How I Met Your Mother: the Greatest Love Story on Television














So this was it. The last night. Ted finally manages to get through the 9 year story of How He Met Penny and Luke’s Mom.

And after an episode that simultaneously reminded me of Up, the time my friends drug me on Superman at Six Flags, and the obituary of the greatest friendship New York has ever seen, I feel safe in saying that this show will be remembered as one of the best written shows of all time. I would then like to add that it is probably one of the best written stories of all time.

Like real life, there’s no such thing as a happy ending on HIMYM, but rather a hopeful new beginning for every heartbreak and setback. Marshall finally became a judge. Barney found that his true calling in life wasn’t a playboy, or even Robin’s husband, but as a dad.

Robin had her chance to fly, and she took it. She never really settled down like Ted and the mother (Her name is Tracy!) or Marshmellow and Lillypad. I’m simultaneously disappointed that she and Barney didn’t work out, but it’s something that I understand, that feels real in the emotional heart of this show. The lives of all of these characters are ridiculously complex, even through the final episode, and it feels so real and right.

A moment of silence, though, for the mother. I really had a feeling it was coming, but as someone who has experienced the sting of cancer personally, I can only say that this show handled it beautifully. Ted and Tracy had a wonderful life together, and they raised two kids, who I am assuming are awesome, but wonderful things do not last. Mono no Aware.

But How I Met Your Mother, while fully exploring the tragedies of human life- the most ordinary, regular tragedies- has an optimism that life will continue. Because it does. And so it closes 9 seasons of friendship, love, broken hearts, and way too much alcohol consumption by showing how life comes full circle.

Ted finally gets his chance with Robin. And the reappearance of the blue French Horn garnered many a cheer. So it turns out that How I Met Your Mother wasn’t really about how Ted met the mother. It was Ted, asking for permission to move on. Or maybe he was just asking if he could finally have a chance. Thankfully, the kids said yes. This night, and this show were in one word, Legendary.

We don’t have to wait for it anymore.

The Only Girl in the Room’s Guide to How to Play Nice With the Boys (Music Ed.)

The conversations of boys in groups tend to devolve into the guys one-up-ing each other. Every aspect of life that can be contested, they will, and then invent elaborate scoring methods to compare those that can’t. Having attended engineering school, I am more than 100% accustomed to this state of affairs. Unfortunately, it means I have a tendency to get really competitive over really, really stupid stuff. 

This weekend, it was music. I was visiting a friend from college in Minneapolis, who introduced me to a bunch of his friends from the area. They had a record player. Okay, apparently it was actually a turntable, for reasons I still don’t understand. It plays those big black plates with center holes the hipsters call “vinyl.” The two roommates had collections mostly inherited from their fathers, which made me happy, because as a classic/alternative/indie rock fan, most people don’t seem to play my music. The guys termed it “Dad” rock, which they immediately had to defend with a five minute dissertation on why getting music from your dad is kinda cool. (Which it definitely is. My love for music and my Led Zeppelin collection both are from my dad, whom I would like to take this moment to thank. “Thanks, Dad! No, I don’t have your CD’s.”  )

And then we were deciding on what to play with the fancy record player/turntable/musically doohickey. This is always the beginning, the launching point for the musically-inclined war. Or not. Here’s my strategy:

Jazz by Queen: Good start. It’s always a good way to pacify both the hipsters and people who just want to listen to something they recognize. The hipsters love the Farsi; you will belt “Bicycle! Bicycle!”. Contentment will reign.

Rumours by Fleetwood Mac: Boys apparently think Fleetwood Mac is lame. Certain ones believe Kanye is more talented. That is complete nonsense, just like the idiots who consider them “soft” rock. (To those in that category, go find “The Chain” and listen, especially to its fantastic guitar solo.) But for the sake of peace, it will not be played. Instead, blast them at full volume all the way home, again reflecting on their brilliance. And how Stevie Nicks is the coolest.)

Led Zepplin IV: Because you can’t have Fleetwood Mac. But immediately get ostracized in the following discussion for liking Led Zepplin I and III at all, and even more when you declare that III is your favorite. Listen to IV anyway. Pretend you’re the girl from “Going to California.” They’ll forget about it later anyway.

Diesel: Which is probably the name of the band. They have guitars, that don’t annoy you, but you can’t seem to remember anything about them either. Oh well. This is really the “whatever they decide” choice.

Throughout, see if you can come up with bands you like that they haven’t heard of. Bonus points if they’re older than 1990. Feel superior when you pull out Little Feat.

The Story is Everything, Folks, Especially for Olympic Gold


In case you haven’t been paying attention to the Sochi Olympics, the U.S. won their first Olympic Gold in Ice Dancing yesterday, thanks to the fantastic Meryl Davis and Charlie White. As there is a pretty good chance that this will be the ONLY medal in an individual skating event for the U.S. in Sochi, and we hold the bronze in team skating primarily because of their achievements, I thought I’d take a moment to celebrate them. Yay Meryl! Yay Charlie!

