The Spartan Sweetheart

Expensive sandwiches. Free health care. Threatening to move to Canada. Knowing what’s best for poor people. And who could ever forget their love for bilingual and gifted children?

Since Stuff White People Like first appeared on the internet, many copycat blogs have emerged. Everyone’s eager to get on board the semi-racist, yet mostly hilarious train, and they should be. Since I don’t really fit any of the ready-made categories (I mean, sure, I’m white, but not THAT white), I thought about Stuff I Like, and decided to create my own category:

Stuff Journalism Majors Like

1.) Talking about other journalism majors.

There are few things Journalism Majors like more than talking about other Journalism Majors. Whether it’s to comment that she so didn’t deserve that internship, to discuss that one professor’s crazy rant about paparazzi, or to share the latest gossip about their favorite on-again, off-again journalism couples, the second favorite chief topic of conversation is what their friends/classmates/competition are up to. (The first favorite subject of conversation for Journalism Majors, of course, is themselves.)

That’s why, whenever Journalism Majors identify their future career at a party/bar/gathering, the first words out of someone’s mouth are, “Oh! Do you know ________?”

This can go two ways. If the question’s asked in a way that signifies the Journalism Major in question is annoying/stupid/a jackass, it’s an invitation to talk shit about your fellow newspaperman (or woman), and you don’t want to miss out! Now’s the time to talk about how they really suck at remembering AP Style or to bring up their past affairs that were accidentally made public in a satirical article.

But if the question’s phrased in a positive light, be sure to give a somewhat upbeat response. Even a simple, “I don’t know _____, but I’ve heard of them.” Because face it, you HAVE heard of everyone. (Even if you don’t know the person, it’s best to reply with “…but I’ve heard of them,” because it might get back to the Journalism Major in question that people know them. This is a huge boost of self esteem, because all Journalism Majors strive to be well-known within their respective J-Schools.

(It is also well-known that usually the most famous Journalism Majors are the ones who don’t try, and who are so weird that everyone can’t help but know and talk about them. MSU J-Schoolers know exactly who I’m talking about.

2.) Overqualified professors.

Journalism Majors love professors with ridiculous backstories. The crazier and more checkered their past, the better. Journalism Majors love to ask, “where did they FIND these people?”, and that’s the highest form of compliment for any prof.

Favorite professors are often former war correspondents, hardcore investigative reporters or big-shot graphics designers. It helps if they’ve also made a foray into other bizarre jobs (for the story, of course) and have completed at least one book, hobnobbed with famous people or made an expedition to the North Pole or escaped as a political refugee from an African country.

If they hear a professor once ran for Congress on the Green Party ticket, Journalism Majors get a little giddy. But once they find out about that same professor’s foray into managing rock bands (and using subliminal messages to get record execs to sign them) and the creation of their last name by way of a cocktail napkin and an unusual French spelling- it’s love.

3.) Making up words and/or coining new phrases.

Journalism Majors love to think they’re responsible for the latest buzzwords. And if they’re not trying to keep up with all the latest slang, they’re making up their own. Case in point, this list of slang I had to make up for my Linguistics class last year. The assignment was to define ten slang terms. Half of my slang was words I made up:

Schmandalous: something one does with a man that is scandalous. ex.) kissing someone you just met. OR a scandalous man, a rogue.
“You had sex with him after you just met? That’s so schmandalous.”
“He’s been with every girl on campus. He’s really schmandalous.”

Nerdular: Anything nerdy, dorky or geeky. Also a person who is any of those three things.
“Diane and Diedra are nerdular, especially when they start talking about science fiction and history.”

Maxident: an awkward sexual overture. Made by a good friend who doesn’t know the boundaries of personal space.
“When he was lying on top of me in the driveway, as headlights from oncoming cars were trained on us, I couldn’t help but think this maxident could have been avoided.”

Manstinct: Something innate only to men, a characteristic only found in men.
“Wrapping a present by putting it in a previously-used box without wrapping paper is a manstinct.”

