When the Roomies are Away, the Mere Will...CLEAN!!

Yes that's right...Susie Homemaker has stolen my soul. I spent the whole afternoon cleaning up our common area, kitchen, and my bathroom. I also reorganized our kitchen cabinets so everything is all neat and in its own place. My apartment looks so cute right now, and it makes me really happy.

Which is probably sad.

But I so don't care. Thus is the fabulous life of Meredith Cooper. Perhaps now I will take a bubble bath and read a book :)

Playwriting: A Monologue

Hello?

Hi.

Yeah...it has been a pretty long time...

I've called because...well...I just wanted you to know that I'm getting married. I just needed you to know. And I wanted to say I'm sorry.

Because I still hate you. And I'm sorry. I've tried a thousand times to forgive you, to forgive myself...but no matter how many times I say it in my head. "I forgive you." It won't ever sink in.
I forgive you.
You were my first. Before I knew what I was doing. I was so innocent. I didn't think I was. But I was...I was innocent. And you took my heart...because I gave it willingly...because I didn't know any better. Because you felt safe. Because I trusted you.
I forgive myself.
You're an era that I can't block out. I see you in all sorts of little things. I mean...there's the necklace and the cd with your handwriting...but it's not just those. Those things make sense...but it's...anything that has to do with my life during that year or so. It's my art. It's my car...my clothes...my glasses...vanilla... It's all stained, all tainted.
I forgive you.
I don't have any pictures of us together...actually together. I have one picture of you from the bus...you're frowning at me. I can't remember how I made you frown. I don't know why I made you frown. But it sums up everything.
I forgive myself, too.
And I still hate you. And I'm getting married. He's everything I've always looked for. And I just needed to call you because I needed you to know.
And I'm sorry. Because I still hate you. I still hate you because I still love you.
So much.

The Pathetic Fallacy

This a f t e r n o o n it rained.
I was wearing w h i t e.

My sunroof was cracked.
3 1 1 in S G M
is a long way
from Menlo.
I walked.
T h e
rain
fell.

This has been an interpretive poem by Meredith Cooper.

In a movie or play, stormy weather heightens the emotions of the audience. Being chased by a killer through the woods is scary...but it's more scary when the poor D-cup blonde must fight her way through muddy brambles (see also the "wet clothes" effect invoked) and avoid being struck by lightning. In Shakespeare's King Lear, Act Three takes place in a dramatic thunderstorm where Lear, locked outside, runs around like a crazy person. The literary term for this is "pathetic fallacy." The term I use for this in my own life is, "yeah, that figures." Is it ironic that both today (Monday) and last Monday, I was in a crappy mood AND it was raining?? I think not. To use another rain analogy, in my life, it never rains--it pours. When I have a bad day, it's raining, I destroy the interior of my car, I break a nail, my toilet gets stopped up, my internet won't work, and someone steals all six of my Bibles--including the two on my computer!

I blame the parents.

Of course I didn't think about the weather when I got dressed this morning. All that mattered was wearing something that would be cute and also work for my costume in the scene I was performing for a friend's directing class. My pants were perfect for the scene. They were not perfect, however, for the rain later in the day. I don't think about these things because until college, I woke up every morning to my mom telling me to "wear a coat" or "bring an umbrella."
I don't know how to function in society as a single adult. If I don't get married (or hire one of those in-home nurses), I might die of a freak teeth-whitening accident then have my face eaten by my sixty cats before the police discover my body!!

I don't really think I was meant for the working-woman society. I mean...I sew...and arrange flowers...who does that?? Like Blanche Dubois, I was raised for a society that is slowly dying out. Perhaps I really belong somewhere in the 1950s. Then, my biggest concerns about today's rain would be how to alter dinner plans so I don't have to make a trip to the store. That might take ten minutes of thought before I would go back to knitting booties for the baby on the way and listening to the record player. Of course I wouldn't let it stress me out--wouldn't want to miscarry or anything...

Fast forward to 2006 and now I have to change for my spinning class and brainstorm for the two short essay questions that I need to email to my TA by midnight. No boys, no babies, and no booties.

Music and God's Will

I had a moment of clarity tonight at AGO's worship about how I sing. In recent years, as I learn more about music, I've started playing around with different harmonies, echoes and so forth. So now, when I worship, I rarely sing the melody but make up my own version to compliment what the band is playing. Really, the way I sing sometimes is like dancing around the melody.

