I like things that are bad. Bad movies, bad books, bad television. I like it. I love it, even. And I'm sick of feeling like everything I like is a guilty pleasure. This is entertainment, after all — isn't it supposed to be pleasurable?
There seems to be some idea that unless it's hard, some great story of human suffering and triumph, that being invested in the story, caring about the characters, isn't worth it.
I would like to make a case for the happy ending. What's wrong with taking a little fantasy in the possibility of all the issues neatly resolving and loose ends being tied, everyone going home happy? Real life never works out like that, but we're all aware that fiction isn't real, and there are certain rules that just don't have to apply.
This is why I like romance novels. I was raised on Harlequin romances. If I'm feeling stressed or sad or just bothered by the rather depressing state of the world, I turn to these. Why? Because there is no question that everything will turn out all right. Nobody you care about will be killed, someone will always come to the rescue of the heroine, and at the end, we'll all ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. I know that this is not a realistic outcome, but it's reliable.
This realization came to me back when I was in college and trying to decide where to do my internship. My two options were Elsevier, the powerhouse of medical publishers, where I would work on anatomy textbooks and nursing manuals, or Harlequin. I ended up going to Elsevier, but I said to the director of the program when she presented me with the options, "I'm more inclined to take the medical... but there's something to be said for happy endings..." This was two weeks after my mother died. I probably should have taken Harlequin. How different my life would be.
Or Twilight. Yeah, I read the books, and I liked them. I enjoy the movies because they are soooo terrible and campy (minus the street cred of being campy). No, the characters are not realistic and the whole thing is ridiculous, but hey, we're dealing with vampire stories here, it's not based in reality. It's a long saga of characters who have no real purpose or motivation except to be in love with each other. Yeah, that's kinda dumb. I get it. But it's crafted well enough that you can let yourself be engaged by the fantasy and not look too deeply for realism. It's escapism. It's not meant to be deep.
I realize that there are plenty of things that would qualify as escapism that are not necessarily as bad as Twilight or Harlequin romances, or True Blood, or Glee, or 17 Again (to name a few things that I love that I'm aware are bad), but I like that these things are at least honest about it. I don't want to fear that bad things will happen.
I guess this all stems from accidentally reading a book that I should never have read. I'd already read and enjoyed a book by the same author, and figured it would be an interesting book, so I checked it out from the library. And I was reading it on the subway and got to one part that horrified me to the point that I'd felt like all the blood had drained out of my body and was sitting in a puddle there on the ground. That book, that one scene, ruined me for reading serious books. I've tried a couple of times since then, but never been able to let my guard down enough to enjoy the story, just waiting for something atrocious to happen. I even tried to finish that book. It sat on my table for a while, taunting me. Eventually I took it back to the library because the very aura of it being in my apartment bothered me. It's something I need to get over. I never used to be so sensitive, but now I need an erase function on my brain.
And so, in defense of happy endings, I say that it's okay for everything to turn out all right once in awhile, and there's nothing wrong with enjoying that as a break from real life.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
On things I forget
So I was watching Say Yes to the Dress today (yeah, I know. Stay tuned for my post on things that I know are bad but love anyway). There was a girl on it who had thyroid cancer, and the mother was so emotional, going on that she almost died or whatever. And the girl had pretty much the same story as me. The inconclusive first surgery, the second the get the rest... They didn't mention the radiation, but I'd imagine she had it because it's standard treatment (although current studies suggest it might not be necessary for a lot of cancers, though mine would still qualify).
It made me start thinking. Maybe it's just because it was so long ago (7 years since the second surgery, to be exact, although my cancer's special and I won't get the all-clear until 10 years), but I don't remember anyone crying about it. I don't remember people being upset. Maybe my parents were... I'm sure my mother would have been, though not in the jump-in-the-car-to-see-me kind of way (mind you, I was a seven hour drive away). I remember calling home after I got the news that it was cancer. I was in the parking lot outside the surgeon's office (my excellent surgeon, I still get compliments on my scar), with my boyfriend at the time. My dad picked up. I told him, in this matter-of-fact told-you-so sort of way. Maybe he was just in shock, maybe it was because I was so blase about the whole thing, but there was no strong reaction that I remember. No tears. Not even from me.
It's at the point now where I don't think about it. Maybe I even forget about it sometimes. I've never thought of myself as a cancer survivor. I was most impressed with myself for only missing two weeks of school for the whole ordeal. Working where I do, I keep informed on the literature. It's at the point now where I can pick up an endocrinology or oncology textbook and read the chapter on thyroid cancer and not learn anything new. But I spend a lot of time reading medical textbooks, so there are few conditions that are old news to me every time.
I guess the most emotional moment I had in the whole thing was driving myself to the hospital for the first surgery. I was nervous, more about the surgery than the cancer, and I managed to hit another car as I was parking. I left a note saying something to the effect of "I'm sorry, I hit your car. I'm having surgery for cancer today and I'm really nervous about it." I don't remember if I left a phone number on the note, but I'm sure they could have taken my license plate and tracked me down, but they never did. I remember smoking before going for the surgery, looking at my hand shake, contemplating the irony.
