"I hate summer, winter, fall and spring. Red and yellow, purple, blue and green. I hate everything." --George Strait and whoever wrote it for him
Some days are just like that.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
16 Things
Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth. ~Alan Watts
So, there’s this Facebook chainmail type thing going around (Facebook chains are actually a lot of fun, trust me) called 16 things. Here’s my friend Kate’s, as an example.
“So, 16 things that you may or may not no about me...GO!
1. I miss home more then I ever thought I would being so far away. It's not that I wish I were home, only that I wish home were here :-)
2. I didn't believe in love
3. I complain about people so much more now that I'm at school because when I'm annoyed I have to tell someone and I can no longer tell my mom. I always regret it later.
4. I think that the kids on my hall will do great things someday and I'm so excited for them.
5. If I could take away the pain of all my friends and have it myself I would. The worst thing is watching others suffer, I dont think about it as much when I do.
6. I never realized my sisters looked up to me until I left
7. I like to dance even though I'm terrible at it
8. My group of friends at home saved me, I would be nothing without them
9. My roomate is the coolest person I know
10. Mr. Johnson is the reason I'm majoring in History
11. I think rain is beautiful
12. I hate driving in my car alone
13. Sometimes walking by myself at night is my favorite part of the day
14. I'm obsessed with donating my meal plans to different causes in Mosely
15. I worry about the people I know all the time
16. The music I'm listening to will tell you exactly how I'm feeling”
You’re supposed to tag 16 people when you’re done, and then they’re supposed to do it or at least look at it. I’ve been tagged now like three times (including by Kate) and would like to do it, except that I honestly can’t think of 16 people I really want to tag, and I’m not going to tag people I don’t really want to tag, and I’m not going to post it if I don’t have 16 tagged people, because that is a loser move, and I’d rather not be a loser. Plus I can’t manage to be succinct enough to feel right about posting it all on Facebook. So I decided I’d post it here, instead. :]
1. I love analyzing myself, and I’m very good at it. I understand myself completely—strengths, weaknesses, flaws, quirks, loves, hates, personality (I’m an INTJ and it fits me EXACTLY), dynamics—but I can’t for the life of me explain myself. But I do like talking about myself...sorry. :]
2. I’m something of a compulsive worrywart. I’m not sure from which parent this stemmed (probably more Mama than Daddy) but it doesn’t really matter. Natural disasters still scare me worse than almost anything else. So naturally, I do my huge Global Experience project on them. Told you I couldn’t explain myself.
3. I am often happiest when I am doing something completely irreconcilable with normal life. For instance, I just got back from a trip outside (to my car), where it’s miraculously warm and gray and windy and the leaves are skittering over the sidewalk. To give you an idea of how I looked while doing this, I have on jeans and my red Elon sweatshirt, hair in a ponytail, not a trace of makeup, bright fuscia socks, and black flats (I was wearing my loafers earlier, but I didn’t feel like having to tie laces. The fuscia and the red clashed horribly, and I wish I could say that I cared, but clashing is an occasional hobby of mine). And my iPod in. So I lip-synched “Drops of Jupiter” all the way to my car, grinning, twirling, skipping, swinging my phoenix card/keys and walking jouncily so my ponytail would bounce. There were people around, and I probably looked ridiculous. I could’ve cared less. See, it’s these moments that are just so lovely and bubbly-feeling that make me the happiest. It’s kinda like how David and I used to go out and do completely random things (dance on the beach; run around and sing “On Top of the World” in the rain at the Kitty Hawk memorial) and not care at all that we looked retarded because we were having so much fun.
4. By the way, I really love the wind. And the rain, too.
5. I hate seeing the word I in my papers like a bajillion times. It makes me wonder just how egocentric I really am.
6. Words are oxygen; words are a heartbeat. Because if you can’t describe something in some way or communicate it (even to yourself), then can you really even feel it? Does it matter anymore? Words are ocular, olfactory, auditory, gustatory, and tactile, and they are my life.
7. I am amazed at how well movement and sight and sound and color and scent and weather and lighting—how I love lighting!—and people can combine to make life the way it is. It’s like God’s ultimate multimedia project, and it’s glorious.
8. I collect dolls, especially Madame Alexander and especially especially American Girl dolls. It’s not because I didn’t get to have a childhood; it’s not because I have any sort of disorder or weird unfinished business in my subconscious. It’s because they’re beautiful and they were incredibly important to me when I was growing up and I love their personalities and going back to their histories and the way they can fit anything (Princesses? Sure. Fairies? No problem. Historical? Well, obviously. Imaginary world? They love it. Modern day CIA thriller? That too. And I can put all of these elements together at once, too—yeah, it’s a talent. ;-p) and their lovely clothes and fixing their hair and setting them up in realistic tableaus and making them live out the storylines I create. They never stop smiling and they never get bored of me. I actually seriously considered trying to be a doll stylist/photographer for the AG Company when I was about 12 or 13. I would be good at it, but I can’t condone many of the AG Company’s practices since Mattel took over, and so it’s obviously not happening.
9. If I do not have time to myself, I will eventually snap. I am not a people person and I do not like being obligated to deal with a lot of people at once and when I am ready to stop being social, I am ready to stop being social right then. I’m much the same way with shopping; just ask my mother.
10. Having said that, I like to talk and I like to think that I’ve gotten much better at talking to people in general. And also better at controlling myself and just dealing with whatever I don’t want to do. It’s a work in progress.
11. Thinking is such a gift. I love it. How do people even begin to justify killing brain cells with drugs and alcohol when they could have that much more room in their minds to be thinking of interesting things?!?!? Haha, you can probably tell that I basically love school. Not work. Not getting up early. But I definitely love class. A small bit of teacher approval can have me flying high for an entire week.
12. I write down quotes from my teachers, friends, classmates, family…if somebody says something funny or something I think has enough intrinsic worth that I’d like to remember it, I preserve it. That’s what I do; that’s who I am. I also take too many pictures. You could say I collect moments.
13. Loud is good, and quiet is good, too. Just at their appropriate times. (And I’ll admit that I’m not always very good at judging the appropriate times when it comes to being in public. I just know when I want to be quiet or obnoxiously loquacious.) After all, if life is ultimately some sort of grand symphony, you can’t forget the dynamics.
14. It irritates me to no end that I have to sign into my Elon email every. single. time. I want to use it. But then, I’m easily irritated. I hide it well. I think.
15. I love pickles, Dr. Pepper, Slurpees, Italian casserole, chicken-and-rice soup, homemade bread, sweet tea, lemonade, pumpkin pie, carrot cake, cheesecake, mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, hazelnuts, and chili best of everything to eat in the world. And, with the exception of goods like pickles (which must be the big, juicy kind I used to get at my brothers’ baseball games), mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, Dr. Pepper, and Slurpees, everything must be made at 3849 Herbert Perry Road, or it’s just not quite the same.
16. Old (or old-fashioned) is better than new in basically every case except Christmas presents and technology. (Because I doubt I could live happily without the Internet—Facebook, YouTube, iTunes, email, the news—for more than a week, sad to say.)
17. (Because I’m an English major and therefore can’t count, I shan’t be indicted for an extra point or two.) I have a horrible sense of direction and I am dependent on my GPS. People who know me will have heard the stories. But I’m getting better, honestly. I’m learning all about road signs and the interstate system, and it’s actually really cool.
18. I love my family and am tremendously attached to my hometown. Some people say they have “strings” or “ties” to home? I’ve got ropes. Thick ropes. Like, heavy duty pirate-worthy ropes. I miss my family much more than I let on. (I also miss dance.)
19. (Or three) Harry Potter is better than Twilight, but Twilight is still pretty awesome. The two can coexist in harmony, honestly. C’mon, think how much the fanfiction would be! (Sorry, can’t help it. I used to be a rabid Harry Potter fan.) Neither is as good as The Princess Bride (yes, there’s a book) or The Phantom Tollbooth or Alice in Wonderland or The Wizard of Oz or Spindle’s End or like a million billion more. But they’re probably about equal with Percy Jackson and Artemis Fowl. Don’t get me wrong, I love modern fairytales, and my life would not be the same without them—still, respect the classics, folks! (Oh, and by the way? Disney may have been anti-Semitic, chauvinist, and racist. I don’t care. Disney is classic and I love it and I wish people would stop looking for negative elements in the movies that really don’t detract from the movie itself and are really relatively harmless. Beauty and the Beast is the best thing ever. /rant.)
20. (Or four. Really, 16 is an awfully random number. 20 is much better.) Sometimes I think I would’ve done a lot better socially and perhaps been happier in a different era. But then I think about how much I love this one and how much rides on my generation, and I realize that I can probably do the most good here.
21. (Ok, I promise to stop after this) I love country music, and I don’t understand why so many people don’t like it. Is it a crime to have lyrics you can actually UNDERSTAND and maybe feel moderately HAPPY about? I’m going to blog about this in the future. In the meantime, as long as you don’t force your alternative junk on me, I’ll keep my country to myself. For the record, I also love computer shortcuts, my iPod, knitting, socks, staying up till 3am doing nothing but chatting with my roommate/suitemates, and index cards. Just in case you were wondering.
So, there’s this Facebook chainmail type thing going around (Facebook chains are actually a lot of fun, trust me) called 16 things. Here’s my friend Kate’s, as an example.
“So, 16 things that you may or may not no about me...GO!
1. I miss home more then I ever thought I would being so far away. It's not that I wish I were home, only that I wish home were here :-)
2. I didn't believe in love
3. I complain about people so much more now that I'm at school because when I'm annoyed I have to tell someone and I can no longer tell my mom. I always regret it later.
4. I think that the kids on my hall will do great things someday and I'm so excited for them.
5. If I could take away the pain of all my friends and have it myself I would. The worst thing is watching others suffer, I dont think about it as much when I do.
6. I never realized my sisters looked up to me until I left
7. I like to dance even though I'm terrible at it
8. My group of friends at home saved me, I would be nothing without them
9. My roomate is the coolest person I know
10. Mr. Johnson is the reason I'm majoring in History
11. I think rain is beautiful
12. I hate driving in my car alone
13. Sometimes walking by myself at night is my favorite part of the day
14. I'm obsessed with donating my meal plans to different causes in Mosely
15. I worry about the people I know all the time
16. The music I'm listening to will tell you exactly how I'm feeling”
You’re supposed to tag 16 people when you’re done, and then they’re supposed to do it or at least look at it. I’ve been tagged now like three times (including by Kate) and would like to do it, except that I honestly can’t think of 16 people I really want to tag, and I’m not going to tag people I don’t really want to tag, and I’m not going to post it if I don’t have 16 tagged people, because that is a loser move, and I’d rather not be a loser. Plus I can’t manage to be succinct enough to feel right about posting it all on Facebook. So I decided I’d post it here, instead. :]
1. I love analyzing myself, and I’m very good at it. I understand myself completely—strengths, weaknesses, flaws, quirks, loves, hates, personality (I’m an INTJ and it fits me EXACTLY), dynamics—but I can’t for the life of me explain myself. But I do like talking about myself...sorry. :]
2. I’m something of a compulsive worrywart. I’m not sure from which parent this stemmed (probably more Mama than Daddy) but it doesn’t really matter. Natural disasters still scare me worse than almost anything else. So naturally, I do my huge Global Experience project on them. Told you I couldn’t explain myself.
