PLZ READ THIS BOOK BECAUSE I NEED TO DISCUSS IT WITH SOMEONE

Alright kids, it's time to talk books. Over the years I have had many different books, and I hope to have the chance to tell you about all of them*. This week, as I am researching for my senior seminar piece, I have had the opportunity to re-read two of my favorite books. One of which is I'll Give You the Sun, which I will review in detail later. But, there is this part early on where one of the main characters, Jude, is asked if there is any art piece that she has to build, is there this idea that is in her that's about to erupt and needs to be released. Of course there is, and this begins her journey in the story. Well, I just had one of those moments reading one of my current favorite books, We Were Liars by E. Lockhart while trying really hard to not listen in to the discussion on my left about creating a dance performance, and the conversation on my left about putting a website and instagram link on something. I knew I had to write a blogpost, which I consider my "website," and this book is so ferociously amazing as I re-read it that I put it down and ran to my car. I left my purse and phone on the table, trusting the man planning the dance performance, Eli, because I trust him and once wrote a monologue about the time he drunkenly won a huge basket of meat.

So, here I am, wanting to tell you to read, and then re-read We Were Liars (WWL). I try to hand sell this book all the time, because, as I said to one customer looking for a gift for a distance cousin, "I don't know why anyone wouldn't like this book."

Fact: If you are looking for your next favorite book check to see if your favorite author has any recommendations. WWL and The Art of Fielding were both recommendations from John Green.

To any non-Penguin Random House associated employer looking at my blog, I pinkie promise I read other publishers, and I can provide a list of wonderful books from you from which I have read, but right now this post is a little Penguin Random House saturated.

To any Penguin Random House employers reading my blog: Girl, I love what you do.

To any who are thinking of hiring me: Please do.

OH MY GOD! WWL. So, this is a book that pulled me in because I wasn't impressed by the description John Green gave me, but jeezum crow that opening page. With the poetic mantra that is repeated: "Welcome to the beautiful Sinclair family...We are Sinclairs. / No one is needy. / No one is wrong." A similar mantra is first found in the next couple of pages, "Be normal, now, she said. Right now, she said. Because you are. Because you can be. Don't cause a scene, she told me. Breath and sit up. I did what she asked." I am a real sucker for poetic format in books, whether magnificent metaphors and images (John Green, Jandy Nelson, Erin Morgenstern, etc.) or this clear as day poems with enjambment and a disregard for capitalization as right here in this moment! I also love characters that I adamantly hate.

Reading this the first time I was intrigued. I love stories about rich people who are just so terrible at approaching problems and feelings that it causes a million different problems and makes me want to rip my hair out. Those are the best. If I have to slam a book shut out of frustration, you know it's good. So, yeah, this kind of talk is expected. Of course Candace, our main character, is told to act like her dad didn't just leave them, of course Granny didn't die. Everything is fine. We are Sincalirs.

But the second time... Oh Lord-y! These pack a much heavier punch.

You see, this book has a magnificent plot twist, as we can expect as we follow Candace on her journey to remember what happened two summers ago that led to her floating in the ocean, practically naked.

Here is what I am learning: Every book with a plot twist should be re-read. So you can catch the tiny little hints that the author gives. Words that meant nothing the first read mean everything the second read. I love puns. I think they're funny. But I also love puns in dramatic sense. The way a word "ashes" mean nothing the first time around, but break your soul the second time you read. That was the word that got me to this point. So, you should probably read to find out why this book made me sob ugly tears (like in The Book Thief) for the last couple of chapters.

I will also say I probably have a bias to this book. I enjoyed it so much because I related to it. Not because my family went on vacations to their private island with individual double or triple story houses. But, because I love my cousins so much. They're really cool people. Much like the Sinclairs there are a chunk of us that were born within the same year and a half, some only differing in age by two weeks, or two days. At family events we cluster together, no matter how much we grow up, and think about our youth as well as discussing our futures.

