Catchphrase

Have you ever met someone who uses one really big word, and uses it over and over again, in a sort of sad attempt to convince you that they are smarter that they really are?

The new quarter starts today, so this week is the meet-and-greet, here’s your syllabus week. One of my (lit) professors had the unfortunate habit of using the word “adjudicate”. I’m always happy when my teachers use big words, but this was a bit excessive. She used it at least 5 times within an hour period and I’m fairly certain that she used it wrong at least once.

I get very annoyed at people like this.

In my history/debate class in high school (I’ll explain that in a later blog post (maybe)), you would always run across student who had that one word and would run it into the ground. “Collaborate”. “Integral”. “Interdisciplinary”. Words that don’t really add anything to what they’re saying, but sound really good in combination.

I have a big vocabulary. I read voraciously as a child, and I still do today. These big words slipped into my every day speech. “Pulchritude”. “Infinitesimal.” “Voracious”. To many people, I am “the walking dictionary”. So in a way, I’m as bad as those “catchphrase” people.

But unlike them, I tend to make ALL of my words concise and meaningful. I like to believe that using precisely the right word enhances my speech, instead of detracts from it.

Or maybe I’m just a pretentious word snob, like all the rest of them. I guess you can be the judge.

We Are A Hurricane: An Update On Life After Spring Break

Today marks the last of a glorious twelve-day reprieve from life as we know it. Jenna and I barely made it out of Finals alive, and before we take a second breath we plunge into another term tomorrow morning.

I don’t know about Jenna, but I consider this past week the last of my sanity. I’m registered for 25 units next quarter: 15 units of upper-division English courses; 4 units of a teaching internship *giddy squeal of excitement*; and 6 units of choir. I have so much class that there's a twenty-minutes span every Tuesday in which I'm scheduled to be in three different places at once. Insert Psycho Violin Screech and Wilhelm Scream for added effect.

We’ll see if I make it through Week 1 without dropping a class…or five.

This past week was filled with this season’s Supernatural and the obligatory family/friend/co-worker reunion extravaganzas. Everyone’s just as I left them and it’s a little startling how quickly we resume the regularly scheduled programming of our lives pre-college-exodus.

There was that the 12-hour span in which I worked out the kinks with the Ex, Mr. D1, and Mr. C. Can I take a moment to give props to myself for taking all three out in one fell stroke? Actually, let’s not; it was terribly exhausting and resulted in so much emotional trauma that I ended up with tonsillitis. Yeah, no, you heard me right.  I’m just weird that way. 

Regardless, things are said and done with the two former, and alive and well (I hope?) with the latter. We’ll see what kind of surprises I’ll find in my goodie bag this quarter.

Also, I asked my stepfather to adopt me. No biggie.

As for Jennalove, we enjoyed a lovely morning donning beautiful dresses and having pictures taken of us like the stars we are, damn it. We’ve only gotten to see a few (two of them are posted in the “About” section, if you’re curious about the faces behind the masks) but we’re (read: I) excited (read:anxious/eager/impatientlydyinginside) to see the rest of them. We also enjoyed a lovely dinner with Mr. S and Mr. T (two of my best friends from high school) followed by Jeopardy, Super Smash Bros. Brawl, and cuddling.

We are such cultured, young adults. We deserve a fucking medal for our ever-present displays of maturity.

Long story short: I return to school tonight, and between this week's panic attacks concerning surviving this quarter, grad school plans, my adoption, the boys, and what I'm going to eat for breakfast, I've decided that no matter what happens, I'll be okay. I'm no longer afraid of making mistakes; just missing opportunities*

Bring it on, Spring Quarter. I'm ready for everything you've got.

*Excluding opportunities brought on by too much tequila, especially those resulting in things like a Snooki tattoo on my shoulder or waking up in bed with a tranny hooker. I'll be okay to miss out on shit like that.

The Winter Concert: Mission Statement

I realized I hadn’t really explained what was going on in “The Winter Concert” posts. So here goes:

I’ve sung in various choirs my entire life. We’re talking since the primetime of chubby-tomboy-with-frizzy-hair-mess Claire, who moved to a new elementary school and had no friends, so she sang in the choir during lunch on Wednesdays to give herself something to do.

Now back in those days, and even throughout middle school, there weren't many boys in choir. But as we all grew older and entered high school, the boys realized that the ratio of Cute-Girl-Who-Sings-Pretty-And-Will-Be-Nice-To-You to Awkward-Boy-Who-Sings-In-His-Spare-Time (probably somewhere around 47:1) in a choir room gives a guy a pretty good shot at finding a girl to ask out who won't give them a blank stare in response.

As the boys are coming to that realization, the girls start developing breasts and a hormonal desire to mate for life. And all that makes one dangerous combination.

Which brings you to here and now, where I sing in multiple choirs at school and find much of my spare time worrying over the explicit and implicit interactions I share with the boys in the choir room. Especially in the Chorale, where you're guaranteed to find one with a face-melting voice who looks killer in a tux.

