I am obsessed with Twilight.
I've read all the books, bought the DVD (and watched it a handful of times already), downloaded the soundtrack, Googled Rob Pattison and gritted my teeth when I realized "New Moon" wouldn't hit theaters until November. I am truly obsessed. And, up until today, I have had no idea how to answer the question I've been asked so many times -- "That's for teenage girls. Why do you like it so much?"
Finally, as I was listening to my newly synced soundtrack, I realized ...
Sure, vampires are sexy. Well, at least Edward Cullen. And sure, it's well-written. And of course, it's a great story.
But that's not it. I've read plenty of good books and have fallen in love with plenty of great characters throughout them all. But Stephanie Plum from Janet Evanovich's novels (who I loved with a capital L) and Alexander Cross (James Patterson's irresistible forensic psychologist) didn't capture my heart as much as Mr. Cullen.
It's the love.
I realize this is corny as shit, but ...
I am in love with Twilight because of the love. Because of the forbidden love that no one thought would work except Edward and Bella. The love that went against every fiber in his being, the love that should have destroyed everything instead of made it better. The same kind of love, that say, would send you across the world. ... Maybe even 8,500 miles, to be exact.
So maybe I'm not Bella. And maybe, even in my wildest dreams, my boyfriend will never lunge at my neck when dinner isn't on the table when he gets home. But, maybe, just maybe, he's my own personal Edward. Or Romeo, if you're old-fashioned.
When I left Georgia the first time to follow my boyfriend to Guam, no one thought it would work. Hell, even my mom, who had never seen me as happy as I was back then, made me buy a two-way ticket -- just so I wouldn't get stuck on an island halfway around the world.
It wasn't until two weeks ago, when I went home for the first time since I'd moved out here, that people actually started believing I had not totally lost my mind. That this was real. And the move I had made months ago wasn't out of lust or total insanity. I was just doing what I knew was right -- following the path I was supposed to follow.
So, yeah, that's my story. That's the reason why I love Twilight, even though some people may think it's just another corny, teenage tale of star-crossed lovers. In a way, it's my own personal fair tale. Even if mine doesn't come with a real-life, vampire Edward.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Punch in the Face.
So Facebook has this new application (God, I hate applications) that lets you choose your Top 5 of any given subject. Top 5 cars you wish you had, Top 5 cities you've lived in, Top 5 favorite movies, even Top 5 people you'd like to punch in the face.
I had fun with that one, although a Top 20 would have been more suitable. And more fun if you could choose people that were actually on Facebook instead of just celebrities (there are a few ex friends that come to mind).
Here are few, for your own amusement:
1. Lindsay Lohan
2. Paris Hilton
3. Tom Cruise
4. Madonna
5. Bill O'Reilly
6. 90% of the GOP
7. Chris Rock
8. Angelina Jolie
9. Nick Saban
10. Otis Brumby
My boss is constantly telling me about people she'd love to punch in the face. But apparently, it's not meant to be mean-spirited. In Chamorro, it's a term of endearment. She always tells this other account manager that her kid is so cute she just wants to punch him in the face. Who the hell says that? Really?
Anyway, it works. I may start saying that to people randomly. And if they looked at me shocked I'll just say, "Don't worry, man. That's a good thing." Ha.
I had fun with that one, although a Top 20 would have been more suitable. And more fun if you could choose people that were actually on Facebook instead of just celebrities (there are a few ex friends that come to mind).
Here are few, for your own amusement:
1. Lindsay Lohan
2. Paris Hilton
3. Tom Cruise
4. Madonna
5. Bill O'Reilly
6. 90% of the GOP
7. Chris Rock
8. Angelina Jolie
9. Nick Saban
10. Otis Brumby
My boss is constantly telling me about people she'd love to punch in the face. But apparently, it's not meant to be mean-spirited. In Chamorro, it's a term of endearment. She always tells this other account manager that her kid is so cute she just wants to punch him in the face. Who the hell says that? Really?
Anyway, it works. I may start saying that to people randomly. And if they looked at me shocked I'll just say, "Don't worry, man. That's a good thing." Ha.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Beauty in the Breakdown
I love airports. Always have.