We may have never gone to Beechwood Island, but we did go on a trip yearly to the same house on Psalm Island, South Caroline. We loved that blue house, and the short walk to the beach, and the dramatic rooftop porch. That week of summer was always magical. I'd talk about it all school year, telling stories of "my cousin Savannah/Danny/Jordan/Mitchell" and everything we did that summer.

So, when the big reveal comes and Candace remembers what happened two summers ago, I sobbed. I sobbed and sobbed.

GUYS, IT'S SUCH A GOOD BOOK. AND I CAN'T TELL YOU WHY I SOBBED AND I JUST NEED SOMEONE TO KNOW SO WE CAN DISCUSS IT. SO. PLZ READ.


Book reviews to expect, so you should probably read up:
1. The Hate U Give by Angie Thompson
2. Simon v the Homo Sapien Agenda by Becky Albertalli
3. The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach
4. The Midnight Circus by Erin Morgenstern
5. Bossypants by Tina Fey
6. Code Name Verity / Rose Under Fire by Elizabeth Wein
7. I'll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson
8. Basically, check out my Goodreads and read everything there.

Poem's for Duffy (Kissy face, kissy face, kissy face)

I.          

When I was younger I began

Putting daydreams to paper,

Imagining the perfect date:

Christian and Julie (though originally Sage)

Planted a garden, and then

Returned indoors to read a book together.

Lazy Sunday sun shines down on their couch

Where their feet and legs mingle in the middle

Each going at their own pace, munching on apples.

Now that I have you

Fantasy becomes reality.

Though the structure is veered, it is

Perfect in its own unique fashion.

II.          

You play video games on your Xbox.

 An activity I don’t participate in,

 While I enjoy quietly reading my book.

 Video games are not my forte, and

 It’s sometimes hard for me to grasp why

 You play video games on your Xbox.

 Though you’ve tried to read with me,

 Divergent, you still look at me in curiosity

 While I enjoy quietly reading my book.

 But, because I adore you, I don’t complain

 When sitting on the couch, simply watching

 You play video games on your Xbox.

 And, since you adore me, and

 Want me at your side, you do work,

 While I enjoy quietly reading my book.

 They say do what you love,

 So we do, but do it with who we love—

 You play video games on your Xbox,

 While I enjoy quietly read my book.

III.

Our greatest fights are food oriented.

We love to eat out,

Especially at local joints we discovered by chance or recommendation.

But, we always have the hardest time deciding.

You complain about being hungry,

About not knowing what to do,

Debating health and taste,

And I try to sit back and calmly

Let you work it out and decide.

Of course, this isn’t a great tactic,

You are always aware of me,

Always taking care of me,

Therefore, always turning to me and asking,

“Where do you want to go?”

While you lay on the floor,

Or face plant into a pillow,

Or stubbornly wait for me to give an answer,

I will say I don’t care and list off the food I want—

It’s usually noodles—

But I avoid definitive answers that make the decision.

You complain some more,

I try to force you into a decision,

We may yell,

We may fall into hangry silence,

Scrolling through lists of best restaurants and menus,

Or sometimes Instagram.

These aren’t our best moments,

And it is aggravating how hard it can be

To just decide where the hell we’re gonna eat at that moment.

But in the end,

We end up on the same team,

Because of our love—

Our love for food is united and determined.

I can remember times when

Moments before we’d been upset at this battle,

But somehow ended up holding hands, giggling with joy,

Singing about food,

And just generally excited to be friends again,

And ecstatic about the prospects of a good meal,

And pleased with ourselves to have made the fucking decision. 

How to Defeat a Punching Bag: Paige Style

Two things you should know about me:

1. I think I'm pretty adorable.

2. I am in no way aggressive, so even punching bags are intimidating.

My family is pretty short, and at 5'2 I'm fairly tall for my siblings. I enjoy my short size. I liked relating to fairies in cartoon movies as a kid, I liked that it was a benefit as a dancer, and I like that it just adds to my adorableness. I also have relatively big blue eyes, which I also appreciate. They add to my curious and sweet demeanor. I like my sometimes high and childlike voice when I'm trying to be nice to customers, it really puts off a vibe that I am a shy bookworm (spoiler alert: That's exactly what I am). In other words, I have several natural attributes that, in my opinion, make me adorable. And I use these to my advantage to continue to portray myself as such. 