And that brought me to God.

I get this mental picture of the throne of God radiating light and a beautiful music. My voice, personified, is dancing around Him in praise. What a cool thought! Because that's really how I'd like to be living my life. If God's will is a rich and wonderful song, then when we are walking with Him, our harmony weaves through His song, dancing beautifully. Can you picture what an amazing song it could be if we all add our unique vocal nuances? (granted, the analogy fails in the sense that God doesn't need us to make His song more full, though He does allow us the opportunity to sing) I just think it's soo cool that God taught me that tonight. So now any time I sing, I can picture my life blending with Christ's.

The Hurt

"Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the governor's headquarters, and they gathered the whole battalion before him. And they stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and twisting together a crown of thorns, they put it on his head and put a reed in his right hand. And kneeling before him, they mocked him, saying, "Hail, King of the Jews!" And they spit on him and took the reed and struck him on the head. And when they had mocked him, they stripped him of the robe and put his own clothes on him and lead him away to crucify him."
Matthew 27:27-31 ESV

Sometimes in life, people stop reading the story right here. Sometimes it feels like this is actually the last verse. Like it's really the end. But it's not.

"Now after the Sabbath, toward the dawn of the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. And for fear of him the guards trembled and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, 'Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here, for he has risen, as he said...'"
Matthew 28:1-6a ESV

The pain of watching Jesus go through such torture is depressing and sickening, at best. But you can't...I mean it--you can't stop there. The story goes on and there is hope and joy.

Sometimes in life the hope and joy aren't quite so radiant like the proclamation of an angel. In the midst of the flogging and the mocking, hope is a vapor and joy merely dust within it. Because pain and disappointment seem to darken everything else around. The hurt is real.

But so is the good.

I wait and hope patiently for my First Love,
knowing full well that there is healing.
Soon I will dance again, laugh again, smile again,
and completely
feel
the fullness
He promises.

Why God Will Always Out-fab Shakespeare

This won't be a new series because it's actually a life theme and hopefully comes out in a lot of my blog posts...

*God brings people into our lives to teach us new things and love us in new ways.
*God lets us have a really crappy night in order to teach us something about ourselves and Him.
*If during the crappy night, all you can do is cry and murmur "why?" over and over, its ok. God is still listening to you.
*When you keep wondering why God won't talk to you, you hear His still small voice saying "stay." That's all...just one word but with that word comes all the reassurance you really need.
*God is practical and won't leave you with just one word but speaks through others' encouragement and love.
*God has made others older and wiser so that we may learn from them.
*God doesn't measure our success in ministry by how much immediate fruit we see, but by whether or not we were faithful with the seeds he gave us to plant.
*If you aren't patient with a puzzle, you will get frustrated and walk away. If everything in your life is a different piece of the puzzle, you must likewise be patient with those things to see how they are going to fit. It's ok to take your time, set pieces down for a while, look at them in a hundred ways and still not know where they are supposed to go.

These were the events of my Saturday night. I felt like such a lame-o for sitting at home when the rest of the world was hanging out with friends and doing all sorts of normal Saturday night activities. But God knew that I needed to spend some time with Him. So He kept me home, which I was pissed about at the time. But in retrospect, I'm glad. Which all points back to my life-theme:

Life sucks sometimes...but God is good.

A New Series!!

So I've decided to begin a new series here on my blog, though in all likelihood I may never get around to posting a follow-up. We will call it...

Why Shakespeare is UberFab :)

This semester, I'm in a Shakespeare class that, at the pace of about a play a week, examines just how cool this cat really is. Today, I will discuss King Lear...because that's the play we're at right now. There are a couple of things that really stood out to me when I read it through the first time that I basically just want to post on here so that I can see if I have any pro-Shakespeare readers. Because I think he's wonderful, and you should too.

The King of France's speech in the play's first scene, praising his wife-to-be, just after she is banished and disinherited by her father for not flattering him:

Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
Be it lawful, I take up what's cast away.
Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect
My love should kindle to inflam'd respect--
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy
Can buy this unpriz'd precious maid of me--
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:
Thou losest here, a better where to find.

Reading stuff like this reminds me why I generally kill my 6.2% feminist.

My other Shakespearian shout-out comes from Act IV, Scene III--nothing personally moving perhaps, but just a beautiful image of fighting back tears.

Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence;
And now and then an ample tear trill'd down
Her delicate cheek: it seem'd she was a queen
Over her passion; who, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o'er her.

And this has been the Cliff's Notes fabulousness of Shakespeare, brought to you by yours truly.

Battling My Inner Feminist

Fact #1: Today I wore the gold shoes to my classes (see previous post).

Fact #2: Uncomfortable shoes make for uncomfortable feet.

So I start thinking (oh geez...not again...) about the feminist idea that fashion trends are a way to keep women oppressed--think Chinese foot-binding, corsetting, etc. Perhaps my shoes are oppressing me! I mean...I definitely can't walk very fast. I'm taking two steps for my usual one (for those of you who've never worn intense heels before, they help with posture because you have to stand up strait, but the downside is that you have to take much shorter steps), and I think I feel a monster of a blister developing on the pads of my feet because of the pressure focused on them. They are keeping me from functioning in life and that can't be good. Then my next question becomes, "Ok Mere, would you rather be physically attractive--yes, I know that fashion has nothing to do with real beauty, but go with me for a second--or useful?" My Inner Feminist instantly responds:

"Useful, of course!"

Then the other 93.8% of me takes a thoughtful pause. Useful? Word associations fly through my brain. Useful, in a physical sense, implies sex toy, cook, cleaning lady, and so on. So if that is my alternative to looking cute in great gold platforms, then I actually do prefer being physically attractive to physically useful. Well...maybe excepting the whole sex toy thing...but that's for a whole other post, my friends ;)

So my hypothesis: fashion is not directly correlated to women's oppression because it doesn't really oppress us. That is to say, we choose physical attractiveness because we are not as much concerned about being useful in a physical sense--we don't care about plowing a field or changing the oil in our cars. And if we do, we won't let the shoes get in the way. That's why we have old grubby tennis shoes...and workboots...and rain golashes...and sort of decent tennis shoes...and...yeah. Point is--women don't let clothing oppress them because we prefer to be considered valuable emotionally and intellectually, not for our brute strength. Plus, the uncomfortable but hot shoes are especially powerful for getting what we want because, let's be honest, using what your mama gave you is often the quickest route to success and power. Of course if you personally accuse me of this, you realize that I'm going to deny all charges...

Feminist Fashion Theory-0
Inner Feminist-0
The Rest of Me-2 (c'mon this was a good one...so I get double points)

I think I'm going to wear the purples shoes tomorrow.



*I just noticed that I'm obsessed with the parenthetical, elliptical, and dash-ical interjections. A gold star goes to whoever can tell me how many times I interrupt myself during my own story. I swear...I've got like eight people running around in my brain....uh...don't tell that to my doctor...

Shoes!!

I just needed to share my joy with the world over the shoes I bought on Sunday :)

The purple pair was only $5!!!

Reminds me of you...

Well every single time I see you I start to feel this way
It makes me wonder if I am ever gonna feel this way again.
There's a picture that's hangin in the back of my head
I see it over and over
I wanna hold you and love you
In my arms and then
I wanna need you
cuz I need to be with you till the end
Then I hear myself reply "You've got to hold it in" this time tonight

If only I had the guts to feel this way,
if only you'd look at me and want to stay,
if only I could take you in my arms and say,
I won't go cuz I need you

Sit here waiting, wondering, hoping that I'll make this right
Cuz all I think about is your hands, your face and all these lonely nights
There's a feeling screaming in the back of my head
Saying it over and over
I wanna hold you and love you
In my arms and then
I wanna need you
cuz I need to be with you till the end
Then I hear myself reply "[He'll] never let you in" this time tonight

If only I had the guts to feel this way,
if only you'd look at me and wanna stay,
f only I could take you in my arms and say,
I won't go cuz I need you
I wanna hear you say it'll always be this way

And we'll be hand in hand for everynight and everyday...

311 Video Report

This is a paper I had to write for one of my theatre classes on a film from the Spanish Golden Age. Like the huge dork I am, the more I worked on the paper, the more stoked I got about the movie I chose--so much so that I actually want to post the paper on here.

I include this here with a very reserved recommendation. While I thought the movie was incredible, there is a great deal of sexual content, so this definitely isn't something I'd recommend to most people I know. But for those of you art weirdos who dig bizzaro stuff like this, it's worth Netflixing (though I don't know if you can get it on DVD). Make sure you look for the 1986 version.