CB: abbreviation for “cock block,” which is a term for interrupting someone who has sexual intentions with another person.
“When you came into my room drunk and passed out next to me and my boyfriend, you really CB-ed me.”

4.) Procrastination

It should be fairly obvious that Journalism Majors like procrastination. If you’re doing things ahead of schedule, you should probably find a new future profession- one that rewards you for your time management skills.

Journalism Majors like thrill of pulling something off at the last minute. They’ll do pretty much anything possible to avoid actual work. They generally have good intentions, and start the week saying they’ll get this story done on time. But midway through, they’re playing online games, stalking people on Facebook or generally finding anyone, anywhere to talk to (probably about other Journalism Majors and how they’re not getting their work done on time.)

It’s not that they like pissing off editors, who are more than patiently waiting for their stories, it’s just that Journalism Majors generally can’t work unless it’s under pressure. Remove that element of pressure and panic, remove the high of success that comes from narrowly making a deadline.

Passing JRN 300 came with more than just an increased knowledge of AP Style and the ability to sit through three-hour city council meetings without falling asleep. Braving public affairs reporting taught Journalism Majors how much they love angry townspeople.

A good local controversy makes for an awesome story. And when Journalism Majors don’t live in the most exciting places with actual important issues, they learn that one angry townsperson can make a problem big enough to write a 500-word story.

Angry Townspeople come in all shapes and sizes. From that crazy woman with the tiara who has a public access show on channel 28 (Diedra and I discovered it at 8 p.m. during America’s Next Top Model. She calls government agencies and bitches at them about random things, all while smiling awkwardly into the camera and gesturing so much that you can her her bling jingle.) to the legions of self-righteous White People who don’t want a new bike path going up behind their houses because heaven forbid, lower-income families might use it!

The best thing about angry townspeople is that they’re great quoters. They’re mad, and they’re not afraid to tell you about it. They’ll probably even say some awesomely hilarious things that you can’t print without a libel suit. They’re more than happy to voice their case to anyone who’ll listen, even lowly college sophomores who just need an article for this week’s class.

Feel free to submit Stuff you think Journalism Majors like! I think it might become a recurring feature, I’m always looking to add to the list.

Everyone should check out this New York Times article on Man Dates!

Here’s an excerpt:

Although “man date” is a coinage invented for this article, appearing nowhere in the literature of male bonding (or of homosexual panic), the 30 to 40 straight men interviewed, from their 20’s to their 50’s, living in cities across the country, instantly recognized the peculiar ritual even if they had not consciously examined its dos and don’ts. Depending on the activity and on the two men involved, an undercurrent of homoeroticism that may be present determines what feels comfortable or not on a man date, as Mr. Speiser and Mr. Putman discovered in their squeamishness at the Modern.

Josh and Justin went on a Man Date last December, because Justin’s car was in the shop. They went Christmas shopping, took Justin to get a hair cut, and then went out to lunch. If that’s not a Guy Love, I don’t know what is.

P.S. ladies in the Ann Arbor area, if you see a short-ish blond guy wearing a pea coat, J. Crew shirts with collar stays, nice shoes and sunglasses, please hit on him for me. If his socially retarded, Harry Potter fanfiction-writing roommate who spills Gushers all over the bathroom floor (because that’s where he spends most of his time, hiding from strangers) can get some booty, he should too!

When we’re looking for jobs and internships, journalists are given a variety of advice that ranges from useful to useless.

“Market yourself!”

“Show a variety of clips!”

“Network with everyone!”

Most of these sound fairly do-able. But the one that confuses and entices me the most is, “think of yourself as a brand!”

(I always hear and read these tips with exclamation points on the end, even if the way someone says it is as monotone as can be or the advice is stupid. Perhaps it’s my subconscious telling my lazy ass to get a job.)

Most celebrities are brands. Paris Hilton has her own line of …everything, and she’s famous for practically nothing. My friend Laura tried on a pair of stretchy silver Paris Hilton pants this weekend at Macy’s. They were appalling, but intriguing if you think looking like a Cylon is sexy. (And we know several of my male friends do.) I could barely get them around my arm, let alone my leg, so clearly she’s not marketing to my tacky ass.