Many TV shows and movies like to show the short girl also being aggressive and somewhat terrifying. Shakespeare probably had the original tiny-girl-who-will-also-take-you-down-and-is-tired-of-being-viewed-as-small-and-puny in the play A Midsummer Night's Dream. As Helena describes her friend/enemy Hermia, "And though she be but little, she is fierce."

I actually really enjoy this quote. I like to sometimes imagine that I am this fierce and ready to gouge someone's eyes out, if need be. But, this is not me. I am about as harmful as a butterfly. So, because of this, punching bags are my least favorite exercise. When Coach Susie (shoutout) demonstrates the punching bag and tells us to just "go at" the punching bag I feel extra tiny. Just, like... I don't get how people literally make those things actually swing, or have the confidence to actually kick one with all of their might. I don't know if it's because I'm lazy or honestly non-aggressive, but I do not approach a punching bag and think "I'm gonna take you out!" Usually I'm thinking, "Please let the next thirty seconds go by quickly." 

But, I do have a trick to make myself punch harder and maybe get the bag to swing as if a gentle summer breeze has struck it. And that's to think of all the times strangers have referred to me as "little" or any childlike term.

I shouldn't be angry at this, as I said before I like being small and adorable, and I like the vibe it gives off because in ways it's exactly who I am. Also most people think I'm younger than I am. It's not uncommon for people to assume I'm under 21, or still in high school, hell my doppelganger is a Russian woman six years younger than me. But still, I hate when strangers (always men) use certain terms.

I have been called cutsie names in my life. "Paigey" and "Pigeon" and others. But, that's because they come from family members who gave me the nickname when I was little, as in young and still growing. But, recently, and acquaintance called me, "Little Paige" when I said hello to them.

I know he meant nothing of it, and it may have been a slip, but it caught me off guard. Again, yes I do shop in the "petite" section because my arms and legs are basically stubs, but in title I am not "little." I am just Paige. That name will do just fine. No need to add "small" or "tiny" or "little" or anything of the like. Just Paige (JustPaigenThru, find me on Instagram). 

Thinking of being called this makes me feel more motivated to punch the punching bag. It's one of the things I can call forward and still feel real angry about that it can translate to my wimpy fists. But, this instance was not the only time I've been called something similar to this.

The very first time this came to light I was attending a concert with my boyfriend, Duffy. Before we went into the amphitheater we had security check our bags and be waved over by a metal detector. Everything was fine and dandy, I was smiling as I approached the man with the wand. Then--THEN-- this man said to me, "Alright if you'll turn around, kiddo." I forced my smile for the duration it took me to turn around and then dropped it as soon as I was facing Duffy again. I mouthed to him, "Kiddo?!?" Before returning to a pleasant look to walk past the security guard. I get that this man was older and it's not uncommon for older people to call youths "kiddo." And a lot of the people attending the concert could be called "kiddo" by this man, who was probably already annoyed by us even though we were early to arrive. But come on! I know he didn't call the guy in front of me "kiddo" and he didn't call Duffy "kiddo." And I know I look like a "kiddo" but it just really pushed my buttons. 

I punch the bag harder when I think of being called "kiddo." As if I was an innocent and helpless child and not a full grown adult.

That very same night I decided I wanted to go get a second, and bigger, daiquiri because I am an adult and needed more alcohol to fight off my natural introvert tendencies that usually ruin concerts for me. If you've ever been to any type of performance you know how horrible it is to have to leave in the middle of the performance. Unless you're blessed with an aisle seat you have to scoot past people and apologize a million times for being in the way and disrupting the event. I did just this, trying my best to assert myself and shout over the music, "EXCUSE ME! PARDON ME! SO SORRY!" Well, it was tricky because their were drinks on the floor and not a lot of space between the standing people and the chairs in front of us. I may have stepped on someone's foot, I am still sorry. Anyways, as I was going through this process one of the men I walked past, who was probably drunk said, "You got this, little girl."

