Vampire Vocab

The Lightning Thief

RJ — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 01:21:46 +0000

The Lightning Thief movie was absolutely untrue to the book. If it were independant, I would have enjoyed it: the effects were good, and at times it was funny. However. If you take an excellent book with tons of die-hard fans and make it into a good movie that has nothing in common but the name, you’re bound to get some criticism. Namely, in this case, criticism from me. Just saying.

As a spoiler, I’m going to give a brief summary of the movie. Don’t worry, you can read this without ruining the book. (Read above: completely different.)

Percy Jackson can sit at the bottom of pools for long periods of time. Amazing. Anyway, he’s surly and is accusatory towards his mom for all of her mistakes. In other words, a teenage boy. So, after an unfortunate trip to a museum ending with his sub turning into a hideous monster, he’s whisked away to a camp for half-god, half-mortals like himself. Not so surprisingly, he’s son of Poseidon. More surprisingly, his BFF, Grover is a satyr, and Percy is being accused of stealing Zeus’s bolt, for reasons never made clear. Percy meets a daughter of Athena named Annabeth, and the three of them set out on a quest to retrieve Percy’s kidnapped mom from the Underworld, with some “help” from a bitter towards the gods (teenage boy, obviously) boy named Luke. They retrieve three pearls from different places, including a garden emporium and a casino, then journey to the Underworld, meet a Persephone who hates Hades, and discover the bolt hidden in Percy’s shield (which was oh-so-conveniently supplied by Luke) They only has three pearls, so Percy, Annabeth, and Percy’s mom leave Grover behind. Percy beats Luke in a fight, finds out the Luke was the thief in a dialogue much like this one:

Percy: “It was YOU, Luke?”

Luke: “Yes”

P: “Why?”

L: “I hate my dad.”

P: “Ok.”

Later: Annabeth: “So Luke’s evil?”

Percy: “No you’ve got it all wrong. Anakin’s the evil one.”

A: “I am sooooo bad with names!”

Anyway, the bolt is returned to Zeus, the war is averted, Zeus gets Grover back from the Underworld, and they all live happily ever after.

At least until the Sea of Monsters comes out.

Costa Rica

RJ — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 02:06:59 +0000

We left on Christmas Day. Travel was as travel always is: boring, uncomfortable, but the pains are staved off by the promise of arrival. Five and a half hours in the air and one connection in Miami later, my siblings, father and I stepped out of Juan SantaMaria Airport and were met by a rush of warm air, the smell of humidity and cigarette smoke, and the shouts and bustle of taxi drivers and fellow passengers, each with their own destinations and goals.
We stayed one night in the Marriot before, at 5:45 the next morning, a bus full of passengers came to pick us up. And so the journey began.
The bus trundled along endless roads, looking over lovely green hillsides pock-marked with houses. We reached the river, which flowed smoothly, if with undeniable power, past, before dissolving into enraged rapids. Our guide took us white-water swimming for a time, while we awaited the second bus of people. We wore life jackets and were told to assume a position with our feet pointing downriver and our heads up. The water was chilly and it quickly soaked my clothes. Then, the river took me in a firm grip, dragging me downriver, while the curtain of greenery made an unbelievably lovely backdrop. I was so joyful. Illinois can drink the life from you, absorb it in impenetrable gray and cold until you don’t remember anything but the icy shell that’s formed around you. But Costa Rica! A waterfall of life, so full of energy that it seems perfect, untainted by even the slightest hint of cold.
We then rafted downriver, following instructions from our guide with silent assent. We didn’t need to speak to fill the silence. We just listened to the natural orchestra of animals, the rustling of the trees and the never-ending percussion of the river slapping the rocks in a rhythm as old as the earth. We reached the lodge: a collection of cabins with Zip lines strung like human-bearing spiderwebs above, and a dining and lounge area that over-looked the river. The smell of moist earth, the faint, delicate scent of tropical flowers…it was the perfect spot. Lunch and dinner came and went, delicious meals of tropical fruit, rice and beans, salad, fish…everything that we ate had to be rafted down the river, there was no other way to take it. And when night fell, casting the brilliant bird-of-paradise plants into ghostly, vague shadows, it was so dark that it seemed almost brighter when your eyes were closed. There was no electric lighting. We had to read by the golden flames of the candles in our room. Even the darkness seemed vibrant. Nothing was done halfway. Instead of the sickly eternal sunset of Illinois, a property born of light pollution, the Costa Rican night sky held none of the sallow reddish cast, but rather a thick, rich darkness, broken only by the pinpricks of stars. Looking up felt like drowning in the softest, warmest vat of the darkest chocolate. And stars! I hadn’t seen stars in so long…I felt like I had come home. I guess that it was as close to the natural home as EVERYBODY as one could get. Untarnished by the scars of civilization, uncontaminated by technology, uninhibited by the growth of population.
The trip continued and everything was lovely. The endless forests, the dainty, colorful birds, the zip lining, the rafting, the gorgeous geothermal springs. But nothing could compare to looking into that perfect sky and being irrevocably and unarguably home.

