Or words and phrases I desperately want to use everyday but can't because I'm American and say "y'all" a lot.
Cor
Blimey
Shenanigans
Pub
Cuppa
Toff
Tosser
Shite
Shag
Row
Prat
Snog (to snog)
Sod Off
Lift
Kip (to kip)
Summat
Nutter
Panda Car (instead of Police Car - hehe)
Fortnight
Bonnet
Bloody
Chuffed
Fag (as in cigarette)
Fairy Cake (instead of cupcake - again - hehe)
Gaff
Ken
Piss Off
Pram
Bloke
Up the duff
On the lash
Nowt
Not Cricket
Bog Standard
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Passing Glance
Because someone loves me I ended up spending part of my day today looking up articles that propose to prove that the Harry Potter series is in fact Satan working through books.
Of course it's very difficult for me to believe books are evil. I've never been bitten by a book before...but I hear the letter Q can be quite rough when it's been drinking...
In all seriousness there is a lot of debate about fiction of any kind being moral. This post is not about that debate.
This post is about a scrap of an article that jumped out at me from the doomsday prophecies that have been flooding my mind and computer screen:
Lots of the emails revealed another problem. Many email addresses had words in them that were occultist in nature. Words like witch, poison, potion, cat, goddess, etc. were in the email addresses. This represents the large number of children and young people who are already involved deeply in the occult and the like.
I can perhaps see how a word like Witch could be considered occultist. Witches are often linked with the occult. At the same time I can make enough concessions to allow that Goddess could be irreversibly linked with Polytheistic Religions - and therefore could be occultist (If a is sometimes b and b is sometimes c then a could be c...and a train leaves Chicago at 4:35PM traveling east...).
I am less willing to allow that potion or poison are in fact occultists words at all. There is nothing occult about cyanide. And potion is a word that means any mixture...but I will concede that these two terms could in fact be used with a nod to dark or evil doings.
However! Though cat could also be linked to something occult I do not believe the use of it in an email address speaks to the evil and dark nature of the emailer. A cat is occult now? A cat? What? Why? Because it has four legs and goes mew? All shall look on the quadruped and despair! Cat is an occult word? Cat??? What if...god-forbid (and apparently He does) the girls name is Catherine? What do you think about your occultist cat now huh buddy? And if cat is bad we better darn well look out for worse words such as dog (which incidentally used to be the shape of an Egyptian God AND the specter of death in divination) or bird (Alfred Hitchcock anyone?)
Oh yes, all those evil people calling themselves cat are to be scorned and feared. The idea of a cuddly, warm, purring ball of fur is indeed a notion to be shunned by God-fearing (and they do) individuals.
You know what I say to that? Huh? Do you?
OH MY GOD KITTENS!!!
MEW, MEW, MEW!!!
(If you would like a full context of this article it comes in two parts:
Harry Potter And The Antichrist
The Truth about The Harry Potter Series)
Of course it's very difficult for me to believe books are evil. I've never been bitten by a book before...but I hear the letter Q can be quite rough when it's been drinking...
In all seriousness there is a lot of debate about fiction of any kind being moral. This post is not about that debate.
This post is about a scrap of an article that jumped out at me from the doomsday prophecies that have been flooding my mind and computer screen:
Lots of the emails revealed another problem. Many email addresses had words in them that were occultist in nature. Words like witch, poison, potion, cat, goddess, etc. were in the email addresses. This represents the large number of children and young people who are already involved deeply in the occult and the like.
I can perhaps see how a word like Witch could be considered occultist. Witches are often linked with the occult. At the same time I can make enough concessions to allow that Goddess could be irreversibly linked with Polytheistic Religions - and therefore could be occultist (If a is sometimes b and b is sometimes c then a could be c...and a train leaves Chicago at 4:35PM traveling east...).
I am less willing to allow that potion or poison are in fact occultists words at all. There is nothing occult about cyanide. And potion is a word that means any mixture...but I will concede that these two terms could in fact be used with a nod to dark or evil doings.
However! Though cat could also be linked to something occult I do not believe the use of it in an email address speaks to the evil and dark nature of the emailer. A cat is occult now? A cat? What? Why? Because it has four legs and goes mew? All shall look on the quadruped and despair! Cat is an occult word? Cat??? What if...god-forbid (and apparently He does) the girls name is Catherine? What do you think about your occultist cat now huh buddy? And if cat is bad we better darn well look out for worse words such as dog (which incidentally used to be the shape of an Egyptian God AND the specter of death in divination) or bird (Alfred Hitchcock anyone?)
Oh yes, all those evil people calling themselves cat are to be scorned and feared. The idea of a cuddly, warm, purring ball of fur is indeed a notion to be shunned by God-fearing (and they do) individuals.
You know what I say to that? Huh? Do you?
OH MY GOD KITTENS!!!
MEW, MEW, MEW!!!
(If you would like a full context of this article it comes in two parts:
Harry Potter And The Antichrist
The Truth about The Harry Potter Series)
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Scraps from the table
Through fleeting periods of consciousness, between the "owie owie owie" and "take another scary vicodin pill" parts of recovery I have come up with one simple, profound and completely unshakeable idea:
I hate Ellsworth Toohey*. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate him with the fury of a thousand rabid dogs who have been kicked repeatedly by his shiny, pointed shoes.
I HATE ELLSWORTH TOOHEY.
That's all.
*From Sparknotes.
As a side note I am tempted to say I hate Ellsworth Toohey more than I hate the oral surgeon who kept calling me "pretty girl" while I was choking on my teeth and blood was dripping down my chin...but the jury is still out.
I hate Ellsworth Toohey*. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate him with the fury of a thousand rabid dogs who have been kicked repeatedly by his shiny, pointed shoes.
I HATE ELLSWORTH TOOHEY.
That's all.
*From Sparknotes.
As a side note I am tempted to say I hate Ellsworth Toohey more than I hate the oral surgeon who kept calling me "pretty girl" while I was choking on my teeth and blood was dripping down my chin...but the jury is still out.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
A peek in to real life:
Today I go to get my wisdom teeth pulled out. They haven't brought me much wisdom, but I am sad to see them go.
I am attempting to post before my third valium (yes I did in fact say third) takes effect.
I stumbling out of the shower, feeling both groggy and absolutely terrified to the point that I know my stomach has lept out of my chest and out the door. It's probably playing soccer in the park right now. Thankfully, it left a bunch of mexican jumping beans in it's place.
My husband the ever stoic man pulled me back into bed for a few extra cuddles.
"Just think, after today you can eat all the pudding you like."
"Oh." Says I.
"You like pudding don't you?"
"Yes." I say.
"You can have all the pudding you want."
"Oh." I say. I leave out the part about me only really liking tapioca pudding, and only because I can chew the tapioca part.
He really did try though. Sometimes he just doesn't get it.
I am attempting to post before my third valium (yes I did in fact say third) takes effect.
I stumbling out of the shower, feeling both groggy and absolutely terrified to the point that I know my stomach has lept out of my chest and out the door. It's probably playing soccer in the park right now. Thankfully, it left a bunch of mexican jumping beans in it's place.
My husband the ever stoic man pulled me back into bed for a few extra cuddles.
"Just think, after today you can eat all the pudding you like."
"Oh." Says I.
"You like pudding don't you?"
"Yes." I say.
"You can have all the pudding you want."
"Oh." I say. I leave out the part about me only really liking tapioca pudding, and only because I can chew the tapioca part.
He really did try though. Sometimes he just doesn't get it.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Words cannot express...
...but that's a good thing since no one would understand them anyway.
The Washington Post reported today:
Literacy Falls for Graduates From College, Testing Finds
The most disturbing:
Three percent of college graduates who took the test in 2003, representing some 800,000 Americans, demonstrated "below basic" literacy, meaning that they could not perform more than the simplest skills, like locating easily identifiable information in short prose.
The Washington Post reported today:
Literacy Falls for Graduates From College, Testing Finds
The most disturbing:
Three percent of college graduates who took the test in 2003, representing some 800,000 Americans, demonstrated "below basic" literacy, meaning that they could not perform more than the simplest skills, like locating easily identifiable information in short prose.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Stopping to smell the potential posts
Ever notice how blogging makes you start to notice little things in a much bigger way? Today only one really huge thing happened to me, but because I blog a thousand little things are popping up and vying for attention. All because I know I can make a blog post about them.
Even the fact that I notice these things seems important.
It feels nice.
Even the fact that I notice these things seems important.
