It Was a Sweats-Only Week

As I should probably have expected, registering for even the most mundane of classes next semester sent me spiraling into a "what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-whole-life" abyss of despair:

Okay, so I have to take Scientific Enterprise because core classes or whatever but I will only take it during the 1:15 slot so I can take that cool Shakespeare acting class OH what if I took a class where I analyzed classical music and got to be all hipster and spend an hour 3 days a week being pretentious and knowing stuff about the Renaissance, that exists right, I could do it after yoga, but wait Musical Theater is at the same time as Creative Writing so I can't take it until junior year but that was when I wanted to go "abroad" which might just end up being a semester in LA but like how cool would it be to actually hop off a plane at LAX with a dream and a cardigan JUST ONCE, that could be cool and I could get an internship at BuzzFeed or something and have swivel chair races through the office with Zach Kornfeld and become BFFs and then when I came back to make a real living I'd already have pals who knew how hilarious and adorable I was but wait would I like, MOVE there because I'm not a city person and HOLD UP I still have to live in Europe at some point but if I'm going to actually for real be in movies in real life I should probably get on that, I mean why don't I actually have an agent yet, I wonder if Matt knows where to find one, he probably has like a billion New York connections by now, wow I'm so behind in the industry and I'm not even there yet but WAIT A SECOND how do I only have 12 credits, they scheduled all the good classes at the same time why do they do that??? 

Somehow I've found myself in Power Yoga, Advanced Shakespeare Acting, Environmental Science, and Survey of Musical Masterworks all at the same time and my income has yet to exceed nine dollars an hour. But it's cool. I'm still in the campus bubble.

For now.

Catnap Appreciation

I've never been one for naps. I either a)lay half-awake for 30 minutes before falling dead asleep for 3 hours, wake up not knowing where I am and remain groggy for the rest of the day, or b)lay half-awake for 30 minutes before falling into that weird state where you're having 10 dreams at once but you're never completely asleep for about 40 minutes, whereupon I still wake up disoriented and groggy.

But: can we take a brief moment to appreciate the fact that I took not one, but two successful, single-hour naps today?!
One was after lunch when I was super tired for no reason, and the second was between tonight's callbacks for the spring show (which ended just after 10), and my closing shift at Chester's (12:30 to 2:30am). I finally get all the hype! I wasn't jumping with energy afterwards, but it was just the little amount of sleep needed to take the edge off my drowsiness.  

(Downside: it's 3:20am and I've never been more awake in my life. However, that might be because of the rare cup of actual, caffeinated coffee I drank at the beginning of my shift.)

[This has been: A Moment of Excitement Over A Totally Normal Occurrence.]

The SuperBowl of Epiphanies

After binging on savory, gravy-based Thanksgiving dishes, cat cuddles, and a viewing of the third Hunger Games movie with my brother, I was nestled under the neck massager/heating pad watching the 49er's (unfortunately) turn over the ball to the Seahawks twice when I had an epiphany.

I've never been a sports fan. That much is certain. But I never realized exactly why until this moment. 

I've always been reasonably afraid that my lack of true vigor for sports will prevent my future husband from wanting to marry me, somehow. So it's understandable that I don't really talk about this. But in truth, I've never really been into watching sports (at least on TV) and probably never will. The problem isn't that I don't have a sport; it's that I don't have a team. And lamentably, this is irreversible. Here's why. 

For most people, watching sports starts with their favorite team. Any interest in watching other teams stems from their relationship to the "home" team or that team's rival. For diehard sports fans, this is because their loyalty to a certain team comes from their loyalty to a place. Philadelphia. San Francisco. Chicago. Boston. The greater DC area. You get it. For my parents, their teams are a symbol of where they grew up. Their family. Their livelihood. Of course they would care about that. They should. 

I don't have any real loyalty to a team because I don't have a hometown. The closest I have is a vague, exaggerated allegiance to my parents' teams, mostly my dad's because I was born near where he grew up. It's familial, but in reality, sports teams mean nothing to me. I didn't grow up going to games. It doesn't remind me of my hometown atmosphere. I have no connection to them, and because of the person that I am, somehow this means I can't honestly get behind them. 

Though this all seems like an arbitrary and completely useless revelation, you're going to have to take my word that it brought me incredible relief. Finally, I have a logical reason for why I get distracted during the SuperBowl. It's like I didn't realize I was waiting to forgive myself until now. 

So, in conclusion: Mr. Right, I will completely respect and support your right to scream at the TV and have friends over when your team goes to the SuperBowl, and I will even pretend to be fully engaged, but I will never be the girl that can put on a jersey, sit in the middle of the couch on the edge of my seat and banter with the guys about players, no matter how much I wish I was. I will, however, wear the jersey because I think it looks cool. 

Stop Judging Me

I think soccer jerseys are awesome. (I also love rugby shirts, but that has no pertinence to this post. I just think it's worth saying.) Specifically, Manchester United home jerseys are pretty sick. Maybe it's because my brother loves them, so they're some of the only jerseys I'm familiar with, but regardless, I dig that fiery red. However, I can't wear one. And I'll tell you why.

(I'd like to take a minute here and recognize the fact that I'm writing about sports right now, which makes me uncharacteristically gangster. Moving on.)

It's impossible for me to just buy a ManU jersey for myself and wear it simply because I think it's awesome because I don't follow the team. Which means that if a cool athlete kid at college were to compliment me on it and then proceed to ask what I think of the new manager, or who I think will be strong this season, or whatever... I would have no clue what they were saying. I would be put in the position of having to say the most ignorant thing ever, which is that I don't watch soccer, but merely wear a jersey for no reason at all. Like a completely uninteresting white girl. Ick.

And to be honest, that bugs me a little. That people get so worked up about sports teams or TV shows or book series' (serieses? serei?) or fandoms or whatever that no one is allowed to like anything anymore. 

I can't wear soccer jerseys because I'm "not a true fan of the sport". I can't say I listen to Sleigh Bells because I "only have their #1 song, so it doesn't count". I can't say I like Doctor Who if I don't have a favorite monster, doctor, season, companion, and so on. I can't appreciate Hermoine Granger's sassy intelligence or wish I'd get my Hogwarts letter at age 17 because.....because....

....I've never read the Harry Potter books. There, I said it.

See what I mean? A bunch of you just gasped and vowed to snub me the next time you saw me. Don't even deny it.

We as a culture have made other human beings ashamed to have sincere feelings for something we enjoy or be innocently naive of a certain aspect of pop culture. What is wrong with us?

Why can't we just let people enjoy discovering new things without requiring that they explore every aspect of that thing known to humanity so they can say they're a true "fan"? Why can't we be okay with people that didn't read/watch/listen to/enjoy the same cool thing that everyone else did when they were kids? It has no bearing whatsoever on how cultured or intelligent someone is. So lay off, fandom police.

While we're on the subject, I might as well confess some other stuff too:

I've never read Harry Potter, and have seen only 3.5 of the movies. But I have some of the film scores on my iPod.

I have read the entire first Twilight book (never saw the movies though), and a few chapters of the second. Secretly, shamefully, at the library.

I will love High School Musical forever, even though I never saw all three movies until I was 13.

I've never seen LOTR, and have only read The Hobbit. But I was given an authentic Ring (complete with the inscriptions on the outside) of my own... and I lost it last year.

I have the Jonas Brothers (among other things) on my iPod and still jam out to them...often.

I have no affiliation for SpongeBob. I never watched it as a kid and have yet to understand the obsession.

I read the Hunger Games books after I heard the movie was coming out just so I could say I'd read them to the fandom police.

I still haven't seen the series finale of How I Met Your Mother. Actually, I've only watched parts of the last few seasons. But I call myself a fan.

I don't like rap music all that much. I know the lyrics to a few rap songs because I literally googled them.

I do, however, still have Blurred Lines on my iPod, and have yet to be annoyed by the song Happy.

I inwardly fangirl like a 13-year-old over Niall Horan. And I secretly find OneDirection in general extremely catchy... and okay, hot.

I had a very, very short obsession with Justin Beiber, though publicly I professed my disgust with everyone else.

I only watched 1 episode of Community, and I make witty jokes about the Troy and Abed mugs (even gave one as a gift once) without ever having legitimately seen them on the show.

I didn't see The Little Mermaid until I was 12.

I could not name any of the 49'ers players besides Colin Kaepernick, but yes, they are absolutely my favorite NFL team. (Also the Raiders. No, I can't name any of them either.)

I've never once played a game of Monopoly.

I have no knowledge of the old, comic book DC vs. Marvel universe. I adore superheroes, and I love the movies. But I have no opinions on which universe is better. (Except Spiderman. I grew up on the old cartoons, with the original theme song. So when people ask, I say Marvel is better... because of Spiderman.)

I think Kristen Stewart is a decent actress.

I've barely read any plays. (In the inner circle of theater kids, this is a cardinal sin. You have to be able to make references to David Mamet or whoever at a moment's notice.)

In general, I make references to things I have no knowledge of so people will think I'm more cultured than I really am.

I thoroughly enjoyed most of the movies my critical, theater friends labeled as "terrible." I'm not going to list them all.

Most of my hipster music (and by hipster I mean the hipster bands that all hipsters are into, i.e. the 1975 and twenty one pilots) I only know about through other people... I only found my most obscure music on my own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[I literally cringed after typing each one of those. Like, I had to physically force myself to type some of them. Readers of this blog are not allowed to use these against me. I published them on the internet. That means I don't care how much you make fun of me. So just don't.]

Now that I've sufficiently traveled down the deepest, darkest hole possible with this post, there's not much left to say. Except that if I can be this lame, pop-culturally, and still act like I'm cool, the rest of you can have the decency to be nice to others who may not be on the same level of obsession that you are with a sport or actor or TV show or band.

Just chill. Okay?

We Need More Castle On Here

And now I'd like to share one of my favorite scenes of all time from the show Castle. 
It's between him and his teenage daughter Alexis (who essentially embodies the person that I dream of being). It's probably definitely my favorite spiel she's ever said. It counts as a monologue because Castle never successfully interrupts her. Enjoy. 
(The part where Beckett walks in can be the end, unless you're really interested in why their current suspect isn't the killer.) 

*sigh*

Things That Freak Me Out

When I'm in a car that's turning left and there's a car coming on the other side of the road

When I'm opening my drawers to get jeans and I remember that I never put my clothes in the dryer

When people start to tell me something and then stop

When I wave at someone from afar as they're talking to someone and they say something to the person beside them after they wave and it looks like they're saying something about me

"Wait, no one told you?"

Not knowing whether or not the tea I'm about to sip will burn my tongue

"You don't want to know."

*your password is incorrect*

Long silences with someone I don't like very much

Long silences with someone I want very much to like me

Seeing someone after a long time and not knowing if we're still friends

Waiting for a cast list to come out

"Catch"

"Can I ask you a question?"

When someone takes a deep breath before telling me something

Whenever someone leans towards me

But This Isn't On My Schedule

I'm a planner. I like to make plans.

Even now. I'm thinking about a conversation I'll have a week from now, possibilities for prom dresses/dates/venues, my wedding photos, my next free afternoon, homework for tomorrow, and about five other things.

I also daydream a lot, which means that I get rather elaborate, unrealistic imaginations going in my head, which quickly turn into rather elaborate, unrealistic plans.

And the truth is that I have no idea what's going to happen five minutes from now.

As for all that other stuff?

The topics of those conversations could become irrelevant before I get to them. I could end up not being able to find a prom dress, and the male population could realize that I'm much too lame to take to prom. I might not be able to come up with something creative for my wedding photos and have really cliche pictures. (Okay, that one is a total lie. My wedding photos will be epic.) I might not have another free afternoon. Ever. I might forget to do my homework. I might.....whatever.

The point is, planning is smart and all, but you can't plan the unexpected, nor can you orchestrate your life. That's Someone Else's job.

So. This spontaneous post is basically just to remind myself that I don't know, well....anything.

Goodnight, world. Feel free to surprise me.

Dear Put-Together Abby,

I saw you cruise by in a faded blue Jeep Cherokee, long curls dancing in the summer breeze, whistling to Jukebox the Ghost, smiling obliviously, so caught up in your perfect daydreams that you completely missed the house and kept driving.

Um. 

I know you're all caught up in your perfect life and all, and that you're probably really busy packing photos and hip decor into your boxes to take to The Perfect College, but if you could find a minute to come back, we're not doing so hot without you. 

You see, this whole "living" thing requires complete attention, and when we're so busy studying for AP classes and trying to fulfill the American Dream, we forget about that. Gorgeous opportunities for adventures absolutely dance outside our second-story bedroom window and we're crouched on the scratchy carpet, puzzling over a math problem, concentrating too hard to look up. 

But I know you're enjoying yourself. And it's such a lovely picture to just admire, to be honest. So if you don't feel like coming back and dragging yourself through the muck, I suppose messy-haired, scatterbrained, too-concerned, ordinary Abby will just have to do. 

She's kind of cool sometimes, I suppose. 

Anyways.

Send us a postcard! 

Secrets: An Update

My friend's secret was that she was my Secret Santa for the drama Christmas party.



*sigh*


I feel equally stupid and disappointed.

Secrets

Best feeling ever: When your friend scampers up to you, giggling, and tells you there's some awesome news about you that they're dying to tell you about.

Worst feeling ever: When your friend scampers up to you, giggling, and tells you there's some awesome news about you that they're dying to tell you about....but...they...can't.

Um.

No.

Because as soon as the words I can't tell you come out of someone's mouth, everyone's mind always jumps to the one thing they hope to be told. Whatever thing they lay in their beds at night and dream about being told. They think of that.

It's not that, is it?

Oh my gosh. What if it is.

It's probably not.

But wait.

Tell me now.

Remember when I posted 10 things about myself I hated? Remember #10? That I always have to know stuff. Well, case in point. Future husband, don't ever tell me something unless you're actually going to tell me.

In a nutshell: this is too excruciating to bear. It feels as if those four words triggered some unknown organ to kick into overdrive, and now it's about to burst from my skin. I can feel the anxious pressure from inside my bones and ligaments and now it's threatening to make me explode, and little frantic pieces of Abby will come raining down on everyone's heads.

Dear October 28th, 2013

Gonna be totally honest with you. You scared me a little. You made me cry a little bit. And parts of you made me really, really mad.

You had your little moments of relief. Creative Writing, where I could rant in forgiving pencil lead. The icy glass of water and good laugh when I walked into my house. Any time I saw my cat.

But you allowed yourself to be way too influenced by the night of the 26th, and that was what pissed me off the most. So in that regard, you were kind of a jerk to me. But as always, I'll forgive you.

But I do think it's time for you to call it a day.

Dear Stanford University,

Okay. I know my application probably won't look at all imposing amongst the stacks of class presidents and swim team captains and geniuses with SAT scores of 2360. Some of them will probably even have poetic, beautifully-worded essays. I like to say writing is my strong suit, but of course several of your other early applicants will claim that the essays are their forte as well.

But listen. You, in the Admissions office. You, deciders of my fate. Do you have any idea who I am?? I'm Abby freaking Erdelatz. I've lived in 4 countries and gone to 10 schools and still managed to keep up piano lessons for eight years. I can memorize the lines of every cast member in a show, including my own, by the second week of rehearsals without trying. I make my bed every morning without being asked, keep my room clean, have never snuck out or tried drugs, have a great relationship with my parents, and my hair is really soft! You have no idea who I am because on paper I amount to little, but in the real world I am spectacular. But you'll never know, will you?

You'll see a kid with probably some lovely teacher recommendations about my cheerful and cooperative personality in class, a few too many B's and B-pluses on my transcript, and who had some mildly interesting adventures as a military kid. You'll see average. You'll see pleasing, refreshing even. But you'll see average.

What you won't see, however, is me.

Dear U.S. Postal Service,

Umm. Do I need to send you my address again?

I used to think growing up was all a bunch of secret formulas and processes and numbers that I simply didn't know yet. Someday, of course, someone would send me a nice thick packet with all kinds of instructions on how to apply for jobs and pay for college and taxes and how insurance works and other such things.

Well, here I am, typing in the required information into the Common App to send to Stanford and William and Mary, but I keep having to skip blanks because the packet hasn't arrived yet.

Were you just misinformed? Or is it on its way? If you could just shoot me an email as to when it's getting here that would be great, because I can't really get started on my essays until I know how this whole 'life' thing is supposed to work.

Thanks.

Losing My Victoria's Virginity

So I took a trip to Victoria's Secret yesterday. Yes, for the first time.

What?

Anyways, the moral of the story is that my time was divided between gaping around and whispering, "This is a beautiful place", dropping my umbrella and 5 other bags everywhere, accidentally pulling out the drawers of $60 lingerie, squeezing the memory-foam linings of everything, and basically not acting like the sexy babe that store promises to make you.

But hey, I walked out with that little telltale pink bag (pictures of which were quickly Snapchatted to a female friend for proof) and a free fragrance sample, so I called it a win.

My Mental State, in Gifs

Around most people: 





During conversations: 





By myself:

Cue Beethoven's 5th

The AP Lang test is tomorrow.

3 essays. 55 multiple choice.

3 hours.

ALL OF MY TRAINING HAS PREPARED ME FOR THIS MOMENT

Contemplating a more cowardly route. 

Okay that was bad. 

NO.

I must not yield to lack of sleep.

Or fear.

Or common sense.

Or sanity.

Or hand cramps.

Or vague writing prompts.

*cracks knuckles*

Dear Small Intrigue,

It's exhausting the effort I put in for the smallest and silliest of prizes.

But then, I get to relish in things as insignificant as a few notifying pixels with an entire playlist of celebratory dance music.

And, of course, there are losses as insignificant as the victories, which only serve to disappoint me just as the victories excited me.

Today was a conglomeration of both. Unfortunately, a loss had the last laugh, and a perfectly good haiku was wasted all because I pretended to be hungry at the wrong time.


But don't worry. I bounce back.

For Lack of Words

Sometimes all you can say is this.

Regardless, going on a legitimate double date was pretty swell. 

I feel like a big kid now.

Worst Things To Do When You Have Homework

All of which I have been doing.

-Go on Youtube and watch adorable videos of people getting asked to prom creatively.

-Think about wearing a dress.

-Sit in front of your phone AND the computer.

-Remember that there's ice cream in the freezer.

(2 chocolate-y minutes later)

-Go outside and stand in the freezing, pouring rain just because you haven't done it in a while.

-Play music that's perfectly in the range of your singing voice.

Etcetera.

Etcetera.

Having a Mid-Twenties Crisis When You're 16

You know that mental breakdown that's supposed to come when you've finished college and have a boring job that pays for your groceries and you remember that you were good at doodling in middle school and once took an engineering class that you enjoyed, and can make a killer omelette, but none of those things boost you up the corporate ladder, and so you sit on your couch and have a meltdown in between segments of Law and Order because you don't know what to do with your life?

... Well, neither do I.

But I kind of had a mini-version of that.

Basically, my current GPA, while unknown, is suspected to be rather mediocre. Well, average/above average, but that's my equivalent of mediocre, so same thing. And the odds of getting a good part in Fiddler on the Roof are looking somewhere around 78%. Maybe. Actually, more like 62.5%, which coincidentally happens to be the lowest grade I've ever gotten on a test. (It was my Algebra 2 final exam, which dropped me to a B+ on the last day of school and was the bane of my existence for about 2 weeks.)

Anyway.

I realized that I've always wanted to be good at painting. I know I say that about a lot of things. (Gymnastics, wearing red pants, ballet, painting my fingernails evenly, etc.) But still, it's nonetheless true. Basically, I'm in a phase of scrolling through all my likes on StumbleUpon and clicking on all the ones that are remotely art-related in an attempt to spark some sort of creative epiphany. Then I convinced my mom to buy me some acrylics, painted a couple things that turned out (like everything else), decidedly mediocre, and now I'm caught between this brightly-lit vision of being a twenty-something abstract artist living on the upper East side, or sticking with pencil doodles while still being the brainchild of my graduating class, which isn't looking so promising either, due to my inability to doodle and pay attention in class at the same time and the current existence of Peri Oxford, the #1 GPA in the junior class.

(The last sentence was rather long, but I think it's still grammatically correct. Oh, screw it. It's a blog.)

So I'm okay at painting. I'm okay at grades. I'm okay at singing. I'm a little better than that at acting, but I refuse to be one of those waitresses in Los Angeles that tells her customers that she's an "actress", when in reality she's a waitress who has gotten one or two callbacks but never a real acting job.

So where does that leave me. Well, I could get into a decent college. Stanford will have to go on the back burner, or maybe stay Saran-wrapped in the fridge for later, or maybe even down the disposal altogether, but a decent college. Maybe a drama scholarship. Maybe. Maybe a small-ish academic one as well. I'll get a roommate. I'll get a job at a cafe. I'll participate in a couple all-nighters because I'll stress about my B in English or something.

Then... something. Maybe I will get back into painting. Maybe I'll become a collector of antique books. Maybe I'll travel and pursue Bucket List Item #1 somewhere in Finland. Some guy will notice and think I'm cool and eventually I'll get married.





............Oh.



I guess that's it.


..........

I'm going to go try another painting.



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Author's Note: I just watched the Social Network. My fingers are literally twitching because I can't type fast enough to get everything out of my head. Sorry for the brain-purging explosive-ness.