Blight of the Star Crossed Lovers and Hopeless Romantics

Each day I am delicately brainwashed by the ideals of silver screen love. I smile at Patrick Swayze's easy moves. Cary Grant, Clark Gable, and Romeo seduce my eye with the satisfaction of a role well fulfilled. Again I have cried at the frightful sight of a ghastly pale Gilbert Blythe emaciated from scarlet fever. And yes, I do always clutch my heart in agony as lovers part.
Diamond sunbursts and marble halls... Hmph.
This unrealistic euphoria is the archetype for almost all books, music, movies, and the media in general. Our society has glitter in its eyes and a soundtrack in its ears. Thus it is blind and deaf to the horrifying, gut-wrenching truth: this could never happen in real life.
Preschool was truly the closest I've ever been to these emotions. It was a simplistic love in its most innocent form. He tried to kiss me at recess, and after that I never spoke to him again.
To quote my beloved Lord Byron:
"Alas! the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and fearful thing!"
Romance, true romance, unlike the kind they spoon feed you in the movie theater, is an unobtainable concept that has been doing irreparable harm to our psyches for as long as we can remember.
It’s not just the fantasy we’re going after…it’s what we think the fantasy leads to, which is the cause of the problem. It’s that feeling- that chemical imbalance- with the magic, the butterflies in your stomach, and the random acts of sappiness. It wraps around the 10 percent of our tiny brains that we actually use until we are incapable of intelligent thought or rationale. The phrase “Fools in love” truly has meaning.
Wednesday night is girl's night; a feminine evening spent in the company of friends procuring pedicures and gossip. But what does it lack? Ah, yes. The chick flick; which was devised as a means to satisfy the desperate craving for romance in a girl and instead leaves her empty handed and half crazed. This is the stereotypical activity that all women must enjoy, and every Wednesday I am forced to balk at my own misfortunes and seriously ponder my love life. Wait! It doesn't exist!
L-O-V-E, the four letter word that we have created for this psychosis, has been hyped up and cut down so many times as to quite leave me in the dark. The whole idea is extremely vexing. What am I to believe? From the pain I've observed in other people as they recover from falling in love, I am seriously considering a support group for those who have what we call 'The Happily Ever After' syndrome.
There is one thing that hopeless romantics everywhere should never neglect to remember: don't let the glitter blind you from all that crap lying around.
Move over Romanza. We're recovering from love and we will take no nonsense from you.

Jossay's Return: Part I

Often in my mind a nagging Thought creeps about. It settles in the folds of my brain and scratches with its claws until I can't ignore it any longer. "Who?" it asks, "Who, is your favorite person?"
By no means would I ever give any regard to this itchy little Thought. I know far too many glorious and wonderful humans to be so biased. However, if that Thought were to re-think itself, and instead ask, "What is your favorite person?" I could make a reply.

Perhaps in order for one to understand this, I must outline a story to further clarify the facts. Unfortunately this particular story will be very vague and will perhaps cloud up the situation even further. I don't find it unsettling however, and neither should you. There is, after all, only one who will truly know.

There is a body outlined in white. It's shaving cream-no- it's chalk. Either way, it looks dead.
We are so very clever. You may even say that we are stupid cool.
I owe you $1.60. We sit in the car and listen; we are completely quiet, still dressed in our concert black.
Somewhere from my left I hear sarcastic snorts. I turn my head. We make eye contact, grimace, and quickly turn away to hide our smiles. Mr. Thompson has something on his lip... or is that big gay Al's idea of a joke? Either way we laugh the same. It rises to its peak and then ebbs slowly away until it dies. By no means is it a graceful laugh, but it is nothing close to a man's.
No bake cookies are no good. They have turned into peanut-butter oatmeal mush. There are a couple mixed up cards, and some phone calls that have provoked anger; and lies that have ensured it.
A 1945 editon of Pride and Prejudice. A precious note scrawled across lined notebook paper.
Everything is set right with a perfectly organized glass cabinet at one o'clock in the morning.
Crepes make a delicious meal. Tea, anyone? Yes, we love old books.
Will you have seconds? Yes. Thirds? Yes. Fourth's? Ye- No!
Oh how we shall always regret...

Perhaps I should thank you.
To be joined at the hip -related by name and not by blood- is indeed an honor.
Pesky little Thought! If you were to ask the question again, I could indeed make a reply.
And it would go something like this:
Jossay forever!

Wit and Wisdom from a reliable source

We have all heard it a million times before. It is etched in our brains. The beauty, the confusion, the controversy; whether we want it or not it will always have a place in our lives. It is universally acknowledged. It is loved worldwide, yet it is hated within each of us when we cannot understand it. When our ideas match those the footnotes spit out however, we emerge shining and triumphant from our labors. Every time one mentions "assasination", or "skim milk", or 1700 other privately coined phrases, suffixes, and prefixes, we acknowledge its influence.