I'm not sure what the point of this post was. Probably something to do with spending my life waiting for the big reaction and never getting it. I don't know. File this post under "musing."
It made me start thinking. Maybe it's just because it was so long ago (7 years since the second surgery, to be exact, although my cancer's special and I won't get the all-clear until 10 years), but I don't remember anyone crying about it. I don't remember people being upset. Maybe my parents were... I'm sure my mother would have been, though not in the jump-in-the-car-to-see-me kind of way (mind you, I was a seven hour drive away). I remember calling home after I got the news that it was cancer. I was in the parking lot outside the surgeon's office (my excellent surgeon, I still get compliments on my scar), with my boyfriend at the time. My dad picked up. I told him, in this matter-of-fact told-you-so sort of way. Maybe he was just in shock, maybe it was because I was so blase about the whole thing, but there was no strong reaction that I remember. No tears. Not even from me.
It's at the point now where I don't think about it. Maybe I even forget about it sometimes. I've never thought of myself as a cancer survivor. I was most impressed with myself for only missing two weeks of school for the whole ordeal. Working where I do, I keep informed on the literature. It's at the point now where I can pick up an endocrinology or oncology textbook and read the chapter on thyroid cancer and not learn anything new. But I spend a lot of time reading medical textbooks, so there are few conditions that are old news to me every time.
I guess the most emotional moment I had in the whole thing was driving myself to the hospital for the first surgery. I was nervous, more about the surgery than the cancer, and I managed to hit another car as I was parking. I left a note saying something to the effect of "I'm sorry, I hit your car. I'm having surgery for cancer today and I'm really nervous about it." I don't remember if I left a phone number on the note, but I'm sure they could have taken my license plate and tracked me down, but they never did. I remember smoking before going for the surgery, looking at my hand shake, contemplating the irony.
I'm not sure what the point of this post was. Probably something to do with spending my life waiting for the big reaction and never getting it. I don't know. File this post under "musing."
Thursday, May 20, 2010
summer
Summer brings about some strange things. For example, the compulsion to create things like this, which might be the most disgusting thing I've ever seen.
We all know that frappaccinos and their friends are bad times for health but good times for summer drinking. As an alternative, I like to get an iced Americano, pour off (or drink) some, and then top it up with whole milk and some of the vanilla stuff that Starbucks has on hand in salt shakers. It's not quite a frappaccino, but it's a cold and tasty drink that hits the spot on a hot day.
There are many things I love about summer. Being hot. Really, the sheer sensation of heat, feeling the waves of it come from car exhaust, radiating off the sidewalks, the crispy feeling my skin takes on sitting out in the sun, sweaty car (that sauna feeling when your car's been sitting in the sun and you have to get in it)... sweaty car relief (when you get in and roll down the windows and crank the A/C even though it's inefficient), just being hot. And I love beaches, and being outside, and swimming, and flowers. Barbecued meat. Popsicles. Sundresses. Certain brands of sunscreen. Wedge sandals. Long days and evenings that go on forever. Cottages. My island. Fish. The smell of mosquito fog.
I would like to submit one complaint about summer. Where were the smokers hibernating? They all come out in droves at the first sign of warm weather. Something about a heady breath of tobacco as I walk past a smoker makes me crave those carefree days when I knew that smoking was some form of slow suicide but chose not to care. Tobacco smells of freedom and death, and it's delicious. I have no desire to smoke again, but those early-summer breathfuls of nicotine wear on my resolve.
We all know that frappaccinos and their friends are bad times for health but good times for summer drinking. As an alternative, I like to get an iced Americano, pour off (or drink) some, and then top it up with whole milk and some of the vanilla stuff that Starbucks has on hand in salt shakers. It's not quite a frappaccino, but it's a cold and tasty drink that hits the spot on a hot day.
There are many things I love about summer. Being hot. Really, the sheer sensation of heat, feeling the waves of it come from car exhaust, radiating off the sidewalks, the crispy feeling my skin takes on sitting out in the sun, sweaty car (that sauna feeling when your car's been sitting in the sun and you have to get in it)... sweaty car relief (when you get in and roll down the windows and crank the A/C even though it's inefficient), just being hot. And I love beaches, and being outside, and swimming, and flowers. Barbecued meat. Popsicles. Sundresses. Certain brands of sunscreen. Wedge sandals. Long days and evenings that go on forever. Cottages. My island. Fish. The smell of mosquito fog.