But what makes a Diane Ivey brand?

If I’m going to have a media empire like Oprah, I need to start with the basics.

First of all, there’s the greatest convenience store/bakery/therapist’s office that is the Cake n’ Carb Emporium. I figure this will be at the heart of my empire. Our cheesy bread sticks, chocolate chip cookies and buttered noodles are a thing of beauty, and a definite signature for the brand.

Next, jewelry and clothing. I think I’ll cater mostly to business/party wear, because I don’t really look good in casual clothes. We’ll of course have a line of chandelier earrings- the bigger the better! And lots of low-cut tops like the one I bought last weekend that includes a gold snake charm.

A side line of hair care products seems to be necessary. It will be for Big Haired Women and be called “BHW,” naturally.

Of course I have to have a media section. Here abides my collection of Harlequin romance novels. Like Nascar or Fabio, I have my own specific series of romances dealing with plots of my choice. All story lines must include the following:

1.) Actual sex! Don’t be a vagina tease like Edward Cullen in “Twilight.”

2.) UST for at least half the book. If you hop in bed together right away, I’m bored. Even if you have some sort of “big misunderstanding,” I’m still bored because I know once you’ve reached that point, you’ll be sure to get there again.

3.) Exotic locales like those in most adventure movies. Historical settings can be fun, too.

4.) Secret babies, double lives and cons of all varieties. At least one is a must, if not all three!

5.) Strong heroines. Bitchy is better than boring.

I’d also like my own film production company to finance mini series made from Victoria Holt novels and to fund various television programs.

Do you have any other great Diane Ivey brand ideas? I’m willing to negotiate with partners.

Up until last year, I never saw anyone famous.

I guess when you’ve spent most of your life in Michigan, your chances of running into a celebrity, even one from reality TV, let alone a legitimate movie star or celebutante, are pretty limited.

Our state may be a hand, but it’s not a hotbed for the rich and famous. Or come to think of it, anyone.

So I was pretty sad about not seeing a celebrity, since I figured that was one of those experiences you just need to have at least once. I don’t count musicians I’ve seen in concert, either, since they’re pretty much required to be there.

But in the short span of about five months, I’ve seen three “famous” people. And none of them go together. At all.

Last summer, the sequel to the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants was shot at my camp. Sadly, the entire cast didn’t come to camp, only one actress. And that actress was America Ferrera. I personally picked out camp t-shirts for her as free gifts (which it turns out she couldn’t wear since it’s technically considered promotion, which you have to be paid to do) and found the frantic production crew a FedEx box that she could receive the traveling pants in. A month after filming ended, they sent us a 30-pack of FedEx boxes as a thank you.

The best part of this whole experience, though, was the time my friend Shawna and I took a slightly different route on the way to meet up with our group, and ended up close enough to filming to hear the director say things like, “that was so awkward! Do it again!” We stood behind a tree and watched for about half an hour, before we had to leave. When we tried to get back to that same spot, we were told we weren’t allowed to be there. Later that night, on our way past filming, we had to cut the engine of our golf cart and have three not-so-buff British boys push us up a hill. (Watching a film crew is cool for about ten minutes, before it becomes massively annoying due to the absolute silence needed on set.) The very nice security guard, who told us stories about working to make the streets of Manhattan look deserted for Will Smith’s movie “I am Legend,” helped us make it to our destination unscathed.

Last November, my business journalism class was invited to the Detroit Press Club’s annual dinner at the Renaissance Center. It was a fun night, although being tipsy from the free auto industry alcohol in front of your professor is beyond weird, but the crowning moment came when we were seated.

It was a few minutes into our food before we realized our class had been seated one table away from Dr. Kevorkian.

We really wanted to get a picture with him, but he scuttled off, probably through some kind of secret back door, the minute the dinner was over. My class then decided it was more important to debate whether it was tacky to steal the remaining free beer from the buckets on our table.

