Forgetfulness — and then old friends resurface

Beware: memories come up and take over.

Have you ever felt scared that you were forgetting your life? The childhood stories your mother doesn’t insist on re-telling at every family gathering, the secrets you shared with your friends, those simple little things that meant so much to you?

Or even more recent stories, things you lived in college, parties you went to, awesome people you talked to that one time and never saw again, stuff that made you feel every there. Like this isn’t a trial, this isn’t a movie, this is your life, and these are your stories?

I’m twenty years old, and I’ve held some sort of diary (which I liked to call “journal”, so I’d feel all grown up and British) ever since I was 11. I have a trunkful of all my older journals, with all the little dramas, and all those hidden messages we’d send to one another during class, all the sketches from my “I’m-such-an-artist” fase, several comments on whatever reading I’d been doing at the time… It’s A LOT. I mean, REALLY.

But if you ask me right now to tell you a story about that time, I can only think of the ones that bugged me. You know. That time, in Drama Class, that I got the nameless part and teacher was personally offended I didn’t want to jump up and down in utter joy. Or that other time that I was going to go to the city’s Public Library with my best friend, but my mother got a migrain and couldn’t take me, and she told me “Well, you had to learn disappointment somehow” and I think I might have felt the mental equivalent of “¬¬” for the first time. Or that time my friend started reading the first Harry Potter, and I was on The Prisoner of Azkaban, and accidentally told her about Hogwarts and she did the funniest and scariest face I’d ever seen.

OK. Maybe a few happy ones too.

But it’s weird. Everyone remembers something different. The other day I ran into (ok, it was on facebook) a friend from the “Before I was 10” fase and I remember so clearly the time her mother took me to see her for a surprise, and I hid on the backseat and jumped out when she showed up. She remembers a letter I wrote to her in glitter. I have no recollection of that.

I also remember that once, literally on the playground, a new group of girls came up to me and started saying “you” a lot. Don’t remember what they were saying. But my friend – my best friend – came up and said, as angry as a kid can get, “HER NAME IS M.!” And I was so confused. I didn’t really get conflict.

Not long after that, we got to different classrooms, different periods (I started going to school on mornings), finally different schools, and now different cities. (Actually, for a while there, different countries too, I now found out.)

And it’s so strange to wonder what might had happened if we’d stayed close friends. She’s as confident and fierceless as she was when she was a child. She’s driven. A bit impulsive too, but I think it suits her.

See? That’s what happens when I try to remember stuff about my past: I get overjoyed when I drag something out of the black hole that my memory is, and immediately feel the need to record everything I’ve remembered. Why?

So I don’t lose it? But it’s happened already.

Why should it matter?

But anyways. Sorry about the trippyness, I’m just getting that itch to write stuff.

Here‘s a lovely French movie that shows how we can completely forget how we were when we were kids. But in a less cliché way.





Sophie Kinsella and the whole girly issue

So I’m starting to believe that it’s not that I’m all grown up and/or have surpassed my girly fase, it’s just that The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight was a bad book with a great title. I was wandering through a bookstore (you know, minding my own business, fully aware that I have too many unread books at home) when I bump into a Sophie Kinsella book I still haven’t read.

It was not my fault! It practically jumped off its shelf onto my lap!

And, well, finding an unread Sophie Kinsella book is a hard thing to do…

So I got it.

It was I’ve got your number. And it did not disappoint.

12033455A while ago, a friend had sent me an article comparing Sophie Kinsella books and Nicholas Sparks books, and commenting on how they wrote pretty much the same thing over and over again. They concluded that at least SK frequently throws in very witty, humourous and/or insightful phrases. Not just extremely mellow clichés. And I agree with them.

Yeah, it’s chick lit. Yeah, it’s not going to be life changing. It’s an indulgence, like one of the blurbs say. Something to make you happy and all romantic-y. And that was just what I needed.

The story is all about Poppy and how she’s desperately looking for her emerald engagement ring, which she lost at a hotel event, then loses her phone and fishes out a discarded one in the bin of the hotel – and that phone happens to be from the now ex-PA of some consulting executive. And he lets her keep it as long as she forwards all his emails. You can pretty much guess how the story goes after that. It has some twists, some drama. SK always handles her drama so well, so delicate. So un-cliché-d. I really like that. People underestimate her abilities.

I had a great time reading this book. If you ever come across it, and just want to be distracted, pick it up and you won’t be sorry.

Should I tolerate it as normal male behavior, like when he gets a cold and starts Googling nose cancer symptoms discharge nostrils?


My parents are awesome

I went to this thing with André Borschberg, the pilot of the Solar Impulse project (in case you, like me, have never heard about it, it’s a 2-ton solar powered plane that flies day and night and has crossed Europe, the US and god knows where else, and they are going for the world-round trip in 2015, pretty darn awesome), and ten of us won the raffle for a tiny replica of the HB-SIA – myself included.

I never win raffles, so I was super excited. The following texts ensued:

me: I just won a tiny plane!


Dad: How many seats? When are you taking your license test?

My parents are awesome ;]

And this plane is beautiful.

My tiny plane

My plane.

Their plane.

Their plane.


John Kent: You…

John Kent: You don’t appreciate her. I know she seems a little hard and sophisticated, but underneath she’s a pearl.

Huckleberry Haines: And a pearl so I’m told, is the result of a chronic irritation on an oyster.

I finally managed to watch Roberta (1935), with Fred Astaire & Ginger Roberts, and Astaire (Huckleberry Haines) has got some great lines.

Why my girly fase is most definitely over

I was updating my (sad) book list and I HAD to include “The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight” by Jennifer E. Smith. Eventhough I didn’t really finish it. I’m like 40 pages to go. So it’s not like I’m… like… trying to cover up having read one book in six months. Noo. None of that. It’s just that I find it relevant to my reading history. And it’s nearly done! And okay, I didn’t want to add just the one book…

But hear me out. This is a book I’d marked in my Goodreads Wishlist several years ago, but never got round to it, because… well, bookstores in my city suck. And then, earlier this year, I was browsing through the “Popular” section and *poof* there it was. And I remembered the cover from Goodreads. So I got it.

And it sucked.

It sucked big time.

the deceitful cover

The cute cover.

As the cover indicates, this is a chick flick. A teen chick flick. Like the ones I used to loooove, and would read in one night and would fall in love with all the characters and gush about to my friends, and lend it to them so we could gush about it unison. So I thought it was a sure thing.

The story is quite simple, actually. Girl gets to airport 4 minutes late and misses her plane, Cute British Guy waits with her and they end up sitting next to each other on the plane and talking and faaaalling in loooove.

Ok. I can handle that. Cute British Guy is in fact adorable, and I had no trouble picturing him next to me on any flight he wanted. But the girl? What was her name? Hadley. GOD, she’s annoying. Think Bella annoying. Plus some, because she is the center of the bloody universe and everything that could possibly happen to her is bad and she hates it. She gets some sense in after a twist in the plot, but just some. Everything is still SO terrible.

Allow me to explain. Her parents got divorced, because her dad went to teach in England and met an assistant (?) and now he’s getting married with her, in London, and she’s going to be a bride’s maid, understandably against her wishes. So she’s kind of going to England forced. And that’s when I start to get annoyed. Ok, the wedding will suck, her dad is asshole (seriously, there’s piling evidence), she has to play nice and show up in photos. So what? She’s in London. Take the damn pictures and go see the city!

I also couldn’t quite relate to her mother, because Hadley keeps trying to talk to her on the phone and she never picks up, attributed to the time difference and that her mom never wakes up early. Her daughter just got on a plane and crossed the Atlantic, she doesn’t care if she got there okay? Or maybe my mom is just overprotective.

Hadley finds out some THINGS that her father and new stepmom are keeping from her (take one guess), and naturally gets upset. She gets upset a LOT. She hasn’t seen her father in like… a year? And she was distracted by her mother (they went on a trip?) for a weekend, so her dad could come to their house and pick up everything he wanted. And then go back to England without saying hi. So let’s say she DOES have reason to be upset. A lot.

But she doesn’t DO anything about it, just pouts and acts like the teenager people always ignore. You’re angry? BE ANGRY! Let it out! Tell your dad what a crappy dad he’s been! Tell your new stepmom you’re not supposed to sleep with married men! Heck, tell her the mistress doesn’t get to wear a white dress to her wedding! Just DO something! Then maybe you’d see the good parts too? Don’t just stand there complaining about everything — in your HEAD. Makes for a very uninteresting read.

And I genuinely thought this was obvious. Everyone must have been annoyed, right? Everyone must have wanted to throw this book out and never see it again. But nooo. According to Goodreads, it’s a 3.79 stars read. I managed to find these two reviews that sort of agree with me. And now that I’ve read them, I see it — it IS dull. All that time in the plane? As slow as if I’d been there, trying to read “On Flight Magazine”, while I had expected… well, love at first sight.

But the thing is— I used to be a veery girly girl. I read a k-zillion chick flicks and I genuinely enjoyed them, no matter how iffy their characters were. And this book? I didn’t even write my name on it. I’m thinking of donating it to the local library. (Which is extreemely difficult, btw, because I’m ubber jealous of my books and only lend them to my trust-worthy, most loved friends. But this one? Not worth standing next to my “Abundance of Katherines”.)

To sum it up — BLEH.


As long as we’re here…

Let me sum up what writing this blog and participating in this community means for me (even if I have been away for x months):

it’s not only getting excellent recommendations for fantastic books we’d otherwise never have picked up,

it’s not only realising you’re not the only cookie in the jar, and there are people going through the same things you are,

it’s not only finding awesome people, writing awesome things that make you rethink everything (or just feel better),

it’s feeling amongst friends.

That’s how I feel whenever I read that new post, or get a new view, a like, a comment  — I feel surrounded by friends.

I feel like I know them.


And that’s an awesome feeling.


About ten minutes ago, I was lying in my cozy, warm bed, no longer asleep after 10+ hours in it, but still reluctant to get out of it and go on with my day (granted, half my day, since it’s noon already). It’s always been like this. Sleep has always been the bad guy. The numbing, warm, addictive feeling that I had to go through every night — and struggle to get rid off every day. And it’s not even because I’m tired. I’m on holiday. The high point of yesterday was deciding whether of not to wash my hair in this cold, cold wheather. (Seriously, people. I know most of you come from magic lands where it snows and everything, so what am I complaining about? 10, 13oC? Piece of cake. But do imagine: no central heat or decent insulation.)

Anyways — it’s always baffled me how other people handle it. Because surely it can’t just be me, right? I can’t be the only one to be tempted to stay in Morpheus arms forever? And dream of doing everything I want to do, becoming everything I want to become, seeing all I want to see…. and all that without having to get out of my warm cocoon or having to wash my hair!

And I’m just babbling all that because I wanted to start writing again and what is a better excuse to get out of bed than to go blog something on WordPress?