3. I am often happiest when I am doing something completely irreconcilable with normal life. For instance, I just got back from a trip outside (to my car), where it’s miraculously warm and gray and windy and the leaves are skittering over the sidewalk. To give you an idea of how I looked while doing this, I have on jeans and my red Elon sweatshirt, hair in a ponytail, not a trace of makeup, bright fuscia socks, and black flats (I was wearing my loafers earlier, but I didn’t feel like having to tie laces. The fuscia and the red clashed horribly, and I wish I could say that I cared, but clashing is an occasional hobby of mine). And my iPod in. So I lip-synched “Drops of Jupiter” all the way to my car, grinning, twirling, skipping, swinging my phoenix card/keys and walking jouncily so my ponytail would bounce. There were people around, and I probably looked ridiculous. I could’ve cared less. See, it’s these moments that are just so lovely and bubbly-feeling that make me the happiest. It’s kinda like how David and I used to go out and do completely random things (dance on the beach; run around and sing “On Top of the World” in the rain at the Kitty Hawk memorial) and not care at all that we looked retarded because we were having so much fun.
4. By the way, I really love the wind. And the rain, too.
5. I hate seeing the word I in my papers like a bajillion times. It makes me wonder just how egocentric I really am.
6. Words are oxygen; words are a heartbeat. Because if you can’t describe something in some way or communicate it (even to yourself), then can you really even feel it? Does it matter anymore? Words are ocular, olfactory, auditory, gustatory, and tactile, and they are my life.
7. I am amazed at how well movement and sight and sound and color and scent and weather and lighting—how I love lighting!—and people can combine to make life the way it is. It’s like God’s ultimate multimedia project, and it’s glorious.
8. I collect dolls, especially Madame Alexander and especially especially American Girl dolls. It’s not because I didn’t get to have a childhood; it’s not because I have any sort of disorder or weird unfinished business in my subconscious. It’s because they’re beautiful and they were incredibly important to me when I was growing up and I love their personalities and going back to their histories and the way they can fit anything (Princesses? Sure. Fairies? No problem. Historical? Well, obviously. Imaginary world? They love it. Modern day CIA thriller? That too. And I can put all of these elements together at once, too—yeah, it’s a talent. ;-p) and their lovely clothes and fixing their hair and setting them up in realistic tableaus and making them live out the storylines I create. They never stop smiling and they never get bored of me. I actually seriously considered trying to be a doll stylist/photographer for the AG Company when I was about 12 or 13. I would be good at it, but I can’t condone many of the AG Company’s practices since Mattel took over, and so it’s obviously not happening.
9. If I do not have time to myself, I will eventually snap. I am not a people person and I do not like being obligated to deal with a lot of people at once and when I am ready to stop being social, I am ready to stop being social right then. I’m much the same way with shopping; just ask my mother.
10. Having said that, I like to talk and I like to think that I’ve gotten much better at talking to people in general. And also better at controlling myself and just dealing with whatever I don’t want to do. It’s a work in progress.
11. Thinking is such a gift. I love it. How do people even begin to justify killing brain cells with drugs and alcohol when they could have that much more room in their minds to be thinking of interesting things?!?!? Haha, you can probably tell that I basically love school. Not work. Not getting up early. But I definitely love class. A small bit of teacher approval can have me flying high for an entire week.
12. I write down quotes from my teachers, friends, classmates, family…if somebody says something funny or something I think has enough intrinsic worth that I’d like to remember it, I preserve it. That’s what I do; that’s who I am. I also take too many pictures. You could say I collect moments.
13. Loud is good, and quiet is good, too. Just at their appropriate times. (And I’ll admit that I’m not always very good at judging the appropriate times when it comes to being in public. I just know when I want to be quiet or obnoxiously loquacious.) After all, if life is ultimately some sort of grand symphony, you can’t forget the dynamics.
14. It irritates me to no end that I have to sign into my Elon email every. single. time. I want to use it. But then, I’m easily irritated. I hide it well. I think.
15. I love pickles, Dr. Pepper, Slurpees, Italian casserole, chicken-and-rice soup, homemade bread, sweet tea, lemonade, pumpkin pie, carrot cake, cheesecake, mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, hazelnuts, and chili best of everything to eat in the world. And, with the exception of goods like pickles (which must be the big, juicy kind I used to get at my brothers’ baseball games), mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, Dr. Pepper, and Slurpees, everything must be made at 3849 Herbert Perry Road, or it’s just not quite the same.
16. Old (or old-fashioned) is better than new in basically every case except Christmas presents and technology. (Because I doubt I could live happily without the Internet—Facebook, YouTube, iTunes, email, the news—for more than a week, sad to say.)
17. (Because I’m an English major and therefore can’t count, I shan’t be indicted for an extra point or two.) I have a horrible sense of direction and I am dependent on my GPS. People who know me will have heard the stories. But I’m getting better, honestly. I’m learning all about road signs and the interstate system, and it’s actually really cool.
18. I love my family and am tremendously attached to my hometown. Some people say they have “strings” or “ties” to home? I’ve got ropes. Thick ropes. Like, heavy duty pirate-worthy ropes. I miss my family much more than I let on. (I also miss dance.)
19. (Or three) Harry Potter is better than Twilight, but Twilight is still pretty awesome. The two can coexist in harmony, honestly. C’mon, think how much the fanfiction would be! (Sorry, can’t help it. I used to be a rabid Harry Potter fan.) Neither is as good as The Princess Bride (yes, there’s a book) or The Phantom Tollbooth or Alice in Wonderland or The Wizard of Oz or Spindle’s End or like a million billion more. But they’re probably about equal with Percy Jackson and Artemis Fowl. Don’t get me wrong, I love modern fairytales, and my life would not be the same without them—still, respect the classics, folks! (Oh, and by the way? Disney may have been anti-Semitic, chauvinist, and racist. I don’t care. Disney is classic and I love it and I wish people would stop looking for negative elements in the movies that really don’t detract from the movie itself and are really relatively harmless. Beauty and the Beast is the best thing ever. /rant.)
20. (Or four. Really, 16 is an awfully random number. 20 is much better.) Sometimes I think I would’ve done a lot better socially and perhaps been happier in a different era. But then I think about how much I love this one and how much rides on my generation, and I realize that I can probably do the most good here.
21. (Ok, I promise to stop after this) I love country music, and I don’t understand why so many people don’t like it. Is it a crime to have lyrics you can actually UNDERSTAND and maybe feel moderately HAPPY about? I’m going to blog about this in the future. In the meantime, as long as you don’t force your alternative junk on me, I’ll keep my country to myself. For the record, I also love computer shortcuts, my iPod, knitting, socks, staying up till 3am doing nothing but chatting with my roommate/suitemates, and index cards. Just in case you were wondering.
Friday, November 21, 2008
No! Please Don't Take My Car!
"The car has become a secular sanctuary for the individual, his shrine to the self, his mobile Walden Pond." --Edward McDonagh
I watched a "Save Energy!" cartoon clip on Eutube earlier this week. (For IR. I'm afraid I don't usually watch the European Union's promotional material just for fun.) Of course it featured
all those things that magazines and elementary schools all promote today--change your lightbulbs, turn down the thermostat a few degrees, caulk any gaps in your windows, turn off the water when you brush your teeth, unplug appliances when not in use. Yadda yadda yadda. Oh, and there's one more that's always mentioned: either walk, bike, or take public transportation to work/school if at all possible. Carpool if you absolutely must.
It reminded me of a growing trend throughout the world today--not just the green trend, but the trend towards seeing the car as the enemy.
On one hand, I completely understand it. Individual cars are definitely a problem when it comes to carbon emissions, and carbon emissions are an enormous issue in the fight to stabilize the planet's temperature. Global warming frightens me; I don't want to hurt the earth, especially since I live on a skinny strip of beach that rising temperatures and sea levels could easily put in jeopardy.
But...excuse me for stereotyping liberals, but I can't bring myself to quite take the same view of the liberal greenikins (my word. isn't it great? and I do fully approve of many things the greenikins do. I'm even one myself in some ways) about cars. It may just be that I'm selfish. I was happy when gas came down because it means that driving is cheaper for me, if not any better for the environment. I love driving. (I mean, I can't for the life of me identify what most things in my car are, and I've no idea how to tell most cars apart, but cars are just part of life...I mean, seriously. My daddy owns an auto repair shop. They just are. And we've had enough different types in our driveway over the years, rom the bronco to the MR2, that, well, you don't just cut cars out of everyday existence.) And I can't help but think that an awful lot of people feel the same way I do--we want the environment to be healthy, but not to give up driving. After all, driving is part of the American dream, right? An endless expanse of roadways through the countryside from sea to shining sea, the freedom to jangle the keys and be gone in a moment, that magical 16th birthday, simply the feeling of riding down the highway with the radio up and the wind blowing through your hair. The mobility, the independence, the feeling that we're all united under the fickle whims of oil prices. Pickup trucks, 18-wheelers, jeeps, hybrids, minivans, luxury cars...all together on one ribbon of highway. Just think about all the driving music out there--it's basically a requirement of every country and most rock stars to sing about the joys of driving at some point in their career. C'mon: Life is a Highway. We Rode in Trucks. Roll On Eighteen Wheeler. Drive. All I Wanted Was a Car. Maybe everybody does it, but it still manages to feel like freedom manifested. You have distinct control over your car. Driving feels downright patriotic!
I don't want to take public transportation. Or carpool, really. And I certainly don't want to bike--it's cold outside!
Driving with friends can be fun, certainly. The teenage roadtrip has an eternal place in the American heart. My friend Myles and I drove what amounted to seven and a half hours to and from Virgina a few weeks ago, and had a fantastic time; some of my favorite dance memories involve the times all the advanced girls used to pile into Korie or Elissa or Olivia's car, turn the music up loud, and seatdance all the way to Mama Kwan's or Barefoot Bernie's. It's fun to ride and gossip in the backseat of Dr. Hall's car with Kate and Natalie. I love car rides with my mama, or being in my car singing every word of "We Didn't Start the Fire" or "Devil Went Down to Georgia" with my brothers. Some of the very best times David and I have had resulted from driving to and from school or Wal-Mart or simply driving for the sake of driving and having time to talk...down the bypass, up the beach road, down Moreshore, down Kitty Hawk Road, down the bypass, up the beach road, down to Duck, the back way back to the bypass through Southern Shores, down the beach road, down to Manteo and back...singing loudly or musing about how whenever he gets married, I get to be his best man (maid? whatever) and how one day we're both going to be famous and rich and save the world.
Don't laugh. We're young and dreaming is free even if gas isn't.
Yes, I realize that teenagers in Europe have lots of fun on the subway. I've ridden the Parisian subway system and the public taxiboats in Venice. Heck, I got lost in the tube station in London! And my friends and I had a marvelous time grabbing onto the poles and giggling at each other as we tried to keep from falling each time it jerked. And sitting on top of each other. And putting pop rocks in Connor's mouth when he was asleep on the train. (Hey, it wasn't my idea--I just participated. Insert conniving chuckle here.) But seriously, I think if it hadn't been a novel experience for us, it wouldn't have had the same funness factor that riding together in a car does back in America.