There's something about the hellos and the good-byes of total strangers. Something so raw -- emotionally -- it's hard for me to resist. And with 30 hours of travel between Atlanta and Guam, it's even harder to avoid staring. I've found myself many times gawking at happy couples or busy businessmen making their way from one point in the world to another.
Yes, I'm that weird girl in the airport wearing her iPod, just watching. I watch women chase after their babies, men in camoflauge hats and sweatpants play on their Blackberry obsessions, couples hold each other just outside security while only one held a suitcase, and parents run to hug their sons or daughters in uniform who just walked out of the terminal.
Airports are the best place to see the best and worst parts of life -- the hellos and the good-byes. Ultimately, you can't say one without saying the other. And ultimately, everyone has to do it at least once.
I wish there were more hellos than good-byes, but it seems lately, I've had many more of the latter to endure. More tears and farewell hugs than greetings. But I guess that's what being thousands of miles from "home" will get you. Not to mention a boyfriend in the military.
While that's hard most of the time, I think saying good-bye makes you appreciate the hellos that much more. It makes waiting in the airport something different than just a means to an end. Almost euphoric ... cathartic.
I met a guy named Tommy while I was waiting for my flight to Chicago. He was coming from Charleston, headed to California to visit family. A few months earlier, he had been moose hunting in Denali National Forest in Alaska and skydiving in Colorado with his dad, who said he wanted to try more things after he recovered from a heart attack. Tommy had tattoos on both arms and he carried one small suitcase for a 2-week trip. I doubt he'd checked any bags, as I had.
It's people like that that make life so interesting. People like the couples who seem like they could hug forever just outside security. In a way it's comforting, to know that other people have to go through the same things I do. The good-byes. And the business trips. And the vacations that never seem to last long enough. It makes me think we're all just the same ... in a different way.
There's beauty in the break down.
There's something about the hellos and the good-byes of total strangers. Something so raw -- emotionally -- it's hard for me to resist. And with 30 hours of travel between Atlanta and Guam, it's even harder to avoid staring. I've found myself many times gawking at happy couples or busy businessmen making their way from one point in the world to another.
Yes, I'm that weird girl in the airport wearing her iPod, just watching. I watch women chase after their babies, men in camoflauge hats and sweatpants play on their Blackberry obsessions, couples hold each other just outside security while only one held a suitcase, and parents run to hug their sons or daughters in uniform who just walked out of the terminal.
Airports are the best place to see the best and worst parts of life -- the hellos and the good-byes. Ultimately, you can't say one without saying the other. And ultimately, everyone has to do it at least once.
I wish there were more hellos than good-byes, but it seems lately, I've had many more of the latter to endure. More tears and farewell hugs than greetings. But I guess that's what being thousands of miles from "home" will get you. Not to mention a boyfriend in the military.
While that's hard most of the time, I think saying good-bye makes you appreciate the hellos that much more. It makes waiting in the airport something different than just a means to an end. Almost euphoric ... cathartic.
I met a guy named Tommy while I was waiting for my flight to Chicago. He was coming from Charleston, headed to California to visit family. A few months earlier, he had been moose hunting in Denali National Forest in Alaska and skydiving in Colorado with his dad, who said he wanted to try more things after he recovered from a heart attack. Tommy had tattoos on both arms and he carried one small suitcase for a 2-week trip. I doubt he'd checked any bags, as I had.
It's people like that that make life so interesting. People like the couples who seem like they could hug forever just outside security. In a way it's comforting, to know that other people have to go through the same things I do. The good-byes. And the business trips. And the vacations that never seem to last long enough. It makes me think we're all just the same ... in a different way.
There's beauty in the break down.
Monday, March 16, 2009
No Place Like ...
It's true what they say, you know. About home. About how you never really appreciate it until you're gone. I can attest to it because I'm living it. Right now.
I'm 8,500 miles away from where I grew up, the house I moved out of when I was 17. And it sure feels like it sometimes. Right about now is where that whole appreciation part comes in.
I'm thankful that I remember how the breeze felt when my mom used to open the front door and the back door at the same time. I'm thankful I remember how the red clay outside would track in every time someone came in. And I remember how the pear tree in the front yard was just a shrub when we moved there 11 years ago. Now it's tallest branch is in line with the rooftop.
