female that night, so our team name was "There's No 'I' in Vag". We had a hilarious time, came in dead last, but were given a pitcher of beer by the host team, and, a stuffed animal.

This is where I started remembering my days in lists:

Wednesday. Day 1. bike blowout. tire flopping. rain. Otherlands + Court =Texas Hold Em

red wine + savory tarts=Karen is awesome. Otherlands redux, MFA reading. Comedy TN. homoerotic art. serious porch time.

Thursday. Day 2. The Office. Tracks. Spaaaaaaades!

Friday. Day 3. Lunch at Tracks. Weird waiter. The fair. Karaoke.

Saturday. Day 4. Karen out of doors. Grilling/football. outdoor Spades gone wild. Yard blanket bingo.

Last night I had a strange dream about how one of my professors lectured all of us on our non-proficient use of semi-colons. I freaked out about being falsely accused, hyperventilated, and had a panic attack right there in the lecture hall. I'm a fucking freak.

This has been a draft for a while. Imagonna post it anyway. I kind of like the way it turned out.

Sydney White will change the landscape of modern cinema

In the interest of full disclosure, I must state that I am an unabashed Amanda Bynes fan. She is lovely and fresh and has excellent comedic timing. She is a 21 year old rising star in Hollywood, but she stays out of the tabloids and seems to be fairly normal for an actress.

And, even though I make fun of myself for this, I really love both teen movies and romantic comedies. So know that you are hearing from a qualified judge that Sydney White was a steaming pile of shit.

1. Amanda Bynes' makeup is god awful. It seems like even on a low budget film, that one thing you could get right is makeup, especially on a pretty girl. Bynes had two looks in the whole movie: intense bronzer with caked-on foundation and extremely smoky eyes, and intense bronzer with caked-on foundation and extremely sparkly eyes. Even in scenes where Sydney was in bed or working on a car, she was still sporting this look. And it was hideous. Any shot I had at enjoying the movie the tiniest bit was destroyed by the mangling of Bynes face. Seriously, you should not notice someone's makeup in a movie. And if you are going for something obvious, why take it that step further to make the star look bad with unflattering and outdated looks? I just don't get it.

2. While the make-up is by far my biggest complaint, the script itself was very awkward. It's a cute idea, right? Snow White and the Seven Dorks. Perfect for Bynes. But no. Almost every single moment in the movie was cheesy, contrived, and wholly unoriginal. For instance, any time Sydney talks to her dad or thinks about her dead mother, you know every line she will say before it comes out of her mouth. The stuff about reconnecting with her mom and not disappointing her dad was tripe.

It really seems like perhaps they were on a tight shooting schedule and could not rewrite or reshoot scenes if they just didn't come across.

3. The production value was terrible. The editing was choppy and there were no real transitions between scenes. The movie is set on a college campus, so it seems like they could have shot anywhere and avoided having to use a lot of green screens. But no. For example, at one point Sydney and her romantic interest are hanging out in the bell tower, after their date to the soup kitchen, of course. It looks like they are sitting in front of one of those backgrounds the photographer had at your eleventh grade winter semi-formal.

4. The dorks were the best part of the movie. Jack Carpenter, who plays Lenny/Sneezey, is totally adorable and lent a little pathos to an otherwise unemotional, less than stirring flick.

5. I think Tess said it best when she said she was constantly reminded (by the flaws of the movie) that she was watching a movie. And that just ain't no good.

And finally, I just looked up the key makeup artist and she also did key makeup for From Justin to Kelly. That just says it all.

to pants or not to pants: that is not a question

My job has a fairly strict dress code. One component of that dress code is that I cannot wear pants, only skirts and dresses that cover my knees when I am seated. That should do a lot of good to my feminine little heart, but it turns out that it's incredibly frustrating. Especially in winter.

For the first two years I was there, I rebelled by wearing sneakers, knee socks, stretched out knit shirts (which have to cover my collar bone and go to my elbows, by the way), and ugly ass, Penecostal looking, Walmart born jean skirts.

In the past year-and-a-half, I began to think, Hey Grace, maybe you shouldn't wear clothes to work that would embarrass you if you were seen in public. The result of this little musing to myself is that I am superstylin' at work now, and strangely enough I feel better about my job because I look good.

It took me a while to figure this out, but the work dress code completes an odd circle in my life, which began when I was born.

I was reared (yeah y'all, it's reared. you raise corn and cattle, not children) in an Independent Baptist home. Don't be surprised that you've never heard of that; it's a very small denomination. Independent Baptists make Southern Baptists look like hedonists, if that helps. One of the least psychologically and spiritually damaging principles of this sect was that women had to dress very modestly. You guessed it. No pants. I wore my first pair of pants (sweatpants, for karate) when I was 12 years old. And with a skirt over them, natch.

My mom was so anti-pants during our Indie Baptist years that when I was a newborn and someone gave me a teeny pants outfit, my mother only put the pants on me long enough to take a picture for the insistent gift giver, then she immediately changed me back into a skirt.

I will remember my first few pairs of pants forever. The pink sweatpants were the first, if you don't count the newborn ones. Then there were some teal corduroy Guess pants, and some lightweight denim pants with little rosebuds all over them. That pair came with a belt, too. Eventually I settled down and got a pair of standard, 5-pocket, black jeans. When I was in the tenth grade, I went on a passionate search for what I called "regular jeans," which my mother teases me about to this very day.

