That's it. I'm shopping for a place in Brooklyn.

I kid you not, moments after I'd posted the wolf t-shirt blog entry my hipster friend Hunter, who's subbing in this high school today, came down to show me the shirt he's just gotten for himself:



Oh...oh hell.

You know what? Hunter is 100% right when he says I only hate because I'm jealous. I hate out of PURE jealousy in fact. He's right. That shit is majestic. It is startling beauty deserving of both my respect and my adoration. I'm just pissed because I can't wear it.

I want unicorn t-shirts.

And my Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper With Matching Pencil Pouch.

And a felt poster.

Hipster culture - why must you adopt and flaunt in front of me everything I ever loved.

Never fear: neither jorts nor a braided belt were involved.

One of the most hipster kids in the more hipster of the two high-schools in which I work was wearing almost exactly this t-shirt today, except the background was a shade of mauve-meets-lavender.

I say only this: wolf t-shirts? Oh hipster culture. How you've failed me!

This is why they shouldn't give us responsiblity

Mary, on her most recent interaction with the captain of our football AND basketball teams: "I may or may not have said to Darren Thomas, 'strip baby, strip' because he was taking off his shirt anyway...because he wanted to show me tattoos...and I was THINKING IT, and then I realized, 'OH GOD! I SAID THAT OUT LOUD.'"

Also, we once took a lot of pictures of my feet with her cell phone to compaire them to photos online to determine whether or not I have cankles.

It's really, really, really, really time for summer break.

TOTALLY CANDID, GUYS!

As is often the case in these blog-posts, let me begin with a List Of Truths About Meg:


1. I have a new camera, for the first time since, I think, 10th grade.
2. It is the Best Camera Anyone's Ever Owned, EVER. It's freeze-proof, shock-proof to 6.6 feet, and water-proof to 33ft. All of these things, while you might dub them "bells and whistles" are, in truth, MADE FOR ME. The creators of BlueBabe believe that I'm taking her camping, kayaking, spelunking, and into other TOTALLY X-TREME conditions. I am, in fact, taking her...to my life. Shock-proof and water-proof it is. She is also blue, hence I've named her BlueBabe, much like Babe the Blue Ox (Paul Bunyan's constant companion).
3. I am not a good photographer.
4. No. Really. You don't even know, dudes, you don't even know.
5. I can't really use most of the bells-and-whistles on my camera (the real ones, the ones that are for Makin' Pictures Pretty, as opposed to Makin' The Camera Not Dead).


My lack of photographic skillzzz, combined with my urge to Live Life Unmediated, and a signifcant dash of "forgetting I have a camera" means that I'm not usually The Photographer. When I remember, however, that photograph taking is something of which I am capable, and something which I wish I did more of, I often feel the pressure to Document Everything. (This is what I mean when I say being the photographer gets in the way of Living an Unmediated Life. The pressure of needing to see everything as a Photo Moment is high! It means you're living to look back on the memories later, not to make the memories now! PRESSURE!)


My favorite mode of picture taking, thus, is what I've deemed TOTALLY CANDID. This means I take lots of unflattering pictures of people, often while shouting, "TOTALLY CANDID." Soemtimes, I make you STOP smiling and looking cute, to mimic the "candid" nature of my favorite photographing style. Guess what? This is usually a dumb strategy. Most of my pictures are dumb. Yet, since either evolution or divine intelligence has seen fit to give me at least the semblance of free will, I also have the free will to refuse to learn from my mistakes. TOTALLY CANDID it is.


I am going to include some examples of my TOTAL CANDIDNESS so you can see - sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't...and very occasionally, it's glorious.

I actually consider this something of a triumph of the "totally candid" school of picture taking. It's a photograph of my mother and aunt when we traveled down to Austin together for my Cousin's wedding. Is it a flattering picture? No (a common fault of TOTALLY CANDID). Is it interestingly composed? I would say yes. I like it. My mother does not. Tough cookies.


This picture? Kind of a failure as it's (1)really blurry (2)impossible to tell what's going on (3)kind of just of Caron's boobs. I will, however, swear up and down in similar pictures that they're great because they feature the energy of the setting. For instance, I really like this picture, blurriness aside:

ENERGY, GUYS, ENERGY.

Totally. Candid. Energy. C'mon. CCCCMMMOOOOON - isn't everyone willing to browse through grainy, poorly composed photographs in search of ENERGY? No? Well lame. (I'm also pretty darn anti-flash. I think it makes everyone look ugly. As a result, all of my pictures are fuzzy. All of them.)

Once in a while, though, Totally Candid pays off - you either get a really cute candid shot of someone you love (exhibit A) or a REALLY HILARIOUS shot of someone you love who will not de-tag because he is a good sport (exhibit B).


(exhibit A)



(exhibit B)



TOTALLY CANDID.


And, as is the recent blog theme: I love my life.

(It was an image search, by the way.)

So, I think I need to get better at clearing out my most recent search from that little google-search-bar at the top of my work computer. Obviously personal searches, at the end of the day, probably undermine my apperance of professionalsim

Sometimes I glance up there and see words like, "how do you become a physical therapist?" or "best pre-law programs in Virginia" or "african-american female buisness women scholarships." These searches, I feel, are fine.

Other times the searches are things like "fake boobs are better than rubber chickens."

...perhaps less fine.

My life is magical

Truth: Lately I've been the really lucky recipent of several unsolicited compliments. This is awesome - thank you, world, for showering this true kindness upon me. It makes me really happy.

Truth number the second: 100% of said compliments (all of which came from completely un-related parties) have been either of my skill with one-liners, or my breasts.