My Christmas Note

RJ — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 23:55:12 +0000

Every year I write a note to Santa. This year, I posted it on my Kaboodle list. I transcribed it here. (Beware, ridiculously sappy)

Dear Santa,

This year has been incredibly exciting. All this year I have been reminded of all the people around me who love me and all of the things that I am thankful for. Christmas brings all of those things together and wraps them in proverbial twinkling lights. This season is about giving, about sharing, about the love in all of our hearts. I can only be grateful for all of the things my life has given me: a loving family, close friends, adorable pets (like Miles and Lyra), and all of the wonders that I know are yet to come. What I really want, more than any of those charming, if meaningless, items on my list, is to make all of the people in my life as happy as they’ve made me. It will be difficult, but a lifetime of happiness is hard to repay. All that I know how to give is my love.

I hope it will be enough.

May your Christmas be as joyful as mine already is. (Yes, I have been a VERY good girl this year!)

Love,

An Interesting Tactic…

RJ — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 01:40:09 +0000

On my nice little laptop at my dad’s house, I’ve had a problem for a while. My default page (Google) turned into something called “mywebsearch”. Umm…just for the record, I, being most likely the only computer illiterate blogger EVER, do not even know HOW to change such a thing. Also, a folder called “homework” popped up on my screen. Again, something I don’t know how to do. You’ve probably gleaned by now that I also do not know how to avoid such occurrences. Therefore, I wrote my “friend” a nice letter, and, being the stalker-ish type that I’m sure that any settings-changing-folder-making computer…creature is, he’ll probably read it. Guess what? You can read it, too!!

Dear (well, not-so-dear) Whatever you may be,

I appreciate it. I really do. You seem to want to help me, but you’re being just a tad high-handed about it. You haven’t done anything malevolent, just a few things that were creepy and inconvenient. Creepy and inconvenient doesn’t mean bad, it’s like Edward Cullen. But I have to draw the line. Making a homework folder is like climbing in my bedroom window, sweet, in an unnecessary and disturbing way. That’s Edward Similarity #1. ES#2 is you’re changing my default opening page, which is like trying to read my mind. I have never HEARD of mywebsearch! And I don’t know how to change it!!! If Joe hadn’t intervened, bad things would have happened. To you. Now, I’m back to Google, so this note is far more civil than it could have been. Be glad.

Now that that unpleasant business is done, let’s move on to something else that’s been bothering me…I don’t know your name. If your planning on staying here for a while, I should have something to call you. Don’t feel obliged to tell me your real name, Mr/Mrs/Ms. Computer Creature; I understand your concerns about internet safety. Therefore, I dub thee…CC Moloch! CC stands for “Computer Creature” and Moloch is a demon that Willow accidentally scans onto the internet from the book in which it had been bound (in season 1 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer). What do you think? Fairly androgynous, friendly sounding…I like it. It suits you.

I’m glad we had this chat.

Virtual hugs and kisses,

I’m sure it’ll be gratified to hear that I’m comparing it to a very popular vampire. That would soften ME up quite well!

My Beloved Guinea Pigs

RJ — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 22:42:20 +0000

I call you guinea pigs, my devoted or not-so-devoted readers because you are about to be subject to a short story. My short story. It’s not too late to turn back. …No? Brave soul. You see, my drop-dead gorgeous mother was talking to me the other day and she informed me that she had noticed my recent lack of blogging. I explained that I had blogger’s block, so she told me to base a story on five words. I asked my sister. Hers were:

Cat, vase, car, tree, and bookshelf.

Prepare yourself.

They had no clue what was coming. The sweet, black cat with the perfect four-pointed star on its forehead and the butterscotch colored eyes seemed harmless, pitiful even, sitting on their doorstep, whiskers drooping in the heavy rainfall. It looked sorrowfully up at them and gave an imploring “Mew?” The nice, middle-aged couple and their three kids could never resist such a charming kitty.

But they would grow to wish they had.