So, maybe all of this baggage I have with skirts is why it really stung when a classmate told me she thought I was a "goody-goody. You know, because of all the skirts." (I go straight from work to class two nights a week, so I'm always in dress code.)

I'm grateful for many things: I'm not actually a goody-goody. My parents did ditch the quasi-cult when I was twelve. I full-stopped going to church four years ago and it's the best (and hardest) decision I've ever made.

But I'm still looking forward to the day when I can be pantsed seven days a week instead of just over the weekend.

you say potato, I say fuck you

not really, but I thought that would make a good blog title.

here are some other blog titles that I would like to write an actual blog for:

"to pants or not to pants: that is not a question"

"whatever together"

"dancing: R.I.P."

"hey kid! did you wash those raspberries?"

"why I haven't opened the box to my new sewing machine"

"the Post rules the school. and the Times"

I have ideas for almost all of them. so vote for your favorite and I will try to do that one next.

by the way, readers, I know that it's a pain in the ass to have to register to comment, and that myspace was easier. I have heard and digested all of the complaints.

but just do it. you will reap many rewards.

and by rewards, I mean, sexual favors.

love y'all!

granny smith versus Fuji

The gauntlet has been thrown! Cast your votes. You know in your heart what is right.

we will, we will, smock you!

Karen and Tess and I are having a yard sale tomorrow. Yeaaaaaaaaa!

I've had one with my mom a couple of times and we had so much fun. But we always started like, way too late. Historians will look back and label this the most explicit theme of my life.

I raped my closets tonight and am selling a ton of clothes and shoes. Interestingly enough, it is much easier to get rid of clothes than it is to get rid of books. I am selling, like, two books. Out of hundreds. I accidentally tried to put some of Jeremy's books in the "to haul to Karen's to sell" pile, but he put the kibosh on that.

I bought a new sewing machine and I really need to be making stuff to sell at Cooper-Young. But in between work, school, and drinking, there hasn't been much free time.

Have a huge scrape on my right knee from Mary Jordan's Field Day Extravaganza on Sunday, and it still hurts like a little bitch. I literally cannot run without falling down. This makes me wonder how I ever played varsity soccer and then I remember that I was wearing cleats when I played. I miss the word "Mitre." And then I remember that I fell down a ton then, too. Sigh.

The moral of the story is: don't be jealous of me because I'm half Polish.

if I could buy the world an eyebrow wax

My dog has diarrhea. Gross. I'm not sure I know how to clean it up. Gross. I am stalling. Gross.

I have a new unread Nylon, probably at least four unread Vogues, and the last Sunday Times unopened--that's not to mention all of the books I started this summer and didn't finish. Which reminds me... I still haven't received one of the textbooks I ordered a week ago from half.com. Bitches. But I did finally get my cell phone battery from ebay, so I will now be adopting Anna Mullin's old pink Razr as my full time phone. Which means that sadly I will be retiring Colin's old Samsung. But the caller id was all crossed up and everytime Tess called me it indicated that the girls' school principal was calling. Of all the times Jeremy's called me the id has almost never said the same thing. It seems to favor people from work. Bizarreo.

Last night I went to this MFA party and while trying to be nice to a new little couple in the program of course I put my foot in it and they looked super horrified and the girl got all defensive and protective, even though what I said was mildly funny and fairly benign. Oh well. In related news, it never ceases to amaze how drunk you can get from sharing in kegs/pitchers (in that order) instead of drinking single servings of beer. How drunk, you ask? So drunk you think you can pull off Whitney Houston's "How Will I Know?" at karaoke. That's just an example, though. Totally created for illustrative purposes.

Three albums are easing my transition from summer to superserious work time. They are Wilco's Sky Blue Sky, Tegan and Sara's The Con, and Over the Rhine's The Trumpet Child. They kind of all make me happy and concerned at the same time. And they kind of make me thank God for giving us music.

And now, to close, I have a super short story to relate. I'm trying to avoid being an interferring narrator so you may produce your own commentary. Enjoy.

A young woman notices a much older man staring at her from the end of the bar. She thinks not much of it, but when she must approach the bar for a beer, she is confronted with his notice. As a matter of exposition, I will tell you that this man is certainly close to or over 60 years old, quite stout, and he has very long, bushy, grey/black hair, drawn into a pony tail. And a long, bushy, grey/black, but well-groomed beard.

The young woman tells the barkeep to pour her a beer, and while the barkeep busies himself with her request, the bushy grey/black man attempts to engage the young woman.

"Whose little girl are you?"

She is puzzled. "What?"

"Whose little girl are you?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Well, " he gestures to her wedding set, "you're engaged aren't you?"

"I'm married, yes."

"Well whose little girl are you?"

"I guess, um, I'm my own little girl. I mean, uh, I'm my own woman."

"Oh, I didn't mean any offense by asking. I was just trying to flirt with you a little--"

"Well, my husband's name is Jeremy, if that's what you mean."

"--You know, like in a Shakespeare play."

"Which one?"

"Oh, definitely a romance or a comedy for you. But me, mine's a tragedy. My little girl left me after 21 years. She broke up with me. So I was just sitting here, noticing you all full of life, and hoping you didn't have a little boy."

The young woman's beers are ready and she turns away from the bar but tells the bushy grey/black man to take care.

Thirty or so minutes later on his way out of the bar he touches the back of her chair and demands,

"Say hi to Jeremy for me."