So yes, I might be a Choir Ho. Actually, let’s say a Choir Tease. Actually, let’s say I’be being teased? Oh I don’t know anymore. I’ll make you a chart or something to explain later.

The Winter Concert: 6:30-7:00 PM

6:30 PM-7:00 PM: Mr. C pulls his hand out of mine as we come in sight of the concert hall.  Cue my cringe at the standard protocol I've helped create.  As of now, we've kept everything extremely hush-hush.  You know, the kind where only your closest dozen-and-a-half friends (which becomes everyone else in the room faster than you can fall out of a chair) know and just proceed to not talk about in front of you two.

We walk into the choir room and join the rest of the University Chorus.  Mr. D1 is dancing at the front of the room besides the piano to The Accompanist's jazzy tune.  I walk ahead of Mr. C and join in, only swaying back and forth because my hands are full with my music and a jacket.  Mr. D1 takes one look at me and pulls my belongings out of my hands, sets them down on the piano, and offers his hand.  I take it and we begin dancing.

You have to understand: the last guy I danced with I dated for two years; the guy before that I fell in unrequited love with for over six months (He was British, give me a break).  I have somehow gone on considering dancing with someone as the equivalent of getting a promise ring.  Actually, I’m forgetting the drunken fraternity boy I met at my first college party a couple of weeks ago, but that’s another tale for another time.  I never called him back so that kind of screws with my analogy...

Regardless, this scene becomes even more loaded when you consider the fact that I’ve been in love with Mr. D1 since I met him.  Or soon thereafter.  It’s hard to tell because I was dating the Ex at the time, so those damn things called emotions were all over the place.  The official word from Mr. D1, who is well aware of my not-so-undisclosed crush, is that sometimes he feels it and sometimes he doesn’t, and that he wouldn’t feel it fair to pursue me without having his whole heart in it.  And sometimes I wish he wasn’t such a goddamn nice guy.

As Mr. D1 twirls me around the floor the entire room stops and watches him lead me through different twists and turns.  The chemistry between us sets every nerve in my body alight.  Mr. C just takes a seat in the middle of the room and watches.

The Birth of a Blog

The reason this blog exists is finals.

Claire is a world class procrastinator. I mean, she makes you and I look like well adjusted adults with the way she pulls things off. To give an example, she wrote a 12 page term paper in less than eight hours earlier today. She just can’t function unless there is a deadline breathing down her neck and staring at her cleavage.

In one of her fits of listlessness in the dead week before finals, when she should have been writing papers or studying, she started talking to me.

The conversation went something like this.

Claire J: I’m bored.
Jenna C: Sorry, I’m trying to finish this paper.
Claire J: Entertain me! Give me something to read.
Jenna C: Fine! Go look at Hyperbole And a Half. She’s like us, but more adult and less functional (I love you, Allie!).

Claire was silent for a few minutes, and I got some writing down. Soon:

Claire J: That’s brilliant!

Jenna C: She’s hilarious.

Claire J: We should do that.

Jenna C: What?

Claire J: Write blogs.

Jenna C: Alright, after finals.

Two days later, Claire had a blogger page with our names on it.

In a way, this situation is a allegory for our relationship. I’m the one with the fairly sensible suggestion that Claire listens to then rejects for a more exciting plan filled with hookers and blow.

And I’ve got to say, she’s hardly ever wrong.

The Winter Concert: 5:30-6:30 PM

5:30 PM-6:15 PM: My parents arrive at my suite, needing to change their clothes after spending the day hiking at Griffith Park. They invite me to join them on the drive to the concert hall on campus where I will perform two shows with the Chorale and the University Chorus at 7:00 PM and 9:00 PM. Mr. C, also in the Chorale and University Chorus, texts to ask me if I'd like to walk over with him instead. That morning I'd mentioned the opportunity for my parents to drive us, but he showed reluctance to meet them. Disheartening, but understandable. We haven't been seeing each other for very long, and we've decided to keep it from being official. I also didn't want to meet his parents; but that had more to do with the fact that he told me they wouldn't like me because I'm Filipina. Way to set my sights high for that one, Mr. C.

6:15 PM-6:30 PM: Mr. C and I walk to the concert hall together, hand in hand, he looking dashing in a tuxedo and me in a beautiful, black gown. Absolutely picturesque.

Let's Start From the Beginning

Jenna and I are writers. In fact, she's the reason I write today. This is our experiment in long distance relationships. Until a year and a half ago we spent almost every day together. Now we find ourselves separated by 350 miles of California coastline. Now we find ourselves dependent on Skype, text messaging, and Facebook to keep the spark alive. And let me tell you, cybering just isn't the same as the real thing.

I imagine this will become a forum reflecting the ins and outs of our daily lives. At least the ins and outs of which we can make cutting, critical witticisms. And if our own dialogue is any indication of what that might look like, then this will be filled with sexually sordid affairs and comedic anecdotes made at the expense of those around us. If we do our jobs right, you'll come to realize that she's the brains of this operation and all I've got to offer is a dirty mind and wise cracks.

Oh yeah. Mom, Dad, you two shouldn't read this.



Until next time, kids.

Love,
Claire