Last week, I was watching TV at work as per usual, when none of the shows I wanted to watch were available. I wanted to watch The Tudors or Dirt, but they were downloading way too slowly to bother with. Finally, because it was there and because I was going crazy with boredom, I decided to watch The Real Housewives of New York City.

I figured it might be funny, since I worked for a lot of women like that at camp. I thought it’d be amusing to watch trophy wives and big-shot moms prance around in heels and talk shit about each other.

I noticed there was something familiar about one woman in particular. Her name was Luann Delesseps, and she was a countess by marriage. (She’s the tallest one in the middle in the picture, FYI.) Her husband is part of an influential French family that helped make the Panama Canal and purchased the Statue of Liberty for America. I thought, “there’s no way that can be the same woman whose children went to camp.” Then she showed her kids, and I knew.

Most of the parents I encountered at camp were great. I wish I could remember them, but of course as with any job, you only remember the Crazies. Let’s just say she was a special snowflake, and every bit as ridiculous as she appears on the show.

I quickly messaged my fellow camp office girls, and they all remembered her. We had a good laugh about it.

Since I saw Ira Glass last week at Wharton, I think he definitely classes up my list of celebrity encounters. Here’s to hoping my next brush with the world of fame is a lot cooler.

Spring is here, but it hasn’t been welcomed with the usual bells and whistles I’ve come to expect from both my friends and myself.

It seems instead, to be a season of dread and sleepless nights and panic.

Some horrible, heavy black thing has descended upon our chests, and has made it harder to breathe easy. Warmer temperatures and longer days go unnoticed while we bask in the artificial glow of our computers, refreshing our e-mail for the hundredth time today.

We’re all in limbo, and we might as well get comfortable. Nobody’s leaving for a while.

Everyone I know is panicking about the future. Some of us are graduating, and have real jobs to think of. I can barely get past the idea of two whole semesters without the class of 2008. A number of my favorite people are packing up their lives in East Lansing and moving on to better things. At least, they hope they are.

Indecision is the only constant in our lives right now.

It’s like we’re on the edge of something great. Like we can smell it, but only once and a while, when the wind blows in the right direction. Everybody’s tense, everybody’s waiting, everybody wants to move on and freeze everything, all at the same time.

I’ve even found myself glaring jealously at the freshman. They’re so young, and they have so many great years ahead of them. Not that I particularly love school spirit (I’m proud that I’ve never attended an athletic game or celebrated St. Patrick’s Day or done anything else green and white themed) but there are definitely things about MSU that I will miss. I’m not gonna lie, I’ll totally cry at graduation. Being up there with the rest of the J-School is going to be emotional, even though by that point many key players will be gone.

I’m already starting to get nostalgic about freshman year. Not to get all inspirational Facebook bumper sticker on everyone, but things happened in a chain of events from what I thought was the worst possible thing that could happen, leading all the way up to camp. My whole life changed in the three months I spent there. In the last two months before camp, I became really close to my first college roommate, made the best MSU friend possible who I seriously don’t know what I’d be without, and made some embarrassing errors in boy judgment. I took control of my life for the first time, and it was amazing.

I’m not ready to be a senior again. I remember looking at my class in 2005, when I was 18, and thinking we’d come so far. I had no idea.

I wish everyone the best of luck on their internships/jobs/moves/real life adult decisions. Several people from my graduating class have already gotten married. I’m lucky if I can pick a sandwich to eat for two weeks straight, let alone pick a husband. Some of them have babies. I can barely keep my plant alive. Some of them are serving in the armed forces overseas. I tripped hardcore on the sidewalk cracks today and did a face-plant in front of the CATA station. Lord knows I’m the last person who should handle a firearm.

I’m excited and I’m terrified and I’m nervous. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to have these opportunities, and all I want is one chance to prove myself.

Let’s keep distracting ourselves with friends and booze and the (hopefully consistent) warm weather! Let’s laugh a lot and make poor decisions and take chances while there’s still time. Because ready or not, we’re on our way to adulthood, and there’s no turning back.

Rap (and even some country) songs have been warning women about shady guys since the 1980s.