It feels nice.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Deny, Deny, Deny
At around this time of year a huge box containing a "bushel" of citrus fruits from Florida finds itself blocking my doorway. Usually it's accompanied by a puffing, semi-irate postman.
The post women never get irate of course.
In any case, every year I get a huge amount of oranges or grapefruits or a mixture of the two and every year I eat so many I get literally sick off them. Not sick of them but sick off them.
I always pictured that one year I would turn a strange shade of yellowy orange and bright I'm-happy-pink inside. I imagine myself bleeding grapefruit juice and crying large orange tears in the same shape as those little cell sections citrus fruit comes in. (If you don't know what I'm talking about you haven't dissected an orange down to the molecule like I have.)
Despite my daydreams of crayon skin tragedies I never once imagined that eating an orange would turn me green. Dark, pretty, forest green.
But that Rutaceae family is tricky.
I was finishing my last section of delicious Florida orange when I decided I should make the journey from the floor in the living room to the floor in the office. (Different carpet - same color.) Being the conscientious girl who listened to Smokey the Bear (and secretly coveted his hat) I got up to blow out the smelly sage candle and trot off.
The candle is perfect. It smells good but not perfumy, when it's cool it's a pretty shade of light, misty green. When all three wicks are lighted it melts into a pool of deep, dark, pretty forest green. I like to poke my nose over the rim of the glass and look at the three little flames seemingly floating in a pool of green. Having my hands full of left) orange peel and right) last section of orange I decided I would just poke my nose over a little to blow them out. To get good aim of course.
I did, it was still as pretty as I thought it would be and then I huffed.
One flame out.
I puffed.
Two flames out.
I blew the candle...sideways. The flame flickered then returned.
Aw well, just blow a little harder.
Again, it bent to the side, then stood back up and stuck it's little flamey tongue at me.
I glared, then took a bite of my orange for strength before taking a deep breath and blooooooooooooooowing!
The flame went out, unfortunately so did the wax. A big splash of hot, green wax splashed out of the candle holder and straight into my face.
At first I was scared. I thought for sure I was burned, but for some reason I didn't feel that much pain. In the time it took me to gasp in shock then sort out what happened the wax had cooled and was now keeping my face immobile. I was stuck looking scared. And I felt scared...and utterly alone. Not even the cat saw this. (And the cat would be the perfect witness because she never laughs at mommy.) The more I stood there shocked and alone the more my mind thought of really horrible things. Third degree burns, peoples faces melting off, this one time when a centipede slapped across my face and I had a line of angry red cockeyed over my whole left side. The orange in my hand started to drip and squish as my fingers fisted over it. That calmed me down enough to put the remains in the trash and head upstairs to check out the damage. I had already ruined my husbands wife, I didn't want to ruin the carpet too.
As I walked up the stairs and past my roommates bedroom I was struck by the fact that I didn't scream, I didn't even squeal. I was only shocked by this because I realized that my roommate was sleeping and had I screamed at the top of my lungs as my face was being burned off and frozen "Madame Tussaud" style he would have rolled over and gone back to sleep.
Bastard.
Upon encountering the mirror I saw what you would expect. There I was, behind a mask of wax. Half my nose was covered in a shadow of green. My cheek looked like a put-put course without the windmill. There was a few strange blobs stuck mid-flight on my chin. My glasses were mostly speckled (thank goodness I didn't have my contacts in) and my right eye looked like it had been crying true, blue (I mean green) crocodile tears.
Of all the colors I had ever pictured my skin in, of all the strange things I imagined would happen to my face, never did I think I'd be staring at it covered in wax sage.
It was even freakier to have to not wipe, but scrape and chisel it off my face. Lucky it did come off and there are only a few angry red spots that I'm sure will go away soon.
What, you may ask, does any of this have to do with my bushel of christmas oranges? Other than the fact I pulverized one in my fit of girly panic?
Well you don't think I blew hot wax into my face all by myself do you? No! Of course not...it was the oranges fault. Honestly...those thing ought to come with a warning!
The post women never get irate of course.
In any case, every year I get a huge amount of oranges or grapefruits or a mixture of the two and every year I eat so many I get literally sick off them. Not sick of them but sick off them.
I always pictured that one year I would turn a strange shade of yellowy orange and bright I'm-happy-pink inside. I imagine myself bleeding grapefruit juice and crying large orange tears in the same shape as those little cell sections citrus fruit comes in. (If you don't know what I'm talking about you haven't dissected an orange down to the molecule like I have.)
Despite my daydreams of crayon skin tragedies I never once imagined that eating an orange would turn me green. Dark, pretty, forest green.
But that Rutaceae family is tricky.
I was finishing my last section of delicious Florida orange when I decided I should make the journey from the floor in the living room to the floor in the office. (Different carpet - same color.) Being the conscientious girl who listened to Smokey the Bear (and secretly coveted his hat) I got up to blow out the smelly sage candle and trot off.
The candle is perfect. It smells good but not perfumy, when it's cool it's a pretty shade of light, misty green. When all three wicks are lighted it melts into a pool of deep, dark, pretty forest green. I like to poke my nose over the rim of the glass and look at the three little flames seemingly floating in a pool of green. Having my hands full of left) orange peel and right) last section of orange I decided I would just poke my nose over a little to blow them out. To get good aim of course.
I did, it was still as pretty as I thought it would be and then I huffed.
One flame out.
I puffed.
Two flames out.
I blew the candle...sideways. The flame flickered then returned.
Aw well, just blow a little harder.
Again, it bent to the side, then stood back up and stuck it's little flamey tongue at me.
I glared, then took a bite of my orange for strength before taking a deep breath and blooooooooooooooowing!
The flame went out, unfortunately so did the wax. A big splash of hot, green wax splashed out of the candle holder and straight into my face.
At first I was scared. I thought for sure I was burned, but for some reason I didn't feel that much pain. In the time it took me to gasp in shock then sort out what happened the wax had cooled and was now keeping my face immobile. I was stuck looking scared. And I felt scared...and utterly alone. Not even the cat saw this. (And the cat would be the perfect witness because she never laughs at mommy.) The more I stood there shocked and alone the more my mind thought of really horrible things. Third degree burns, peoples faces melting off, this one time when a centipede slapped across my face and I had a line of angry red cockeyed over my whole left side. The orange in my hand started to drip and squish as my fingers fisted over it. That calmed me down enough to put the remains in the trash and head upstairs to check out the damage. I had already ruined my husbands wife, I didn't want to ruin the carpet too.
As I walked up the stairs and past my roommates bedroom I was struck by the fact that I didn't scream, I didn't even squeal. I was only shocked by this because I realized that my roommate was sleeping and had I screamed at the top of my lungs as my face was being burned off and frozen "Madame Tussaud" style he would have rolled over and gone back to sleep.
Bastard.
Upon encountering the mirror I saw what you would expect. There I was, behind a mask of wax. Half my nose was covered in a shadow of green. My cheek looked like a put-put course without the windmill. There was a few strange blobs stuck mid-flight on my chin. My glasses were mostly speckled (thank goodness I didn't have my contacts in) and my right eye looked like it had been crying true, blue (I mean green) crocodile tears.
Of all the colors I had ever pictured my skin in, of all the strange things I imagined would happen to my face, never did I think I'd be staring at it covered in wax sage.
It was even freakier to have to not wipe, but scrape and chisel it off my face. Lucky it did come off and there are only a few angry red spots that I'm sure will go away soon.
What, you may ask, does any of this have to do with my bushel of christmas oranges? Other than the fact I pulverized one in my fit of girly panic?
Well you don't think I blew hot wax into my face all by myself do you? No! Of course not...it was the oranges fault. Honestly...those thing ought to come with a warning!
Changing Mantras
There are three boxes floating around in Vietnam that can't be delivered. They've been there two months. They couldn't clear customs, they couldn't be delivered, they were being sent to the wrong place, the wrong person. Three lonely little packages that were forgotten by one very crazy VP are sitting in a room designated for "terrorist paraphernalia". They contain t-shirts...of poor quality cotton.
I yelled at people in English, they yelled at me in Vietnamese, in Korean, in Chinese too - probably. Everyday I'd start by making a call to UPS US, then UPS Vietnam, then UPS Singapore. By 10AM I would be hoarse, crazy and no closer to getting the three boxes where they needed to be. By 2PM my crazy VP would have yelled at me too - in English - and I would be plotting interesting ways to murder him with poor quality cotton and a piece of cardboard.
