Thursday, April 21, 2011

In which We Watch Our Heroine Revisit Childhood Drama in a Public Forum...again...

So the front of the book store, you may have noticed, especially if you work there, has undergone a make over of epic proportions (which I just spelled three different ways, all wrong. Gosh words is hard.) in the past few weeks. We have created an area of journals, special paper, art supplies, cards, and various other items and supplies that you creative types might require to pen down your copious emotions and flights of whimsy. Dude, I get it. I got whimsy coming out of my pores, as evidenced by every post I ever make here. I'm often in several different places at once. Because of that, I have a specific relationship with journals that goes back to when I was a kid. I come from a fairly large family, most of which I don't really remember ever meeting before I was around 12 and we started doing an annual family reunion. I also have some extended family that I often tend to see around Christmas, but not too much outside of that.

The thing about big families is that, unless you all live really close to each other, its hard to know each specific kid really well. Kids can cycle through phases pretty fast, I remember at one point my baby sister having strong, serious convictions about becoming a Lepidoterist. To the unwashed masses, let me inform you, this is somebody that sudies butterflies and moths. For a while, I myself thought I wanted to be a gaudy, wealthy divorcee who could tuck her linen suit into her many golden bangles and retreat to her yacht to brood and drink expensive booze from squat, handblown glasses.

Oh no, wait, that phase is still going on. Right. Ok nevermind.

My point is, in my family I kind of got the label of "creative, talented, misunderstood and angsty" which, while totally accurate, led to a landslide of gifted journals that inevitably got re-gifted. People figured that I had a lot of feelings, and that I must want to record them somehow, because presumably all young girls love journals. My mother was the type to have a gift closet, and there was always fresh store of unused journals on hand for her to dole out, almost all of them gifts themselves from a distant aunt.

I'm not saying I was ungrateful for these journals, but its just kind of a shame, since I'm not the journaling type. I'm kind of a talker, don't know if you've noticed. I can noodle around on any subject for a fair amount of time, regardless if I actually know anything about this subject. This talent has served me well in school when called upon to give presentations, or numerous times in the book store when Book Seller X who I want to think I'm cool asks me about such-and-such-cool-thing-I've-never-heard-of. At this point I've been there for long enough that I can just look them straight in the eyes and start to drool a bit, and they usually get the memo. But it used to be like, "Oh, yeah, totally, Wolfmother, yes. Uh huh Infinite Jest, so deep, I was touched. Yes. Stone Ground Mustard, love that band, they really rock. Oh its an actual...ok nevermind."

Thats why I recommended the "VS" journals we have at the store for my staff rec this month. What an amazing idea. These journals are basically a game of "would you rather..." in journal form. You can open the book to any page and you'll get a prompt: unicorn vs. pegasus, megaman vs. rocketboy, The Tick vs. Spiderman. the possibilities are endless. Not everybody was like me; don't let my preferences effect your gift-buying decisions. I myself have gotten a fair number of young relatives journals of their own; it's a right of passage, and some of them do get used and are beloved. A few years ago, my mom, knowing all about my background relationship with dairies, etc, bought me a beautiful leather-bound journal with a little brass clasp, and I still have it and use it all the time. My best friend faithfully kept a diary all throughout grade school and well into high school, I know because she used to read me excerpts while we read 17 magazine on her bed after school everyday. If you're wondering, Steven really didn't have a crush on me, he was just using me to get to Sarah F. because she got boobs when we were like, 10.

Not to end this post on a bummer, but harsh, Steven. Way to crush my brittle 11-year-old heart. Its probably your fault that I'm like this.

As ever, peace to the homies, no love for the scrubs. Steven.
xoxox, Zoe.

oh, also, I just saw Emily's post underneath this one, and "Yikerz!" is awesome. Emily and I were playing it just the other night, it would actually be a great game to play on your luxury yacht. In case you were wondering.

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