I punch the bag really hard when I think of this. 

I didn't turn around and shout at him because I just wanted the experience of squeezing myself between these people and chairs to be over, but I did not appreciate that comment one bit. Um, excuse the fuck out of you sir. Yes, I am short, but no. No, you may not call me, "little" or "girl." I am so tired of women being referred to as girls, not matter how old or mature they are. The default is always "girl." And I especially don't like being belittled by being called "little." 

I composed a list of other appropriate things to say: 

1. Just "You got this," no "little" or "girl" necessary. 
2. A simply, "Don't worry!" or "Good luck!" 
3. Maybe a comment to help my quiet person complex: "No, I'm sorry for not hearing your tiny, shy bird voice say 'excuse me.'" 
4. Or, if you really need to use a descriptive phrase, "You go, strong, independent womyn!" (You have to say womyn.)

Possibly Drunk Man, if we ever meet again and you call me "Little girl" I will probably go into Hermia mode. I may be little, but I will go fierce on your eyeballs. (It's not that big of a deal, but seriously dude, stop). 

Side note: My neighbor once had a dog named "Little Girl." I am not that dog. I am Paige (HEAR ME ROAR!!)

Anyways, back on topic. 

What I'm getting at is please stop calling me, and other women, these demeaning terms. If you don't know us, and don't know if it's cool or not to belittle us, then don't. If you want to call people "kiddo" please call all of us kiddo, despite gender or height. If you see a short person, clearly anxious about the experience of being in close contact with strangers, bite your tongue when you want to describe her as a "little girl." And be one of my close friends, or a family member if you want to label me as "Little Paige." 

I may not take the punching bag out very well, but these words make me want to go full-psycho on the bag. I want to prove, if just to myself and maybe the people around me, that I am not a child. I am not helpless, and I don't need to be taken care of. I like being the way I am physically, but just because you may describe me as, "A short person with some youthful features" don't call me any term that alludes to a child. And don't do it to anyone else. I know this is an issue women face, especially in the media, but I wish it would just disappear. I wish I was punching the bag because I was thinking of Hermia and practicing for the day I'm in the woods with my friends and fairies are just messing with our general love vibes and I need to fight a woman to get my man. Or because I want big biceps. 

Side note: One time I saw this older lady wearing a sleevless shirt and her arms were perfectly sculpted and huge. I'm not sure if she did crossfit, or boxing, or maybe did hard labor, but I took one look at her arms and thought, "I wouldn't be angry if this woman punched me right now. I'd be 100% impressed and would feel very empowered." 

Again, back on topic. I am a short woman with big eyes and a shy demeanor. Don't use that as an excuse to call me something you would call a 1st grader. There are plenty of other terms you can use: Ma'am, young lady, Luna Lovegood, Paige, miss, adult womyn... whatever you choose. As long as it's nice. 

Final note/side note: The only reason a stranger can call me "honey" is this nice lady who used to come into work. She had the sweetest voice, and was so pleasant to talk to and I think he kid was in a magazine because he's a genius. Anyways, whenever she called me, "honey" I would just melt. I'm pretty sure I'd let her get away with theft or murder if she just turned to me and said, "Oh, hi honey." I'd just bashfully tuck my chin into my shoulder and say, "Oh! Hush. You're too sweet!"  

 

Quiet Person Complex

Hello again, it's me, Paige. Today, I have another somewhat stupid, somewhat clever, personally I think it's funny, phenomenon to share with you. You've all heard of things like the Napoleon complex, which involves short people or small dogs being fierce, which is sometimes comical due to their size. Well, I experience Quiet Person Complex. It's not quite the same, but it is a very real thing that I endure every day.