Every day, the kids would look out the window of the first floor to see the kitty sitting in a huge weeping willow tree, it’s fur shimmering in the sunlight, ruffled by the light breeze. Alaric, as the cat had been named, was serene, so graceful that he could jump atop a vase without rocking it, and inconspicuous, but at the same time regal. His fur was so black, it seemed to absorb the sunlight, and cast out darkness in it’s place.Alaric loved high places, especially the tops of bookshelves and trees. He wanted to be able to see everything without being seen. One night, as another rainstorm raged, the family was driving home from dinner in their car, a Prius.

They got out of the car and were soldiering through the cruel Illinois wind, rain whipping their faces. The woman saw a dark shape sitting expectantly on the porch steps. Amber eyes glowed out from the darkness, holding malicious intent. For a moment, the woman was scared, until she recognized Alaric.

“You scared me, sweet kitty,” she said with a smile, in the tone that all cat lovers use. She was so busy petting Alaric’s soft, damp fur that she didn’t notice the amber eyes as they slowly bled to red, didn’t hear the soft “ching” of his fangs coming out. She drew back to look at Alaric, but as soon as she saw that her “sweet kitty” was no longer a cat at all, but rather a bloodsucking vampire, the cat attacked.

Alaric drank his fill, killing the entire family. He licked the blood from his fur, then sauntered over to the neighbor’s house and scratched at the door. The elderly woman opened the door, and smiled at the cat she saw there. “Mew?” he said imploringly. The old woman couldn’t resist the beautiful cat.

But she would grow to wish she had.

Creepy, right? I admit, I am perpetuating bad vampire stereotypes, with the glowing red eyes/killing children/dark and stormy night thing, but this was my first vampire story. Ever. I’ll do better next time (I hope). Also, some charming vampire lolcats…

Vampire Cat doing what vampires do best

The Vampire Le-cat (bad pun, I know. Anne Rice would have my head)

Super easy (and Delicious!) Chocolate Cake!

RJ — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 00:13:03 +0000

I’ve made this recipe quite a few times, and it’s recieved great reviews each time. Not from Epicurious for once! It’s really good and easy, plus it’s been described as “Coma-inducing”. In a good way.

Ghiradelli Grand Fudge Cake

I suggest puree-ing raspberries and spreading them between the layers. Chocolate and raspberries…yum!

Notes of Math Class

RJ — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 00:17:45 +0000

It seems that, though not my favorite class, math seems to be my most interesting not due to the class itself, but because of the students in it. I write journal entries about school in my free time about it, therefore I’ll share a few that I’ve written. Some even have Haikus in them!

9/30/09

Ah, yes, the gossip and texting corner. I never believed that i would be placed in such cruel, unknown territory. Alas, I have been dealt this crippling blow, and in math class no less. My heart weeps. A constant mecca of whispered scandals and the quiet click of tiny keys, the gossip corner is a desperately sought after position, only to be filled haplessly by a hapless seating chart. Oh, the irony that a non-believer, a veritable gossip heretic, such as myself should be privy to this factory of ruined lives and forbidden secrets when I have been the victim of its workings for a very long time. Information holds power. False information sometimes holds more. Remember this and live by it’s message.

If you dare.

10/23/09

Math is hard. Let’s Shop!

Barbie-like girls chatter, happy.

The gossip corner.

Math isn’t really hard. The opposite seems to be true. And another haiku.

Whispers float lightly.

Heavy, though, in their own way.

Lives hang in their depths.

Haikus about gossip. The Japanese would be affronted. I wrote this next one in P.E.. My, aren’t I poetic?

Like Twilight groupies

Ultimate football has sides

Edward or Jacob?

Another day in the gossip corner. Lots of “OMG”ing going on, most likely instigated by the excitement of another Friday.

“He said WHAT?” one girl squeals.

“I KNOW, right?” another replies.

“Oh. My. God. I totally CANNOT believe it!” says the first. Yes, there really was that much improper capitalization and punctuation. Even though they weren’t writing, sometimes you can just tell.

“Does he KNOW?!” Chimes in a third.

“No WAY!” Responds the second, vehemently. This very clear exchange would continue on its very detailed course had Mr. Gebra not interrupted the group. I figure that this development was for the best, because God forbid that the conversation actually make sense. Meanwhile, the entire discussion seems to have been transcribed into texts, thus, the unknown person symbolized by the subject pronoun “he” will probably soon enough “know”. Yeesh. Teenagers.

The Land Of Birthday Cakes

RJ — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 22:48:08 +0000

It seems that I am becoming the go-to source for birthday cakes. I’m glad, actually. I love making cakes because they are a challenge and so much harder to make than cookies, brownies or cupcakes. (Usually. Some cookies, cupcakes, and brownies can be scary. Seriously.) A couple months ago I made Anne a birthday cake. (coffee-chocolate with mocha marscapone icing) This time, I’m making one for my dad. Here it is:

Carrot Cake

Cream Cheese Lemon Zest Frosting

(It’s actually two recipes, so click both links)

Anyway, I hope it turns out well. Does anyone have a birthday coming up?