I appreciate how my old bedroom door needs a good shove to get it to shut all the way. And how the hot water in the shower takes a little longer to get hot than it should. I appreciate the smell. The bay windows in the breakfast room with a view out to our woods. And the deer that sometimes come right up by the back porch to eat whatever they can find in my stepfather's manicured lawn.
Yeah, that's home. My home. Wherever I go, that will not change. Kind of sad, really ... knowing that no matter how happy I am or how much I love my boyfriend, a part of me will always be in Georgia.
It will be in my mom's front yard, where I used to play while my grandpa was building our house so long ago. It will be on my grandparents' old gazebo, where we used to churn old school vanilla ice cream with my grandfather. And in my Oma's pool down the road, where my brother and I and all of our cousins would swim around and around and around, trying to make a whirlpool with just the weight of our tiny bodies.
It will be in our old court, where we'd race to the bottom on our banana seat bikes after a game of kickball. And it will be on the softball field in Harris County, where I shed as many tears as I did drops of sweat, and where I learned that sometimes loss is just as important to the soul as victory.
That is where my home is. Sometimes I wish it wasn't so far away.
I'm 8,500 miles away from where I grew up, the house I moved out of when I was 17. And it sure feels like it sometimes. Right about now is where that whole appreciation part comes in.
I'm thankful that I remember how the breeze felt when my mom used to open the front door and the back door at the same time. I'm thankful I remember how the red clay outside would track in every time someone came in. And I remember how the pear tree in the front yard was just a shrub when we moved there 11 years ago. Now it's tallest branch is in line with the rooftop.
I appreciate how my old bedroom door needs a good shove to get it to shut all the way. And how the hot water in the shower takes a little longer to get hot than it should. I appreciate the smell. The bay windows in the breakfast room with a view out to our woods. And the deer that sometimes come right up by the back porch to eat whatever they can find in my stepfather's manicured lawn.
Yeah, that's home. My home. Wherever I go, that will not change. Kind of sad, really ... knowing that no matter how happy I am or how much I love my boyfriend, a part of me will always be in Georgia.
It will be in my mom's front yard, where I used to play while my grandpa was building our house so long ago. It will be on my grandparents' old gazebo, where we used to churn old school vanilla ice cream with my grandfather. And in my Oma's pool down the road, where my brother and I and all of our cousins would swim around and around and around, trying to make a whirlpool with just the weight of our tiny bodies.
It will be in our old court, where we'd race to the bottom on our banana seat bikes after a game of kickball. And it will be on the softball field in Harris County, where I shed as many tears as I did drops of sweat, and where I learned that sometimes loss is just as important to the soul as victory.
That is where my home is. Sometimes I wish it wasn't so far away.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Great Expectations
I'm not sure what it is about me. I'm not sure what happened in my life that has made me expect so much out of people.
With all the loves I've seen destroyed and all the loss I've had to go through, you would think it'd be the opposite. I shouldn't expect anything from anyone. I shouldn't trust a soul. Or have great expectations for friends or family members or politicians who gained my vote.
But I do. And I think that's one of my greatest downfalls. I expect a lot. Not in a bad way. I just have such admiration for people in my life, I guess I tend to put them on pedestals. And when someone falls off that pedestal, I take it personal.
I wish sometimes I could be one of those people who doesn't care what people I know are going through. I wish I didn't take things to heart. Or feel hurt for people I know are hurting. I wish I didn't feel like I need to tell people when I think they've fucked up.
I wish I didn't have the admiration I have for people in my life. That way, I could get used to them screwing up. No one is perfect, I know that. But it's screwing up the things -- the relationships -- that gets me the most.
How do you start not to care?
With all the loves I've seen destroyed and all the loss I've had to go through, you would think it'd be the opposite. I shouldn't expect anything from anyone. I shouldn't trust a soul. Or have great expectations for friends or family members or politicians who gained my vote.
But I do. And I think that's one of my greatest downfalls. I expect a lot. Not in a bad way. I just have such admiration for people in my life, I guess I tend to put them on pedestals. And when someone falls off that pedestal, I take it personal.