Moment aside, the Candians, typically known as the friendliest people around, have some people who don’t think Charlie and Meryl should have won. Thankfully, this seems a small minority. But still, people. These two deserved it. They have clearly worked their butts off since Vancouver. Furthermore, I just like watching them better than the Canadians. (I liked them better last Olympics too.)

Meryl and Charlie are more interesting to watch, not simply because of the crazy lifts they do, or the fancy twizzles, but because every piece of theirs is distinct. They become new people, and tell a different story every time. Can you find two dance styles more separated than the quirky and energetic Bollywood and dramatic and passionate Phantom of the Opera (their Vancouver program)? Or the bubbly, sweet My Fair Lady and the mysterious, majestic, and sexy Scheherazade? They have a performance range that their training partners up north lack. Furthermore, they do their homework, working with Derek Hough of Dancing With the Stars on their Foxtrot and Quickstep, and a Persian dancer (whom I would love to meet) on their portrayal of Scheherazade. There is such detail in their dance that reflects the story and background of their pieces.

I’ve never felt that with Virtue and Moir. For back to back Olympics, they’ve done pieces that felt the same, and told similar stories. They rarely play with their style the same way that the Americans do, and when they do, they can’t quite pull it off. (See their Carmen program from one of the last two Worlds, I can’t remember which one.)

I have no knowledge of the technical aspects of Ice Dancing. I have learned that twizzles are important, and that you’re supposed to dance them in sync. Outside of that piece, I can only evaluate the performance aspect of their shows. Meryl and Charlie are, hands down, the better performers. They tell me stories, and I love to sit down and watch and listen.

Here’s to you, Meryl Davis and Charlie White. Congratulations, and thank you for your excellence, and your stories.

Expressing my Emotions is not Crazy, Boiling Bunnies is

I caught a few minutes of MTV’s Girl Code this morning. It’s not something I normally watch, but my neighbor had it on.

They were discussing the “cycle of crazy.” A common denominator in many women’s lives, the cycle of crazy starts with a woman reacting to something, be it large or small, with lots of emotion. The guy in her life doesn’t know why she’s upset or thinks whatever she’s upset about is not worth getting bothered over. To defend himself, he terms her reaction “crazy,” which only makes her more upset. She reacts again, and the cycle continues. 

The problem with the cycle of crazy is it happens everywhere. It’s not just between husbands and wives. It’s boss and employee, classmate and classmate, really anywhere that men and women occupy space together or work together. It’s really visible in male-dominated fields. Worst of all, women can put other women in the cycle of crazy, too.

 So, to you who are dealing with someone with very passionate, fervent reactions: Please don’t call your friend/love/coworker crazy. They’re really not. They are human beings, who are allowed to react to life with emotions. It may be difficult for you to handle, especially if you’re not fond of confrontation, but you have to understand that this is normal. And healthy. 

I learned all of this from my Dad, who, no matter how riled up my Mom gets, always tries to make her happy. More than half the time, he has absolutely no clue of what is actually upsetting her. But he will spend a morning or afternoon looking for probable causes and eliminating them. He does the same thing for me every time I visit. He never tells us we’re crazy or overreacting. He accepts that we have real emotions, and that we need to express them. 

So remember, if I’m yelling or saying angry things, I’m upset. Not over-reacting. Not crazy. If I’m boiling your daughter’s bunny, then I’m Glen Close from Fatal Attraction. Then I would be crazy. 

Read More Women This Year!


(photo and orginal story from the people at Buzzfeed:

A delightful lady, Johanna Walsh, has made bookmarks celebrating women writers. She has unofficially declared 2014 the Year of Reading Women.

As a bibliophile, I feel like it’s my duty to join in. Women who I think you should read?

Jane Austen, Jennifer Cruise, J.K. Rowling (don’t judge me putting all the J names together) Agatha Christie, Tamora Pierce, Shannon Hale, Hiromu Arakawa, Janet Evanovich, Rhys Bowen, Cecelia Ahern, Meg Cabot, Louisa May Alcott, Laura Ignalls Wilder, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Cornelia Funke  

As a bonus: books with complex, well-written female protagonists (written by guys): The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde, Bloody Jack by L.A. Meyer

(sidenote: this would be so much easier if I could go to the library)

Moffat… I just… there are no words.

So, just finished watching Sherlock season 3.


That is the extent of my feelings. I had intended my first official blog post to be an intelligent treatise on use of place in How I Met Your Mother and Hart of Dixie, but instead, I got distracted, and here we are. Thank you, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I really needed that mindf***. NO NOT REALLY.

Anywho, that’s me signing off. Season 3 comes out officially in the US during normal people hours today. That should be interesting.