A Story of Piven

RJ — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 00:00:54 +0000

We were doing Round Robin, a game where we create a story as an ensemble, in my theater class at Piven. One story we told stuck out to me so, as I am prone to do, I am going to post it. I didn’t name the characters, by the way. Otherwise, the main characters name would be Vladmira, or something equally strange. Lucky main character. Here goes:

Elizabeth was a small, wiry girl. She had chestnut brown hair that fell in tight curls across her slim shoulders. She wore leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, and she loved her birthday. Every birthday, she would lift her pillow in the morning and find a huge chocolate heart, resting like a tangible symbol of her parent’s love, on her bed. She would pick up the heart and bite into it, closing her eyes with bliss. Caramel, thick and buttery, would trail in long strings from the heart, until a giggling Elizabeth would bite them off. It tasted like heaven, wrapped in milk chocolate.

It was her ninth birthday and in the morning, Elizabeth, giddy with excitement, lifted her pillow to find…nothing. Nothing but her crisp, cool, white sheets which, as tears blurred her vision, seemed to goad her. Elizabeth had, just recently, gotten braces, and therefore could no longer eat caramel. But nothing could distract her from the ire that had swept in to quickly chase away the hurt. How dare they refuse her the highlight of her birthday? How DARE they?! She stomped down the stairs to the kitchen, her footsteps like thunder, threatening a storm. She met her mothers kind, compassionate, brown eyes with her anger-filled ones. Her mother had short, lusterous brown hair, and a curving mouth that always seemed ready to curve into a smile, or offer kind words.

“Where is my chocolate heart?!” Elizabeth screamed. “WHERE IS IT?!” With each word, her voice became shriller, until it reached a screech. Her mother quietly, calmly explained, as she always did when Elizabeth lost her temper.

“You know you can’t have caramel, Elizabeth. Your braces–” Elizabeth cut her off.

“I WANT my chocolate heart!!” The next moment, her father leaned over her, imposing. Her father was a big man, tall and muscular, intelligent eyes glinting from beneath thick eyebrows.

“You can’t have it,” He boomed, his voice ringing with finality.

Elizabeth shrieked with frustration, darted up the stairs and hid in the bathroom, trying to calm down. It wasn’t working. She ran to her room, snatched the pillow from the bed and hit it against the bed, again and again, until she noticed something odd. On her bed were the crushed remains of many, many chocolate bars, their raspberry, chocolate, mint and otherwise filling dripping slowly onto the bed, staining the pristine sheets. A note, splattered with striking splashes of red and brown from the chocolate, read:

We’re Sorry, Elizabeth. We’re sorry you couldn’t have a chocolate heart this year. We love you.

Always.

Elizabeth’s tears started anew. She set down the pillow gently on the bed and slowly walked to the door, tears dripping down her face and falling, a perfect drop of moisture, to dampen and darken the carpet. She progressed down the hall, a sick feeling growing in her stomach, gnawing at her throat, causing her knees to wobble. She carefully walked down each step, watching her feet, keeping her eyes on the ground, eyes blurry with tears. She only wanted one thing for her birthday now: forgiveness.

She softly padded into the kitchen, quiet as a scared kitten. She looked up at her parents faces. Her father looked grim. Her mother, disappointed. Her mother never looked disappointed. Elizabeth’s tears redoubled.

She wailed, “I am so sorry! I didn’t see the note…or the chocolate…or anything! I am so sorry…so sorry…so…sorry… Please, please, forgive me!” She broke off into sniveling. As she looked up at her mother with tear stained cheeks, she saw her mother’s face soften. Without saying a word, her mother reached out and stroked Elizabeth’s cheek.

Just once.

Muffins For When You Have NOTHING in the House

RJ — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 23:13:43 +0000

Before theater class one Saturday, I wanted muffins. Sweet, delicious, warm muffins. So, I went to my favorite place besides Barnes and Noble, my House, and Piven (my theater school)…Epicurious! Anyway, I knew we had cinnamon, nutmeg, at least half a stick of butter and other such staples, so I asked for cinnamon muffins, and the gentle hand of Epicurious offered me this awesome recipe:

Cinnamon Sugar Muffins

It’s quick, easy, suitable for picky eaters and absolutely DELICIOUS!!! (Not to mention it has so few ingrediants.)