I would like to submit one complaint about summer. Where were the smokers hibernating? They all come out in droves at the first sign of warm weather. Something about a heady breath of tobacco as I walk past a smoker makes me crave those carefree days when I knew that smoking was some form of slow suicide but chose not to care. Tobacco smells of freedom and death, and it's delicious. I have no desire to smoke again, but those early-summer breathfuls of nicotine wear on my resolve.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Whistling
I think this blog will be a testament to all the things that I find particularly bothersome, annoying, or to which I have a neurotic aversion. One of the things I most enjoy doing is complaining. It's something that I can't really explain - why does it make me happy to point out things I don't like? The truth is that I have a thing for having my pet peeves and irritants known, without any expectation or hope that any action will be taken to remedy the situation. It's probably driven by the same compulsion that drives me to take surveys and answer questionnaires whenever possible, to fill out all the comment cards and participate in market research studies. It's just something I like to do.
Which brings me to this blog. It will probably be a long string of complaints, with (I hope) the odd witty comment or musing thrown in for variety. If you're not into that, look elsewhere for reading material.
Today's complaint revolves around whistling. This is perhaps the best known of my neurotic aversions. It's not just a dislike; the sound of whistling actually makes my skin crawl. It's just so annoying. It's not even a real sound. Why anyone would take enjoyment from creating or listening to the sound that old, environmentally unfriendly windows or poorly-spaced teeth make is beyond me.
And people seem to accept it as a form of music. And one that can be reproduced anywhere. When you see people singing on the subway, a far more valid form of music, you probably give them a strange look. If they're whistling, people tend to let that go, especially if it's some grandfatherly old man or smart-ass kid. Personally, if someone is whistling on the subway, I will get off and wait for the next train.
On the other hand, I was on the streetcar last week with a girl who was unabashedly singing, and I thought it was actually pretty cool. Of course, she was singing a song I like by one of my favourite bands (Little Hands by Mother Mother), so that may have influenced my opinion on the incident, but I'm inclined to say that random girl singing along with her iPod is far superior to weird old guy whistling.
Which brings me to this blog. It will probably be a long string of complaints, with (I hope) the odd witty comment or musing thrown in for variety. If you're not into that, look elsewhere for reading material.
Today's complaint revolves around whistling. This is perhaps the best known of my neurotic aversions. It's not just a dislike; the sound of whistling actually makes my skin crawl. It's just so annoying. It's not even a real sound. Why anyone would take enjoyment from creating or listening to the sound that old, environmentally unfriendly windows or poorly-spaced teeth make is beyond me.
And people seem to accept it as a form of music. And one that can be reproduced anywhere. When you see people singing on the subway, a far more valid form of music, you probably give them a strange look. If they're whistling, people tend to let that go, especially if it's some grandfatherly old man or smart-ass kid. Personally, if someone is whistling on the subway, I will get off and wait for the next train.
On the other hand, I was on the streetcar last week with a girl who was unabashedly singing, and I thought it was actually pretty cool. Of course, she was singing a song I like by one of my favourite bands (Little Hands by Mother Mother), so that may have influenced my opinion on the incident, but I'm inclined to say that random girl singing along with her iPod is far superior to weird old guy whistling.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
changes
Just what I need - another blog. between Twitter, Livejournal, and the odd musing on Facebook, clearly what I need is another venue for expressing myself.
I think what brought me here today is the fact that it's Mothers' Day. And while this is the third one that I've experienced without my mother, it's the first one where I haven't been at work all day, and it comes at a time where I feel like a ridiculous amount of change has happened. It's only been a little over three years, but it's astounding how much has happened... the number of relationships, jobs, experiences... Even just the number of places I've lived.
Sometimes I think about the person I was when she died, and I wonder if she'd even recognize me. I occasionally work with an old friend of my mother's. I saw her yesterday, and she told me I look more beautiful every time she sees me. Maybe I'm happier... thinner, for sure. Beyond that... I like to think that she'd be pleased with what I've done with myself. Even though I'm not always 100% happy with how things turn out, for now things are good.
But there are a lot of things I'd really like to ask her. Y'know, that motherly advice stuff. It feels silly. I'm an adult, I should know these things by now. But life's a constant stream of things you didn't see coming. Like dating a guy with kids. Or how to figure out what I want to do with my career. I guess that feeling never goes away.
I think what brought me here today is the fact that it's Mothers' Day. And while this is the third one that I've experienced without my mother, it's the first one where I haven't been at work all day, and it comes at a time where I feel like a ridiculous amount of change has happened. It's only been a little over three years, but it's astounding how much has happened... the number of relationships, jobs, experiences... Even just the number of places I've lived.
Sometimes I think about the person I was when she died, and I wonder if she'd even recognize me. I occasionally work with an old friend of my mother's. I saw her yesterday, and she told me I look more beautiful every time she sees me. Maybe I'm happier... thinner, for sure. Beyond that... I like to think that she'd be pleased with what I've done with myself. Even though I'm not always 100% happy with how things turn out, for now things are good.
But there are a lot of things I'd really like to ask her. Y'know, that motherly advice stuff. It feels silly. I'm an adult, I should know these things by now. But life's a constant stream of things you didn't see coming. Like dating a guy with kids. Or how to figure out what I want to do with my career. I guess that feeling never goes away.
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