Ditties like TLC’s “No Scrubs” (the first of these songs that I learned all the lyrics to in sixth grade) preach that you shouldn’t bother trying to hit on chicks if you’re unemployed and still live in your parents’ basement.

Luckily, I’ve never needed this particular lesson, thanks to my father.

Whenever he was telling a story about deadbeat coworkers or dysfunctional relatives who happened to “lose their wallet on the golf course” twice a year, causing them to need a loan, he would look at me and my sister and say, very solemnly:

“Remember girls, if you have a boyfriend, he needs to have two things: a job, and a car.”

We would look at him equally solemn, and nod seriously, taking this into consideration for the future.

Although I’m sure at the time, I was probably wondering if a run-down but speedy space ship or a black steed named Tornado would count for a car, and if “swashbuckling brigand” or “rogue smuggler” counted as official employment, since the only men I wanted to be my boyfriend were Han Solo and Zorro.

But regardless, it was still a valuable life lesson that was often repeated throughout my childhood and into my adolescence as well.

Dad: (usually after some sketchball just left him one employee short) Diane, if you have a boyfriend, what does he need?

Me: A job…and a car.

Dad: That’s right!

So thank you, Dad, for this timeless advice. When I go to the bar next weekend with Team Fangirl in tow, I will be sure to ask any men who hit on me if they are in possession of both these important assets.

But if you are a rogue smuggler or a swashbuckling brigand…I might have to reconsider.

Just saying.

Let’s start by ignoring the questionable grammar in the title. IS there a right way to write that? If so, let me know.

Today is The Spartan Sweetheart’s Second Birthday!

I think it’s pretty cool that I’ve been around for two years now. And while it depresses me to know next year I’ll be a senior who remembers when there were three restaurants in the union, all of them with menus under $7.00, and what times the night buses actually run, and before American Apparel existed…wait, was I going to make a point here? When I was your age, we had to walk uphill both ways in the snow with no shoes to get drunk and order burritos.

Anyhow, now that I’ve reached the ripe old age of two, I’ve looked up some traits of the “terrible two’s” to determine if I’m suffering from any.

According to the Child Welfare League of America’s web site, two-year-olds demonstrate the following:

Actually, I have been doing this as of late. I’m finally (finally!) happy with just being single, and I don’t need to cling to a weird crush or obsess over an awkward situation.

I’ve pretty much been doing this since birth.

I have been saying no to more things lately, like eating that entire box of Girl Scout Cookies or hooking up with a shady Southern ex-Army Hockey Player in a bar. I do like the word “no,” but I’m a bigger fan of, “maybe…if you’re good.”

I’m not a violent person, but I do enjoy a good tantrum now and then.

Guilty as charged.

There’s a reason I enjoy bitches in film, television and books so much. It’s because I want to be one! Sadly, I have much more of a conscience than most of my heroines.

I don’t really play with children ever. I think they’re a bad investment.

Normally, this isn’t a problem. I am known to fall asleep fully clothed when drunk, however, but I never leave my shoes on. That’s how our friend Chance from ended up with a Hitler mustache via permanent marker during camp.
On the other hand, I do need help making sure I have ALL of my clothes. A few weeks ago, I returned from the bar and my hair smelled like a cigarette factory. When I finally got up the strength to shower, I didn’t bother to change into a towel first. I just went in my going out clothes and took the towel with me.

On the way back, I thought I grabbed everything in my pile. The next morning, I’m heading to lunch when I hear, “who left their panties in the hallway?” Apparently, I had dropped my underwear somewhere between the shower and my room for all to see. I must have gone past them two or three times the night before and not realized it. “Um…shouldn’t someone take care of that?” I asked Diedra, as we passed the purple and green underwear. “No, I’m sure they’ll figure it out,” she said. “BUT THEY’RE MINE!” I hissed.

She laughed at me, and reminded me of this episode of The West Wing when Donna’s underwear falls out of her pants in front of an important columnist. I had to scrape them up when no one was looking. It was hilarious, at least for everyone else.