I wish sometimes I could be one of those people who doesn't care what people I know are going through. I wish I didn't take things to heart. Or feel hurt for people I know are hurting. I wish I didn't feel like I need to tell people when I think they've fucked up.
I wish I didn't have the admiration I have for people in my life. That way, I could get used to them screwing up. No one is perfect, I know that. But it's screwing up the things -- the relationships -- that gets me the most.
How do you start not to care?
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Extra Cheesy Blasphemy
I have never been a cook.
My whole life, I sat idly by watching while my mom and grandmothers during holidays while they slaved over homemade casseroles and basted turkeys and desserts that can make your mouth melt just thinking about them. I watched my family's eyes light up every time my Oma said she was making her homemade lasagna. And I watched my mom hammer out a two-page spaghetti and meatballs recipe like it was old news.
And now -- finally -- I have learned my way around an oven (and a food processor, a hand mixer, a stove and a griddle).
I am no longer afraid of my mother's lasagna recipe -- or a hundred others. And I'm even trying new things, like spicy Cajun shrimp pasta, stuffed peppers with corn salsa and made-from-scratch oatmeal cookies. I am learning the finer points to timing out a meal, and I can even make one from a few odds and ends in the pantry.
I, Amanda Casciaro, can cook.
Because I can cook, I can so without remorse that I am highly offended by Pizza Hut's new advertising campaign. So they say they're selling lasagna, huh? Pssshhhfff.
Do they expect me to believe that could pass for lasagna? And do they expect me to believe they tested their two-bit dish on Italians, who compared it to their "momma's" within range of hidden cameras? They've got to be kidding me.
I am shocked. Shocked and appalled. Shocked, appalled and disgusted. And I can say that, because I've tasted that glorified dog food they brand as "lasagna." The "lasagna" with the sauce that tastes like it's been sitting on a shelf in a can for five years. The "lasagna" with layers so thin you can barely tell they included ricotta cheese. The "lasagna" they serve in a tin foil pan.
Yeah, "lasagna." I spit on that lasagna. And I bet my great-grandmother would too, if she wasn't rolling over in her grave right now.
It's blasphemous. And I, a proud Italian woman and a cook, am ashamed. I am ashamed at Pizza Hut. I am ashamed at whatever soulless advertising agency came up with that campaign. And I am ashamed at the actors and "Italians" in those commercials.
That is blasphemy. Pure and simple. With extra, stale, pasteurized cheese.
My whole life, I sat idly by watching while my mom and grandmothers during holidays while they slaved over homemade casseroles and basted turkeys and desserts that can make your mouth melt just thinking about them. I watched my family's eyes light up every time my Oma said she was making her homemade lasagna. And I watched my mom hammer out a two-page spaghetti and meatballs recipe like it was old news.
And now -- finally -- I have learned my way around an oven (and a food processor, a hand mixer, a stove and a griddle).
I am no longer afraid of my mother's lasagna recipe -- or a hundred others. And I'm even trying new things, like spicy Cajun shrimp pasta, stuffed peppers with corn salsa and made-from-scratch oatmeal cookies. I am learning the finer points to timing out a meal, and I can even make one from a few odds and ends in the pantry.
I, Amanda Casciaro, can cook.
Because I can cook, I can so without remorse that I am highly offended by Pizza Hut's new advertising campaign. So they say they're selling lasagna, huh? Pssshhhfff.
Do they expect me to believe that could pass for lasagna? And do they expect me to believe they tested their two-bit dish on Italians, who compared it to their "momma's" within range of hidden cameras? They've got to be kidding me.
I am shocked. Shocked and appalled. Shocked, appalled and disgusted. And I can say that, because I've tasted that glorified dog food they brand as "lasagna." The "lasagna" with the sauce that tastes like it's been sitting on a shelf in a can for five years. The "lasagna" with layers so thin you can barely tell they included ricotta cheese. The "lasagna" they serve in a tin foil pan.
Yeah, "lasagna." I spit on that lasagna. And I bet my great-grandmother would too, if she wasn't rolling over in her grave right now.
It's blasphemous. And I, a proud Italian woman and a cook, am ashamed. I am ashamed at Pizza Hut. I am ashamed at whatever soulless advertising agency came up with that campaign. And I am ashamed at the actors and "Italians" in those commercials.
