breaking up with bro-dy

it's a well-known fact that brody jenner is dreamy: dark hair, long eyelashes, tan, rich, and "cool."

however, it's also a well-known fact that brody is, indeed, somewhat of an asshole. he hangs out with the hollywood elite (he's step-sister IS kim kardashian), has been nicknamed the Prince of Malibu (strike one), and routinely makes out with the so-cal blondes like haylie duff, nicole richie (pre-harlow, of course), kristen cavallari and lauren conrad. actually, his douchebag treatment of LC on season 3 of "the hills" put my celebrity crush on tenuous ground. strike two. don't mess with lauren.



strike three for brody all started with a harmless perusal of MTV's website to search for a TV show to watch online. (i don't have cable.) in the bottom right-hand corner, a picture of a bright orange and yellow sunset popped up with the show's title "BROMANCE" in silver block letters beneath it.

seriously????, i thought. so lame.

but then i looked closer at the black and white face centered as the "sun" in the sunset. perfect jawline. dark, mischevious eyes.

brody. jenner.

i clicked on the list of episodes. titles like "little jeans, big hearts" and "bro-athon" and "broast!" flooded my page. i suppressed the desire to gag.

it gets worse: MTV describes the show as an exploitation of an epidemic in hollywood, the "bromance" between two guys. the show's premise relies on the popular notion that Brody is "looking for that one special guy to join his elite entourage." the reality TV show sought out "regular joes" to become "bros vying for the chance of a liftime" who participate in a series of challenges, hang time (including sky-diving in las vegas, hanging out with playboy playmates, etc.), and eliminations. all of this boils down to the crucial moment when brody finds "true bromance" with his "true bro."

needless to say, things just aren't going to work out between brody and me. call it "irreconcilable differences."

a little special something.

as i drove into my apartment complex after dinner and a movie with friends (i saw "push"-- entertaining but by no means the best movie ever), i decided to check my mailbox. please don't tell my mother.


i hadn't checked my mail since i got home from visiting bobby in las vegas. i regard my mailbox as the messenger of andrea's financial ruin, since its contents often include bills, bills, and coupons to meal places i end up going to because i have a coupon.

(that's bobby and me. aren't we cute? yes, yes, please send compliments. thx.)

i drove up, parked, jingled my keys to find the smallest silver mailbox opener, jammed the key into the latchhole, squealed open the metal door of doom, felt around inside for paper contents, and then my finger nudged against a foreign metal object. i squinted in the dark since the light above the mailboxes is out (again, please don't tell my mother) and withdrew key #2 to the parcel delivery boxes.

my pulse quickened, my breaths became shorter and faster, and i barely contained a squeal that finally erupted after i plopped the large brown box onto my black airmchair.

quickly, i found a knife:

bobby bought me a betsey johnson watch the last night we were in vegas, and it had finally arrived!

i love the little bureau box with leopard print. i love the star shape. i love the sparkly black face. i love the skinny patent leather band.

i love that my boyfriend likes to make me happy even if he can't be here in person. long distance schmistance. i'm smitten.

my anxiety levels hit a new high, but then i opened ED's collected poems to this:

"XXXIII"

How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn't care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.


is this how meticulous bible readers of the world feel when they open a book and find the perfect passage nestling in pages like its been waiting for you?

looking back on today:

hello, readers!

another year ends. at this rate, i'll be lying face up in a rosewood coffin soon. 2008 was an epic year in many ways: birth of the iphone, record gas prices, 2008 olympics in beijing, &c. while i scarcely compare to such milestones in our world's history, i believe that 2008 was also an interesting year in the life of andrea. i'm no obama-- and don't pretend to be-- but here's a little blog post dedicated to giving me some "media" attention beyond my previous blog posts:

in 2008, i moved 3 times: from my parents' house to vista, to the yellow house in hillview, and to my own lovely apartment.

in 2008, my ipod music collection grew from 0 on 12/25/2007 to its now present size of 1573 songs and 2 videos.

in 2008, i was officially single for the entire year. the dating scene appalls me in so many ways. but in 2008, i also shopped around a little and unofficially hung out with: an immature army boy/fling from high school, a book-reading boy from the navy, a deceivingly perfect-for-me MFA student with nerdy glasses, a cardiologist, a tall army engineer from hawaii who reads hunter s. thompson, a tortured emo kid, and my ex of 4 years.

in 2008, i fell in love with japanese delicacies: sushi, miso soup, and saki.




in 2008, i experienced las vegas for the first time. with kim at my side, we explored airports, casinos, dark and smoky clubs, limousines, designer clothes shops, the bellagio fountains, the best sausage ever, swimming pools, andrea getting carded to buy a bottle of water (yes, it really happened), a bonafide VIP suite at studio 54, and dangerous cab rides.


in 2008, i became a gaming nerd. from fowl words on miniclip to rock band on xbox to color junction on igoogle, i started losing sleep over the arrangements of dangerously attractive pixels.


