Oscar the Grouch

Ok, so maybe it was just me.
Maybe I was the only one who, from almost the first minute of the show last night, was wholly underwhelmed.
Maybe I was expecting too much; maybe last year was just too perfect to top.
Maybe, for whatever reason, I had reservations going in.
Maybe I'm the problem here, the Oscar grouch, if you will.
Whatever it was, whatever the problem--I didn't like it.
You read me right:  Oscar night was a total bust for me.
If you know me at all you know how much I love movies.  I love everything about them, and I love love love the shows that honor the best of them.  Oscar night is like Christmas morning for this movie lover, or, well, at least it usually is.  This Oscar night was what I imagine finding coal in your stocking to feel like.  All the usual hype with not one bit of the follow-through.
I felt jipped.  Ripped off.  Hood-winked.  Bamboozled.  Taken for a ride.  Deceived.  Made a fool of.
I suppose it all started when Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin first took the stage.  I must admit, I am not an Alec Baldwin fan, but I am a Steve Martin fanatic, so I was hoping one might even out the other.  Well... not so much.  They just didn't flow for me.  Most of their jokes fell flat all over the place, eliciting little more than mere chuckles throughout the audience.  Steve Martin had a few humorous moments throughout the show, but Alec Baldwin was pure stupidity, I thought.  Perhaps Steve should have been allowed to host solo again?

In addition to the letdown of the overhyped hosts, I was sadly underwhelmed by the dresses on the red carpet.  Usually I can't decide which gown and what jewels I adore most, but I saw very few this year that even piqued my interest.  You know it's a barren year when Sigourney Weaver's ensemble was my favorite, for she is anything but a fashion plate.  Even hers was nothing fabulous, it was, for me, simply more attracive and less odd than the rest.  (Like, for example, Sarah Jessica Parker... what was going on with that disaster?)
I will continue my negative Nancy overview of the show by complaining about how few meaningful acceptance speeches there were.  I'm not pretending that every actor who stands up there with that golden man should or will eloquently bowl over the audience, but there are usually a few great ones and at least one incredibly touching moment by a person of whom you've probably never heard (think a sound editor whose touching tribute to his deceased father brings you to tears or a foreign film director whose overwhelming appreciation and gratitude just touches your heart).  This year, though, with the exception of Sandra Bullock, whose speech was poignant, heartfelt, touching, and unbelievably sweet all at once, they were all rather blah.  Much like the broadcast as a whole, if you ask me.
The presenters were bumbling around through intros like they'd missed rehearsal and didn't act for a living; the audience could have been watching a croquet match for all the excitement that showed on their faces; for the most part, every win was predictable and simply the last in a series of statues this awards season.  The montages weren't even good; how hard is it to mess up a montage?!  Also, if all these young actors (Kristen Stewart, Taylor Lautner, Miley Cyrus, Amanda Seyfried, for example) can't swallow their nerves to present awards, then perhaps Hollywood's high schoolers should remain in their seats.
Man, I am being so harsh.  I'm not a witch, really, I just get so mad when the night that is supposed to be Hollywood at its most glamourous, most fabulous, falls unbelievably flat.  I just found myself so distracted by the shortcomings of the show that I couldn't focus on the movies, actors, and film crews it was supposed to be honoring, and that's not why I tuned in.  I don't get mad over much, really, but turn the Oscars into a snoozefest and you'll hear from me.

Finally, I've saved the thing that made me most sad for last.  I adore John Hughes.  So many of his masterpieces are my most favorite of favorite movies.  Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.  Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  Home Alone.  The Breakfast Club.  Vacation.  Sixteen Candles.  Pretty in Pink.  Uncle Buck.  I could go on and on, but you get my drift.  John Hughes was a comedic genius, and he deserves not only a fabulous montage tribute but a hilarious one, as well.  It wasn't hilarious; it wasn't even funny.  I understand being respectful to the Hughes family in their time of loss, but, if you're going to honor John Hughes, honor him with what he brought to the world--laughter.  Quite possibly the funniest filmmaker of all time, the man deserved better than that wholly lame unfunny tribute.
Like I said at the beginning, maybe it's me. 
If it were up to me, however, Adam Shankman, who directed this year's show, would probably not even make the guest list for next year. 

Maybe I really am Oscar the Grouch...

What did y'all think?  Come on... tell me all about it.  It's okay if you loved it; I won't berate you in some future post.
I promise.

Grouch's honor.

The Vent

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen.  I've got a bone to pick and a rant to rave. 
I am an educated, capable, intelligent, responsible student.  I am an adult.  I don't miss class.  I don't hand in assignments late.  I take pride in my role as a graduate student.  I work hard, and I am trying to better myself through my education.
There are plenty of days when I don't want to go to class.  It is never fun to read chapter after chapter, article after article--bleeding hi-liters dry and killing whole forests one pack of Post-It notes at a time.  I loathe group meetings with every fiber of my being.
However, I do it, and I try my dead-level best to do it well, because right now it is my job, and, ultimately, I volunteered to be here.
All of that said, though, there are certain things I expect in return for my hard work.
I respect my teachers and professors because they are my educators.  They are my superiors, my seniors, and my elders.  They will soon be my colleagues.  I respect them until I have a reason not to, and I expect the same courtesy from them. 
Do not waste my time.  If you don't have a lesson prepared for class, don't just come up with some bogus, worthless assignment to fill the time.  This is not second grade.  We can see through you.  We have lives and jobs and families, and it is disrespectful of you to assume my time is worth so little.  I prepare for class like you ask me to; is it too much for me to expect you to do the same?
Explain yourself.  I cannot read your mind, and I do not know what you expect from me unless you tell me. 
I am like a sponge desperate to soak up the experience and the wisdom I assume you hold.  Don't take that appreciation for granted and think you can just wing it or something.  My education is a big deal for me; you being so blase about it only serves to harden me against you.
Listen to me.  I'm asking you questions because I respect you, and I trust the answers you will give me.  Demeaning me or paying little attention to what I've asked is a sure-fire guarantee that I will be seeking information elsewhere in the future.
Finally, please do not assume that because I am young and inexperienced that I am ignorant.  I believe that each generation has much to learn from the generations both before and after theirs; perhaps if you would give me a chance I might bring just the new perspective you've been looking for.  No one has proclaimed me an expert on anything, and I don't have an alphabet of letters behind my name, but I might still prove useful.
I have wonderful professors and educators, and I am beyond blessed with the people God has brought into my life over the past two years.  Sometimes, some days, though, are just too much to endure without opening up a vent.    
Whew.