And also...there's nothing like driving by yourself. I should know. Driving by myself to dance nearly every day at first, and now driving the 231 miles home as often as possible, I've spent a great deal of time in my jeep (both my beautiful blue jeep now and my lovable old gray jeep now in David's custodianship). At the moment, my car is the only fully me spot in the universe. There are just so darn many people in the world, and they're always in the places I want to be. I mean, I've got my spaces. I've got home...specifically my bedroom. But that's over four hours away. I've got my house and room here. But I live with 21 other young adults. There's nowhere I can think of except my car where I can sing really, really loudly (and not very well) and not worry at all about it. And talk to myself--or to anybody else who needs a good talking-to or lengthy explanation of my side of things (it's not a requirement that they be able to hear me). Come to think of it, I've probably spent more time crying in my car in the past year than I have anywhere else. A car is just a very private place. It's your own little bubble, complete with the temperature the way you want, your music the volume you want, and the windows the way you want. Plus, driving's one of those things where you see results relatively quickly, and I enjoy that. It's just...individualistic, whereas public transportation is decidedly not.
I dread the day when I have to take a bus to get somewhere and leave my keys gathering dust.
That's the end of my driving-obsessed rant. I do apologize if anybody fervently against individual transportation takes offense to this. But I don't think I have anything to worry about.
I watched a "Save Energy!" cartoon clip on Eutube earlier this week. (For IR. I'm afraid I don't usually watch the European Union's promotional material just for fun.) Of course it featured
all those things that magazines and elementary schools all promote today--change your lightbulbs, turn down the thermostat a few degrees, caulk any gaps in your windows, turn off the water when you brush your teeth, unplug appliances when not in use. Yadda yadda yadda. Oh, and there's one more that's always mentioned: either walk, bike, or take public transportation to work/school if at all possible. Carpool if you absolutely must.
It reminded me of a growing trend throughout the world today--not just the green trend, but the trend towards seeing the car as the enemy.
On one hand, I completely understand it. Individual cars are definitely a problem when it comes to carbon emissions, and carbon emissions are an enormous issue in the fight to stabilize the planet's temperature. Global warming frightens me; I don't want to hurt the earth, especially since I live on a skinny strip of beach that rising temperatures and sea levels could easily put in jeopardy.
But...excuse me for stereotyping liberals, but I can't bring myself to quite take the same view of the liberal greenikins (my word. isn't it great? and I do fully approve of many things the greenikins do. I'm even one myself in some ways) about cars. It may just be that I'm selfish. I was happy when gas came down because it means that driving is cheaper for me, if not any better for the environment. I love driving. (I mean, I can't for the life of me identify what most things in my car are, and I've no idea how to tell most cars apart, but cars are just part of life...I mean, seriously. My daddy owns an auto repair shop. They just are. And we've had enough different types in our driveway over the years, rom the bronco to the MR2, that, well, you don't just cut cars out of everyday existence.) And I can't help but think that an awful lot of people feel the same way I do--we want the environment to be healthy, but not to give up driving. After all, driving is part of the American dream, right? An endless expanse of roadways through the countryside from sea to shining sea, the freedom to jangle the keys and be gone in a moment, that magical 16th birthday, simply the feeling of riding down the highway with the radio up and the wind blowing through your hair. The mobility, the independence, the feeling that we're all united under the fickle whims of oil prices. Pickup trucks, 18-wheelers, jeeps, hybrids, minivans, luxury cars...all together on one ribbon of highway. Just think about all the driving music out there--it's basically a requirement of every country and most rock stars to sing about the joys of driving at some point in their career. C'mon: Life is a Highway. We Rode in Trucks. Roll On Eighteen Wheeler. Drive. All I Wanted Was a Car. Maybe everybody does it, but it still manages to feel like freedom manifested. You have distinct control over your car. Driving feels downright patriotic!
I don't want to take public transportation. Or carpool, really. And I certainly don't want to bike--it's cold outside!
Driving with friends can be fun, certainly. The teenage roadtrip has an eternal place in the American heart. My friend Myles and I drove what amounted to seven and a half hours to and from Virgina a few weeks ago, and had a fantastic time; some of my favorite dance memories involve the times all the advanced girls used to pile into Korie or Elissa or Olivia's car, turn the music up loud, and seatdance all the way to Mama Kwan's or Barefoot Bernie's. It's fun to ride and gossip in the backseat of Dr. Hall's car with Kate and Natalie. I love car rides with my mama, or being in my car singing every word of "We Didn't Start the Fire" or "Devil Went Down to Georgia" with my brothers. Some of the very best times David and I have had resulted from driving to and from school or Wal-Mart or simply driving for the sake of driving and having time to talk...down the bypass, up the beach road, down Moreshore, down Kitty Hawk Road, down the bypass, up the beach road, down to Duck, the back way back to the bypass through Southern Shores, down the beach road, down to Manteo and back...singing loudly or musing about how whenever he gets married, I get to be his best man (maid? whatever) and how one day we're both going to be famous and rich and save the world.
Don't laugh. We're young and dreaming is free even if gas isn't.
Yes, I realize that teenagers in Europe have lots of fun on the subway. I've ridden the Parisian subway system and the public taxiboats in Venice. Heck, I got lost in the tube station in London! And my friends and I had a marvelous time grabbing onto the poles and giggling at each other as we tried to keep from falling each time it jerked. And sitting on top of each other. And putting pop rocks in Connor's mouth when he was asleep on the train. (Hey, it wasn't my idea--I just participated. Insert conniving chuckle here.) But seriously, I think if it hadn't been a novel experience for us, it wouldn't have had the same funness factor that riding together in a car does back in America.
And also...there's nothing like driving by yourself. I should know. Driving by myself to dance nearly every day at first, and now driving the 231 miles home as often as possible, I've spent a great deal of time in my jeep (both my beautiful blue jeep now and my lovable old gray jeep now in David's custodianship). At the moment, my car is the only fully me spot in the universe. There are just so darn many people in the world, and they're always in the places I want to be. I mean, I've got my spaces. I've got home...specifically my bedroom. But that's over four hours away. I've got my house and room here. But I live with 21 other young adults. There's nowhere I can think of except my car where I can sing really, really loudly (and not very well) and not worry at all about it. And talk to myself--or to anybody else who needs a good talking-to or lengthy explanation of my side of things (it's not a requirement that they be able to hear me). Come to think of it, I've probably spent more time crying in my car in the past year than I have anywhere else. A car is just a very private place. It's your own little bubble, complete with the temperature the way you want, your music the volume you want, and the windows the way you want. Plus, driving's one of those things where you see results relatively quickly, and I enjoy that. It's just...individualistic, whereas public transportation is decidedly not.
I dread the day when I have to take a bus to get somewhere and leave my keys gathering dust.
That's the end of my driving-obsessed rant. I do apologize if anybody fervently against individual transportation takes offense to this. But I don't think I have anything to worry about.
Welcome to Awkwardsville.
It doesn't matter what you do in the bedroom as long as you don't do it in the street and frighten the horses. ~Mrs. Patrick Campbell
Yes, I just used that quote. I used it because I am dealing with this right now. Not directly, of course.
I have been sexiled.
In case you're unfamiliar with the term, the Urban Dictionary defines sexiled as "When politely asked or forced from one's room in order to create the private atmosphere most roommates need for coitus with their special friends. Incidentally, it is what I am right now." I'm not joking. That's how it's defined. Go check out http://www.urbandictionary.com/ if you don't believe me. (It's not a site that tends to use pleasant language, but it's very popular around here.)
My roommate's boyfriend is over for the weekend. I really do love her, and I really can't blame my sexile entirely on her...she meant no harm; she thought I'd be out of town from Friday until Monday because I was going to my grandmother's house. Except I'm not out of town from Friday til Monday. I'm out of town from Saturday monday until Sunday afternoon. But I didn't realize that our ideas of "Katherine is leaving" differed, and at this point, I have no wish to crash her weekend. Or sleep three people in a room with two beds. Awkward. Intensely awkward. So instead, I'm letting her think I am out of town, and after being in the library for a little while I realized I didn't want to spend eight hours in the library and now I'm sitting in the Hearth Lounge at Moselely. There are plugs here for my laptop, so I'm pretty content with it, plus I can people watch and get refills on my Cherry Coke. Tonight I'm going to be sleeping in the lounge upstairs, which is ironically enough DIRECTLY above my room, and cutting into my own bathroom via my suitemates' door (the rest of the dorm is aware of my unfortunate predicament, and fully supportive, although they seem to think it's rather humorous. Which it is. Only not if you're the one sleeping on the couch with only a few blankets when it's snowing outside. And I'm serious about the snow, too. Frozen precipitation is in today's weather forecast, and it was white when I woke up this morning).
Now, I would feel guilty about putting this out there online except that Mama already knows about it and I'm certain that there aren't any children reading this. My roommate does not know about this blog. In fact, only Mama and Aunt Tonnye and maybe Aunt Brett read this, so I'm pretty sure I'm not going to end up with the horrid publicly-spilling-all roommate award.
I would be doing a bit better if I hadn't been inadvertently banned from Facebook. See, my roommate and I are obviously Facebook friends, and seeing as how she thinks I'm driving home right now, it would look rather odd if she checked her Facebook and saw all this FB activity. For one thing, I haven't any internet in my car. So instead I'm restricted to messaging. Not being able to change my status every fifteen minutes is seriously killing me, you don't even understand. However, FB exile should be lifted around six, because that's when I usually get home, so that's the limit I set for myself. In the meantime, I think I'm going to blog again. I have a really good topic that's been in the back of my mind for a while. :]
Sigh. I can't WAIT for tomorrow morning. Being sexiled is about as much fun as having class on Monday and Tuesday when so many other colleges are out for Thanksgiving already, or doing the writing part of my Global powerpoint.
In other words, it's rotten.
Yes, I just used that quote. I used it because I am dealing with this right now. Not directly, of course.
I have been sexiled.
In case you're unfamiliar with the term, the Urban Dictionary defines sexiled as "When politely asked or forced from one's room in order to create the private atmosphere most roommates need for coitus with their special friends. Incidentally, it is what I am right now." I'm not joking. That's how it's defined. Go check out http://www.urbandictionary.com/ if you don't believe me. (It's not a site that tends to use pleasant language, but it's very popular around here.)
My roommate's boyfriend is over for the weekend. I really do love her, and I really can't blame my sexile entirely on her...she meant no harm; she thought I'd be out of town from Friday until Monday because I was going to my grandmother's house. Except I'm not out of town from Friday til Monday. I'm out of town from Saturday monday until Sunday afternoon. But I didn't realize that our ideas of "Katherine is leaving" differed, and at this point, I have no wish to crash her weekend. Or sleep three people in a room with two beds. Awkward. Intensely awkward. So instead, I'm letting her think I am out of town, and after being in the library for a little while I realized I didn't want to spend eight hours in the library and now I'm sitting in the Hearth Lounge at Moselely. There are plugs here for my laptop, so I'm pretty content with it, plus I can people watch and get refills on my Cherry Coke. Tonight I'm going to be sleeping in the lounge upstairs, which is ironically enough DIRECTLY above my room, and cutting into my own bathroom via my suitemates' door (the rest of the dorm is aware of my unfortunate predicament, and fully supportive, although they seem to think it's rather humorous. Which it is. Only not if you're the one sleeping on the couch with only a few blankets when it's snowing outside. And I'm serious about the snow, too. Frozen precipitation is in today's weather forecast, and it was white when I woke up this morning).