in 2008, i jealously coveted young hollywood's glamour.


in 2008, i learned more about teaching and read more teaching theory-- to no avail and to great impact, simultaneously.

in 2008, i witnessed two namings of america's next top model through the glorious, all-real television: plus-size southern belle whitney and painfully gorgeous mckey.

in 2008, i wrote a lot. i dabbled in creative nonfiction, and my love for poetry was renewed with ENGl 406G. i journaled almost every day from may to october. i wrote finalized 13 poems, and i am the most proud of my creative writing that i've ever been.

in 2008, i ended my teaching career at boise state. i also gave up my totally sweet office.


in 2008, i discovered ed hardy and betsey johnson.

in 2008, i was walked on and taken advantage of. in 2008, i lied, cried, and vowed revenge. in 2008, i was scared, lonely, and vulnerable. in 2008, i was selfish, self-centered and vain. in 2008, i saw a chance for a brighter discontent.

in 2008, my friend amy got married, as did my high school crush.

in 2008, i became an educated woman.



in 2008, i presently look forward to a better 2009. my deepest, most sincere wishes to you in the new year-- always.

tell me what you don't like about yourself.

a few years ago, i unassumingly flipped through television channels and stopped: on my screen in a dashing blue collared shirt, dr. christian troy pouted with his perfectly shaped bottom lip to his plastic surgery partner sean mcnamara about sucking the fat out of a size 2. words like "ethics" blurred with the sound of expensive shiny shoes tapping on the floor. a gorgeous white lamp glowed in the background.

when i subscribed to netflix, i browsed through the TV section (bad bad bad bad idea), and found "nip/tuck." i added all seasons. approximately 3 months later, i've watched all four seasons, or approximately 24 discs, or roughly 72 episodes.

let me attempt to explain how i could fall so in love with ryan murphy's brilliant show about plastic surgery in south beach, miami (even though it's actually filmed in los angeles):

1. the characters are dramatic but three dimensional. christian is a womanizer (oh. womanizer. oh.) but was sexually abused as a foster child by his father. sean tries to fix his son conor's disability because he, at one point in time, suffered from a physical abnormality that caused his parents to divorce. ava is really a man. and julia is beautiful, smart, and tragic.

2. after watching a DVD extra on the set design for "nip/tuck," i can't stop craving cold furniture, circular reflection ponds, and green & gray together. everything about this show's sets makes me dreamy.

3. you learn valuable lessons like: don't take blood money from drug lords because bad people like escobar gallardo will demand a facial reconstruction and then point a gun at your head, don't take a pretty face home from a bar or you may wake up without a kidney, and don't believe a man's rating system-- an 8 is wonderful.

4. joely richardson is magnificent. i love her. l.o.v.e her.

5. speaking of miss joely, john hensley is actually only 12 years younger than joely-- even though he plays her 18-year-old son on the show.

6. gerbils shit. a lot. and flushing them down the toilet is not a good idea.

7. just when i think i am numb and can't possibly be moved by anything, "nip/tuck" explores the devastating effects of alzheimers and a dedicated wife who undergoes intense surgery to look 20 years younger so her sick husband will recognize her. and julia decides to leave sean (again) but runs back to him outside the airport and whispers: "i love you, you know" as she wraps her slender arms around his neck. and christian is raped-- by a man.

8. everyone has flaws. some you can't see; others you can; all are what make us human.

a dear student

i complain a lot, don't i? it's such a misrepresentation of my life; i am continually reminded of the many blessings that enrich and complete me.

for example:

1. i have a fabulous new apartment all to myself. i can set the heater at 62 (please believe it, because anything else is a waste of money; that's why God invented fleece zip-ups and socks), i never have to look at a dirty dish collecting mold on the kitchen table, and i have a great view of several trees and an empty pond.

2. i love my peers, and i almost cried tonight when i walked to my car after saying goodbye to jessica after our last 561 class of the semester-- of ever.

3. i realize that no phd program will ever accept me based on my lack of scholarly research, publications, etc., but at least i don't slander the literary name like jodie foster did in "the brave one": she used robert frost's line of poetry "i could not stop for death so he kindly stopped for me" as her justification for her vigilante killing spree.

4. on the last day of 101, one of my students came up to me afterwards and said he was sad that our class was over. (insert my heart breaking here.)

then he asked if it was okay that he signed up for an hour block to go over his portfolio with me during conferences. he said our unit 3 conference helped him a lot and he wanted to make sure he had enough time for the portfolio conference. both unit 3 and portfolio conferences were optional. (insert pieces of broken heart breaking into smaller pieces.)

and then during our hour long conference going over two of his poems, he said, "can i come back later this week to talk about my short story? this is so helpful. i don't know what i'd do without you."

i thought my students had stolen my soul, tortured it with their eye-rolling, taunted it with their finger-guns silently blowing out their nonexistent brains, and crushed its vibrant desires into runny pulp and squelched dreams. but this student's comments reminded me that i do indeed still have a soul.