“To Stop Killing is to Stop Living”

The central force driving Diego Montes in Pedro Almodovar’s Matador could be summed up by this infamous line by Montes, a retired matador whose love for bull-fighting and sexual passion overlap in his fetish for killing his lovers during sex. When his mentally disturbed bullfighting student, Angel, turns himself in for several unsolved murders about which he hallucinates, Diego discovers his equal in the woman representing Angel’s case. An avid follower of Diego’s career, Maria, Angel’s lawyer, developed her murder technique, which involves stabbing her victims in the neck with a hairpin, to mimic Diego’s perfect bullfighting form. While the police investigate Angel’s case, Diego and Maria investigate each other, and all parties succeed in discovering the truth. The murders that Angel claimed were not his own, but visions of Diego’s crimes. As police follow Angel’s strange hallucinations to find the disappeared Diego, they come to Maria’s secret home—a shrine to Diego’s career—where the lovers have fled to consummate their passion. The story climaxes as they do. While Diego and Maria peak, the moon comes into full eclipse, and they watch each other die—mutual victims, mutual lovers.

Though released in 1986, Matador is a picturesque Spanish Golden Age production. As its plot dances through the mystery of a duel, a bullfight, and a love scene, Almodovar reveals the strong Spanish ideals that continue to drive present-day society, thus proving that such a mentality is not quite as archaic as one might think.

Even as the opening credits roll, Matador instantly establishes the connection between sex, murder, dance, and a bullfight. The film switches between clips of Diego explaining proper bullfighting technique and a woman, who we later learn is the lawyer Maria, seducing, sleeping with, and then slaying her lover, a terrible but beautiful “Dance of Death.” To a flamenco underscore, Diego and Maria perform nearly identical steps, building up to the moment where both victims, man and bull, die from a perfectly placed stab in the back of the neck. Maria’s obsession with Diego, fueled by the way his performances both arouse and inspire her, develops into her own style of bullfighting. The lovers even mimic a bullfight with each other, including horns and cape, as a part of their foreplay in the final scene. Like Spanish Golden Age theatre, sexuality permeates the piece in a way that challenges the boundaries of social acceptability. Though the Golden Age Spanish did not include full sex scenes in their plays, bringing out a blood soaked woman in nothing but a nightgown in Love After Death, was equally raunchy for the time. Besides blatant sexuality, Matador also includes strong innuendos. For example, Diego is well known for making amazing sausages, which he holds during the scene in which he initially sees Maria, then offers to her during their first meeting. Along with sex, Almodovar does not shy away from gore and violence, another strikingly Spanish element. Angel’s disturbing visions are filled with slaughter and dead bodies. While the violence and sexuality portrayed are initially shocking, the erotic undertone to the scenes makes them both repulsive and compelling. Like the Golden Age audience, a modern viewer is inappropriately turned on by the same material that he knows should be offensive.

As a balance to the passion and sexuality, Almodovar, like his theatrical ancestors, builds the story upon the foundational ideals of honor and the Catholic faith. While nearly all of the characters profess to be religious, only a few, like Angel’s mother, follow Catholicism closely. When pressed, most consider honor and passion to be more important than following all of the rules—better to live now and repent later. Also like multi-cultural Spain, this community adopts superstitions from traditions outside the church, like the idea that an eclipse portends danger. Especially for the central lovers, though, honor trumps religion. For instance, Maria, a traditional dama character type, holds such power through her intelligence and strength that the media considers her a “cold-blooded feminist,” and Angel’s mother accuses her of being an atheist. Like a Golden Age Spaniard, she prefers to die in the peak of glory than to be dishonored. In a way, Maria’s reputation as a lawyer and the secret pleasure she gets as a sexual matador constitute her honor, so as a way of preserving it, she prefers dying while taking her prize bull over being discovered for her crimes. For Montes, the same holds true. As he begins to understand that he will soon be charged for Angel’s alleged murders, Diego craves a dramatic, blazing finale. From their perspective, the lovers die well. Moreover, Diego’s dishonoring Angel by questioning his sexuality ignites the main action of the play. In a desperate response to prove himself a man, Angel tries to rape Diego’s girlfriend, Eva, in a darkly comical scene where he threatens her with a pocket knife. After several failed attempts to locate which part of the device is the actual knife, Angel ejaculates prematurely between her legs, a comically pathetic moment in an otherwise dramatic scene. Such Spanish blending of comedic elements into a tragedy helps balance the intensity of the subject matter.