The Upstairs Neighbor

I think my neighbor may have been placed on this earth solely to torture and test me. 
Seriously, this guy is unbelievable.
I have written about said neighbor before, but last night/this morning/whatever time it was took things to a whole new level.
It appears my neighbor has discovered the joys of sex.
Awesome.
Way to go.
Congratulations.
Happy for you.
What-ev-er.
The more innocent of you out there may ask how I know this to be true.  I'll just put it like this:  it's like that episode of Friends where Phoebe is in Ross's apartment and, through the window, sees Monica and Chandler hooking up and screams out "My eyes!  My eyes!"
Except mine is like "My ears!  My ears!"
Why yes, you're right, it is disgusting.  (And rather disheartening, too, but that's off the subject at the moment.)
And here's the real clencher of it all:  aside from "all the sex" (another Friends reference, of course) there's also all the talking.
From a little after one until about six this morning, it was just blah... blah blah... blah blah blah blah...blah blah blah... blah blah, interrupted only by, well, you know, the aforementioned sex.
And for all that talking I could decipher hardly any of what they were saying.  Most of it sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher, and the little I could make out was something about dogs walking on their hind legs.
Totally idiotic.
It really comes down to this:
I couldn't care less what he does up there.  He can learn thai chi.  He can stick household objects up his nose.  He can count the revolutions of the fan blades.  He can whittle small horses from blocks of wood.  He can install a revolving door and let every girl in Oktibbeha county stream through.
It matters not to me.
If he would just. shut. up.
Honestly, and I shudder to even write this, but I think I could almost deal with the sex if all the other junk that constantly seems to be going on up there--the talking, the blasting of the music, the sounds I can only speculate on (moving furniture, perhaps?), the apparent learning of another language that, from what I can tell, involves him repeating phrases back to some sort of mechanical voice--was kept to a minimum.
Is that so much to ask? 
Am I being unreasonable and tyrannical?
Ugh, whatever.  I don't care.
It's 7:03, and I'm exhausted.
Wait... what is that I just heard?  Are you serious? 
After the sex and the talking and the talking and the sex, when they finally go to sleep... would you believe he's sawing logs up there, snoring so loud the people up the street at City Bagel can probably hear him?
Nice life.
Seriously, nice life.

The More Things Change

Yesterday I had a bit of a meltdown.
You know how moms seem to know exactly what to say, just what buttons to push to make your blood pressure shoot up, your face turn red, your fists clench and your temper come to life? My mom is very skilled at this exercise; she pulls it out at the most unexpected and often inopportune times, then acts like she didn't know what she was doing.
Please.
This is not my first rodeo, lady.
Anyway, she pulled one of those maneuvers on me yesterday, when I was literally minutes from going upstairs to get ready for Bailey's engagement party. What she said is not important, I don't even think it was anything that huge; it was just one of those things that she knows drives me insane. I think we all have them, and they're probably often unique to each of our lives and our individual relationships with mommy dearest.
So, she pushes my button just enough to get a big reaction out of me, but then she just can't stop. She pushed a little more, and then the dam broke. I totally lost it, fell apart completely. Here comes the crazy part, though: when I got down to the nitty gritty, I realized it wasn't about my mom at all.
Horror of horrors, it was much worse than that.
I've had a hard couple of weeks and haven't been able to get focused on school or get on a regular schedule. I'm tired all the time, but I can't sleep; I don't want to do anything productive. I've been what I guess you could call melancholy, but I finally think I've seen clear of my funk.
When it comes right down to it, I think a lot of this stems from one thing: I'm sad Becca is moving. There, I said it. I know, I know... she's only moving two hours away, I can see her all the time. But here's the thing: since Becca and I met in third grade, we've been best friends, and, more than that, we've never lived more than twenty minutes apart.
I don't really know why her moving has hit me so hard, but I've just had a really hard time getting okay with it. Maybe it's because we've been through so much together in the last fifteen years? We've vacationed with each other's families; we survived junior high dance team together; we lived through high school together, college transitions, pledging different sororities, and graduations; we've been together through hard times in both our families; we've told each other about every crush, every bad date; we've traveled together; we've told and re-told our stories hundreds of times; we've grown up together, and we've told each other everything. Sometimes the sheer magnitude of our friendship overwhelms me.
So, I've admitted that I'm not the biggest proponent of change, and now that I've admitted the real backbone behind what's been wrong with me the last few weeks, I think I'm okay. Although I was on the brink of losing it yesterday, I've got it all in perspective now. You see, it's like this: Becca and I have always said that we function better as a team; for whatever reason, it's just that simple. I know that's not going to change because there's a couple of hours between us; our friendship is just too strong for that.