And I say again, and without any hint of irony: I love my life.

My hands smell like llama. It was worth it.

I got really hung up on the title for this entry. I want to make it, among other things, one of the following gems:

• "I'll tell you I love you when I catch my breath, post Zebra-Escaping-Sprint"


• "I'm not a smoker because dudes in hot tubs don't want in my pants badly enough to share cigarettes"


• "When you make fun of Trekkies and their commitment to the canon, it hurts me....we...we can still make out, though. I'd, uh, I'd be totally cool with that. Really. Totally cool."

and, my possible favorite,

• "All my life in an elaborate-lead in for an 80s-movie-themed music video."

Sometimes I worry about the wisdom of this blog. Many times I worry about the wisdom of this blog. This blog's wisdom is questioned for the following reasons:

• My students have the interwebs. It is but a matter of time before someone's bored enough to stumble across this bloggyblog. Most of the funny things that happen in my life are not, strictly speaking, the things I also think set up the most I-Am-A-Figure-Of-Authority-And-You-Are-My-Student relationship possible. Who, though, really wants to blog about non-funny things?


• One of the funniest things in my life semi-recently told me that this is the exact kind of blog he has some contempt for - the kind of blog that's just sort of...hey guys! Some things happened to me! And, you know, I care a lot about what people think? That's...in fact...why I have a blog.


• EMPLOYMENT! THE LOOMING THREAT OF ALL INTERNET ACTIVITY RUINING FUTURE EMPLOYMENT, etc.

Anywhoosles, allow me to tell you a story: My friend Chelsea, sometime around 11th grade (for those of you in the audience, that means she was 16 going on 17) was once stopped at a gas station by a band of Hot Indie Dudes who, upon being overcome by her beauty, wanted her to hop in their van and ride up to their NYC show. Chels, being educated in the ways of Stranger Danger, declined, but politely listened to the free CD the boys gave her, developed a taste for the band, and became a big fan. Fast forward two years to me, very uncomfortably in a hot tub (for which, let's keep in mind, I was NOT appropriately attired - though I'm going to go ahead and say my dress was damn cute anyway) in some random dude's house, post this band's show. With two girls members of the band Have The Hots For (oh, excuse me, Are Just Friends With), women who I adore and respect and who are Way Too Good For These Dudes. Srsly.

Fast forward to: AND THEN MY LIFE WAS HILARIOUS. Last night's is one of those stories I will never be able to do justice to, mainly because it's hilarity stems from its cliche nature. Tortured men, tempted by the Younger Women They Love, but loyal (ish) to The Women They've Left At Home. Beautiful young women...in a hot tub...after a rock show...with bottles of wine and cigarettes and laughter and quite the air of Movies About Rock Stars mystery. Me: the Overly Internal Not Lusted After Mother-Hen Type, torn between her desire to leave (fully aware that her friends can take care of themselves), her desire to stay (because when the hell else is this kind of thing going to happen to her), and her desire to smack someone in the head. We were a walking stereotype, and I'm kind of okay with it. I kind of love my life.

Allow me to tell you another story: this story features prominently Running The Fuck Away From Llamas:

The llama pictured above, poised to freaking kill us all, is one of the many inhabitants of the Safari Adventure located in scenic Natural Bridge, VA. Safari Adventure sounds like a really good idea...mainly because it is...but it is also WROUGHT WITH TERROR. I say to you this, and only this: you think feeding the animals is going to be a really, really good idea until you're suddenly in a car of college students shrieking like scared 8-year-olds, yelling "DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MEG, DRIVE!"

Zebras know. THEY KNOW.

Story number the last: There are many out there who are, far and away, bigger fans of Star Trek than I, this I readily admit. But how many people can claim that they've connected with a guy on a college-party dance-floor by asking, in earnest, "Do you ever feel like watching the Next Generation feels like coming home?" and receiving (again, in earnest) the reply, "Why do you think I still watch?"? Hm? Not many, I'd wager. Not. Too. Many.

I understand, Mr. Abrams, the need for Pointy Ships, Big 'Splosions, and loathsome loathsome I-am-death-to-everything-Meg-loves-when-I-touch-it Eric Bana. I really, in my heart-of-hearts understand your need for canoic change. Sure, I'll probably bluster around for a bit more about "Just Because Superman And Spiderman Can Do It, Doesn't Mean You Can Touch What I Love, Mr. Abrams! J.J? What's that stand for JERK...JERKFACE?!" and so on, but I understand. The canon had, I'm sure, grown restrictive. One of the beautiful things about the way Star Trek had successfully grown before, though, was its reliance on building forward, rather than having one, central, mythical creature around which everything needed to resolve. That's why Superman and Spiderman were more difficult, you see, Mr. Abrams. Each new creator felt the pressure to wipe the slate clean because one man can have but so many attachments. Star Trek was worlds and galaxies - a mythology based on the spirit of adventure, though I will readily admit much of the most satisfying adventure was to be found in the interpersonal relationships build aboard those ships.

So yes, I understand where you're coming from - the urge to seize onto an iconic figure, to build around his story (how very American) but the creative restriction decades of canon must have imposed. I understand it, and I think you handled it kind of confusingly, but I still probably don't exactly fault you for it. I do, though, fault you for letting them (the Pretty New Ones ) make fun of me, make fun of us, mock our possibility of indignation as Stodgy and Old and Delusional. Recognize what you're doing, sir: thousands of people cling to this canon because, at 2am on sketchy-house-party-dance-floors across the nation, people are hooking up because Star Trek felt like going home.