Lastly, Matador includes the classic Don Juan archetype in both the characters of Diego and Angel, and to a strong degree in Maria. Diego Montes, however, exemplifies the most pure version of Don Juan as a famous, retired matador, who achieves greatness in all his ventures. Still as suave as ever, fans adore Montes. He succeeds as a bullfighting instructor and sausage maker, an obvious innuendo suggesting his sexual prowess, which is further confirmed by his utterly addicted girlfriend, the famous model Eva Soler. Like Tirso de Molina’s Don Juan, Diego seduces many women to the point that they recklessly submit to him. However, to more strongly shock his audiences, Almodovar allows Diego’s women to surrender more than just their sexual purity. In writing the story thus, Almodovar modifies the classic Spanish concept in order to test the boundaries of social toleration in the same way that parallel subjects would challenge Golden Age viewers. To further qualify Diego’s status, Almodovar uses Angel as a foil. As a “wannabe” Don Juan, Angel definitely has the sexual appeal, evidenced in how the psychiatric nurses are seduced by his charms despite the fact that he is rumored to be a serial murderer. Like Don Juan, they know his reputation, but fall for him anyway. However, unlike the teacher he idolizes, Angel’s weak stomach at the sight of blood undermines his masculinity. Arguably, Maria surpasses Angel in this, and though a woman, proves a powerful Don Juan herself. Clearly equal to Montes in seduction and murder, Maria even confronts Diego while using the men’s restroom and seems to take the lead in their double suicide. Bringing Montes into her chosen location and actually executing both suicides, she exemplifies a commanding Don Juan.

Still, comparisons of Almodovar’s classic could fill pages more. The “aggressively different” style defines classic “Spanish-ness” as it continues to pertain today. Forget Shakespeare, the Spanish have a truer grasp on romance. With lines like, “I’ve looked for you in all the men I’ve loved,” and “Nobody has ever kissed me like this—before now I’ve always made love alone,” viewers could only hope to find a love so intense. The lovers’ passion and eroticism nearly glorify their heinous crimes, solidifying this film within the ranks of Golden Age greats from centuries ago.

For the Ones Who'll Never Know

Did I disappoint you or let you down?
Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown?
'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun,
Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won.
So I took what's mine by eternal right.
Took your soul out into the night.
It may be over but it won't stop there,
I am here for you if you'd only care.
You touched my heart you touched my soul.
You changed my life and all my goals.
And love is blind and that I knew when,
My heart was blinded by you.
I've kissed your lips and held your head.
Shared your dreams and shared your bed.
I know you well, I know your smell.
I've been addicted to you.

Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.

I am a dreamer but when I wake,
You can't break my spirit - it's my dreams you take.
And as you move on, remember me,
Remember us and all we used to be
I've seen you cry, I've seen you smile.
I've watched you sleeping for a while.
I'd be the father of your child.
I'd spend a lifetime with you.
I know your fears and you know mine.
We've had our doubts but now we're fine,
And I love you, I swear that's true.
I cannot live without you.

Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.

And I still hold your hand in mine.
In mine when I'm asleep.
And I will bear my soul in time,
When I'm kneeling at your feet.
Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.
I'm so hollow, baby, I'm so hollow.
I'm so, I'm so, I'm so hollow.

James Blunt

Because I'm on a roll...

I figured I'd go ahead and round out my posts for the day to three with some last minute thoughts:

*My daddy sent me beautiful flowers today because he is my Valentine. They are wonderful--no carnations or ugly greenery, with statice and wax flower as fillers, purple and red color scheme. My slightly snobby floral design side is greatly pleased :)

*Read a fabulous snippet of journalism this morning in an article about whether or not Shakespeare wrote his plays: "Of the man from Stratford we have only a sheaf of facts slimmer than a Gospel redacted by athiests." Fabulous analogy.

*My phone meowed during my discussion section today. Everyone looked confused then stared at me awkwardly.

*I finished class at 2. It's now five and all I've done is played on my computer. Perhaps I shall start on my homework. Although a nap sounds good...

