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I’ve over thought my childhood addictions

Lately, I’ve been on a Gossip Girl kick. Namely because Netflix, and everybody knows what Netflix does to you.

Which means that since Gossip Girl is six seasons long, I’ve been watching this show for ages and ages. I mean, for forever.

For.

Eh.

Ver.

So, imagine me, last night, somewhere between the hours of 2 and 3 am, watching Gossip Girl over and over. I read the books in their entirety from when the first one was released in like…2001 or something, until the last one came out sometime during college. Thus, I love the books, I love the show, and I know it like the back of my hand.

Or so I thought.

(Insert ominous music here)

I’m one of those people who will watch a show over and over. I’m one of those people who reads books over and over.  I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gone through a series despite knowing it so well. But I was watching Gossip Girl last night and this happened.

Remember Eva?

THIS CHICK. She comes into Gossip Girl and saves Chuck from a gunshot wound despite being a random chick in Poland. It’s bizarre. And I’m watching her, and for some reason, she’s bugging me more than normal. There’s the normal botheration, where I’m so angry at her for screwing up my favorite fictional characters universe. And then there’s this weird thought in the back of my head, like I know her.

It’s that terrible moment where you see someone on the street and you know you know them so you smile, but you can’t remember why you know them so you’re just this idiot smiling at this other person trying to remember things before you pass them by and are branded as the smiling idiot on the street.

So, I Google her. Because it’s entirely possible to Google an actor in 2014, even if you can’t Google the random person on the street to find out why you know them.

FREAKING FLEUR DELACOUR.

And I cannot believe that I missed this. Sure, it’s probably normal that you don’t realize one actor is in two completely different things. Sure, it’s probably fine that the dots didn’t connect because it’s just Harry Potter and it’s just Gossip Girl, and I do have a real life outside of books and movies and things.

Thankfully.

But seriously. I could not figure out how I missed this.

She's a witch, Hotchy.

That’s about when I went off the deep end of pop culture.

Fleur/Eva

 

And that was Tuesday. 

POST SCRIPT RUN ON SENTENCE. I’m sorry I haven’t blogged but it’s stuff like this that is reasons I haven’t and HAVEN’T YOU MISSED ME or ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED or something like that.

 

Signed, sealed, delivered, WHAT THE BLEEP IS IN MY MAILBOX.

I got a letter from my lovely Lina the other day. It was a bittersweet moment, because on one hand, I was all…

I’VE GOT MAIL, BITCHES.

…and on the other hand, I was like…

How long has it been since I’ve sent mail, because so much stationary and so much envelopes and mother-fecking Harry Potter Stamps?!

Which loosely translates to me realizing that I’ve got all this stationary and all these stamps that I have neglected to use.

I have these stamps, guys. And I cannot figure out why I have not sent any of you magical, magical Harry Potter Owl Mail. Image from Yahoo! News.

Of course, this lead me to sorting out all my stationary, and finding my fountain pen, and searching all over etsy for a new-old-working typewriter that I can put on my childhood desk that my father and I are attempting to refinish for me. A girl needs a place to pen her life. Somehow in the course of all this, I found myself on a website that I come across every few years.

I’ve debated joining the Letter Writers Alliance for awhile now, but always told myself not to until I have more time to write. It occurred to me then, that I am never going to have more time to write. If I want to write letters, I need to find time and write letters. So, this is me, dedicating via blog, that I’m going to do just that. New Year’s Resolution style, I’m going on a #LettersFromLA kick, because it’s something I love to do.

And on that note, here are the top five things I would really appreciate finding in my mailbox:

5. Maybe not this exact barrel but…

this is from the 1920’s and was used to ship silver and china. Photo from http://plentyofcolour.com, click photo for link.

I always wanted to get something from Tiffany’s in the mail because you see that blue and you just know that’s where it’s from. Granted, this barrel wouldn’t fit in my mailbox, but still. Tiny version maybe?

4. Unique stationary of any sort…

The personalized mail from suburbanpenpal.wordpress.com is absolutely awesome. Click photo for link.

Freshly pressed definitely knew where my head was at this morning when they featured SuburbanPenPal.wordpress.com. Her letters are so unique, I did that awkward girl sqeeee just looking at them.

3. Here is a Pinata.

Ole. Courtesy of afewofmyfavorites.com. Click photo for link.

Seriously, it’s a pinata. In the mail. Enough said.

2. The Police put it best.

Yes. That is a message in a bottle. Photo from olderandwisor.com. Click the photo for the link.

Sending out an SOS? YES.

And finally.

1. Put a bird on it. Or put it in a bird. Or something like that.

Courtesy of that site I might finally join, the Letter Writers Alliance. Click the photo for the link.

It’s just like having your very own Carrier Pigeon. But he’s dead. I mean, fake. He’s not alive. And he goes in the mailbox. Someone, mail me a bird.

 

So, I’m pulling out my fountain pen later, kids. It’s letter writing time. I think I might actually keep this Resolution.

 

Basically, my journals are my horcruxes, but not really.

If you haven’t read Harry Potter, you might wanna go the fuck away. One, because WHY NOT?! Two, because there’s sort of spoilers in here. Like seriously. Come back when you finish the series.

I’m such a pack rat, guys. Seriously. I save fucking everything.