That is blasphemy. Pure and simple. With extra, stale, pasteurized cheese.
Monday, March 2, 2009
In and Out.
When you are a writer, by nature, you are always writing about something. Always putting thoughts and subjects and current events together to form sentences and paragraphs and pages about life. Even if you never get those sentences and paragraphs down on paper.
You are always relating something to something bigger. People to beliefs. Beliefs to an overall meaning about life. The weather to how the world works.
It is what it is, as someone I used to know used to say.
You get used to missing the boat. Forgetting about the truths you discovered over lunch and promised you would write down when you got home. Remembering what you said you would write about, and then realizing it didn't matter as much as you thought it did at the time.
There have been so many things I've wanted to write about in the past few months. But because of my unwillingness to sit down at my computer, I can't tell you what half of those things are now. I've let my beloved blog fall by the waist side. And I have no reason or excuse why I've let that happen.
So, instead of trying to conjure up all the missed pages, I'll just start anew. I'll start with my new favorite hobby -- scuba.
When I first learned to scuba, it was in a pool in February. Guam doesn't have winter or fall, so the water was warm. And I was terrified.
It was strange how just learning to breathe felt so unnatural. Granted breathing underwater is, by nature, unnatural. But still. You have air, so it should be easy. In and out, in and out -- it's that simple.
It wasn't simple at all though, that first time. Letting go of gravity, trading my flip-flops for fins, learning to see straight ahead instead of side-to-side, it was all hard. But now that I've done it, I'll tell you what I like most.
It's the nothingness. It's having control of everything and nothing at the same time. It's not talking. Not walking. Not being able to run away or jet up to the surface when you see something bigger than you in the water. It's just ... breathing.
Sometimes that is so taken for granted. There is work and laundry and dishes and love and TV and Myspace and family and time differences and learning to cook and making new friends and keeping the old. There's keeping my relationship with God and making it better and being the person that I want to be and loving the person I'm with.
There's everything. There's everything in my life that's worthy of my time. There's everything that keeps me from just breathing.
I would not trade who I am for a second. I would not sacrifice any part of my life for anything in the world. And I would not give up one person in my world ... well, for the world. But there is something so satisfying about breathing.
In and out, in and out.
You are always relating something to something bigger. People to beliefs. Beliefs to an overall meaning about life. The weather to how the world works.
It is what it is, as someone I used to know used to say.
You get used to missing the boat. Forgetting about the truths you discovered over lunch and promised you would write down when you got home. Remembering what you said you would write about, and then realizing it didn't matter as much as you thought it did at the time.
There have been so many things I've wanted to write about in the past few months. But because of my unwillingness to sit down at my computer, I can't tell you what half of those things are now. I've let my beloved blog fall by the waist side. And I have no reason or excuse why I've let that happen.
So, instead of trying to conjure up all the missed pages, I'll just start anew. I'll start with my new favorite hobby -- scuba.
When I first learned to scuba, it was in a pool in February. Guam doesn't have winter or fall, so the water was warm. And I was terrified.
It was strange how just learning to breathe felt so unnatural. Granted breathing underwater is, by nature, unnatural. But still. You have air, so it should be easy. In and out, in and out -- it's that simple.
It wasn't simple at all though, that first time. Letting go of gravity, trading my flip-flops for fins, learning to see straight ahead instead of side-to-side, it was all hard. But now that I've done it, I'll tell you what I like most.
It's the nothingness. It's having control of everything and nothing at the same time. It's not talking. Not walking. Not being able to run away or jet up to the surface when you see something bigger than you in the water. It's just ... breathing.
Sometimes that is so taken for granted. There is work and laundry and dishes and love and TV and Myspace and family and time differences and learning to cook and making new friends and keeping the old. There's keeping my relationship with God and making it better and being the person that I want to be and loving the person I'm with.
There's everything. There's everything in my life that's worthy of my time. There's everything that keeps me from just breathing.
I would not trade who I am for a second. I would not sacrifice any part of my life for anything in the world. And I would not give up one person in my world ... well, for the world. But there is something so satisfying about breathing.
In and out, in and out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