It is Shakespeare; the Great and Immortal Bard of English literature. 154 sonnets, 37 plays, 13 suicides, and countless loves later, we are still puzzling over this man. My conclusion? Genius.
Sheer, undeniable, perfect, absolute, bona fide genius.

While strolling through Shakespeare's works, I have selected my favorite quotes, thoughts, and facts.

In As You Like It: Because of the obscurities of gender and the fact that women were not allowed to act on stage, Rosalind would have been played by a man, playing a woman. In the play Rosalind emerges as a man who pretends to be a woman who pretends to be a man who pretends to be a woman to win the love of a man.

Romeo and Juliet: "Thou small grey coated gnat."
"Beauty starv'd with your severity
Cuts beauty off from all posterity."

Hamlet: "Thou vicious mole of nature!"
"If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry."
"Go, ye giddy goose."

Henry IV: "Thou leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, knot-pated, agatering, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish pouch!"
"You are as rheumatic as two dry toasts."
"Peace, good pintpot, peace, good tickle-brain."

Macbeth: "By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes."

Call me a nerd. But until you learn to appreciate Shakespeare for its gorgeousness, your insults mean nothing to me, you cockered fly-bitten pumpion!

"All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts."

Keena's Kure

I have decided to reveal a startling new trend in modern medicine in which I have recently taken an interest. It is very sparsely known at this point in time, but my connections in the medical field have allowed me an early insight into the situation.
It began with Brooke Greenburg. She is a child frozen in time--though 12 years old, she still has the characteristics of an infant. Through many studies and tests, it has been discovered that little Brooke has an excess amount of DHEA in her system. Although slow growth may not be desirable in a human body, so-called scientist H.W. Keena at Stanford University realized the full potential that the anti-aging hormone, DHEA, could have on society. Through careful analysis and practical problem solving, this ingenious human has developed a monthly DHEA serum to inject in domestic animals. He is calling it, "Keena's Kure."
Now, don't get me wrong. I am not for animal testing, nor would I ever promote an institution that encouraged any morbid practices. This injection is intended specifically for cosmetic purposes. It has little or no side-effect on the creatures (it has only been tested on mammals: felines, canines, and nigripes) though it has been observed that the DHEA has an affect on metabolism and requires more caloric intake on the animal's part, as well as benign red spotting on the soft underbelly.
What does this all mean? I'll tell you. Frou Frou, your precious puppy, will never become a slobbering, smelly, fat, old Catahoula Bulldog, but will rather stay young and sweet forever. Or, more like, as long as you can afford the shots. They're pretty pricey over the black market, running at over $110 per dose.
This dramatic discovery will allow oodles of kittens and baskets of bunnies to stay young and darling for longer.
However, it must be clear that Keena will not turn the world into a perpetual Neverland where puppies and piggies never grow old. Remember, even though Brooke Greenburg looks like a baby, she is still twelve. DHEA will not prolong life, but rather enhance it with the joy and beauty of youth.
Or course, this drug has not been universally accepted in any country excepting Azerbaijan, where the empress has been injecting her pet panda for several months now. Because of certain animal rights activists, this miracle drug cannot be distributed on the market. This is ridiculous, of course, and I believe Terrier-loving Prime Minister Tony Blair should be slapped for his private claims that the injections are inhumane. The British have always been too closed minded when it comes to their dogs.
I for one vouch that as soon as I lay my hands upon a couple of syringes and a bottle of Keena's serum I will take a trip to the local pound and inject as many animals as I can. Their chances of adoption as babies is increased ten-fold. In fact, I have already begun recruiting members to join the Y.A.B.B.A. squad. It is an organization of individuals that will promote Young And Beautiful Babies Always.
Whether you agree with this practice or not, I would dearly love to hear your opinion. If you have any interest in joining Y.A.B.B.A., drop me a line.

Departure of the Small Ones

It has happened at last; I have my room back.
Never before have I missed something so much as the scent of my pillows, or my down comforter--I was so happy to creep into the cool darkness in the wee and twinkling dawn after they left. Gone are the tubs of Benefit product. There will be no more laughing at "Ex's make great speedbumps". No more staying up until 2:00, sleeping in until 11:00, and napping at 3:00. No laughter at dinner. No conversation. No mocha heath ice-cream. The entryway will no longer be flooded with their shoes. They're gone, and with them they have taken that special charm-- that enchanting spell that visiting loved ones always bring.
I have my room back, but I would rather sacrifice my privacy forever than return to how things were before they came.

Dawn of the Diabetics

On this day six years ago my adventure began.

There we sat, surrounded by endless rows of immaculate white T-Shirts. Cambria's feather bed was fluffy and smelled of disuse. She said I looked pale. I told her it was nothing.