(See 5:50 for underwear, but the whole thing’s hilarious.)

I have three rules for interaction with strangers/salespersons/people I generally want to avoid:
1.) Don’t look at me.
2.) Don’t talk to me.
3.) Don’t touch me.

I’m actually trying to work on having less of these.

I’m pretty sluggish without the aid of caffeine. I’m a self-professed slow walker, but I’d like to think I’m considerate to the non-moseying population. I will always step aside to let you go up the stairs first, or move so you can pass me on the sidewalk. I take very short steps, and I’m a meandering individual. Try not to push me if I stop to ponder something random.

I’d just like to say that whoever thought it would be cute to put the credit card slot on the gas pump so high on the pole that I have to perform a slam-dunk to put my Visa through is not doing us shorties any favors.

For the LOLs, you should see me try sports.

I wish! Unfortunately, I am hungry at inopportune times, as I’ve been for most of my adult life.

Creating new words, phrases or concepts is one of my favorite things ever. Schmandalous, mantiques, Cake n’ Carb Emporium, moldy sandwich syndrome, iDoubt, pulling a Scarlett, hit that bitch with a bottle, small scale adventure, “sex or potato?” just to name a few.

That’s the only time I’d say I was adorable.

So in honor of my second birthday (at least on the blog scene) I hope you’ll wish me a good one! Especially the readers I know are out there who don’t comment. I like attention, and I like being admired even more. Hell, if you hate me I want to know about it.

Whenever I’m sick of school and work and even my internship, I daydream about other potential careers.

Maybe I’ll invent something fabulously amazing that nobody’s ever thought of, yet everyone needs. Like the Pet Rock, or Post-Its.

On the other hand, I could start my own business. I still think the Cake n’ Carb Emporium is the greatest grocery invention since Haagen Dazs and the pint-sized container.

But there’s a third career option for people like me. People with no actual marketable skills and a lot of ridiculous ideas.

I’ve decided to become a consultant for major motion pictures, television shows and publishing houses. My job will be to tell them if they’ve accidentally inserted any inappropriate subtext into their art.

Lately, I’ve been noticing inappropriate subtext all over the place. Don’t get me wrong, I love subtext! Without subtext, the fangirls would be lost, characters wouldn’t get any off-screen action and the internet wouldn’t be the glorious, argumentative place that it is.

Let’s take a moment to define, “inappropriate,” shall we?

I’m not talking about appropriate being straight, monogamous couples. I’m talking about inappropriate as in, should your viewer/reader be asking themselves, “Is it wrong that I find this sexy?”

If your reader is asking himself/herself that question, or others like it, you have created some inappropriate subtext, and we need to talk.

I’ve only included a few major examples for each category, but rest assured that there are many more out there. Feel free to share your own inappropriate subtext findings. Remember, we work together to create a world with more resolved sexual tension!

Subtextual Offenders: the Short List

The Chronicles of Narnia: the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

So I seriously thought I was a huge perv about this one, until several other people I talked to also said they noticed it. Tumnus and Lucy, anyone? James McAvoy is adorable, but how he manages to accidentally have sexual tension with a seven-year-old is beyond wrong. I’m not sure how this happened, because in the books, and even in other film versions, I don’t feel like he wants to hit it, once she grows up. But here? It’s just uncomfortable.

300

The first time I saw this movie, I walked away thinking, “That was really awesome!” The second time I saw it, I walked away thinking, “That was really gay!”
For the ultimate macho movie that’s become a symbol of school spirit, 300 has a lot of hilarious gay subtext. All the grunting and groaning and running around in tight leather underwear seems to point more toward a night at Spiral than anything else. And the part where Xerxes says, “on your knees!!!” Yeah, let’s not even talk about that.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

I know I’ve touched on this before, but it bears repeating. Buffy and Faith have the gayest subtext ever. Between all the animosity and the weird gestures of friendship and the fighting evil, it just gets a little gay in there. See the episode “Bad Girls,” for everything to avoid if you’re trying to keep your fans from getting ideas.