A cool passage from 2 Samuel

But when David saw that his servants were whispering together, David understood that the child was dead. And David said to his servants, "Is the child dead?" They said, "He is dead." Then David arose from the earth and washed and anointed himself and changed his clothes. And he went into the house of the Lord and worshiped. He then went to his own house. And when he asked, they set food before him, and he ate.
Then his servants said to him, "What is this thing that you have done? You fasted and wept for the child while he was alive; but when the child died, you arose and ate food."
He said, "While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept, for I said, 'Who knows whether the Lord will be gracious to me, that the child may live?'
But now he is dead. Why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he will not return to me."
II Samuel 12:19-23 ESV

An interesting perspective on death. It's amazing to see how David has peace about God's decision, and it makes me reflect back on how I feel when bad things happen to me. Is my first reaction like David's, to clean up and go worship God? Probably not. But the truth still stands: no matter how bad life gets, there is always joy in Christ and reason to praise Him.

My whole body aches...

...and no it has nothing to do with nights out in the barn with Pepe el Romano (shout out for that one goes to anyone who remembers Bernarda Alba--man I miss you guys).

It's Tuesday and I'm still feeling the effects of my weekend in my legs, back, and arms. Plus, my legs are all cut up and there's a tear in my nose piercing. And I feel absolutely fabulous.

I'll explain: for my birthday, my parents helped me pay for a weekend trip with the Quest to Mammoth to go skiing. It's been two years since I skied last, and it was totally killing me--I missed it so much! So on day one (Friday), Derek arrived at my house at 4:45 am to pick me up, then we headed over to Kimmie's to get her and Lauren. We rode up the five hours in his parent's minivan with the girls taking a row each in the back and Derek and I took the mom and dad seats up front. I felt especially maternal when we stopped for breakfast and I woke up the girls, who wanted to know if we were there yet. When we finally arrive, Kimmie and Derek did a half-day while Lauren and I had some great chat time in the village.

Injury Number One strikes the first evening, pre-mountain time. A group of us is sitting in the hot tub when Niko dares me to climb the metal fence next to us. In a moment of sheer brilliance, I reply, "I'll do it if you do it." So when he agrees, my pride won't let me go back on my words and the two of us climb on top of the railing, count to three, and jump. Mind you, I'm in my bathing suit right now, so it's very cold. His exact words were something about "face-planting" in the snow bank, but instead of attempting a full-on belly flop, I opt to pounce on my hands and knees, not at all worried about the fall (but rather the cold) because I assume the snow will give a little. It doesn't. By now, I'm shaking because it's freezing, but I manage to stand up and try to get down the fence. That's when I look down at my legs and realize there is blood all over them. Uh...awkward... For the first 30 minutes or so the pain is numbed by my pride and the amusement I feel in doing something stupid at the risk of my body's safety. For whatever reason, I kind of like the part of me that rashly and passionately attempts things without thinking them through. Kind of like Peter who jumps out of the boat to walk on the water to Jesus (when passion works in my favor) or draws his sword to cut off the ear of the guys trying to arrest Jesus (when passion makes me do something stupid on a whim--see also the teeth whitening and Nair incidents). But I digress...my second injury for the weekend comes a couple of hours later. Kimmie, Lauren and I have a room together in one of the condos where we share a king-sized bed. Around the time we are ready to go to sleep, Jared, Bryan, and Mike show up and want to come hang out. Somehow amidst all the talking, we get into a wrestling match (this happens to me much more often that you'd think) in which I lose my glasses. Just after I'm deprived of all sense of vision, my nose ring snags on something and Kimmie and I go tumbling into a heap on the floor. As I lie there partially winded, I ask if my nose is bleeding. It was...and not in the traditional I-got-punched-hard kind of way, but instead I've got USC cardinal dripping from the tiny diamond look-a-like. Not cool. Luckily it was only a small tear, which after rinsing by putting my face under the faucet, finally clotted and is now on it's way to healing. These events pretty much sum up my pre-mountain time on Friday.