I noticed this when around my boyfriend, Duffy, whom I love so dearly. He talks very loudly, but doesn't have the best hearing. I have a tendency to talk quietly, and this leads to our greatest weakness as a couple: communication. We joke about this a lot, because many of our conversations are similar to the below model.

Me: I should cut my hair.

Him: What?

Me, speaking louder: I should cut my hair.

Him: What?

Me, now annoyed that he doesn't have super powers, speaking louder and now slower: I. Should. Cut. My. Hair.

Him, after a moment's pause: Still didn't hear what you said.

Then, if it's unimportant, I will refuse to repeat it and wave him away. 

This doesn't happen every time, but it happens often enough that I've realized how upset I get when he doesn't hear me. I've been used to this most of my life. My parents would always tell me and my sister to "speak up" and others accused us of constantly mumbling. We thought we were speaking fine.

I'm also familiar with walking up to a customer at work and asking, "You finding everything alright?" and them just continuing to look at some product. Sometimes I ask again, other times I just walk away uncomfortably and mouth, "Oookkaaayy" like they had just been the rudest human being on the planet. I know this can't always be true, some people just genuinely don't hear me. Yet, I am still offended.

This, is Quiet Person Complex. It's speaking softly, and trying to raise your voice, but usually not doing so effectively, and becoming angry when whoever you're talking to doesn't have super sonic hearing.

I experience this a lot at work. I can recall getting very peeved at a woman over the phone because she said, "You sound like you're all the way in China!" Also, when we first got headsets for employees on the floor I hated when people corrected me on my usage. Asking me to speak louder, or hold the button longer. I mean, I took the advice and now people can hear me, but the first few times I got that feedback I was salty.

Basically, everybody needs to get hearing aids or learn how to read lips because I have very important, interesting, and funny things to say, so listen up! If you don't hear me, I will be pissed because I've got Quiet Person Complex.



Note: I love everyone in my life right now, and I will sometimes not be pissed at you because I understand I'm very bad at raising my voice efficiently.  Mostly it's just Duffy. He is terrible at hearing and asks me to repeat things all the time, and we need to work on our communication skills. K, love you, bye!

Wanna know a secret?

I'm not sure when or if I'll share this blog with others again. Definitely will tell my best friends, close family, and that kid I really, really like, Duffy. But who knows. For now I will enjoy this privacy, this secrecy that I have created.

Of course, I've shared this blog with potential employers, so they may be taking a peek every now and again, but I'm not sure they will go very deep. It's likely I lost them at the first sentence, maybe even the title, possibly the link to a blog stupidly named "JustPaigenThru." But oh well.

Why am I doing this now? Why have I revived this blog and not told a single soul? Was it just to go on a couple more feminist rant and one giant retelling of a mere 36 hours of my life? No. I started writing on here again because I had a realization: I don't have to share the blog posts on social media. I don't have to tell people that I'm writing and publishing a single thing. That was always what caught me up, because I was afraid of people judging me and thinking I'm incorrect in my opinion and very, very stupid. But, no one regularly checks the blog, and I wasn't actually obliged to share my blog on Facebook.

Maybe before I tell anyone someone will stumble upon the blog, and ask me why I hadn't shared, but I hope they don't. I'd like to tell people just as I'm telling you: as if it was a secret.

One time when I was typing Duffy asked what I was doing. We were at Quills and my laptop wasn't facing him, as I had been engrossed in another rewatching of CATS (I'm sorry guys, it's just been a big part of my life this month), so I just smiled. He took the smile to mean I'd restarted the movie and was watching it again, but really I was typing up my final post about seeing the show. I considered telling him, but I thought it'd be best to get some non-CATS content out before doing that.

The best thing about not telling people is I can say any thought that comes to my head, and not worry someone will judge it. I wrote about abortion without thinking about what my sweet Mother would think. I wrote four extensive posts about a Broadway show, and explored telling partially my own story of being a woman in American within certain groups. But, I can also say things like I feel personally attacked when my music on shuffle plays Christmas music.