LOST

A show that has recently become dear to my heart, but is full of questionable subtext. Is it supposed to be there? We may never know. But then none of my questions have ever really been answered, so I’m not surprised. I was happy that Shannon and Boone actually had sex before they both died, because that made me feel a little less guilty about wanting them to, since she’s his half-sister, after all. Maybe all that V.C. Andrews has gotten to my brain.
Also, there’s the fun gay subtext between Jack and Sawyer (supposed rivalry over Kate, or secret UST? you decide) and Kate and Juliet (especially when they are handcuffed together in the jungle and end up mud-wrestling.)

Twilight

See my Twilight post for more on this, but you know when you have a vampire book without sex, it’s going to somehow wind up seeming sexual anyway.
In other related ideas, I’ve decided that Diedra and I are going to go see the Twilight movie with cleverly-concealed flasks and play a drinking game in the theater. Between Robert Pattinson’s attractiveness (well, Diedra and Sara think so, but I’ll pass), the terrible purple-prosed speeches and the no doubt over-filtered cinematography, it’s going to be a good time. I’m way more excited than any 21-year-old has a right to be. I told her if we get arrested for public drunkenness in a PG-13 movie, it will be the proudest day of my life. Although I hope we fare slightly better than this woman, but hey, great small scale adventure!

Victoria Holt

My favorite gothic romance author has this little problem where she makes me want the people I’m not supposed to actually like. I get that it was dirty/bad/wrong for Helena to go home with Duke Maximilian in On the Night of the Seventh Moon, and that his servant saved her from ruin by locking the door and warning Helena against letting the Duke into her room. But…I kind of wanted them to get it on! Even though she’s like, 18 and he’s a shadester and it’s all manner of inappropriate. I’m currently reading The King of the Castle, and again, even though the Comte is a bad guy who supposedly walled his wife in the castle dungeons, I still would tap that like it’s Morse Code. Maybe the whole brooding scandalous guy thing appeals to me too much.

What I’d do, as the official Subtext Consultant, is observe all filming and read all copies of the script. I would determine whether or not the subtext is intentional by speaking with the director, producers and actors. If the subtext is not supposed to be there, I would advise everyone on how to reduce it.

“No…step away from each other!” I’d say. “No touching, and don’t let your eyes linger longer than necessary.”

“That’s innuendo,” I’d advise. “Change the line so it doesn’t seem like you want to get in his pants. Unless you do. In that case, I’m down with that!”

It’s pretty easy to correct your subtext, if you’re aware of it in the first place. A few line alterations and camera angles, and we’re back on track.

Plus, I’d get to manhandle all the actors under the guise of, “helping them learn appropriate behavior.” And I’m certainly in favor of that.

But perhaps, it isn’t meant to me. Because what’s the fun in fandom without the questionable subtext? When everything’s cut and dry and you know who’s into who…it gets boring after a while. Maybe part of what being a fan is about is finding those hidden parts, no matter how juicy or wrong, and exploiting them for all they’re worth.

Back to the career drawing board, I guess. There’s always that combined winery/radio talk show/hairless animal sweater store I planned back in high school.

Before my nerdy friends from home met my nerdy friends from school, each didn’t believe that the other set existed.

“Diane, these people are just like you!” Justin exclaimed, upon meeting Erin and Diedra.

Understandably, they thought I couldn’t have befriended that many oddballs.

(I’d like to add that, after being compared to me, Diedra and Erin looked appalled. What exactly made them hate the comparison is hard to tell. Is it my love for tacky gold jewelry, specifically the kind involving fake coins? My inappropriate choices in men? My obsession with journalism movies? Please, do let me know.)

But as I’ve proved time and again, I know a lot of freaks. That’s why my life is so fulfilling.

Nerd friends unite! (From left: Josh, Diedra, Erin, Justin and me doing my best Jabba the Hutt impression.) We drank Strawberry Hill wine, and it was just as gross as Hank Green claimed it to be! But like Hank, we couldn’t stop drinking it. Josh was repulsed, as it violated his “no wine under $10.00″ rule, but he drank it just the same.

