Love is like π.|Natural, irrational, and very important.

I love to read. I don’t mean that in a I-pick-up-the-latest-Oprah-recommended-book-to-read-at-the-pool kind of way, I mean I am kind of obsessed with reading. When I was younger, my parents believed that reading was a means to an end…you have to know how to read well in order to do well in school, to study. So we didn’t have very many books in the house. This turned out not to be a big problem for me–I read manuals, for everything and anything. I think that’s why I have a pretty good grasp of most mechanical concepts at this point in my life. Thanks, Mom and Dad!

In fifth grade, one of the books on our required reading list was The Hobbit. Most of my classmates grumbled and complained at it’s length, it’s use of “big” words, it’s somewhat complex back story. I couldn’t get enough of Tolkien’s writing. Everyone else skimmed the descriptive passages, I read them intensely, imagining each detail in my head. So when I was done with The Hobbit, I scoured our tiny school library for more Tolkien. Lo and behold, I found The Lord of the Rings.

I trotted up to the checkout desk laden with my treasure, placed it on the counter, and grinned like a monkey. Our school librarian looked at me over the top of her little glasses and smiled condescendingly.

“I think these are a bit above your age level, dear. Why don’t you try some C.S. Lewis?”

Not one to be turned away so easily, I made some smart ass comment. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know it shocked her, because I can remember her face looking like someone had smacked her. She shook her head, and slammed the books around a little, but I had won the battle, and I lugged the books home with me that day.

I didn’t sleep for the next three nights, and I really didn’t care. This was it, what I had been looking for in all those insipid short stories in our Literature books and that irritating Babysitters Club tripe. I didn’t want paragraphs of descriptions of horrid school dances, I wanted a tale of honor and glory and love and war. (Especially the war. I really liked that.) And so began my love affair with LOTR. For the next 3 years I had one or more of the books in my possession at all times, until in the fall of 8th grade, my librarian pointed out that someone else may want to read them, occasionally. So I begged and pleaded with my parents (who were utterly confused–what 13 year old girl wants books instead of clothes for Christmas?) and I hoped and hoped until on Christmas morning, I saw the package. It was rectangular and heavy, and I did a little dance because I knew what it was.

I still have those books, and I still read them. They are extremely well-loved, spines worn and separating and pages dog eared. Like the Velveteen Rabbit–if you love them enough, they become Real.

When I was in middle school, I was a nerd. I don’t mean that in a “smart and good with computers” way. No, if I had been a boy, I would have had a pocket protector. When I broke the earpiece on my glasses (which were ugly to begin with) I attached the earpieces from a pair of my mother’s old glasses. And then wore them in public. My friends were all nerds too, and we comforted each other.

And then one day in 8th grade, the 3 nerdiest girls in the grade almost got suspended.

See, we were all a bit obsessed with Anne of Green Gables. Beautiful Prince Edward Island, being a smart girl who got teased, Anne’s wonderful friendship with Diana, and then… Gilbert Blythe. We all kinda fell for his attitude. At any rate, we would bring the books to school and read them aloud to each other (I told you!).

One day we were wandering around the school property (8th graders were allowed to walk anywhere on the school ground, cause we were that grown up) and we saw this stand of trees across a field about a half-mile wide. For some reason, we decided that it would be fine to head on over. So we trekked across the field, reassuring each other that there was no way we would be caught and we would definitely be back on time.

I’m still glad I went. Inside the stand of trees, which formed an almost perfect circle, was a little clearing. The ground was carpeted in violets. It was one of those places you think only exists in a book. As I went into the center, I saw something white, and upon closer inspection, realized that it was a bleached fox skull. No other bones, just the skull, like someone had placed it there just for us. We sat under a tree and got lost in our books. Some time later, someone looked up and noticed that the sun was no longer directly overhead, as it should have been at lunch time. Unfortunately, we did not go to a large school. We graduated in a class of 32. It wouldn’t be hard to notice that 3 of us were missing.

Let the panic begin!!

We went tear-assing out of there, running across the field. At the edge of the field stood the Vice Principal. Eeek. I seriously thought we were going to be thrown out. I am proud to report that I was the only one who did not cry like a little baby (no, really, I was a tough bitch even then…ahahahaha). We were marched into the Principal’s office and asked to explain ourselves. So, because other people were too busy sobbing, I explained. And I could tell from the look on the Principal’s face when I was done (I left nothing out, I even gushed about the fox skull) that we were in no trouble at all. I’m pretty certain she was trying not to laugh. After all that, she didn’t even call our parents.

We returned to class, and were treated like minor celebrities for the remainder of the afternoon.

Earlier this afternoon, I was standing in my shower, laughing so hard I was crying. Not because there was someone there telling me amusing anecdotes, or because I was reading (yes, in the shower, I like books that much). That would be too SANE. No, I was in hysterics because I was thinking about one of my true, true loves…

Monty Python.

Now I will watch any sort of Britcom. Are You Being Served?, Fawlty Towers, AbFab, Mr. Bean, even Keeping Up Appearances. I love the slapstick elements, and I even mostly get the references and topical jokes. And if I don’t, rest assured I will figure them out by the next time the same show makes the exact same joke. And I will watch said show (or skit, as the case may be) over and over and over again. In a row. I will cackle like a hyena and poke the person sitting next to me to let them know when to laugh (because most people are half-asleep or surreptitiously checking email because they do not possess the refined palate that I do).

Except if it’s Monty Python. Cause then all bets are off. God help the person I con into watching MP with me. Not only do I say the lines along with the teevee, I have been known to “act” things out. Like doing Silly Walks all over the house while fighting to stay upright because I am laughing that hard. And not just the Parrot sketch or the Holy Grail. I know nearly everything they have done, including stuff that was just on the radio. And my obsession started early. Picture this, if you will…

It is a fine spring evening in Ellicott City, Maryland. People have come from near and far to be here, to witness what is to come. There is a sizzle of excitement in the air, an expectant chattering fills the dark hall. This, my friends, is the 7th and 8th Grade Talent Show. There is singing, and dancing, and even some magic graces the stage. But no one knew what treat lay in store, what glorious display they would be privileged to witness. Oh, they would talk for years to come!

Suddenly, the curtain goes up. Two 7th grade girls are standing on the stage, dressed in what looks like their fathers’ old clothes. Are they hobos? Is this some strange interpretive dance number? Oh! They begin speaking! In a bad British accent. About books. Wait, what the f is going on here? Are they trying not to laugh? What is funny? Oh, they are…angry at each other? Now they are just standing there. Oh, thank god, I think it’s over.

*crickets chirping*

Finally, mercifully, someone began to clap.

Hey, we thought everyone liked obscure Monty Python. To this day, I can still remember being on that stage trying to a) talk like a man, b) talk with a British accent, and c) not laugh my ass off. Glorious.