I remember that we girls went with Paul and Jaylyn to watch the hot-air balloon launch; I marveled at the blazing colors in the sky, and could almost feel the excited tingling as my feet magically left the ground. We listened to techno music in Kari's car, and I thought maybe this would be enjoyable if I wasn't so thirsty. The best part of the ice-cream was the peaches, and the best part of those was their juice. I only wanted to sit down.
My dad was suspicious. I drank from boiling hot water bottles during the fireworks. An unfortunate local had their bush watered. To the hospital we went. My condition worsened.
I fell in love with my intern. I gave shots to an orange. My mom stayed with me day and night. I felt old, sick, and decrepit. I weighed 57 pounds.
Somebody said to me, "You're going to die?"
I didn't cry. I knew they were ignorant.

I shook up my parents with my shaking. I scarred Koseli's finger. I bumped my head. I went to camp and I hated it; I went back again and hated it still.
I became an expert on islet cells, and insulin, and the form and function of the pancreas. I gave lessons in health class. I taught the firsthand truth.
I discovered I could get out of school easily on any excuse, and that I could use my disease to manipulate and frighten my teachers.
I have a special tool.
For six years my pancreas has not worked. Hooray for implants! Hooray for pumps! And hooray for modern medicine!
As much as I love it, I hope I can rid myself of my power soon.

Born in the USA

The Fourth of July: our nation's most celebrated day. It is a time to enjoy independence, freedom, and liberty with fireworks and delicious food.
Last night I discovered some unexpected ties that I have with America (besides the very obvious ones) and I would just like to briefly outline them. They are amazing. Truly.
It has always been a well known fact that my father is a member of the U.S. Air Force. However, what I did not know is that he is a lieutenant colonel, and in his younger days was chosen selectively out of thousands of applicants by this institution to attend medical school with the entire cost covered. This allowed my parents to stay debt free through all their schooling, as well as a rare opportunity to live in a foreign country. While in Norway, I also found, my dad worked for NATO, and was in charge of all medical care for the air force in that entire country, as well as the Vice President (Walter Mondale) when he came. He has been publicly honored in France, has dined in a palace with war veterans, and has flown all over the world administering aid in a KC-135.
Of course I had to squeeze all of this information out of him drop by drop, and with coaxing and added facts from my informatant... aka Mom.
The next astonishing fact came from my grandfather, who worked at Ft. Detrick in Maryland during WWII as a chemical engineer. That patriotic man is so loyal to his country, that to this day he will not reveal the top secret work that he did during the war. It is a mystery whose nature we can only nit-pick and guess, and from which I have been strictly forbidden to publicly muse.
I suppose this patriotism originates from my great grandfather, who was a prison guard in WWI. He was a given a gun-- with no bullets. While away, his wife and child died from the Spanish Flu epidemic and from his convalescence he was able to meet my great grandmother. His is a romantic tale of heartache, loss, and re-birth. Perhaps I should find out the details before I say any more. I tend to exaggerate my stories greatly.
It is through these family members that I can at last fully appreciate the close bond that I have with our nation's history. It's in my blood... so maybe it's not weird after all that I like politics!

Oh, and by the way, my mom is a Reagan Republican.

Undeniable truths of the week

It's the weekend at last!
From this end up the spectrum, one can look back over the craziness and begin to pull the pieces together. Being able to boast of a particularly interesting week, I find that within the emotions I have discovered several truths. One of these is that no matter how hard you work for something, it never turns out how you hoped. Another is that human beings are naturally jerks, and that if they obtain no personal gain from you, you are worthless to them. The last is that parties are over-rated, always turn out boring, and leave you feeling empty and alone.
I spent all day yesterday cleaning. All day. And the day before that. If I left the room, things would not stay the way I wanted. It was my obsessive compulsive perfectionist Joslynn coming in to play. Therefore I spent a good deal of time guarding the kitchen and growling at anybody who came in. By and by my sister came home from work. "Are you going to put that away?"I would whisper menacingly in her ear. I do believe that my family was sufficiently annoyed with me and were eager to get away.
A dear friend of mine has received phone calls that she did not want. I blame my selfishness and stupidity.
We tried to celebrate the solstice. Summer is here! Endless sunny days, carefree happiness, apparent bliss... I tried to make a pineapple upside down cake. Anyone who tasted it can tell you that I failed. I made popovers that tasted like nothing. Another failure. Even the electricity failed me. No light, no music, nothing to do. It was awful. Tensions were high and I don't think there was a single guest that wanted to be there. A "party" in my dictionary would probably not fit with the definition in Webster's. Last night was a perfect example.
Over this past week, I have discovered that animals do indeed drown in irrigation ditches. I found that I can accomplish more things in one day than I am accustomed to do in a week. I learned the power always goes out at the most inconvenient times. I have found that I indeed cannot cook, that I may never practice for my lessons, and that I can be a completely insensitive brat. I found out that I am less of a man than most people. I have felt a mother's wrath, a sister's love, and a loved one's absence. I have offended, angered, provoked, and saddened. I have grossly and immaturely let someone down. I have passively accepted the will of others with no consideration to my own values. I have said some things that I wish I could take back. I have silenced some thoughts that I wish I could bring forth.
It certainly wan an interesting week.