Speaking of friends, if you enjoy small scale adventures in foreign countries, definitely check out Sara’s blog. For those of you who don’t know, she’s in Paris for study abroad this semester, so let the “Me Talk Pretty One Day” moments begin! She’s already awkwarded out her host family by referring to her fellow study abroaders (who, coincidentally are all girls) as her girlfriends instead of just her friends, impersonated an urchin (the sea kind, not the street variety) and found out what happens when you drink three times the normal amount of Barium. Nobody small scale adventures quite like we do- that’s why we’re best friends.

Last week, Justin called me in the middle of the day to inform me that he, Josh and Marcus had purchased a copy of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice, featuring my favorite (almost!) naked pond bather: Colin Firth. Justin informed me that they would be watching it, and they could only make comments about the show in British accents.

I wish I’d been able to see it. I’m sure words couldn’t do justice to the hilarity of three wannabe-macho nerdfighters talking in ridiculous voices about the Bennett family’s troubles with their estate.

The Fellowship of the Nerds informed me the next day (they only made it through half of P&P at that point) that they thought up a drinking game for the series.

Apparently, you drink every time one of the Bennett women giggles, any time Darcy broods, any time they use the word “extremely,” etc.

“We thought of you!” they exclaimed.

I’ve never been so proud to call them my friends.

WARNING! Too much drinking during a Pride and Prejudice marathon may result in hitting that bitch with a bottle:

Like most bloggers, I get my fair share of awkward Google ads.

Most of the time, I’m just offended at how accurately they seem to portray my life.

Sick of men disappointing you?

Products for Big Hair!

Huge selection of trashy romance novels!

Whatever, I get it, Google. You think I’m a lonely, self-absorbed, flat-haired woman in need of some literary porn. That’s cool. I don’t really mind. If people Google those things and find me, maybe I can help them out. We all need more heaving bosoms and stiffened members in our life. (At least, I think we do.)

But today, Google ads crossed a disturbing line.

I opened up my blog during my comparative politics class to check comments, when in huge, flashing letters the following words appeared:

Meet Vampire Singles!

Um…no! I think this dog says it best:

I have talked and talked about how I know NOTHING about vampires, and how even after I experienced Vampire Education, I still don’t really think blood breath is sexy.

More importantly, I started giggling in class when thinking about what an actual “vampire singles” dating site would look like. The idea amused me so much, I thought up some dating profiles and personal ads for our favorite vamps. This is further proof that my kindergarten teacher was right. “Diane does not use her time wisely” was always my only unfavorable report card comment.

Edward Cullen from Twilight:

Educated, musical, 106-year-old virgin seeks spineless Mary Sue who enjoys cooking, obsessing and rainy days. Must be willing to give up your soul, but compensation includes relief from our ridiculous sexual tension, an eternity of sleepless nights, and great porcelain skin. Unyielding devotion, a fondness for purple prose speeches, and too-stupid-to-live behavior a plus. I’ll protect you from your clumsiness even more than I’ll protect my virtue. Sex only upon the condition of marriage.

Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer:

Billy Idol look-a-like desires short, quippy blonde with a fondness for medieval weaponry, ice skating, and saving the world. I tried to make a robotic copy of you, but it just wasn’t the same. Our love/hate passion will make up for all the times I stalked you and stole your underwear. My unflaggering, puppy dog devotion knows no bounds. I’m even willing to befriend your obnoxious, ball-of-magical-energy sister. Microchip in brain prevents actual harm to humans, but feel free to smack me around- I like it.

Mick St. John from Moonlight:

Brooding former detective with many tattoos and a receding hairline in search of kidnapping victim I rescued over 20 years ago. Now you’re all grown up, and kind of hot. Even though you’re a scandal-mongering internet reporter, I’m willing to forgive you for stabbing my ex-wife and sire. Our wooden acting, stilted dialogue, and hilariously gruff demeanors can’t hide our true love. If you don’t mind my cliched, swishing trench coat, I’ll get over your shellacked hair and complete lack of personality.