and that soul will miss teaching.

i'm not in denial... i just refuse to listen to your truth.

i graduate in approximately 9 days. in 9 days, i could drive across the country. in 9 days, i could listen to "brighter discontent" by the submarines over 3,103 times. in 9 days, i will be unemployed.

my impending poverty makes me question my recent purchases that could have provided 6 months of groceries, like the above betsey johnson dress. add the ed hardy watch and you're approaching 8. add the nina shoes and you're at 10. add my diamond necklace and you're at 2.5 years. all for one outfit. (i'll insert here that the black shrug was only $6 on clearance at vanity!) the occassion that calls for such extravagance: the 4th annual english majors association banquet.

nevermind that the theme of said banquet was "the great depression." boxes of baking soda, mac and cheese, and canned corn were the centerpieces. a brown, worn boot accepted donations.

two of my friends' fathers have been laid off in the past week. another friend works 2 jobs and complains about the whiny "masters holders" that work at starbucks with her. the career center rep from BSU bemoans the sudden dearth of off-campus job postings.

i'd like to think that even albertson's needs someone to arrange the red, shiny apples just right. or some lazy CEO needs a girl to staple his revised budget reports and proposed productivity increases. or bath and body works needs an "elf" in a green apron to offer product scents and squirts of lotion.

leave me to my denial. let me bask in the glory of unfulfilled expectations. it's nothing that i'm not used to.

i can't be who you are.

i just woke up for the last time at my lovely little yellow hillview house. my room is bare except for my (gutted) desk, bed, and computer. some of my landlord's furniture lines the walls-- all empty. i feel like every keyboard stroke shatters against the bare blue paint, echoes glaringly off the gold curtains (now limp and pulled taut across the windows), and weighs heavily on the floorboards that creak with my last footsteps across the knots and separating planks.

i won't lie-- i'll miss pieces of you. but for the pieces i won't, i've boxed up our memories, sealed them tightly in a circular, green box and left them for you in the corner. parcel them out yourself.

be warned: you'll find cobwebs of wide smiles, dusty lint that whispers late night conversations stuck on repeat, and many, many pictures of regret.

goodbye, you bastard. may you reign here as unhappy as you were when i first shook your hand and fell for the mask they all still ignorantly accept.

i suddenly understand:

i heard a line somewhere (perhaps read a line somewhere) that's something like this: "at the precipice edge we stand alone." sounds pretty dark, right?

but that's where i am right now.

in many aspects of my life, i've reached the end:

-the end of my student days at boise state
-the end of my masters degree
-the end of my conversations with fellow TAs about the meta-meta-metaness of rhet/comp theory
-the end of my teaching faithful yet heartless 101 students
-the end of my cohabitation with a guy i used to really admire and who seemed to emulate all those wonderful bookish-writerly things that i never was
-the end of living with roommates.ever. (husbands don't count)
-the end of purchasing spendy (and now very mainstream) ed hardy items online, since i now have a rent payment/utils to pay for SOLO
-the end of vacillating freely in the far-off notion that someday i'll have to make a decision

because i've reached the edge of the precipice. and i am alone. i won't have my student peers to remind me of how english studies dumb i am, or students to email me frantically in the middle of the night so that the first thing i do in the morning is check my "teacher" email, or loudly thunking footsteps outside my door in the AM.

i wish i could describe the view from here, but i'm afraid of opening my eyes. i wish i could dance and sashay my hips a little to celebrate that i've made it. i'm here. i've arrived.

just please tell me it's not a dead end. i don't have wings to fly. and i don't have the guts to jump.

personal essaying

last night, i sat down and wrote a segmented personal essay. it gets better: not just any personal essay, but a personal essay that i assigned for my students. i sat down in my cozy, welcoming office (*sudden outburst of hysterical laughter distracts writer*) and looked over my own assignment sheet for unit one.

i asked my students to explore the question, "why write?" which framed my entire 101 semester. we brainstormed some reasons in class, and the activities we did responded to their ideas. but it was my turn to share why i write with my students, and i referred to a list of brainstorming questions i gave them almost 10 weeks ago.

not only did i stare at the blank screen for longer than expected, but i found myself bullshitting my own assignment. "ha, i write because i have to. neener." "i write because i'm emo." oh man, is this what happened for my students too? and why did i feel the need to mock an activity that i use to define myself-- my interests-- my goals in life?

perhaps i was uncomfortable admitting to my students how seriously i really do enjoy writing. it's not a choice for me. i write because i am a shriveled up, cranky, apathetic mess without it. how could i possibly share that with them? i'd seem like a freak. (who wears ed hardy shoes. i just have to add that because i'm staring at my pink shoes with a bright koi fish staring back at me. loves.)

but i am a freak.

aren't you too? don't you write because you have something to say? and not just anything: but something you deem important enough to set pen to paper (or-- who am i kidding-- finger to keyboard)? writing is selfish; writing is self-centered; writing is--

self.