I have all of the Blue and Whites from when I was in high school (that’s my high school newspaper). I have old corsages from dances. I have wristbands from particularly memorable nights out. I have ticket stubs. I have the chapstick of the guitarist from Sanctus Real from a concert I went to in high school.

I’m not kidding. And that is so fucking creepy. I’m embarrassed that I’m not kidding.

Among all the hubbub that I keep though, there is something that if you know me, I mean really, really know me, then you know I have these.

Journals. Scads and Scads and Scads of journals.

“It’s not a diary. Diaries lock. 12 year old girls keep diaries. This is a journal.”

That was my excuse to people, who thought it was strange that I was a 14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21, etc year old, carrying around a blank book to scribble in. We’ll see how you feel if I ever publish these beauties. Mostly, I just always wanted to be writing. Short stories, poetry, gossip, crush of the year/week/day/hour/minute when someone brushed me on the stairs. My 3rd period Honors English III teacher was THRILLED that I was always writing, although I think she wouldn’t have been as enthralled if she’d read some of what I’d written.

i’m trying not to think of you now

but i’m wringing out the towel

and every drop drips your name

and your face

and god

i wish the sun would dry you out

drive you out

drive me in and love me

(excerpt from a poem from 2003)

But I couldn’t stop. Years later, I look at these journals, and I’m not quite sure what to do with them. Do I want to get rid of them? No. Would you? It’s a pile of reminders of who I was, or who I was when I didn’t know who I was, or just memories of times and changes and people that I might lose otherwise.

But other than that? It’s a pile of books gathering dust under my bed.

Until.

I was reading Harry Potter, for the 210394823 time. Because it’s Harry Potter, and that’s what you do.

So, I’m reading HP, and I’m crying, and I’m trying not to drip my tears on my book, because I totally turned down a night of underage drinking in college to get the damn thing at midnight, when my friend Mohawk texts me.

20130805-111115.jpg

 

Like any 20 something folks that grew up in the mind of J.K. Rowling, we begin discussion of the book. He, of course, brings up the second best Headmaster in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Snape. Snape. Severus Snape.

Which would be well and good until…

20130805-111121.jpg

And now we come full circle.

Journals.

Not just gathering dust under the bed. But useful when needed to one up someone in a debate on if or if not you considered Severus Snape to be a very, very bad man, or else you know…

Boom.

Boom. Courtesy of like journal…#34 or something.

I’ve never been so thrilled to have kept these books all these years.

20130805-111127.jpg

P.S. Dear J.K. Rowling,

If you happen to write another 7 books, could they maybe be about Sirius going through Hogwarts? Or James, or Remus, or Lily? I’ll settle for anyone except for Wormtail, cuz douchecanoe.

XO,

L.A.

 

Sh!t my kid says and YOU’RE WELCOME.

So, the first time, my family went on the Michigander, I brought my kindle along. It was a pain in the ass to charge, because everyone has a cell phone that needs to be charged, but it was nice to have a bazillion books to read.

The second time my family went on the Michigander, I was sick of all my digital books and I was nearly done with reading one of the best series ever.

It’s Harry, bitch.

The logical decision was to bring the damn book along. On a bike trip. Cuz, you know. YOLO.*

Dad: Your bag is so heavy.

Me: Well, you know, I’ve got some of the baby’s stuff in there. His crap won’t all fit in his little roll-y dinosaur trunk.

Inner Monologue: For real, it’s HP7. It’s J.K. Rowling‘s fault because she wrote a fucking truckload.

On this trip, Boo saw me reading the HP greatness. Being the smarty pants kid that he is, he asked the basic questions for a three year old.

Boo: Who’s he?

Me: Harry Potter.

Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson & Rupert Grint (...

Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson & Rupert Grint (left to right) at the world premiere of Harry Potter & The Deathly Hallows Part 2 in London, England (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Boo: Oh. What’s he say?

Me: Expelliarmus.

Boo: Oh. Who’s this guy?

Me: Voldemort.

Voldemort as project manager

Voldemort as project manager (Photo credit: kevin dooley)

Boo: What’s he say?

Me: Avada Kedavra.

Boo: Oh.

Boo: Avada Kedavra!

Me: Just like that. But first, you need to have a wand, and second, we don’t like that spell.

Boo: Oh.

A few months after the bike trip, we were at Meijer. Boo was still on a “catch phrase” period of talking, so there was a lot of “expelliarmus” spells getting thrown around. We happened to be venturing down the aisle that Meijer calls a book aisle when Boo saw it. Harry Potter and the Deathly HallowsJust like Mom’s.

He gets excited. He points at the book. I’m excited too — because HARRY POTTER. But then the greatest moment in the history of small children and Harry Potter happened.

We’re walking away from the book, when Boo swivels in the child portion of the cart, points down the aisle, which has one 30 something innocent woman in it, and hollers. Avada Kedavra.

The woman has obviously read Harry Potter because her jaw just drops and she stares at us as we walk by. I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed, or if I should laugh or what. But my kid just Avada Kedavra’d that lady in Meijer.

I’m telling this story to one of my friends and she gets excited.

“You should absolutely read all the Harry Potters to Boo. You can write down what he says and blog it because it will all. be. hilarious.”

To which I responded, “YES, BUT HAVE YOU READ MUGGLEHUSTLE?”

YOU’RE WELCOME.

*I’m so sorry I said YOLO. I don’t know what came over me. CARPE MOTHERFUCKING DIEM.