On to day two...driving up to the mountain, I was almost in tears of joy and excitement. I got my skis and headed up with Derek, Bryan and Mike. Mike, who has been skiing with his instructor/father since he was five, gave me some tips on perfecting my form. By the end of the day, I was markedly better and VERY sore/exhausted. Kimmie joined us in the afternoon, but we lost Derek to the ski patrol on the last run of the day. No...he wasn't injured...but he had to fill out a report about the poor girl he bashed in the back, full-speed. To his credit, she cut right in front of him at the last second, and there was no way for him to avoid a collision except to yell, "Watch out!" after it was already too late. She ended up ok, though, and we finally got to the car to head home. The evening was filled with great conversations and worship time with the rest of the group. I probably hit my bed around 2.

Day three started a little slower. I already had a full day pass for Sunday, but no one in my group was going in the morning. No need to waste a good day of skiing, I headed out on my own (hope Mom and Dad aren't reading this). With my iPod as company, I attacked the mountain good and hard. Really hard, actually. I didn't really pay attention to the map, but just followed trails and lifts that looked fun. So I get around to lift 9, which if you know Mammoth you will notice as foreshadowing what comes next, and as I'm riding up, I look down at the runs below me. I see trees. And if you know me, you know that there's nothing I love more than cruising the tree line. I plan to take that run, and at the top, I turn left, disregarding the Experts Only sign, thinking, I'm good at trees...this won't be too bad. Well it wasn't...once I got down to the actual trees. The first part, however, was miserable--super steep with intense moguls. To really do the run properly required great form (read: holding self in a wall-sit position, sans the wall), which nearly killed my already dead legs. After finally making it down--without crying, by the way--I opted to chose a different lift and moved to slopes that were more my size. Lunch came and went, then Mike and Bryan called to meet up with me. We cruised the gondola for a run at the peak, which Mike promised would be easier for me than I expected it to be. Really, he was right about it being easy for me...it didn't turn out quite so easy for him though. He went ahead of me to coach me down and I started wide turns. It sort of went like this:
"Mike there's no way I can do this. I'm getting freaked out."
"Meredith. You can do this. You're fine."
Mere makes a turn, loses control, loses confidence, and keels over on her side.
"It's really steep, Mike. I've lost all confidence."
"You can do this!"
Mere makes another turn, keeps slight control, coasts way-the-hell across the mountain, tries for another turn, same thing.
"Ok, Meredith, make another turn and come down to where I'm standing."
And this is where the story gets fun...I'm turning and speeding up, so I cut parallel to the mountain, again planning to coast as long as it takes to slow me down. Thinking I'll cut right above Mike, I head his direction, only what I don't realize is that I'm sliding downward much more than it seems, which sets me on a bee-line strait into Mike.
"You're ok Meredith. I got you."
But he didn't. I guess technically I got him. I slid pretty fast into him and took out his legs. We were a mass of skis, poles, legs, and perfectly shaped eyebrows. I half expected to pick up snow and roll all the way to the bottom of the mountain as a massive snowball like they always do in cartoons. No such luck. We did manage to skid about thirty feet or so and I lost a ski and a pole. A nice man picked up my pole to bring it down to me. Then his ten year old daughter came down with my ski. Awkward. The rest of the way down went fine. Mike opted to go all the way to the bottom so I wouldn't hit him again. So I guess this means I'm a fairly competent skier...just not so good with obstacles... We finished up the day with some more blue/blacks and I did a great black mogul run and found that I actually kind of like them. After the lifts closed, we maneuvered back to the Lodge where my final mountain moment involved the wind over-drying my contacts so much that they shriveled almost to clover shape and I had to ditch them. Half blind, we gondola-ed back to the village where I soothed my sad self with Starbucks.

Thus ends our adventures up at Mammoth. Expensive but well worth it. Arguably the best birthday ever.

19 + 1

Holy geez I'm old!!!

Another Nugget from 311

Today's quote from my Theatre 311 class comes to us from a 17th century lady, Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz, spoken about her choice to join a monastery:

"A single woman is like a white wall on which everybody wants to smear a mark."

um....ok??

Thank you Los Angeles culture. Thank you Paul Backer. And thank you Pessimism.

A Better Day

Woke up on time.
Spent some time in prayer.
Read from the book of Joshua.
Made coffee.
Checked email.
Still left for class on time.

It's the little things.

I have completely lost my mind.

Meredith's press rep refused to confirm or deny the charges and declined to make any further comments.

What happens when Mere gets bored on a Thursday night...

I'm calling this "The Camera Adds Ten Pounds" and I dedicate it to my sister who always discovers something different in artwork.