Now, I would feel guilty about putting this out there online except that Mama already knows about it and I'm certain that there aren't any children reading this. My roommate does not know about this blog. In fact, only Mama and Aunt Tonnye and maybe Aunt Brett read this, so I'm pretty sure I'm not going to end up with the horrid publicly-spilling-all roommate award.
I would be doing a bit better if I hadn't been inadvertently banned from Facebook. See, my roommate and I are obviously Facebook friends, and seeing as how she thinks I'm driving home right now, it would look rather odd if she checked her Facebook and saw all this FB activity. For one thing, I haven't any internet in my car. So instead I'm restricted to messaging. Not being able to change my status every fifteen minutes is seriously killing me, you don't even understand. However, FB exile should be lifted around six, because that's when I usually get home, so that's the limit I set for myself. In the meantime, I think I'm going to blog again. I have a really good topic that's been in the back of my mind for a while. :]
Sigh. I can't WAIT for tomorrow morning. Being sexiled is about as much fun as having class on Monday and Tuesday when so many other colleges are out for Thanksgiving already, or doing the writing part of my Global powerpoint.
In other words, it's rotten.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Craftiness
Take your needle, my child, and work at your pattern; it will come out a rose by and by. Life is like that - one stitch at a time taken patiently and the pattern will come out all right like the embroidery. ~Oliver Wendell Holmes
1. Coaster front (the back is plain green). Bordered in blanket stitch, then, somewhat in order, pekinese, heavy chain, bonnet, herringbone, feather, double feather, wheatear chain, coral, wave, star, sheaf, closed feather, basque, open chain, Chinese knot and backstitch, lazy daisy and coral, spiderweb + coral + lazy daisy, Jacobean couching, vandyke. It looks a lot better in real life, seriously.
2. This is my Thanksgiving-colored dolly, no name yet. That skirt was originally in four tiny pieces, and now it's adorable, right? I love her.
Isn't that a lovely quote? I really like that one. Sewing has always been one of those things I've really enjoyed--well, craftiwork in general--from when I was pretty little to now. I just don't have as much time anymore.
However, lately I've had a little more free time than I have in the past. That might possibly be a lie. I don't know that I have any more time, necessarily, but since I was at school all last weekend and I worked really diligently, I did have free time on Sunday, which I used to begin a little bit of needlework, finishing a little fairy doll I started long, long ago. When Lora got home Sunday night, she looked at me on my bed with my bits of felt and thread and asked if she could make a dragon. Of course! So we spent an hour or so being the only two college freshmen on campus spending any part of the weekend playing with craft supplies and musing about whether her dragon or my wizard would win an Arthurian battle. (Correct answer: my wizard.) And then I wanted to try out some of the new stitches in my embroidery book, so I began practicing with silver thread on some fuschia felt (this is really nice, soft, thick, smooth felt, I ordered a lot of it from--I think it was Hearthsong--around two years ago) and although I eventually had to go to bed, leaving something uncompleted just bugs me...so every spare moment--and a few that weren't so much spare as procrastination--for the next week, I spent stitching this and that. It's been a really long time since I had time to do anything like that, and I forgot how soothing it was. My mama likes to quilt; I'd like to but don't really have the patience for long, straight lines and the big-projectness of it. I would've gone crazy hemming sheets in the olden days. I like to see results more quickly, and embroidery does that--you can spend days on a flower, or minutes, depending on how you feel, but it's gonna get done in a decent amount of time, and you get to use pretty colors and different types of stitching, and so it's interesting, but you don't have to count, so you can let your mind wander a little.
To put things in perspective, I haven't had the chance to work on this poor little doll since last Thanksgiving at Aunt Brett's house. Although I have managed to knit a little so far in college (and I mean, it's November. It's been a while), I began a new knitting project on Saturday, too. My dorm (well, nine people from my dorm, anyway) spent Saturday in Old Salem, but at 11 that night seven of us squeezed onto the couch in the classroom to watch Casablanca, and, since I don't really need to be able to see or think all that hard about simple seed and stockinette stitches, I worked on a dishcloth. And on Monday night, when I had to go halfway across campus to the Koury Business Center Digital Theatre to see a documentary on the Abu Ghraib prison scandal called Standard Operating Procedure, I took my knitting and got quite a bit done. Who knew torture and knitting would go so well together?
I admit that I did get a strange look or two at the documentary showing. It reminded me of the old ladies who like to peek over my shoulder when I knit at my grandparents' church, certain that the scarf I'm knitting is really a pair of baby booties. (Insert pair of rolling eyes here. They're nice people, but they breed them suspicious over there. I think they feel they're justified as long as they remind me that "Jesus loves you forever'n'ever, child, no matter what happens!" Sigh.) My ethics teacher, who was sitting behind me, seemed very interested in my work, at least, and Dr. Swimelar smiled at me. (She's liked me better lately, though, because I've started talking more in class.) Plus I got two inches done, so I really didn't care what anybody else thought.
Now, this weekend I'm here again, and I need to spend time on homework, of course--I have a huge paper due for Global on Tuesday, and I want to make it seriously excellent, plus work for other classes--and I'll be sure to spend some time with my dormmates, but I'll probably have time for some sewing and knitting, which makes me ridiculously happy. Recharging time!
I wanted to post some pictures, anyway.
1. Coaster front (the back is plain green). Bordered in blanket stitch, then, somewhat in order, pekinese, heavy chain, bonnet, herringbone, feather, double feather, wheatear chain, coral, wave, star, sheaf, closed feather, basque, open chain, Chinese knot and backstitch, lazy daisy and coral, spiderweb + coral + lazy daisy, Jacobean couching, vandyke. It looks a lot better in real life, seriously.
2. This is my Thanksgiving-colored dolly, no name yet. That skirt was originally in four tiny pieces, and now it's adorable, right? I love her.
3. This is Lora's voodoo doll and my dolly. No comment.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Why Won't They Just Do It My Way?
I am returning this otherwise good typing paper to you because someone has printed gibberish all over it and put your name at the top.
-English Professor, Ohio University
Have you ever written a paper and then really, really, really wished you could present it instead of just turn it in, so the teacher could hear it just as you were thinking it? Because obviously they're going to read it wrong, you just know it.
Well, Global midterm? Yeah. Braye is going to read this all not as I say it in my head, and then he is going to think it is ridiculous. And I think they frown upon breaking into a teacher's office while they're grading papers solely to read yours aloud with hand gestures. Hm.
Ok, that's all. Pardon the grumpiness.
-English Professor, Ohio University
Have you ever written a paper and then really, really, really wished you could present it instead of just turn it in, so the teacher could hear it just as you were thinking it? Because obviously they're going to read it wrong, you just know it.
Well, Global midterm? Yeah. Braye is going to read this all not as I say it in my head, and then he is going to think it is ridiculous. And I think they frown upon breaking into a teacher's office while they're grading papers solely to read yours aloud with hand gestures. Hm.
Ok, that's all. Pardon the grumpiness.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Pointless, egotistic update :]
Modesty: The art of encouraging people to find out for themselves how wonderful you are. ~Source Unknown
My note: Or you could just help them out. :]
So that religion test? I got a 96. And he did not exactly hand out the A's. Also, we were talking yesterday about rituals surrounding the ceremonies/rites of passage of death, birth, and marriage, and I actually spoke up and argued my point well enough that he looked stumped, pointed at me, and said, "Good. That's a 10."
So far, I haven't gotten anything back that's not a good grade. Crossing my fingers that it goes like that for everything...wish me luck. Ok, done bragging on myself now.
My note: Or you could just help them out. :]
So that religion test? I got a 96. And he did not exactly hand out the A's. Also, we were talking yesterday about rituals surrounding the ceremonies/rites of passage of death, birth, and marriage, and I actually spoke up and argued my point well enough that he looked stumped, pointed at me, and said, "Good. That's a 10."
So far, I haven't gotten anything back that's not a good grade. Crossing my fingers that it goes like that for everything...wish me luck. Ok, done bragging on myself now.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Wouldn't it be nice if separation of church and state meant no tests in religion class?
As long as there are tests, there will be prayer in schools.
-Author unknown
I have my first real college test today, in my Introduction to Religious Studies class. I'm pretty sure it will go well--at least, I hope so--I know all the material, and my suitemate, Kate, who has the class Tuesday-Thursday, said it wasn't as hard as Dr. York portrayed it.
So I'm going to go study my God stuff. And Dawkins (blech), and Marx, and Feuerbacher, and definitions for animism and henotheism...fun, fun, fun. Wish me luck!
-Author unknown
I have my first real college test today, in my Introduction to Religious Studies class. I'm pretty sure it will go well--at least, I hope so--I know all the material, and my suitemate, Kate, who has the class Tuesday-Thursday, said it wasn't as hard as Dr. York portrayed it.
So I'm going to go study my God stuff. And Dawkins (blech), and Marx, and Feuerbacher, and definitions for animism and henotheism...fun, fun, fun. Wish me luck!
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Things That Mattered Today
Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius - and a lot of courage - to move in the opposite direction. ~E.F. Schumacker
Another class, another discussion. It’s so fascinating to be considered knowledgeable and, well, worthy of all these topics. Globalization, terrorism, sustainability, God, good versus evil, economics, beauty, perception, logistics, ethical behavior, responsibility, nuclear power struggles, the role of family, anti-Americanism, consumption, the American dream. And more, much more! There’s so much involved and implicit and understated and understood and then so much misunderstood and overstated and foggy and illogical. Each topic dredges up so many readings…old conversations and classroom discussions…snippets of TV headlines from six, seven, eight years ago and snippets of culture by now much changed…debate, of course. Of course debate! It’s exciting, invigorating. (Even if my 8am International Relations class makes me think wistfully of my bed and my Ethics class makes my eyelids droop sometimes.) This is stuff that matters.
You know what else matters? Stepping out of class at 9:40 to find a cool, sunny world has risen. The light rendering the ivy leaves translucent and making the dew-saturated cobweb glitter. The contrast in this particular scenario, with the red brick arch framing the green leaves and the sparkling web. That matters. The chilly air and the scent of fall in the air and the thick, soft warmth of my sweatshirt on my shoulders. The comforting solidity of the oaks against the sky, and the sun bright in my eyes. The laughter I hear down the path. This matters. And the way the person in front of me holds the door matters. And it matters that out of the four people at whom I smile and say “Good morning!” three respond in kind. And the sudden desire to write something—that matters, too. These things are simple, but these things are beautiful. That’s why they matter.
I think it's because today’s world is awfully complicated and kinda scary and generally unpleasant. “I don’t think today’s news could get any more depressing,” my friend David said after class this morning. And he’s right—it’s not much fun to watch the economy deflate, the Middle East plot ways to blow itself up, and politicians accuse each other of pointless “atrocities.” Learning how undemocratic our country’s elections are…yeah. Not fun. It’s a wonderful world, but it’s not a kind one…the news makes me feel panicky and frightens me. The thing about leaves and flowers and rain boots and smiley faces and warm feet is that even when the rest of the world is tangling itself up in knots, they stay simple. It gives me hope that as long as some things stay happy and good even in the midst of all the chaos, at least something will always be ok. And hope is a really critical thing to have today, I think. Hope and faith and curiosity.
So here’s to the sun shining and the wind snapping out the flag. Maybe life’s not all good, but, you know, it’s more than good enough to be worth it.
Another class, another discussion. It’s so fascinating to be considered knowledgeable and, well, worthy of all these topics. Globalization, terrorism, sustainability, God, good versus evil, economics, beauty, perception, logistics, ethical behavior, responsibility, nuclear power struggles, the role of family, anti-Americanism, consumption, the American dream. And more, much more! There’s so much involved and implicit and understated and understood and then so much misunderstood and overstated and foggy and illogical. Each topic dredges up so many readings…old conversations and classroom discussions…snippets of TV headlines from six, seven, eight years ago and snippets of culture by now much changed…debate, of course. Of course debate! It’s exciting, invigorating. (Even if my 8am International Relations class makes me think wistfully of my bed and my Ethics class makes my eyelids droop sometimes.) This is stuff that matters.
You know what else matters? Stepping out of class at 9:40 to find a cool, sunny world has risen. The light rendering the ivy leaves translucent and making the dew-saturated cobweb glitter. The contrast in this particular scenario, with the red brick arch framing the green leaves and the sparkling web. That matters. The chilly air and the scent of fall in the air and the thick, soft warmth of my sweatshirt on my shoulders. The comforting solidity of the oaks against the sky, and the sun bright in my eyes. The laughter I hear down the path. This matters. And the way the person in front of me holds the door matters. And it matters that out of the four people at whom I smile and say “Good morning!” three respond in kind. And the sudden desire to write something—that matters, too. These things are simple, but these things are beautiful. That’s why they matter.
I think it's because today’s world is awfully complicated and kinda scary and generally unpleasant. “I don’t think today’s news could get any more depressing,” my friend David said after class this morning. And he’s right—it’s not much fun to watch the economy deflate, the Middle East plot ways to blow itself up, and politicians accuse each other of pointless “atrocities.” Learning how undemocratic our country’s elections are…yeah. Not fun. It’s a wonderful world, but it’s not a kind one…the news makes me feel panicky and frightens me. The thing about leaves and flowers and rain boots and smiley faces and warm feet is that even when the rest of the world is tangling itself up in knots, they stay simple. It gives me hope that as long as some things stay happy and good even in the midst of all the chaos, at least something will always be ok. And hope is a really critical thing to have today, I think. Hope and faith and curiosity.
So here’s to the sun shining and the wind snapping out the flag. Maybe life’s not all good, but, you know, it’s more than good enough to be worth it.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
College Is Eating My Life
There's never enough time to do all the nothing you want.
-Bill Watterson, Calvin and Hobbes
Before I left for college, I distinctly remember being told by several people how much more free time I was going to have then I was expecting.
I'm not sure now whether thse people were teasing me, genuinely trying to be helpful, or freshly escaped from mental institutions, but so far they've been dead wrong. Maybe it's an honors fellow thing (that's our house excuse for everything). Anyway, thus far my free time has been very close to zero; in fact, I've got two essays I could be writing right now.
And one of them's due tomorrow, so I think I'd better get to that. I just wanted to mention that I haven't forgotten about my blog, or my correspondence aspirations, or anything. And I'll post more about college life after said college life lets up a little. I promise!
-Bill Watterson, Calvin and Hobbes
Before I left for college, I distinctly remember being told by several people how much more free time I was going to have then I was expecting.
I'm not sure now whether thse people were teasing me, genuinely trying to be helpful, or freshly escaped from mental institutions, but so far they've been dead wrong. Maybe it's an honors fellow thing (that's our house excuse for everything). Anyway, thus far my free time has been very close to zero; in fact, I've got two essays I could be writing right now.
And one of them's due tomorrow, so I think I'd better get to that. I just wanted to mention that I haven't forgotten about my blog, or my correspondence aspirations, or anything. And I'll post more about college life after said college life lets up a little. I promise!
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Holes.
Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos. ~Charles M. Schulz
I hate holes. I mean, really hate them.
I like sets. I like ensembles. I like neat-and-tidy, everything-has-a-place. And, see, the thing about everything having its place isn’t just that you’ve got to have the place (which, judging from the organization shows, articles, magazines so prolific in today’s society, is a very common problem)—but also that you’ve got to have the things.
And normally, I do have the things. And the places. I’m pretty fastidious about having places for everything. Each new gift, each purchase—they don’t really feel like they’re mine until I’ve carved a special niche for them. Magazines go in the closet, unless it’s TIME, and then it goes beside Anna’s high chair. Extra buttons go in the old Motrin bottle in the back right corner of my top desk drawer, behind the pens and pencils. Mary Poppins: top bookshelf. Hero and the Crown: middle. Progressions: resting horizontally on the other books on the bottom shelf. There are always three quilts at the food of my bed; Bible and coaster within reach; poetry book and other imminent reading under the bed, which is made. I like the drawers all the way pushed in. The way things in my room stay neat gives me a feeling of peace, a feeling of power. Because I control my room, and if I can make it stay clean, this little square of the world that’s all my own, then I feel that much better about myself. I’m not joking about it being empowering. Plus, I sleep better in a tidy room. Life feels simpler and more manageable when you know that your tchotchkies are in their proper order and that the pictures on your desk are nicely spaced.
The thing I’m having difficulty with is not organizing my college stuff. I’ve enjoyed going shopping; enjoyed stocking and stacking and folding new towels into new Rubbermaid containers. I’m having a hard time, though, taking established citizens of Katherine’s room out of their places and into new territories. It leaves holes. Where my post-it notes are supposed to be in my desk—a hole. The right side of my nightside table—hole. Pictures—hole. Bookshelf—hole, hole, hole. Gaps everywhere. Only one quilt at the foot of my bed. No Mary and Music Bear. I need these things in my dorm room—but it makes me feel sick to think of the holes they’ll leave in my room. Places where something has always been, solid and material and comforting, and where now, something is not. It completely messes up the order of my life.
It reminds me more than I’d like of the ginormous, me-shaped hole I’ll be punching in my family this fall—charmingly manifested by an empty chair at the table between my brothers, a hole-filled room, and a total lack of teenage girl in the family.
I hate big holes.
And I hate little ones, too.
I hate holes. I mean, really hate them.
I like sets. I like ensembles. I like neat-and-tidy, everything-has-a-place. And, see, the thing about everything having its place isn’t just that you’ve got to have the place (which, judging from the organization shows, articles, magazines so prolific in today’s society, is a very common problem)—but also that you’ve got to have the things.
And normally, I do have the things. And the places. I’m pretty fastidious about having places for everything. Each new gift, each purchase—they don’t really feel like they’re mine until I’ve carved a special niche for them. Magazines go in the closet, unless it’s TIME, and then it goes beside Anna’s high chair. Extra buttons go in the old Motrin bottle in the back right corner of my top desk drawer, behind the pens and pencils. Mary Poppins: top bookshelf. Hero and the Crown: middle. Progressions: resting horizontally on the other books on the bottom shelf. There are always three quilts at the food of my bed; Bible and coaster within reach; poetry book and other imminent reading under the bed, which is made. I like the drawers all the way pushed in. The way things in my room stay neat gives me a feeling of peace, a feeling of power. Because I control my room, and if I can make it stay clean, this little square of the world that’s all my own, then I feel that much better about myself. I’m not joking about it being empowering. Plus, I sleep better in a tidy room. Life feels simpler and more manageable when you know that your tchotchkies are in their proper order and that the pictures on your desk are nicely spaced.
The thing I’m having difficulty with is not organizing my college stuff. I’ve enjoyed going shopping; enjoyed stocking and stacking and folding new towels into new Rubbermaid containers. I’m having a hard time, though, taking established citizens of Katherine’s room out of their places and into new territories. It leaves holes. Where my post-it notes are supposed to be in my desk—a hole. The right side of my nightside table—hole. Pictures—hole. Bookshelf—hole, hole, hole. Gaps everywhere. Only one quilt at the foot of my bed. No Mary and Music Bear. I need these things in my dorm room—but it makes me feel sick to think of the holes they’ll leave in my room. Places where something has always been, solid and material and comforting, and where now, something is not. It completely messes up the order of my life.
It reminds me more than I’d like of the ginormous, me-shaped hole I’ll be punching in my family this fall—charmingly manifested by an empty chair at the table between my brothers, a hole-filled room, and a total lack of teenage girl in the family.
I hate big holes.
And I hate little ones, too.
Things I Could Have Been Doing While I Was Not Blogging
I like the word "indolence." It makes my laziness seem classy. ~Bern Williams
1. Turning 18
2. Going psycho on a customer
3. Going psycho on my boyfriend
4. Playing with my new dolls
5. Knitting, crocheting, and other handicrafts
6. Wearing jewelry
7. Eloping
8. Moving to Oklahoma to become the pioneer woman’s apprentice
9. Seriously injuring myself playing Twister
10. Becoming mired in a 3-week game of Risk
11. Helping with Vacation Bible School
12. Getting ready for college
Now, you guess, true or false. Hint: the answers are below.
1. True! I am now of age to buy tobacco products and lottery tickets. I have not bought either, and I don’t intend to ever buy the first, but the fact stands that I could.
2. False. Aren’t you proud of my restraint?
3. Mm…true…but only once. And he really did need the chastising.
4. False! Ha. I bet you were all set to say “true” on that one, but I got you by a technicality. I only have one new doll. So in the plural, that’s incorrect. I did get my beautiful new doll though, yes; her name is Mia and she’s gorgeous and wonderful and I love her. And I played with all of them. And sent my poor Addy to the doll hospital for an out-of-joint leg. But only one technically new doll. Admit it, I got you on that one.
5. Absolutely. And trying to remember the linen stitch, too.
6. Surprisingly true, for somebody who never used to wear jewelry.
7. Hahaha, absolutely not. Just thought I’d throw it in there for giggles.
8. Also untrue, but wouldn’t it be fun?
9. So totally false. Flexibility is completely a plus in Twister, as are long limbs. I win.
10. See, this is why I don’t play Risk. So, it wasn’t 3 weeks. But still, an hour is a while.
11. Mercifully false. Mercifully, mercifully, mercifully.
12. Completely true, sadly and happily.
1. Turning 18
2. Going psycho on a customer
3. Going psycho on my boyfriend
4. Playing with my new dolls
5. Knitting, crocheting, and other handicrafts
6. Wearing jewelry
7. Eloping
8. Moving to Oklahoma to become the pioneer woman’s apprentice
9. Seriously injuring myself playing Twister
10. Becoming mired in a 3-week game of Risk
11. Helping with Vacation Bible School
12. Getting ready for college
Now, you guess, true or false. Hint: the answers are below.
1. True! I am now of age to buy tobacco products and lottery tickets. I have not bought either, and I don’t intend to ever buy the first, but the fact stands that I could.
2. False. Aren’t you proud of my restraint?
3. Mm…true…but only once. And he really did need the chastising.
4. False! Ha. I bet you were all set to say “true” on that one, but I got you by a technicality. I only have one new doll. So in the plural, that’s incorrect. I did get my beautiful new doll though, yes; her name is Mia and she’s gorgeous and wonderful and I love her. And I played with all of them. And sent my poor Addy to the doll hospital for an out-of-joint leg. But only one technically new doll. Admit it, I got you on that one.
5. Absolutely. And trying to remember the linen stitch, too.
6. Surprisingly true, for somebody who never used to wear jewelry.
7. Hahaha, absolutely not. Just thought I’d throw it in there for giggles.
8. Also untrue, but wouldn’t it be fun?
9. So totally false. Flexibility is completely a plus in Twister, as are long limbs. I win.
10. See, this is why I don’t play Risk. So, it wasn’t 3 weeks. But still, an hour is a while.
11. Mercifully false. Mercifully, mercifully, mercifully.
12. Completely true, sadly and happily.
Working Gripes and Groans
People who work sitting down get paid more than people who work standing up. ~Ogden Nash
1. Listen, if you don’t want the slip after you pay with a credit card, TELL ME. I would so much rather throw the slip away in my little register trash can than find it soaked in CBS (cinnamon sugar butter) in the bottom of your basket later.
2. If you hear us all cracking up in the back over some joke or other, be happy for us. It means that we’ve found a moment of happiness amidst the gloom.
3. I like kids. When I smile at them, it doesn’t mean I’m trying to lure them into a dark alleyway. So don’t give me that look. And honestly, it doesn’t bother me when your 3-year-old tugs on my sleeve and I end up on my hands and knees looking under the tables for that red matchbox car. And I really don’t care if your baby cries or your toddler throws a tantrum or your kids make a mess (unless they’re older kids—above age 6 or so, they ought to know better). I do care if you threaten, hit, or yell at them within my hearing.
4. If you move my tables, put them back. Pleeeease?
5. We usually listen to top-40 hit music on the radio. This is NC, so sometimes a country song is going to play, whether or not it’s top-40 in other areas. If you complain about how you’re from New York and this isn’t music, I want to throw you out, and your coifee, too. This isn’t Yankee territory. And listening to “Before He Cheats” just once will not cause you to swell up and explode. I promise.
6. Don’t roll your eyes when I motion that I’m coming and I have food in my mouth. And don’t tell me to eat my bagel—which, yes, I get free, and it’s rude to ask, anyway—on my break. I don’t get a break. It takes me 2 and a half hours minimum to eat a single bagel with cream cheese, what with everything I’m trying to get done at the same time.
7. If you call in, know what you’re ordering. I’ve got people in here. Hemming and hawing is unacceptable.
8. This isn’t really your fault, and at least it does imply that you realize I have local status, but don’t ask me for anything but very basic directions unless it’s to, like, Walmart, or FFHS, or Atlantic Dance or something. This is the girl who ended up at Tanger Outlet Mall trying to get to Nags Head Acres and at Pizza Hut trying to get from the high school to the library. I don’t want to be responsible for you when you get lost. But thanks for recognizing that I do live here.
9. Yes, we’re overpriced. I can’t do anything about that, so please don’t complain to me. Take it up with the owner. In fact, please take it up with the owner. But with me, please just pay and smile and tip.
10. Look, I’ll benevolently accept ignorance as an excuse in certain cases, but if you sit there and watch me clean the door every five minutes and still get up and smear your hands all over the glass…well, that’s just mean and hateful, and it makes me want to cry.
11. Umm…I have an outstretched hand, and it’s clean. I’m fairly articulate. No tattoos, no wild loose hair, no caked-on makeup, no bloodshot eyes, no indecent clothing. I smile when I give you the total, or at least I try to. Point is, I’m not scary. Please don’t get your money out and just fling it across the counter in my general direction. I don’t smell. I have all my fingers and teeth. Can’t you hand me your money like a decent person? I’m not a retriever.
12. And inversely, please don’t extend your bill towards me, and then, when I try to take it, keep gripping. I know you hate to lose your money—I do too—but you already ordered, and you had to know it was coming. So you can really let go and let me take your cash and get your change. I would rather not play tug-of-war. (Once again, do I look like a dog?)
13. I am not your mother. Or your servant. If you need help, I’ll help you, of course, and I’ll clean up after you, because that’s my job. But please keep your requests and demands reasonable. I really do understand if your table gets messy with chips and crumbs or whatever, but don’t leave baskets all over and act as if I have nothing better to do than spend ten minutes putting your area back in order. That’s momentously inconsiderate.
14. This isn’t so much your fault, either, but I don’t prepare the food, so if you ask me a food question, I’m gonna have to go ask somebody else. Don’t sigh and roll your eyes and look all impatient at the delay. It’s not my fault; I’m honestly trying to get back to you quickly. Have a speck of compassion.
15. I know it’s cold. Working the register, I’m cold, too. I understand and I’m sorry. But there’s really nothing I can do.
16. Please tip. Even if it’s just a penny, it’s something. And if you get a $62.84 order that includes four G2s (that’s a Reuben)…tip or have the staff think of you as the stingiest person ever.
17. I do appreciate you telling me when there’s a spill. However, don’t expect me to regard you as my personal Angel of Mercy or something for letting me know. After all, it just means one more thing for me to do when I’m already working on 3 million others.
18. Trying for conversation wins you brownie points, in my book, even if it’s awkward or pointless. I give you props for trying. Thank you, you relatively decent person!
19. No, I really don’t care how they do it where you’re from. This is how we do it here. Sorry if it doesn’t work for you.
20. I don’t dislike you just because, but don’t come up, swaggering, expecting me to like you and treat you as the most cherished customer I’ve ever seen. It’s one thing if you’re related to me or if you went to school with me or you know me from somewhere…it’s another if you’re a stranger and you just think you’re all that. It’s not very attractive.
21. That’s nice about the weather, but I’m stuck inside from 7 to at least 4, so please don’t expect me to be able to give too much actual information about today’s weather.
22. Above all, don’t treat me like I’m stupid just because I’m working at the local bagel store. Don’t treat any of us like we’re stupid, in fact. The foreign employees speak good English, and they try really hard. Most of the rest of us are young. We know each other, we go to the local schools, and most of us are (or were, since two of us are now graduated) honor students. But, hey, you gotta make a dollar somehow. I don’t need you to speak slowly and loudly to understand you. Seriously. Treating us like we’re dumb is probably the most offensive thing you could do to any of us. Show some respect.
Fortunately, today is it. The last day of work. May the clouds part and angels descend upon golden sunbeams! Singing hallelujah, of course. I’ve been dreaming of work, of customers, of the crazy owners, and I’m so glad to see it end.
You know, though, I’m really glad I did work this summer. For one thing, it helps me to relate to every other teen I know who’s working…which is nearly everybody in my grade…for another, I didn’t do badly at all, monetarily. Most of all, though, I feel like it’s taught me a lot. Concrete things, of course, like how to stock and how a business works and how to use a bottle opener (don’t laugh; I didn’t know), but also things like how to deal with unpleasant people on a daily basis, and how to communicate with extreme efficiency, and how to appear capable at something even when I’m not sure I am. I never went off the deep end with a customer; I accepted mild reprimands without argument, I got there on time to do something I didn’t enjoy but that I needed to do. And I didn’t vent until I got home. Although I am tremendously, incredibly ecstatic to be free now, I’m also grateful that working gave me these experiences, because they’re probably character-building and all that. :]
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Ahem. I'm not recanting my previous post, BUT.
...BUT...I've decided that mopping really isn't as bad as sweeping. I hate sweeping maybe 4.6 times more than I hate mopping, simply because mopping goes by more quickly and is less tedious.
I still don't like it. I just like sweeping even less.
I still don't like it. I just like sweeping even less.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Levels
Women are more intuitive than men, and much, much more complicated. Men generally do not realize this. Men usually think whatever goes for them goes for the rest of the world. Women, of course, know better.
This is an obvious fact of life that everyone should know. You may quote Katherine on it.
All right. Now, as everyone reading this surely knows, I have a boyfriend, and his name is Connor. Everybody likes us together, including us, but we average one squabble per ten minutes. Not out-and-out fights, but bickering.
No comment necessary.
Anyway, we were talking on IM the other night, and here’s what we were saying.
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:28:29 PM): i've seen a fair amt of cranky connor, too
TwoCents08 (11:28:41 PM): that's like setting one
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:28:47 PM): haha
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:28:53 PM): what's setting 2?
TwoCents08 (11:29:40 PM): less cranky
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:29:49 PM): haha
TwoCents08 (11:29:52 PM): rather smartmouthed
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:30:01 PM): setting 3?
TwoCents08 (11:30:07 PM): pleasant
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:30:25 PM): and 4?
TwoCents08 (11:31:17 PM): smug
TwoCents08 (11:31:22 PM): i like setting 4
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:31:28 PM): i realize that
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:31:35 PM): setting 5?
TwoCents08 (11:32:43 PM): umm outwardly happy
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:32:55 PM): are those all of connor's settings?
TwoCents08 (11:33:09 PM): well no
TwoCents08 (11:33:35 PM): b/c we're omitting a few
TwoCents08 (11:33:48 PM): like setting 6-10
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:34:03 PM): ah
TwoCents08 (11:34:21 PM): setting 6 is like silly happy
TwoCents08 (11:34:43 PM): kinda like my schmoozing party joking attitude
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:34:54 PM): ahaha
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:34:57 PM): i see
TwoCents08 (11:36:00 PM): 7
TwoCents08 (11:36:19 PM): 7 is like mildly ticked off
TwoCents08 (11:36:41 PM): 8 is upset
TwoCents08 (11:36:56 PM): 9 is jubilant, valley-girl style mirth
TwoCents08 (11:37:06 PM): and 10 is when i get mad
TwoCents08 (11:37:14 PM): like shoot fire and such
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:37:19 PM): i see
So anyway, then we bickered over whether or not women have more levels than men. He sticks by the 10 rule. I told him I probably had a minimum of 25. He rolled his eyes at me. (You know, *rolling eyes*) So the next day at work, during a rare lull, I—I who always carry a notebook—tore out a notebook page and wrote down my levels. Here they are.
1. absolutely ecstastic
2. jubilant
3. triumphant
4. really happy
5. happy for you
6. moderately happy
7. pleased
8. smug
9. mildly happy
10. content/placid
11. neutral/reserving judgement
12. uncertain
13. confused
14. irritated with myself
15. frustrated
16. lazy
17. tired
18. exhausted
19. annoying
20. giggly
21. annoyed
22. more annoyed
23. truly irritated
24. mildly irate
25. infuriated--two modes: loud and quiet
26. sarcastic
27. sharp
28. clever
29. idiotic
30. defensive--several modes
31. bold--with sublevels flirtatious and confrontational
32. automatic mode
33. apologetic
34. hungry
35. wistful
36. nostalgic--several modes
37. mildly sad
38. deeply sad
39. devastated
40. heartbroken
41. hopeful
42. resigned
43. trying
And, of course, I have settings (loud, quiet, slightly uplifted, slightly downtrodden). Several levels can be combined at one time. They change with what happens moment-by-moment, what happens daily, what happens weekly, what happens monthly, etc. Intensity and level combinations vary according to the person I'm with and the class/location.
Psh to 10 levels.
twinkletoeskgs7: Take that, dear. ;p
This is an obvious fact of life that everyone should know. You may quote Katherine on it.
All right. Now, as everyone reading this surely knows, I have a boyfriend, and his name is Connor. Everybody likes us together, including us, but we average one squabble per ten minutes. Not out-and-out fights, but bickering.
No comment necessary.
Anyway, we were talking on IM the other night, and here’s what we were saying.
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:28:29 PM): i've seen a fair amt of cranky connor, too
TwoCents08 (11:28:41 PM): that's like setting one
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:28:47 PM): haha
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:28:53 PM): what's setting 2?
TwoCents08 (11:29:40 PM): less cranky
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:29:49 PM): haha
TwoCents08 (11:29:52 PM): rather smartmouthed
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:30:01 PM): setting 3?
TwoCents08 (11:30:07 PM): pleasant
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:30:25 PM): and 4?
TwoCents08 (11:31:17 PM): smug
TwoCents08 (11:31:22 PM): i like setting 4
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:31:28 PM): i realize that
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:31:35 PM): setting 5?
TwoCents08 (11:32:43 PM): umm outwardly happy
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:32:55 PM): are those all of connor's settings?
TwoCents08 (11:33:09 PM): well no
TwoCents08 (11:33:35 PM): b/c we're omitting a few
TwoCents08 (11:33:48 PM): like setting 6-10
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:34:03 PM): ah
TwoCents08 (11:34:21 PM): setting 6 is like silly happy
TwoCents08 (11:34:43 PM): kinda like my schmoozing party joking attitude
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:34:54 PM): ahaha
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:34:57 PM): i see
TwoCents08 (11:36:00 PM): 7
TwoCents08 (11:36:19 PM): 7 is like mildly ticked off
TwoCents08 (11:36:41 PM): 8 is upset
TwoCents08 (11:36:56 PM): 9 is jubilant, valley-girl style mirth
TwoCents08 (11:37:06 PM): and 10 is when i get mad
TwoCents08 (11:37:14 PM): like shoot fire and such
twinkletoeskgs7 (11:37:19 PM): i see
So anyway, then we bickered over whether or not women have more levels than men. He sticks by the 10 rule. I told him I probably had a minimum of 25. He rolled his eyes at me. (You know, *rolling eyes*) So the next day at work, during a rare lull, I—I who always carry a notebook—tore out a notebook page and wrote down my levels. Here they are.
1. absolutely ecstastic
2. jubilant
3. triumphant
4. really happy
5. happy for you
6. moderately happy
7. pleased
8. smug
9. mildly happy
10. content/placid
11. neutral/reserving judgement
12. uncertain
13. confused
14. irritated with myself
15. frustrated
16. lazy
17. tired
18. exhausted
19. annoying
20. giggly
21. annoyed
22. more annoyed
23. truly irritated
24. mildly irate
25. infuriated--two modes: loud and quiet
26. sarcastic
27. sharp
28. clever
29. idiotic
30. defensive--several modes
31. bold--with sublevels flirtatious and confrontational
32. automatic mode
33. apologetic
34. hungry
35. wistful
36. nostalgic--several modes
37. mildly sad
38. deeply sad
39. devastated
40. heartbroken
41. hopeful
42. resigned
43. trying
And, of course, I have settings (loud, quiet, slightly uplifted, slightly downtrodden). Several levels can be combined at one time. They change with what happens moment-by-moment, what happens daily, what happens weekly, what happens monthly, etc. Intensity and level combinations vary according to the person I'm with and the class/location.
Psh to 10 levels.
twinkletoeskgs7: Take that, dear. ;p
The travel-happy homebody strikes again
I think that travel comes from some deep urge to see the world, like the urge that brings up a worm in an Irish bog to see the moon when it is full. ~Lord Dunsany
I had a dream last night that I went to Rome. There was also something about Vatican City, lots of old cathedrals and tan, marble architecture and candlelit services. I imagine that’s mostly really there. Of course, in my dream, Morgan Freeman and my boyfriend’s 12-year-old brother were also featured, and they are decidedly not there. Still. I’ve decided—and I’m not making this decision based on a dream, I promise—that I want to go to Rome. I’ve been to London, Paris, and Venice, and I’d go back to any of the three in the space of a heartbeat. For new destinations, though, I really want to go to Rome. Maybe in college. We’ll have to see.
I want to go to Ireland, too.
And I wouldn’t mind seeing the rest of the US.
Not bad for a homebody.
I had a dream last night that I went to Rome. There was also something about Vatican City, lots of old cathedrals and tan, marble architecture and candlelit services. I imagine that’s mostly really there. Of course, in my dream, Morgan Freeman and my boyfriend’s 12-year-old brother were also featured, and they are decidedly not there. Still. I’ve decided—and I’m not making this decision based on a dream, I promise—that I want to go to Rome. I’ve been to London, Paris, and Venice, and I’d go back to any of the three in the space of a heartbeat. For new destinations, though, I really want to go to Rome. Maybe in college. We’ll have to see.
I want to go to Ireland, too.
And I wouldn’t mind seeing the rest of the US.
Not bad for a homebody.
Idle prattle is a matter of opinion
“Yes, on land it’s much preferred for ladies not to say a word, and, after all, dear, what is idle prattle for? They’re not all that impressed with conversation. True gentlemen avoid it when they can. Yet they dote and swoon and fawn on a lady who’s withdrawn, and it’s she who holds her tongue who gets her man!”
Ursula
The Little Mermaid (1989)
Most people don’t think this anymore. Notice it’s the villain saying it here. Regardless. I thought I’d just mention how much I absolutely, positively, and holistically loathe being told to be quiet. If you tell me to shut up, I’m probably going to hurt you. (Unless I deserve it, and sometimes I do.) This either means that I have too much adoration for my own vocality (my word), or that I really, really hate being stifled. Maybe both. What do you think?
Ursula
The Little Mermaid (1989)
Most people don’t think this anymore. Notice it’s the villain saying it here. Regardless. I thought I’d just mention how much I absolutely, positively, and holistically loathe being told to be quiet. If you tell me to shut up, I’m probably going to hurt you. (Unless I deserve it, and sometimes I do.) This either means that I have too much adoration for my own vocality (my word), or that I really, really hate being stifled. Maybe both. What do you think?
Oh, the irony
The childhood shows the man
As morning shows the day.
~John Milton, Paradise Regained
I’m watching The Little Mermaid right now. It’s my all-time second-favorite Disney movie, for around a million reasons. (My favorite is Beauty and the Beast, and I would be watching that, but I couldn’t find the VHS when I went to look for it, so I settled. It’s not really a pity. I also love Aladdin and The Lion King—these four movies clustered together seem, in my mind, like old friends, but aside from that, they comprise a significant portion of my childhood TV face time. If you add Winnie-the-Pooh in, that’s probably about 90%. We don’t believe in much TV at my house.) While I’m watching this glorious gem of a G-rated film, I’m blogging, downloading some new music on iTunes, and reading a TIME review about the movie Wanted, which I went with three girlfriends last night to see. (It’s rated R, and none of us actually liked it, but going was still fun. We jumped and whispered and covered our faces and bit our fists, and then made fun of it. “What is this movie supposed to be telling me?” Kayla asked. “I mean, seriously. What do they want from us?” I have no idea. It’s such a boy movie.)
This morning, I put on my Cinderella sheets. I’ve had them since I was maybe three, which makes them about fifteen years old—still, they’re soft and cool and they have lace on the edge and my favorite pillowcase ever, and their soft purple coordinates perfectly with my lavender walls and the Cecily Mary Barker flower fairy wallpaper near my ceiling. While I accomplished this domestic task, I chatted via cell phone with my boyfriend.
My mother gave me my final graduation present yesterday. It’s a Dorothy Barbie I openly coveted in Wal-Mart last year. Right now she’s (in her box still) reclining in my Samantha doll’s bed; I haven’t yet figured what I’ll do with her, but she thrills me. I thought about putting her on my desk, but I hate to cover all the pictures I’ve got propped up and framed—pictures from Europe, pictures from Prom, pictures from dance competition/workshop, pictures from graduation…
Sensing irony yet?
So, the question is: do I need to grow up all the way, or am I simply a well-balanced young lady, with equal measures of childhood and and adulthood? Don’t bother to ask me. I think growing up all the way would be boring, and I’m not going to do it. :]
As morning shows the day.
~John Milton, Paradise Regained
I’m watching The Little Mermaid right now. It’s my all-time second-favorite Disney movie, for around a million reasons. (My favorite is Beauty and the Beast, and I would be watching that, but I couldn’t find the VHS when I went to look for it, so I settled. It’s not really a pity. I also love Aladdin and The Lion King—these four movies clustered together seem, in my mind, like old friends, but aside from that, they comprise a significant portion of my childhood TV face time. If you add Winnie-the-Pooh in, that’s probably about 90%. We don’t believe in much TV at my house.) While I’m watching this glorious gem of a G-rated film, I’m blogging, downloading some new music on iTunes, and reading a TIME review about the movie Wanted, which I went with three girlfriends last night to see. (It’s rated R, and none of us actually liked it, but going was still fun. We jumped and whispered and covered our faces and bit our fists, and then made fun of it. “What is this movie supposed to be telling me?” Kayla asked. “I mean, seriously. What do they want from us?” I have no idea. It’s such a boy movie.)
This morning, I put on my Cinderella sheets. I’ve had them since I was maybe three, which makes them about fifteen years old—still, they’re soft and cool and they have lace on the edge and my favorite pillowcase ever, and their soft purple coordinates perfectly with my lavender walls and the Cecily Mary Barker flower fairy wallpaper near my ceiling. While I accomplished this domestic task, I chatted via cell phone with my boyfriend.
My mother gave me my final graduation present yesterday. It’s a Dorothy Barbie I openly coveted in Wal-Mart last year. Right now she’s (in her box still) reclining in my Samantha doll’s bed; I haven’t yet figured what I’ll do with her, but she thrills me. I thought about putting her on my desk, but I hate to cover all the pictures I’ve got propped up and framed—pictures from Europe, pictures from Prom, pictures from dance competition/workshop, pictures from graduation…
Sensing irony yet?
So, the question is: do I need to grow up all the way, or am I simply a well-balanced young lady, with equal measures of childhood and and adulthood? Don’t bother to ask me. I think growing up all the way would be boring, and I’m not going to do it. :]
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Disney gave me unrealistic expectations about common household implements
Flora—Good gracious! Who left the mop running?
Merryweather—Stop, mop! [mop stops immediately]
--Sleeping Beauty, 1958
Don’t even pretend you don’t understand what I’m talking about. I saw a piece of Flair on Facebook the other day that said something like “Disney gave me unrealistic ideas about boyfriends” and another that said “Disney gave me unrealistic expectations for hair,” and, thinking about it, I never expected my hair to be perfect or to have a serenading, I’ll-rescue-you-my-dear-distressed-damsel boyfriend, even when I was little (I cut my own bangs and wanted my own sword, as long as it was elegant and princess-like—think Arwen, here). However, I did attribute a certain amount of glamour to household chores.
Think about it. All the older Disney princesses—they have the time of their lives every time they pick up a bucket and a rag. They’re always singing while they clean; have you noticed that? Snow White and “Whistle While You Work,” of course, plus the wooden shoes and rags part at the beginning. Cinderella cleans throughout the whole darn movie, and has that especially lovely sequence with the multicolored bubbles and the nightingale song and the sparkling water on the pearlescent tiles. Sleeping Beauty...well, I guess Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather do most of the cleaning in the movie itself—magically, to boot—but it’s pretty obvious that Aurora wields the broom in that clan when she’s not been sent out berry-picking, because those darling fairies-in-hiding have no idea of how to manage sensibly in household matters without magic (makes me wonder how they managed when she was a small child...). Belle cleans up after Gaston and her father and feeds the chickens and all. And Enchanted has “The Happy Working Song.” Which, incidentally, just might be my least favorite part of that movie.
Anyway, I remember watching them clean. Beautiful. So graceful and elegant. Everything glistened at the slightest touch of their hands, and they made everything look like so much fun. The singing, the waltzing with the broom, the simple ease and loveliness of it all. Cleanliness is next to godliness and princessness. It was like an extra checkmark on the list of princess-esque attributes. (Beautiful...check. Lovely singing voice...check. Kind heart...check. Good dancer...check. Impeccable housekeeper...check. Okay, now we’re good!) And the cleaning tools themselves were so charming and lovely. The mops and broom literally danced. They swirled around the room, swiftly nudging neat little mounds of dirt into the dustpan. The mop water stayed clean, and the mop wrung itself out, twisting itself like a spring then fluffling back to the familiar, swirlable, teardroppish shape favored by animation artists. The mop curled at the end.
I even have positive memories of my mother mopping when I was little, although these don’t involve the pleasures of cleaning themselves as much as they involve the kitchen chairs and the twisty barstool being piled in the living room, in ideal position for fort-building.
Real cleaning is approximately nothing like that.
I have discovered this within the past few weeks. This summer I got a job at a little bagel shop/deli/restaurant. Three days a week: Wednesday, Saturday, Sunday. (Not the perfect schedule, frankly, but I shan’t go into that right now.) I run the register and do everything but food preparation, which leaves me with a fairly tremendous workload. We close at three, and then I have to close, which means cleaning tables, putting up chairs, locking the door, sometimes doing the money, counting the tips, emptying the trash, washing any extra dishes, sweeping, and mopping. I don’t enjoy any of it, but sweeping and mopping are the worst. Mostly, this is because of the floor: square foot tiles with grouting that positively attracts crumbs. We’re talking a lot of tiles here. With tables and chairs on top.
It is an utterly unlovable floor, and it causes me to spend inordinate amounts of time thinking…ah…less than charitable thoughts about the owners, people I’ve known for many years, who are decent, adventurous, fun, reasonable people aside from WHAT POSSESSED THEM TO PUT IN THAT DETESTABLE FLOOR? Ahem. Sorry.
Being a place that serves sandwiches, bagels, chips, etc., there are always a lot of crumbs at closing. Often, they’re soggy. Whether they are or not, they get stuck in the grouting and I have to jab with the broom to loosen and capture them. I’m beginning to develop a rule that says if a single crumb is taking me more than fifteen seconds, I just leave it there and move on to the next seven million. (Give me a break. By this time, I’ve been there eight hours, and I want to go home.) Crumb-capture is not as easy as Disney makes it look.
After sweeping, I have mopping to look forward to. So, I go to the back and drag out of the waterhose place a disgusting grimy, yellow plastic bucket with wheels, the accompanying squeezer thing, and the very heavy, biceps-developing mop. We have a lighter one, but it’s always somewhere inaccessible on the days I work. I fill up the bucket with hot water, glug in lots of pink, Lysol-smelling soap, attach the squeezer, dunk in the mop, and then I put all my weight into shoving the bucket (which weights about as much as me) out of the back room, through the swing doors (they often hit me in the head as I do this), and out to the front. The wheels on the bucket don’t like the grooves in the tile any better than do I; they tend to skitter and try to follow imaginary tracks every way inconvenient, so it takes extra effort to unsloshingly, finally roll the bucket in front of the drink cases. Then, I mop. As I awkwardly wring excess water out of the mop with the squeezer, I feel like groaning. People pass by outside and watch me slap the mop on the floor and swash it around. Then back up and swash some more. Sometimes the metal head of the mop raspingly scrapes the floor. If they’re still watching me, this is the point at which I stop smiling and start gritting my teeth. “I’ve been a brilliant student my entire life and this is just a part-time job for spending money!” I want to shout at them. Of course, doing this would be bad business, so I simply grit and mop. I can cover about a quarter of floor before I have to rinse the mop, and it occurs to me that I am merely swishing gray water across the floor by the time I’ve dipped the mop in once; however, it is hot gray water, making the floor steam in a completely hellish manner. That must count for something. I swash some more. It does hurt my arms, but, you know, I can deal with that. The lighter mop also doesn’t cover as much ground in one swish, due to fewer swishy, slimy tentacles. It wouldn’t be so bad if I just knew the floor would stay clean for a while. But no. It won’t. So I slip all over that horrible wet tile (tennis shoes do not provide as much traction as they’re supposed to), dragging that ugly bucket, which frequently sloshes over and wets my legs. Did I mention how much I dislike mopping yet? Yeah. Sodden crumbs and gross, hot, dirty water. I dip again and churn the mop around a little in the tub—makes me feel either like a cauldron-bound witch or a grim pioneer woman fruitlessly churning, churning, churning…finally, when the entire floor is sufficiently wet and my arms and thoughts are burning (grumble grumble grumble tourists grumble crumbs grumble could HELP me you know grumble grumble), slip all everywhere while pushing the bucket back through the shop and the swinging doors (thwack. ouch.), and back to the hose area, where I heave the bucket over the tub lip, dump it out, put it upside-down, put the squeezer on top, and hook the mop up top. It often showers me with gray speckles of wetness during this step. Then, I leave.
See? There is nothing glamorous about that. Nothing. No twirly stuff, no loveliness, no singing. Yuckiness, yes. Glamour, no.
How could you give me these ruinable impressions, Disney? Gosh, that hurt, to have that one destroyed. Sigh. Oh, well.
I bet it's just me.
"If you're in a bad situation, don't worry, it'll change. If you're in a good situation, don't worry, it'll change."
--John A. Simone, Sr.
I just got in my new computer for college—a pretty blue Dell Inspiron. And although, as I told my cousin Val, “David [my 15-year-old, ultra computer-savvy brother] ordered it, so it does a lot of things I don't really understand or consider necessary,” I do like it, and I’m getting used to the whole Windows Vista thing. Slowly. I do have a problem, though, and here it is: I am in love with my Microsoft Word 2003, and it substantially upsets me that I have to, as per my computer’s and my college’s specifications, switch to Microsoft Word 2007. I have worked with Word ’07 in the past.
Yuck.
I feel like a super-intelligent being tried to dumb it down for regular modern humans, resulting in a program that tries to be easy-to-use but only succeeds in frustrating and confusing me. It’s condescending. Seriously! It makes me feel inferior. What was wrong with the whole drop-down menus thing, anyway? I like drop-down menus. Word ’03 has drop-down menus, and remains a very neat and tidy program—not saying it’s never irritated me before, but, then, most things I love do at some point or another.
It’s going to take me a while to get used to the idea of befriending this new program. I dislike the idea immensely.
Do normal people get this attached to their word processors, or is it just me?
--John A. Simone, Sr.
I just got in my new computer for college—a pretty blue Dell Inspiron. And although, as I told my cousin Val, “David [my 15-year-old, ultra computer-savvy brother] ordered it, so it does a lot of things I don't really understand or consider necessary,” I do like it, and I’m getting used to the whole Windows Vista thing. Slowly. I do have a problem, though, and here it is: I am in love with my Microsoft Word 2003, and it substantially upsets me that I have to, as per my computer’s and my college’s specifications, switch to Microsoft Word 2007. I have worked with Word ’07 in the past.
Yuck.
I feel like a super-intelligent being tried to dumb it down for regular modern humans, resulting in a program that tries to be easy-to-use but only succeeds in frustrating and confusing me. It’s condescending. Seriously! It makes me feel inferior. What was wrong with the whole drop-down menus thing, anyway? I like drop-down menus. Word ’03 has drop-down menus, and remains a very neat and tidy program—not saying it’s never irritated me before, but, then, most things I love do at some point or another.
It’s going to take me a while to get used to the idea of befriending this new program. I dislike the idea immensely.
Do normal people get this attached to their word processors, or is it just me?
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Happy Father's Day
There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself.
~John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery, 1994
Isn't that just lovely?
~John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery, 1994
Isn't that just lovely?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Here goes something!
A while back, my mother suggested I get a blog, mainly to prevent the daily (and lengthy) spillage of my thought/idea/trivia/news daughter-to-mother babble from ending when I go to college this autumn. I said I'd think about it and procrastinated myself into not thinking about it until this past week. The decision to get a blog proved simple. I did, however, agonize over the title.
And finally, I found it: Quotelation--a blending of "quote" and "elation," and also a freshly-minted word. All of these are important to me, and all are interconnected. Quote refers to those delightful little bits of dialogue snapped from literature, film, famous mouths...and also the mouths of my friends and family members. Elation refers to the feeling a really solidly spectacular quote or idea instills in me. Quotelation refers to both, as well as to the practice, exceedingly common around me and certain friends of mine, of making up words of our own to describe something more precisely than our existing vocabularies can handle. And making up words makes me feel elation more acutely; and I'm more likely to find more spectacular quotes when I'm elated; and making up words can make for spectacular quotes themselves.
See? Interconnected. I'm a big fan of interconnectivity.
So there we are. This is my blog, Quotelation. I intend to display quotes here, to bare a few of my ideas to the internet and its patrons, to keep electronic record of various sundry thoughts and musations. Read if you wish, enjoy if you will. And welcome!
(By the way, I have one guaranteed reader--my mother. Hi, Mama! Possibly a few of her friends, my aunt, maybe one or two friends. I realize that they are probably my only readers. It really doesn't bother me; I write mainly for catharsis, anyway.)
And finally, I found it: Quotelation--a blending of "quote" and "elation," and also a freshly-minted word. All of these are important to me, and all are interconnected. Quote refers to those delightful little bits of dialogue snapped from literature, film, famous mouths...and also the mouths of my friends and family members. Elation refers to the feeling a really solidly spectacular quote or idea instills in me. Quotelation refers to both, as well as to the practice, exceedingly common around me and certain friends of mine, of making up words of our own to describe something more precisely than our existing vocabularies can handle. And making up words makes me feel elation more acutely; and I'm more likely to find more spectacular quotes when I'm elated; and making up words can make for spectacular quotes themselves.
See? Interconnected. I'm a big fan of interconnectivity.
So there we are. This is my blog, Quotelation. I intend to display quotes here, to bare a few of my ideas to the internet and its patrons, to keep electronic record of various sundry thoughts and musations. Read if you wish, enjoy if you will. And welcome!
(By the way, I have one guaranteed reader--my mother. Hi, Mama! Possibly a few of her friends, my aunt, maybe one or two friends. I realize that they are probably my only readers. It really doesn't bother me; I write mainly for catharsis, anyway.)
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