I love Christmas music, and I save listening to it until Thanksgiving morning when i turn on 106.9Play, Louisville's Christmas music station. This year I was fed up with new music that wasn't from my childhood, so I made my own playlist. Then, when the season ended I didn't want to have to go through the hassle of re-collecting all that music, so I left the playlist on my phone. Of course, this means it's still in my library, which means it has every right to pop up when my songs are on shuffle. But goddammit if I didn't think the device would be smart enough to know that's not what I want to listen to! Not only am I offended, but I'm disappointed when multiple Christmas songs play in a row. I thought my smart phone could do anything these days!

See? I just shared a relatively stupid shot, and suffer no fear that someone will notice or say something. So, there you have it folks. I'm writing now, because it's somewhat private, and I am enjoying sharing my thoughts without fear. It's like a diary, but future employers might see it. Well, I hope they like it. And, I hope when/if I do re-share this blog it will be like in Night at the Museum when Larry basically re-invents the museum and everyone has a renewed love for the museum. So, like, ideally, I will get all these views on my posts and everyone will be reading and commenting really positively like, "Wow, mom! I didn't know that statues could be this fun and that I'd learn so much!" And, "I know honey. I used to love this place when I was a kid... Oh look cavemen!" But like, with my blog and my words.

That'd be cool.

If You Gather A Group of Women

Here is something I've noticed in the groups I've been a part of: We all have our stories.
Now, this can mean when you gather a group of Assumption High School alums together they all have memories of favorite teachers, classes, and lunches, or complaints of the uniform rules, or anything similar. Stories can always be great, but sometimes stories aren't sweet memories that one has grown fond of. Sometimes they're realities that should be addressed and demolished. Allow me to give some examples of these stories.

If you gather a group of female dancers together they each have stories of facing body issues. Times when they looked in the mirror and hated the shape of their body. Days when their butts were too big, stomach too bloated, calves too small, thighs too big. Others, fall to eating disorders. Some dancers have stories of other people noticing and commenting on their weight, whether it was a fellow dancer, or even a teacher. Some handle these in healthy manners: improved diet, targeted exercises. But we each have these stories, because they are held to high standards as not only dancers, but as women. Especially as young women, budding trends who have found an interest in boys or girls, and have been bombarded with messages from pop culture and the media of what the perfect body should be. Inside and outside the dance studio these women are aware of their bodies, what they're doing, and what they look like.

It doesn't stop there. When you gather a group of poets and writers-- some of the most creative minds-- and ask them one thing they'd like to change about themselves they will all go around the room and mention a body part. Each will give an answer similar to "flatter stomach," "well-defined arms," or "Carrie Underwood legs." None will think of maybe adding something, like the ability to read minds, or fairy wings. None will think about changing their attitudes, or how fast they can run. They'd just like to look more like the models on magazine covers.

Now, internal struggles are not the only thing women talk about. The first time I realized groups of women had their stories was when I was at my retail job.

If you gather a group of retail working women they will all have their stories of feeling uncomfortable with a male customer. Sometimes it's because they flirt, ask for your number so many times you have to call a manager over to get him to leave, or just don't like they way he stands so close or makes eye contact across the aisle. Other times it's because he's reached for your breast, or visits far too often, waiting to bump into you and not allowing any other worker to help him. The work environment is very safe, as managers are prepared to do what it takes to get the person off your back, and will always listen if you have a problem, and these situations can be few and far between. But, still, we all somehow collect these stories  that are either just a case of being uncomfortable, or a situation that is far worse. Because, sometimes being friendly for your job comes across as invitations to ask you out, or even prompt a "If you and your boyfriend weren't dating I'd ask you out in a heartbeat." It may be cute in the movies, but those are scripted, and romanticized. And, we are rarely vibing off of that, just trying to get you to buy our product, and not complain to the manager that we had been rude. But, those are a whole other type of story that us women have.

If you gather a group of women together, and certain topics come up, they all have their stories. Listen. And hope that one day the numbers dwindle.

New York Pictures!

Arrival and Exploring:

The Walk to CATS:

 THE SHOW: