Twi-not to be mad at me...

...for the unfortunate play on words in that title, as well as for the confession I'm about to make.

I jumped on the Twilight Saga bandwagon about a year ago.

I know!!  I'm sorry!  Please don't revoke my library card!  Hear me out, though; I had an excellent reason.  A reason that has since evolved into a mission.  And, really, what's more fun than a blogger with a personal agenda?

J's sister is 13.  That's 8th grade, for those of you without younger cousins, nieces, nephews, neighbors or kids of your own.  She's the youngest in their family, and has three older brothers... so naturally, she and I talk girl stuff all.the.time.  We have similar taste in colors (mainly reds, pinks and purples), in music (though my interest in Joe Jonas trends slightly less PG than hers) and in responsibility (school/work = BOO; weekends/breaks = YAY). 

It was bound to happen, then:  a Sunday afternoon curled up on the couch with snacks to watch the Twilight movie.

Let me go on record right now as saying that I can get behind the story one hundred percent.  The story is interesting enough; vampires, werewolves, blah blah blah.  The story is not where I take offense.

HOWEVER.  What about this "saga" does offend me?

Hm.  Would you like it in alphabetical order?

First, let's talk about Stephenie Meyer's writing.  Or, rather, her "writing," since she has yet to master the art of "showing, not telling."  I accept that these are intended for the tween set, and so the vocabulary and exposition are more limited than in works intended for older audiences, or in the literary classics.  Let's just get the obvious comparison out of the way right now:  JK Rowling didn't seem to have a problem creating elaborate imagery with her words (and there were seven books in her series, Steph).  Yes, Rowling created quite a bit of her own language, but... it worked.

Meyer's drivel reads like she spent $125 on a creative writing weekend seminar at the airport Marriott.  I bet she has a "Hang in There, Baby" kitten poster over her desk and gives it a thumbs-up every time she finishes a chapter.

And Stephen King agrees with me.   Rachel 1, Stephenie Meyer 0.

Having gritted my teeth through the thousand-plus pages of the first two novels, I felt like I had committed to the series, so I started in on Eclipse, the third installment.

And I can't finish it.  I tried -- DEAR GOD, I tried -- but I cannot do it.  It ends here.

I've mentioned more than once that I am the product of an all-girls high school education, and the experience was so powerful and influential that when I was offered the chance to recruit for my alma mater, I pounced on it.  (Being the director of a department at the ripe old age of 24 is not a bad gig.)

Let me be clear:  I don't hate guys.  Quite the opposite, really.  I respect and admire many men, and by now everyone knows the extent of my feelings for J.  It is absolutely possible to be an independent, confident woman and still enjoy the company and friendship of men.

Imagine my... distaste, then, for a female protagonist in constant deference to every male influence she encounters.

There is nothing wrong with a daughter helping out around the house.  Bella, however, cooks and cleans for her dad as if he is an inept fool in all matters domestic.  Charlie Swan managed to feed and clothe himself just fine without his daughter's help for more than a decade, and yet from the moment she moves in, she assumes all the "womanly" chores in the household.

Bella's best friend, Jacob Black, is moody -- even by teenage standards.  Granted, dude's going through some pretty serious stuff (come on, we all saw Teen Wolf), but he puts Bella through an emotional wringer with behavior so passive-aggressive it would make politicians cringe. 

Worst of all is her relationship with Edward Cullen.  Meyer has shaped Bella into the quintessential damsel in distress:  she clings to Edward for instruction, approval, guidance, protection... and it makes me gag.

Example:  New Moon begins with a "breakup" of sorts.  Believing that Bella is in danger around him and that the only way to protect her is to leave, Edward disappears from her life, saying it's for her own good.  She takes the news pretty hard, which makes sense (she's 17, after all; it's called a "crush" for a reason).  She finds, though, that she can conjure him in her head by making rash, dangerous decisions (motorbike racing, cliff diving), and sets on a path of self-destruction fueled by teenage lust.  (Or "lust," rather, since Meyer's Mormon beliefs dictate supreme chastity.)

Bella lets Edward dictate her comings and goings (thanks for the curfew, Dad), her friends, her studies, her interests. 

And thanks to the series' ridiculous popularity, a generation of girls is going into their adolescence and adulthood thinking that this is an acceptable example of a healthy relationship.

It infuriates me.

Meyer has defended this construct as simply the portrayal of Bella's choices.  I don't buy it.  Bella!  Sweetie!  Take a women's studies class, for crap's sake!

So when Eclipse premiered in theaters a week before my birthday this summer, J's sister was all up in my Facebook, excitedly inviting me to see it with her.   I accepted, naturally.  I mean, duh, she's fun!  But more than that, I saw it for what it was:  a tremendous opportunity to have an influence, to be a positive female role model like the ones I had (still have -- thanks Mom!).

Thank God for movie theaters.  When I couldn't keep my eye-rolling contained, at least it was under cover of darkness where J's sister wouldn't see me.  I got my fill of Taylor Lautner (I mean, I'm not made of stone here, people), she got her Cullen family fix...

...and we left the theater with tons to talk about.

Hm.

Fine.

Rachel 1, Stephenie Meyer 1.*


*...but I'll be damned if I'm going to buy the fourth book.  Suck it, Meyer! 

An open letter

Dear white collar workers of America (more specifically, of my office),

We're not here to make new BFFs.  It certainly helps that we all get along, of course:  after the Mean Girls-esque office I just left, I'm telling you God's honest truth when I say that I appreciate your humor and good nature more than the average bear.  

We don't all have to be sleepover friends who will braid each other's hair and stay up late prank-calling the boys we like. We do, however, need to respect each other's space, and that's what drives me to write this letter. 

I'm glad you feel you can come in to visit while you're on maternity leave.  Who doesn't love to see a brand new little munchkin (if only to renew her gratitude for her currently child-free lifestyle)?  You look fabulous, by the way, and who wouldn't?  Three months away from the office would do anyone a bit of good. 

A lot has changed in your absence; most notably, the renovations are complete and we've moved into our new space, affectionately known as the cube farm.  Bear in mind, please, that although our new walls stop about four feet short of the ceiling, our cubicles are still our offices.  And while you are on a break from your responsibilities here, the rest of us are not... plus, some of us are picking up your slack.  

When you gather with a group at my cube wall for a loud, lengthy conversation about the baby's sleeping habits and eating habits and how your husband tries God bless him ha ha ha, you are not magically made invisible by the metal and plywood between us.  You are less than three feet away from me; I can see you, and moreover, I can hear you, and so can the person on my phone who actually stopped midsentence to ask "...is that a baby crying?  Where are you?"

The bottom line is that while your little guy is certainly darling and yes, you are fortunate to have a healthy, happy child... not everyone is as fascinated by him as you are.  Congratulations again on the baby; now please go home and enjoy the rest of your leave. 

Sincerely,

Rach

An aside to any potentially offended readers:  yes, I know that maternity leave is not "vacation."  Being a mom is a bigger job than anything I'm doing here, and can be more thankless as well... but if your home is your office, you don't see me bringing files into the baby's nursery to return phone calls and hold open office hours...

"Congratulations, Universe: you win."*

I was thinking about the blog this weekend, and it occurred to me that I may come across as a bit of a complainer from time to time, and that is really not the intention.  It's kind of the opposite, actually.  I love my life and I love my 30s and I'm happy and lucky to be here and not dead or institutionalized or in jail after some of the crazy shit I pulled in my 20s.  

BUT.

Sometimes, the Universe leaves me no choice but to add to the List.  

You know which list I'm talking about.  

Everyone has one.  People who say otherwise are just big fat lying liars who lie.  I'm talking about the running tally you keep in your head of the people, places, things and circumstances that just drive you right over the edge.  

Nervous Nelly snow drivers, for one (except you Deena, hugs & kisses!).  Movie talkers, for another. And these two winners from the weekend... read on:

1.  Random girl in a tube top in March:  Sweetie:  no.  I know it's sunny out.  We're all happy to see some sunshine after what feels like forever in the gray gloom of a Midwest winter.  It is still entirely too early in the season for your sartorial choice.  I almost had to commit my own fashion faux pas of sunglasses indoors to protect my corneas from the glare off your pasty shoulders.

There are two types of people who wear their sunglasses indoors:  blind people and a-holes.  Which are you?

Play nice and cover those up until April, please.  Or, if you must leave the house like that, allow me to introduce you to my friend self-tanner (although you may want to avoid the Corey Hart Oompa Loompa look, above).  

 

2.  Jay-rusalem & Silent Bible:  Ladies, I can appreciate that you're into your church.  Fine.  Good for you.  If you catch me in the right mood and environment, sure, I'll talk faith with you.  The shoe department at Target?  Is not the right environment.  If you're speaking to me here, it better be to compliment my taste in footwear.  Otherwise:  pipe down.

And the Lord saw the woman's choice of shoes, and He was pleased.

Hrmph.

Tomorrow:  less snark, more sass.  There is too a difference!

*Jim Halpert (John Krasinski), The Office, "The Return" (Season 3, Episode 13)