Two months of this I kept my morale up by thinking: I'm going back to school. I'm going back to school. I will get my degree, I will get a job that has nothing to do with being an assistant. I will never have to chase a man down the I-95 to give him his laptop. I will never have to track someone else's packages through the rural areas of a small Asian country. I am going back to school!
Today I finally started filling out my work forms (again, thank you HR for dragging your butt on that!) and doing the math. Let's see, one class - three credits...that won't be so bad. Okay, and one consolidation fee. Well okay, you need to keep the roof from failing down. 14.4%. I said keep the roof up...not put on a new one. And a lab fee. A lab fee? For what? I'm taking a math class. There is no lab. One lab fee - $50. Fine, three credits, one consolidation fee, one lab fee...so thats...And a parking fee. For what? You don't have any parking lots! And a student services fee. Student Services? What are you going to do...give me another free pencil? And out-of-county fees. Hang-on...I live here! Out-of-county fees and 14.4% of that. And then? Book fees. Three books. It's one class. Three books and a professor made cd - $30 I can make a cd for 75 cents...how can you charge $30 for a powerpoint presentation? And a water fee. A water fee? In case you use a water fountain. You are charging me for something I may use? Yes. What now...want me to open a vein too. Three pints please. What?!?!? And 14.4% of your lung.
Now the one thing keeping my morale up at work is the thought: At 5PM I am going to have a beer. At 5PM I am going to have a beer.
I yelled at people in English, they yelled at me in Vietnamese, in Korean, in Chinese too - probably. Everyday I'd start by making a call to UPS US, then UPS Vietnam, then UPS Singapore. By 10AM I would be hoarse, crazy and no closer to getting the three boxes where they needed to be. By 2PM my crazy VP would have yelled at me too - in English - and I would be plotting interesting ways to murder him with poor quality cotton and a piece of cardboard.
Two months of this I kept my morale up by thinking: I'm going back to school. I'm going back to school. I will get my degree, I will get a job that has nothing to do with being an assistant. I will never have to chase a man down the I-95 to give him his laptop. I will never have to track someone else's packages through the rural areas of a small Asian country. I am going back to school!
Today I finally started filling out my work forms (again, thank you HR for dragging your butt on that!) and doing the math. Let's see, one class - three credits...that won't be so bad. Okay, and one consolidation fee. Well okay, you need to keep the roof from failing down. 14.4%. I said keep the roof up...not put on a new one. And a lab fee. A lab fee? For what? I'm taking a math class. There is no lab. One lab fee - $50. Fine, three credits, one consolidation fee, one lab fee...so thats...And a parking fee. For what? You don't have any parking lots! And a student services fee. Student Services? What are you going to do...give me another free pencil? And out-of-county fees. Hang-on...I live here! Out-of-county fees and 14.4% of that. And then? Book fees. Three books. It's one class. Three books and a professor made cd - $30 I can make a cd for 75 cents...how can you charge $30 for a powerpoint presentation? And a water fee. A water fee? In case you use a water fountain. You are charging me for something I may use? Yes. What now...want me to open a vein too. Three pints please. What?!?!? And 14.4% of your lung.
Now the one thing keeping my morale up at work is the thought: At 5PM I am going to have a beer. At 5PM I am going to have a beer.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
It's the little things
I trudge in from the snow. Drop the purse in the floor, hang the coat, stomp over to the refridgerator to drop the milk off. Realize it's hard to carry milk when your gloves are still on. Take off the gloves, kick off the boots and plop down on the couch. Whew. I'm home.
That's when I hear heavy foot steps bounding down the stairs and my husband comes racing into the room.
God he's gorgeous. His blond hair is shiny and spikes up today. His white t-shirt is stretched thin and tight over his chest. Mmmm, I love that chest. I know underneath it there is a patch of fur that is just enough to nuzzle into and kiss. I love that patch of fur. I love nuzzling against him. I love the way his skin smells and I love the way it makes his clothes smell. He's eight feet away, but already I can imagine his scent. Yummy. He's yummy.
I rush up from the couch to nuzzle against him immediately. Yep, he smells as good as I think. He hasn't shaved in days and he's growing this beard and mustache. It's soft now, soft and a little bristly. He keeps itching at it. I know he wanted to shave it off already. I whined because I like it so much, but in the next twenty minutes it will be gone.
What is it about beards? Not full-grown Santa Beards but the George-Michael-that-is-way-more-than-a-five-o'clock-shadow beards? Is it possible to look at a guy with that kind of fuzz on his face and not think "rugged" "manly" "delicious"? I can't. Especially my husband. His beard is rare (being in the Military it doesn't often get a chance to grow) and it's beautiful. He's very blond, but his beard has specks of bright Irish-like red. And a little brown, and then his normal blond that looks like gold. When he stands in the light his beard shines. It matches his blue eyes. He looks like he has a halo.
I adore kissing it. The beard, not the halo. Sliding my lips down his jaw, under his chin, down his neck. Smooth with the grain, rough and sharp when I kiss. If I could I'd nuzzle my own face against it-the coarseness could make me purr. It's so much different from his normal fur. His normal fur is long enough to drag your fingers through, you can get tangled and lost in it. His beard is like a barrier between my kisses and his beautiful face.
It's like his beard is making him play hard to get.
It makes me want to get him more.
One year, on my birthday, I had just woken up and was staring at him. He had a little bit of stubble and I had pushed the curtains of the windows open just enough that the sun illuminated his face. I was luxuriating in the glow. Picking out all the colors and sparkle. His soft lashes made it seem all the better as they fluttered against his cheek. Sometimes I wish I were a lash, or a freckle. I can't think of a better employment than being that close to him. I woke him up with kisses, he returned with kisses...long...passionate kisses. I buried my face in his chest and I rubbed my forehead along his chin. We were both hot sticky and sweaty and everything was so perfect.
When he got up to shower and let me lie in bed and regain my strength I stopped him.
Don't shave today.
He didn't.
Best birthday present I ever got.
That's when I hear heavy foot steps bounding down the stairs and my husband comes racing into the room.
God he's gorgeous. His blond hair is shiny and spikes up today. His white t-shirt is stretched thin and tight over his chest. Mmmm, I love that chest. I know underneath it there is a patch of fur that is just enough to nuzzle into and kiss. I love that patch of fur. I love nuzzling against him. I love the way his skin smells and I love the way it makes his clothes smell. He's eight feet away, but already I can imagine his scent. Yummy. He's yummy.
I rush up from the couch to nuzzle against him immediately. Yep, he smells as good as I think. He hasn't shaved in days and he's growing this beard and mustache. It's soft now, soft and a little bristly. He keeps itching at it. I know he wanted to shave it off already. I whined because I like it so much, but in the next twenty minutes it will be gone.
What is it about beards? Not full-grown Santa Beards but the George-Michael-that-is-way-more-than-a-five-o'clock-shadow beards? Is it possible to look at a guy with that kind of fuzz on his face and not think "rugged" "manly" "delicious"? I can't. Especially my husband. His beard is rare (being in the Military it doesn't often get a chance to grow) and it's beautiful. He's very blond, but his beard has specks of bright Irish-like red. And a little brown, and then his normal blond that looks like gold. When he stands in the light his beard shines. It matches his blue eyes. He looks like he has a halo.
I adore kissing it. The beard, not the halo. Sliding my lips down his jaw, under his chin, down his neck. Smooth with the grain, rough and sharp when I kiss. If I could I'd nuzzle my own face against it-the coarseness could make me purr. It's so much different from his normal fur. His normal fur is long enough to drag your fingers through, you can get tangled and lost in it. His beard is like a barrier between my kisses and his beautiful face.
It's like his beard is making him play hard to get.
It makes me want to get him more.
One year, on my birthday, I had just woken up and was staring at him. He had a little bit of stubble and I had pushed the curtains of the windows open just enough that the sun illuminated his face. I was luxuriating in the glow. Picking out all the colors and sparkle. His soft lashes made it seem all the better as they fluttered against his cheek. Sometimes I wish I were a lash, or a freckle. I can't think of a better employment than being that close to him. I woke him up with kisses, he returned with kisses...long...passionate kisses. I buried my face in his chest and I rubbed my forehead along his chin. We were both hot sticky and sweaty and everything was so perfect.
When he got up to shower and let me lie in bed and regain my strength I stopped him.
Don't shave today.
He didn't.
Best birthday present I ever got.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Watch your tongue
I took a turn past our "beverage station" (consisting of a coffee maker, a water cooler and a sink) at work today and was met by my former boss and another manager.
"There is Beautiful Katy ______" she exclaimed.
I turned to smile and say hi to them both when I looked at Ms. XBoss's face freeze in terror.
"Oh, I am so sorry. I just meant that your jacket is very nice. I always liked this jacket." She was babbling and clearly agitated. Her eyes were big as saucers and she literally looked like a doe about to be mowed over by a semi.
I was curious why she was suddenly so apologetic, since she's never been apologetic to me even when she did something awful, but I figured that the graceful thing to do is drop it. So I did.
"Thank you. I like my jacket too. It's my favorite one."
"It's a good color on you...I mean it's a good color...it's pretty." Usually Ms. XBoss is more direct than this. I can't figure out why she keeps recanting.
"It's also fuzzy, I like how soft velour is, Vicki keeps petting me."
Ms. XBoss and Ms. Manager reach out to pet my proffered arm. I think it's funny, but Ms. XBoss catches herself and pulls her hand back like she just touched fire. I'm beginning to get a little freaked out. We chit-chat about how to find good, pretty jackets, but everything feels really strained and I want to go back to my desk.
"Hey, did you two hear that there is popcorn on my desk? Mr. NowBoss just opened the tin so it's good and fresh. You should come have some."
That did it, everyone around us peeks out from their cubicles. It really is like little prairie dogs peeking from their holes. Soon I'm inundated with popcorn questions and in the ensuing confusion I slink back to my desk and set out a few more cups. Everyone files over to get a cup of holiday candy and snacks. Ms. XBoss too.
"I'm really sorry about calling you beautiful before. I shouldn't say things like that."
"I'm not gonna complain...I'll take beautiful any day." I say, handing over a cup full of popcorn.
"Yeah, but you're not supposed to say things like that anymore. It's an office."
I'm stunned for a minute. I'm lucky enough to sit with a group of people who are funny, irreverent and not at all offended. We say lots of things we shouldn't...and Vicki has been petting me all day. We're the group who goes out and actually gets drunk and boisterous at happy hour rather than throwing back a Zima and leaving before six.
"Well I'm not easily offended. I married a sailor after all."
We part ways, she goes back to her desk smiling and with a full cup of popcorn, and I sit down at mine somewhat confused by the whole thing.
If I've learned anything it's that rules are created because something bad has happened in the past regarding the matter. That is to say, if you are told specifically that it is not allowed to ride a horse through the cafeteria, there is a good chance it's because someone once rode a horse through the cafeteria. Why else would they specifically tell you not to do that? Sure...no horse through the cafeteria, also no llamas, elephants and koala bears. This seems common sense. But they remind you about horses, because someone, somewhere, sometime, forgot.
So who was the person who got offended by being called beautiful? And who was the person who was so offended that they complained to HR? And how offended were they that HR, a decidedly whimpy area of our office, found themselves putting the fear of god into Ms. XBoss. She's a tough cookie, but she was genuinely afraid when she realized she had accidentally called me beautiful.
Are there really people out there who are so sensitive that even nice stuff gets to them? Whatever happened to writing things off as a quirky experience? Or even better, being able to take a compliment. With so many people in the world today, and so many opportunities to say whatever the hell you want to them, why are we discouraging the nice things? Must we resign ourselves to talking about the type of popcorn in the tin for eternity? Will I be an old woman reminiscing about that fine conversation I had with my best friend - talking about the best kind of cotton blend for socks?
And where - oh - where did we lose those morals from children's stories? Why must we punished an entire employee base because once upon a time someone called someone beautiful - and they didn't like it? Shouldn't the punishment fit the crime? Shouldn't the punishment fit the criminal?
And isn't it said that a kind word could save the world?
World War III isn't going to be started by war-mongers....it's going to be started by Human Resources!!!!
"There is Beautiful Katy ______" she exclaimed.
I turned to smile and say hi to them both when I looked at Ms. XBoss's face freeze in terror.
"Oh, I am so sorry. I just meant that your jacket is very nice. I always liked this jacket." She was babbling and clearly agitated. Her eyes were big as saucers and she literally looked like a doe about to be mowed over by a semi.
I was curious why she was suddenly so apologetic, since she's never been apologetic to me even when she did something awful, but I figured that the graceful thing to do is drop it. So I did.
"Thank you. I like my jacket too. It's my favorite one."
"It's a good color on you...I mean it's a good color...it's pretty." Usually Ms. XBoss is more direct than this. I can't figure out why she keeps recanting.
"It's also fuzzy, I like how soft velour is, Vicki keeps petting me."
Ms. XBoss and Ms. Manager reach out to pet my proffered arm. I think it's funny, but Ms. XBoss catches herself and pulls her hand back like she just touched fire. I'm beginning to get a little freaked out. We chit-chat about how to find good, pretty jackets, but everything feels really strained and I want to go back to my desk.
"Hey, did you two hear that there is popcorn on my desk? Mr. NowBoss just opened the tin so it's good and fresh. You should come have some."
That did it, everyone around us peeks out from their cubicles. It really is like little prairie dogs peeking from their holes. Soon I'm inundated with popcorn questions and in the ensuing confusion I slink back to my desk and set out a few more cups. Everyone files over to get a cup of holiday candy and snacks. Ms. XBoss too.
"I'm really sorry about calling you beautiful before. I shouldn't say things like that."
"I'm not gonna complain...I'll take beautiful any day." I say, handing over a cup full of popcorn.
"Yeah, but you're not supposed to say things like that anymore. It's an office."
I'm stunned for a minute. I'm lucky enough to sit with a group of people who are funny, irreverent and not at all offended. We say lots of things we shouldn't...and Vicki has been petting me all day. We're the group who goes out and actually gets drunk and boisterous at happy hour rather than throwing back a Zima and leaving before six.
"Well I'm not easily offended. I married a sailor after all."
We part ways, she goes back to her desk smiling and with a full cup of popcorn, and I sit down at mine somewhat confused by the whole thing.
If I've learned anything it's that rules are created because something bad has happened in the past regarding the matter. That is to say, if you are told specifically that it is not allowed to ride a horse through the cafeteria, there is a good chance it's because someone once rode a horse through the cafeteria. Why else would they specifically tell you not to do that? Sure...no horse through the cafeteria, also no llamas, elephants and koala bears. This seems common sense. But they remind you about horses, because someone, somewhere, sometime, forgot.
So who was the person who got offended by being called beautiful? And who was the person who was so offended that they complained to HR? And how offended were they that HR, a decidedly whimpy area of our office, found themselves putting the fear of god into Ms. XBoss. She's a tough cookie, but she was genuinely afraid when she realized she had accidentally called me beautiful.
Are there really people out there who are so sensitive that even nice stuff gets to them? Whatever happened to writing things off as a quirky experience? Or even better, being able to take a compliment. With so many people in the world today, and so many opportunities to say whatever the hell you want to them, why are we discouraging the nice things? Must we resign ourselves to talking about the type of popcorn in the tin for eternity? Will I be an old woman reminiscing about that fine conversation I had with my best friend - talking about the best kind of cotton blend for socks?
And where - oh - where did we lose those morals from children's stories? Why must we punished an entire employee base because once upon a time someone called someone beautiful - and they didn't like it? Shouldn't the punishment fit the crime? Shouldn't the punishment fit the criminal?
And isn't it said that a kind word could save the world?
World War III isn't going to be started by war-mongers....it's going to be started by Human Resources!!!!
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Putting the Christ back in...
...Jesus Christ! what are they thinking!
Today I read an article from the Washington Post: 'Holiday' Cards Ring Hollow for Some on Bushes' List.
Of course the first part of this that strikes me funny is the fact that no matter what he's doing, the President of the United States is going to piss someone off.
The second thing that struck me funny was this excerpt:
But the White House's explanation does not satisfy the groups -- which have grown in number in recent years -- that believe there is, in the words of the Heritage Foundation, a "war on Christmas" involving an "ever-stronger push toward a neutered 'holiday' season so that non-Christians won't be even the slightest bit offended."
So they want non-Christians to be at least a "little bit" offended? That's the Holiday Spirit!
I mean Christmas Spirit.
Today I read an article from the Washington Post: 'Holiday' Cards Ring Hollow for Some on Bushes' List.
Of course the first part of this that strikes me funny is the fact that no matter what he's doing, the President of the United States is going to piss someone off.
The second thing that struck me funny was this excerpt:
But the White House's explanation does not satisfy the groups -- which have grown in number in recent years -- that believe there is, in the words of the Heritage Foundation, a "war on Christmas" involving an "ever-stronger push toward a neutered 'holiday' season so that non-Christians won't be even the slightest bit offended."
So they want non-Christians to be at least a "little bit" offended? That's the Holiday Spirit!
I mean Christmas Spirit.
Copy Cat
I used to read this blog everyday. Lately however it's lost a little of it's witty, fun flavor and delved into an abstract writing style. Normally I love that style, it gives a piece a flavor of intimacy and mystery straight off. However, I just can't get into his version of it. I also couldn't understand why he went from fairly easy to comprehend-yet-complex storytelling to abstract fuck-the-establishment-and-your-need-for-exposition story-not-telling.
Then I realized that he'd been spending time with Mimi who is the third point in that whole "Bigshot New York Blog" phase that's going through the media right now (specifically the NYTimes). I never really got into Mimi's blog because it is written in that abstract style and jumping in the middle of that it's hard to find the hook. However, she is much better at it than "Rob" probably because she started in that style and Rob started as a narrative writer.
However, though one may think this is a critique on storytelling styles, it is not. The really interesting thing in the new writing development of a favorite blog is how influenced the writer has become by his companion. They say that after living with someone long enough you start to look like them, but you start to talk like them even sooner.
My husband and I have a lot of shared speech habits. I often find myself wondering how they started and who introduced them. For instance: whenever we see a little car, like a mini or a miata, we chirp out a happy "Meep meep!" I believe I started this based on a anecdote of his about japanese horns. Regardless we both now do it almost subconsciously.
His phrases have seeped into my vocabulary as well, "dumb ass" "vroom vroom" "you are fill of shit" "uh..."
However, as I start to list them, I realize that a a lot of the phrases I've picked up from him have been interjections. They have not replaced my personal exclamations such as "cool" "groovy" and "idiot".
I do know that a lot of my mannerisms have sneaked over to him, and a lot of my physical stances have originated from his. None of these, at least on my part, are conscious. I can't speak for my husband though. I do make a conscious effort at times to not say something anymore, but I pick up things from my husband like I pick up mud on my boots It just sticks to me.
I like it. It's much like having him being a part of me all the time. But I do wonder if it means more than we just spend a lot of time with one another.
In the case of the characters "Rob" and "Mimi", Rob declares himself an Alpha-male. Which usually means he's the secondary partner in a relationship. It's that whole freudian, projection thing going. (Please keep in mind I'm talking about the blog characters they portray on their blogs, I consider them about the same as I consider Heathcliff and Cathy.) In the case of my husband, he does not refer to himself as an alpha male. Which usually means he's the one in control. I usually take the role of making a lot of suggestions at once, choosing one about half the time. But often, even when it's me who chooses, we'll change our plans or ideas at the last minute based on his opinion. I don't mind at all. If I want something really bad I'll make sure to stomp my feet until I get it.
So does he.
I think he got the foot stomping from me.
Of course rather than it being a ying-yang thing. A balance and fight over power, it could be hero worship. Perhaps "Rob" really looks up to "Mimi" the way I look up to "C". Perhaps not. We could be looking for a guide. Maybe we want to become someone better through immolation. In my case I don't want to be like my husband at all. In fact that is the last thing I want to do. And I am certain he does not want to be like me. But I do want to be closer to him. I can literally hear his voice in my head when situations come up that I know he would comment on. I know what he would say, I know what he would do, and I wish he was there to say it. Instead, though it's C's voice in my head, it's my voice to the rest of the world. So I talk like him. He's everywhere I am, and no one knows it.
Reading "Rob's" new style though...I wonder if C's words come out just as awkward and loose fitting as "Mimi's" writing comes out broken and too tight on his blog. Perhaps the rest of the world can tell when I switch to my C-words. Perhaps I'm the only one who thinks it fun and comforting.
So in keeping with the theme of stealing from other bloggers I'm wrapping this up with a question:
Am I the only one that thinks this is fascinating? Do you have any habits you picked up from someone else?
Then I realized that he'd been spending time with Mimi who is the third point in that whole "Bigshot New York Blog" phase that's going through the media right now (specifically the NYTimes). I never really got into Mimi's blog because it is written in that abstract style and jumping in the middle of that it's hard to find the hook. However, she is much better at it than "Rob" probably because she started in that style and Rob started as a narrative writer.
However, though one may think this is a critique on storytelling styles, it is not. The really interesting thing in the new writing development of a favorite blog is how influenced the writer has become by his companion. They say that after living with someone long enough you start to look like them, but you start to talk like them even sooner.
My husband and I have a lot of shared speech habits. I often find myself wondering how they started and who introduced them. For instance: whenever we see a little car, like a mini or a miata, we chirp out a happy "Meep meep!" I believe I started this based on a anecdote of his about japanese horns. Regardless we both now do it almost subconsciously.
His phrases have seeped into my vocabulary as well, "dumb ass" "vroom vroom" "you are fill of shit" "uh..."
However, as I start to list them, I realize that a a lot of the phrases I've picked up from him have been interjections. They have not replaced my personal exclamations such as "cool" "groovy" and "idiot".
I do know that a lot of my mannerisms have sneaked over to him, and a lot of my physical stances have originated from his. None of these, at least on my part, are conscious. I can't speak for my husband though. I do make a conscious effort at times to not say something anymore, but I pick up things from my husband like I pick up mud on my boots It just sticks to me.
I like it. It's much like having him being a part of me all the time. But I do wonder if it means more than we just spend a lot of time with one another.
In the case of the characters "Rob" and "Mimi", Rob declares himself an Alpha-male. Which usually means he's the secondary partner in a relationship. It's that whole freudian, projection thing going. (Please keep in mind I'm talking about the blog characters they portray on their blogs, I consider them about the same as I consider Heathcliff and Cathy.) In the case of my husband, he does not refer to himself as an alpha male. Which usually means he's the one in control. I usually take the role of making a lot of suggestions at once, choosing one about half the time. But often, even when it's me who chooses, we'll change our plans or ideas at the last minute based on his opinion. I don't mind at all. If I want something really bad I'll make sure to stomp my feet until I get it.
So does he.
I think he got the foot stomping from me.
Of course rather than it being a ying-yang thing. A balance and fight over power, it could be hero worship. Perhaps "Rob" really looks up to "Mimi" the way I look up to "C". Perhaps not. We could be looking for a guide. Maybe we want to become someone better through immolation. In my case I don't want to be like my husband at all. In fact that is the last thing I want to do. And I am certain he does not want to be like me. But I do want to be closer to him. I can literally hear his voice in my head when situations come up that I know he would comment on. I know what he would say, I know what he would do, and I wish he was there to say it. Instead, though it's C's voice in my head, it's my voice to the rest of the world. So I talk like him. He's everywhere I am, and no one knows it.
Reading "Rob's" new style though...I wonder if C's words come out just as awkward and loose fitting as "Mimi's" writing comes out broken and too tight on his blog. Perhaps the rest of the world can tell when I switch to my C-words. Perhaps I'm the only one who thinks it fun and comforting.
So in keeping with the theme of stealing from other bloggers I'm wrapping this up with a question:
Am I the only one that thinks this is fascinating? Do you have any habits you picked up from someone else?
Monday, December 05, 2005
Movie Theater Phenomena
Movie theaters are strange worlds. It is as if they are a society all their own. Movie theaters are a strange hybrid between the private individual's living room and a public arena where hundreds of people are crammed together unnaturally.
This can only result in lawlessness, savagery and guerilla warfare.
And for some reason once I leave one, battle-weary and thoroughly beaten, I forget how bad it is.
Last night I entered into battle once again in the hopes of seeing Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy fall in love again. Surely a Sunday night crowd would be thinner and slightly more mature than a Friday or Saturday night group. Filled with people who either did not have to get up early the next morning (husband) for school or work and people who were grown-up enough to set their own curfews and knew they could function on only a few hours of sleep (me). Certainly those gimmee-gimmee monsters found in throngs any other night would not deign to show up on a Sunday. Saturday night is for being seen and admired, Sunday is for stomping around in pj's and fluffy bunny slippers.
Or not.
We find a seat, ironically not in our normal spot, the theater is surprisingly full - but being a girl kind of a flick - it's full with a lot of women wearing no make-up. I am among them, but I brought my arm candy with me - grudgingly.
"Popcorn sounds good" says the candy.
I drop off my coat and skip off to the concessions. As always there are many long lines all waiting at stations that are not manned. I bounce from back of one line to back of another trying to find one that actually serves people. All the while I eye the teenagers who are busy chatting about how "Brad is a jerk" and no about "What kind of candy Mr. Brad wants." Just as I'm about to get annoyed at the lack-luster customer service I find someone working with no line in front of her. As she scurries off to fill up the sodas and popcorn bag I collect napkins, straws and scope out where the salt and butter station is.
I always wondered who thought it was a good idea to only have one butter tin and one salt shaker in a movie theater that announces "30,000 customers a month." Perhaps if there were two of each, or maybe three, congestion at the condiment counter would be lessened. Like opening the stupid middle lane on the freeway during rush hour. You can't be saving that much money by not buying ONE MORE SALT SHAKER!
Regardless of the theaters accounting skills, one is all you have to work with, so you make a plan. Scope it out, find the line that's most organized, as soon as you get the bag, make a bee-line. I scooped it out and was pleasantly surprised to find only one man currently salting up his snack. Piece of cake, by the time my credit card is back in my hand he'll be done. I'll shake a little on then skip on back to catch the trailers. (I like the trailers.)
Except as I'm standing there, not more than four feet away I watch as he shakes the salt, shakes it some more, looks at the shaker, looks around his shoulder then walks away with shaker in hand.
My head nearly does a Linda Blair as I watch him confidently, knowingly walk away with what is probably the only container of salt you'll find in the whole damn theater.
And he knows it. This was no slip of the mind. He didn't walk away not realizing he was still holding the thing. He was salting as he was walking. He even looked around to see if the coast was clear.
I consider running after him and somehow injuring his yuppy pride by commenting loudly on the jerk-offishness that is he and his salt-shaker-stealing breathren...but the teenager behind the counter has my credit card still - and if you can't leave a salt-shaker unattended then I sure as heck ain't leaving my credit card behind.
I chew on why someone thinks it's okay to steal salt while I walk back to my seat. Once again I think of the innocent excuses, but none of them fit with the scene. No, he deliberately took that salt, and he knew he was depriving others of the use of it. The thing is I don't think he was guilty, or ashamed. I think he thought he deserved to take the salt back, that is was his right and other people would just have to deal. I've never thought that, I've never thought that I should have something to the detriment of others. Sure I've thought I deserved something more than someone else did, but I didn't want the other person to be deprived, I just wanted everyone to get their just desserts. And quite frankly if we're all paying $5 for a bag of popcorn, we all deserve use of the salt.
I ask my husband why he thinks it happened.
"People are idiots." he replies.
But somehow that doesn't work, he wasn't an idiot, he knew what he was doing was going to piss people off. That's why he made sure no one important was watching. Of course he missed me, but I'm a girl, and timid, and I think he knew I wouldn't pop him in the jaw over a salt-shaker. I'm not like him.
No I think that movie theaters bring out the worst in people. Behaviors that are okay when at home, like taking the salt into the living room with your pot pie, are suddenly manifesting in public. We sit in a dark room doing the same activity we do at home - staring at a screen. At home we pick up the phone, make ourselves a snack, talk into our pillows, so why not in a theater. It's dark, we're tricked into thinking we're living in a different world, so we don't notice there are other people sitting around us. We don't realize that when we put our feet up on the seat in front of us, we end up kicking someone's head. At home we never kick someone in the head when we put our feet up.
And of course when we're confronted with our lapse in etiquette we get defensive. How dare someone ask that I not talk on my cellphone, I talk on my cellphone all the time at home - and I watch t.v. doing it.
No people are idiots, they're just confused. Movie theaters mess with our heads, they make us forget who we are, where we are, how to behave. It's all fantasy and no one ever has a fantasy about waiting for other people and having to be more considerate. We want to be the prince and princesses, not the maids and butlers.
On the other hand, I hope salt-shaker-stealer guy has a prince of a heart attack. And they bury him with a pepper mill.
This can only result in lawlessness, savagery and guerilla warfare.
And for some reason once I leave one, battle-weary and thoroughly beaten, I forget how bad it is.
Last night I entered into battle once again in the hopes of seeing Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy fall in love again. Surely a Sunday night crowd would be thinner and slightly more mature than a Friday or Saturday night group. Filled with people who either did not have to get up early the next morning (husband) for school or work and people who were grown-up enough to set their own curfews and knew they could function on only a few hours of sleep (me). Certainly those gimmee-gimmee monsters found in throngs any other night would not deign to show up on a Sunday. Saturday night is for being seen and admired, Sunday is for stomping around in pj's and fluffy bunny slippers.
Or not.
We find a seat, ironically not in our normal spot, the theater is surprisingly full - but being a girl kind of a flick - it's full with a lot of women wearing no make-up. I am among them, but I brought my arm candy with me - grudgingly.
"Popcorn sounds good" says the candy.
I drop off my coat and skip off to the concessions. As always there are many long lines all waiting at stations that are not manned. I bounce from back of one line to back of another trying to find one that actually serves people. All the while I eye the teenagers who are busy chatting about how "Brad is a jerk" and no about "What kind of candy Mr. Brad wants." Just as I'm about to get annoyed at the lack-luster customer service I find someone working with no line in front of her. As she scurries off to fill up the sodas and popcorn bag I collect napkins, straws and scope out where the salt and butter station is.
I always wondered who thought it was a good idea to only have one butter tin and one salt shaker in a movie theater that announces "30,000 customers a month." Perhaps if there were two of each, or maybe three, congestion at the condiment counter would be lessened. Like opening the stupid middle lane on the freeway during rush hour. You can't be saving that much money by not buying ONE MORE SALT SHAKER!
Regardless of the theaters accounting skills, one is all you have to work with, so you make a plan. Scope it out, find the line that's most organized, as soon as you get the bag, make a bee-line. I scooped it out and was pleasantly surprised to find only one man currently salting up his snack. Piece of cake, by the time my credit card is back in my hand he'll be done. I'll shake a little on then skip on back to catch the trailers. (I like the trailers.)
Except as I'm standing there, not more than four feet away I watch as he shakes the salt, shakes it some more, looks at the shaker, looks around his shoulder then walks away with shaker in hand.
My head nearly does a Linda Blair as I watch him confidently, knowingly walk away with what is probably the only container of salt you'll find in the whole damn theater.
And he knows it. This was no slip of the mind. He didn't walk away not realizing he was still holding the thing. He was salting as he was walking. He even looked around to see if the coast was clear.
I consider running after him and somehow injuring his yuppy pride by commenting loudly on the jerk-offishness that is he and his salt-shaker-stealing breathren...but the teenager behind the counter has my credit card still - and if you can't leave a salt-shaker unattended then I sure as heck ain't leaving my credit card behind.
I chew on why someone thinks it's okay to steal salt while I walk back to my seat. Once again I think of the innocent excuses, but none of them fit with the scene. No, he deliberately took that salt, and he knew he was depriving others of the use of it. The thing is I don't think he was guilty, or ashamed. I think he thought he deserved to take the salt back, that is was his right and other people would just have to deal. I've never thought that, I've never thought that I should have something to the detriment of others. Sure I've thought I deserved something more than someone else did, but I didn't want the other person to be deprived, I just wanted everyone to get their just desserts. And quite frankly if we're all paying $5 for a bag of popcorn, we all deserve use of the salt.
I ask my husband why he thinks it happened.
"People are idiots." he replies.
But somehow that doesn't work, he wasn't an idiot, he knew what he was doing was going to piss people off. That's why he made sure no one important was watching. Of course he missed me, but I'm a girl, and timid, and I think he knew I wouldn't pop him in the jaw over a salt-shaker. I'm not like him.
No I think that movie theaters bring out the worst in people. Behaviors that are okay when at home, like taking the salt into the living room with your pot pie, are suddenly manifesting in public. We sit in a dark room doing the same activity we do at home - staring at a screen. At home we pick up the phone, make ourselves a snack, talk into our pillows, so why not in a theater. It's dark, we're tricked into thinking we're living in a different world, so we don't notice there are other people sitting around us. We don't realize that when we put our feet up on the seat in front of us, we end up kicking someone's head. At home we never kick someone in the head when we put our feet up.
And of course when we're confronted with our lapse in etiquette we get defensive. How dare someone ask that I not talk on my cellphone, I talk on my cellphone all the time at home - and I watch t.v. doing it.
No people are idiots, they're just confused. Movie theaters mess with our heads, they make us forget who we are, where we are, how to behave. It's all fantasy and no one ever has a fantasy about waiting for other people and having to be more considerate. We want to be the prince and princesses, not the maids and butlers.
On the other hand, I hope salt-shaker-stealer guy has a prince of a heart attack. And they bury him with a pepper mill.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Amusing
I'm still lack-luster about my blog. In anycase I have a short blogging story.
Yesterday I posted a comment in a persons blog agreeing with their numerous antagonists. It meant to go something much like "I agree with so-and-so when they said this-and-that. The character you show on your blog is a selfish, whiney, immature yuppy. If you didn't want to come off like that, then you should probably not write stories that reflect it."
But I said it nicer than that.
Surprisingly it was not the blog characters champions that jumped all over me, but the bloggers antagonists who have been saying much the same thing I said for months now.
Which just goes to show that antagonists really do want to stand alone.
(Addition: I don't want to color her blog unfairly which is why I did not link to it before. Opinionistas. She's a good blogger, but it's a bit like reading "Catcher in the Rye" while watching the Titanic sink. I can't look away!
Which I guess is both good AND bad.)
Yesterday I posted a comment in a persons blog agreeing with their numerous antagonists. It meant to go something much like "I agree with so-and-so when they said this-and-that. The character you show on your blog is a selfish, whiney, immature yuppy. If you didn't want to come off like that, then you should probably not write stories that reflect it."
But I said it nicer than that.
Surprisingly it was not the blog characters champions that jumped all over me, but the bloggers antagonists who have been saying much the same thing I said for months now.
Which just goes to show that antagonists really do want to stand alone.
(Addition: I don't want to color her blog unfairly which is why I did not link to it before. Opinionistas. She's a good blogger, but it's a bit like reading "Catcher in the Rye" while watching the Titanic sink. I can't look away!
Which I guess is both good AND bad.)
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Random crap no one cares about
It called to me...it said you must take me...I am a quiz...you cannot resist.
Via Impenetrable Prose and Poesy.
Via Impenetrable Prose and Poesy.
Advanced You scored 92% Beginner, 100% Intermediate, 86% Advanced, and 73% Expert! |
You have an extremely good understanding of beginner, intermediate, and advanced level commonly confused English words, getting at least 75% of each of these three levels' questions correct. This is an exceptional score. Remember, these are commonly confused English words, which means most people don't use them properly. You got an extremely respectable score.
|
My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
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| Link: The Commonly Confused Words Test written by shortredhead78 on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test |
Just painting
The canvas doesn't want to stay on the ground. I'm sitting on one corner and watching the paint can on the other corner warily. I'm sure the wind will pick up again and send it's contents flying up and all over the work we've already done. Somehow I don't think Helena and Lysander should be traipsing around in a forest of hot pink trees. So I watch the can while Rebecca paints the leaves and I don't hear the beginning of her thought.
"Sometimes I think I'm too smart." She's finishing up the shading with a bright yellow. Who would think to use a toxic yellow to paint a green tree? She did and it looks amazing.
"Too smart for what?" I say, wiggling over to the center of my edge so she can paint that corner.
"Too smart to, I dunno, grow-up maybe. Or to succeed."
"Like too many thoughts?"
"No, it's more I can't do all the things I think I should as a teenager, because I know I shouldn't."
"You are mature." I agree.
"So are you."
"It is sorta like missing out."
"Like when I started throwing up my food...I knew it was a bad idea. So I told my mom. And the psychiatrist just told me it was a bad idea, and I agreed, so that was the end of that."
"Well it kinda is a bad idea." We counter each other again, I move the can with pink paint and weight down the next corner. The wind is picking up, Rebecca's hair keeps blowing around and getting caught in the green and yellow paint. She looks like a fairy queen.
"I know it is, but at the same time, it would have been nice if I had kept it up just until I lost a little weight."
"But you knew that was unhealthy."
"Right. I analyze too much."
"I kinda get that. Everyone else has all this stuff they're going through and I know it's dumb, so I don't go through it."
"Exactly." Rebecca sits down on the other side of the canvas. I get out the white paint and we both take small brushes, highlighting the trunks and the branches. You could almost see Puck sitting in them, giggling at the bumbling lovers. "I just think that I'll never get to do anything, because I know how it will turn out."
"But you do stuff that's good. You've been all over."
"Not things other people do. You either. You're too smart. We won't ever get to be like others."
By other people, we mean teenagers. I look around. While Rebecca and I have finished twelve canvases of trees that are now peppering the lawn of our "quad" our co-crew members have managed to climb a real tree and are currently drawing on the concrete table "Melissa is a fat pig" and "Joseph is a fag." The girls are lying on the benches, their head in some boys lap. They're cute, skinny, their clothes are tight and ride up on the top and down on the bottom. I think this is no tragedy since none of them have breasts or hips and look more like boys than the boys do.
David is trying to wave me over to watch him try and skateboard down a flight of stairs. He does this every afternoon. Ever since we broke up he keeps wanting me to come watch him play. We don't know it but soon, after we've gotten back together, he'll fall down the staircase railing and get a crack in his skull. His step-mother will then proceed to beat him after their trip to the ER. Eventually he will run away to Alaska without telling his Father. Only a handful of us will know about it and we will be threatened with beatings ourselves for letting him go.
I will only hear from him twice after that. Once to let me know he got there safe and once to let me know he has become a manager for Subway. There will be rumors he has gotten married to a girl he got pregnant. But I will never know for sure.
I turn back to Rebecca. She's not skinny, but she is very developed and curves beautifully.
"You should do a painting of yourself. You're so beautiful."
"I was thinking maybe I'd do a body study of myself. But I need photos."
"I can take them for you." We finish the painting in silence and go to clean the brushes together.
"Maybe," I say "you are just too advanced for right now...but eventually you'll find something challenging later."
"I don't know if I've ever been challenged."
"Me either."
"It's the analysis. I'm too detached."
"Right, life would be easier if I didn't know so much about it."
"Exactly, you're smart, and so you can see what will work and won't and why. All these rumors and myths, they're so easy to see through."
"It's like understanding something you're not supposed to explain." I nod.
Again I look around. Peggy and Mark are in the parking lot making out. Mark is spindly and tall, Peggy is pure skeleton. She had a mother who was a dancer and wanted Peggy to be too. She's a good one. But she's been anorexic since she was 12. She's extremely protective of the other girls and forces us all to eat whenever we can. Lately she's been gaining some weight and looks really good, all of us are unsure if we should congratulate her on how fabulous she looks or if we should keep quiet for fear she may think she's gaining weight again and spiral back to 85 lbs. Once again, we don't know that in a few years she will have become a model in New York and be raped by one of her agents. She looks weak, but she's strong and soon after she will move to California and run her own business.
Mark will go to school, break more hearts, and disappear. Mark never was more than tall and spindly, and desperate to be strange. He never really made it.
"We think too much, but we're not too smart." I tell Rebecca. She nods.
In a few years Rebecca will have joined an art commune and be forbidden to speak with any of her friends. She has disappeared somewhere in the hills of North Carolina. I met someone from her commune at a concert in Louisiana a few years ago. There were no women around and I didn't ask about her. I don't know if her name is still her name. I don't even know if she still paints. I hope she does.
Soon after I graduate I will remember her saying "Maybe I'm too smart." and take it too heart. I'll spend so much of my time pretending to not be smart, pretending to be the girls who giggle over boys skating down stairs that I'll lose focus and forget I ever was intelligent.
I know where I got that idea, but I don't know where she got hers. I guess we did do something teenage and stupid. But it affected us far later than it should have.
"Sometimes I think I'm too smart." She's finishing up the shading with a bright yellow. Who would think to use a toxic yellow to paint a green tree? She did and it looks amazing.
"Too smart for what?" I say, wiggling over to the center of my edge so she can paint that corner.
"Too smart to, I dunno, grow-up maybe. Or to succeed."
"Like too many thoughts?"
"No, it's more I can't do all the things I think I should as a teenager, because I know I shouldn't."
"You are mature." I agree.
"So are you."
"It is sorta like missing out."
"Like when I started throwing up my food...I knew it was a bad idea. So I told my mom. And the psychiatrist just told me it was a bad idea, and I agreed, so that was the end of that."
"Well it kinda is a bad idea." We counter each other again, I move the can with pink paint and weight down the next corner. The wind is picking up, Rebecca's hair keeps blowing around and getting caught in the green and yellow paint. She looks like a fairy queen.
"I know it is, but at the same time, it would have been nice if I had kept it up just until I lost a little weight."
"But you knew that was unhealthy."
"Right. I analyze too much."
"I kinda get that. Everyone else has all this stuff they're going through and I know it's dumb, so I don't go through it."
"Exactly." Rebecca sits down on the other side of the canvas. I get out the white paint and we both take small brushes, highlighting the trunks and the branches. You could almost see Puck sitting in them, giggling at the bumbling lovers. "I just think that I'll never get to do anything, because I know how it will turn out."
"But you do stuff that's good. You've been all over."
"Not things other people do. You either. You're too smart. We won't ever get to be like others."
By other people, we mean teenagers. I look around. While Rebecca and I have finished twelve canvases of trees that are now peppering the lawn of our "quad" our co-crew members have managed to climb a real tree and are currently drawing on the concrete table "Melissa is a fat pig" and "Joseph is a fag." The girls are lying on the benches, their head in some boys lap. They're cute, skinny, their clothes are tight and ride up on the top and down on the bottom. I think this is no tragedy since none of them have breasts or hips and look more like boys than the boys do.
David is trying to wave me over to watch him try and skateboard down a flight of stairs. He does this every afternoon. Ever since we broke up he keeps wanting me to come watch him play. We don't know it but soon, after we've gotten back together, he'll fall down the staircase railing and get a crack in his skull. His step-mother will then proceed to beat him after their trip to the ER. Eventually he will run away to Alaska without telling his Father. Only a handful of us will know about it and we will be threatened with beatings ourselves for letting him go.
I will only hear from him twice after that. Once to let me know he got there safe and once to let me know he has become a manager for Subway. There will be rumors he has gotten married to a girl he got pregnant. But I will never know for sure.
I turn back to Rebecca. She's not skinny, but she is very developed and curves beautifully.
"You should do a painting of yourself. You're so beautiful."
"I was thinking maybe I'd do a body study of myself. But I need photos."
"I can take them for you." We finish the painting in silence and go to clean the brushes together.
"Maybe," I say "you are just too advanced for right now...but eventually you'll find something challenging later."
"I don't know if I've ever been challenged."
"Me either."
"It's the analysis. I'm too detached."
"Right, life would be easier if I didn't know so much about it."
"Exactly, you're smart, and so you can see what will work and won't and why. All these rumors and myths, they're so easy to see through."
"It's like understanding something you're not supposed to explain." I nod.
Again I look around. Peggy and Mark are in the parking lot making out. Mark is spindly and tall, Peggy is pure skeleton. She had a mother who was a dancer and wanted Peggy to be too. She's a good one. But she's been anorexic since she was 12. She's extremely protective of the other girls and forces us all to eat whenever we can. Lately she's been gaining some weight and looks really good, all of us are unsure if we should congratulate her on how fabulous she looks or if we should keep quiet for fear she may think she's gaining weight again and spiral back to 85 lbs. Once again, we don't know that in a few years she will have become a model in New York and be raped by one of her agents. She looks weak, but she's strong and soon after she will move to California and run her own business.
Mark will go to school, break more hearts, and disappear. Mark never was more than tall and spindly, and desperate to be strange. He never really made it.
"We think too much, but we're not too smart." I tell Rebecca. She nods.
In a few years Rebecca will have joined an art commune and be forbidden to speak with any of her friends. She has disappeared somewhere in the hills of North Carolina. I met someone from her commune at a concert in Louisiana a few years ago. There were no women around and I didn't ask about her. I don't know if her name is still her name. I don't even know if she still paints. I hope she does.
Soon after I graduate I will remember her saying "Maybe I'm too smart." and take it too heart. I'll spend so much of my time pretending to not be smart, pretending to be the girls who giggle over boys skating down stairs that I'll lose focus and forget I ever was intelligent.
I know where I got that idea, but I don't know where she got hers. I guess we did do something teenage and stupid. But it affected us far later than it should have.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Grace
This weekend my brother surprised me by showing up in our state to have Thanksgiving dinner with his girlfriends family. After some aggravating non-planning we decided to meet up for some random activity before they jumped in a car and returned to the "north".
The random activity? Ice-skating.
Having spent most of my life in Hawaii I have not had a lot of occasion to skate on ice. This is mostly because in Hawaii all the ice is found in your pina colada (or mai-tai, or shave-ice, or the cooler...you get the idea). My brother roller-blades as his main form of transportation, so ice skating proves no problem for him, for me this would be the second time in my life I'd ever seen an ice rink in person.
My name is Katy it is not Grace. I am admittedly one of the biggest klutzes around. I've been known to walk into walls for no reason, fall up stairs, whack my hands (arms, legs, head) on random objects almost completely out of my path and most recently I somehow managed to get a paper cut on my nose just by getting out of the car. I walk around most of the time with a lot of bruises and cuts without knowing where they came from. My husband thinks I complain a lot about my bumps and scraps, but he only hears about maybe 2% of the things I do. I only complain about the ones that really hurt.
Surprisingly, though I have problems with the whole walking-like-a-normal-person, I am extremely good at the harder parts of coordination. I can rub my tummy and pat my head at the same time. I am an accomplished chop-stick user, and can though I can't pick a fly out of the air I can pick up rice one grain at a time if I so choose. I can ski fairly well, albeit slowly. I am an excellent dancer and come off quite gracefully when I dance. In fact during jazz and ballet classes that is the main comment I hear. I move "pretty". It is the same with ice skating.
I did one turn around the rink next to the wall both pulling myself forward and holding myself up. Three fourths of the way around I had figured out how to slide my feet out and in enough to propel myself along without the wall and to coast for most of the way. Another half an hour had me zig-zagging my path and by forty-five minutes I was brave enough to pick up my feet just a little. This proved some problem, as did a graceful stop without having to turn a full 360 degrees, but I figure for a very short session on the ice I had mastered the basics and simply needed refinement.
Refinement may be hard to come by though as my partner in crime did one turn around the rink then promptly plopped himself down on the bench and waited while I puffed around trying to keep up with my brother and his girlfriend. Luckily being a klutz I've learned the all-important lesson of laughing at myself, and with others, when I mess up. This also allows me to be perfectly happy going my own speed and learning at my own pace. Don't worry folks, I'll get there when I get there.
It is odd though that I can master rather complicated movements so easily and have no trouble keeping my balance or my focus when executing them. I have a theory that this may come from dance class itself. I spent so many of my childhood years hearing "Don't look at your feet, they are there whether you look at them or not." that it simply ingrained itself in my head. My appendages will be there, whether I see them or not, they are in fact attached to me. Though I may not see feet moving forward, they are, and I will be moved from point A to point B. In dance performance this is desirable. You want to be looking up, smiling, be inviting and happy. People like watching faces, not bodies...they look for eyes instinctively, therefore your eyes should be available to the audience. You don't need to be worried about what your feet are doing, you tell them to do a shuffle-heel-toe and they will. More importantly it isn't required to look where your heel is toeing because if everything is working properly the person next to you is also heel-toeing and there will be no one in the way. You move left, they move left simultaneously.
Of course in the real world people do not move exactly the way you do. More over, objects do not move with you. In fact objects don't move at all. They just sit there, being solid and stationary. It's infuriating, I am moving forward, other people are moving toward me, it would stand to reason that I should be looking up, out at the world, and not have to worry about the desk sitting in the way. I'm me. I'm going places. The desk should move out of my way and go places too.
Unfortunately, it never does.
So when ice skating, or swing dancing, or following the ebb and flow of New York City streets I am exceptionally good. My body does what I tell it too, and I'm off. But when I'm thrown that curve ball, that instance where my environment dictates my movement rather than my movement dictating my environment - I'm sunk. And often black and blue.
But at least it's a pretty shade of blue...
(As an unrelated side note, the person who found my page by searching for "Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife" - get it! That book is awesome!)
The random activity? Ice-skating.
Having spent most of my life in Hawaii I have not had a lot of occasion to skate on ice. This is mostly because in Hawaii all the ice is found in your pina colada (or mai-tai, or shave-ice, or the cooler...you get the idea). My brother roller-blades as his main form of transportation, so ice skating proves no problem for him, for me this would be the second time in my life I'd ever seen an ice rink in person.
My name is Katy it is not Grace. I am admittedly one of the biggest klutzes around. I've been known to walk into walls for no reason, fall up stairs, whack my hands (arms, legs, head) on random objects almost completely out of my path and most recently I somehow managed to get a paper cut on my nose just by getting out of the car. I walk around most of the time with a lot of bruises and cuts without knowing where they came from. My husband thinks I complain a lot about my bumps and scraps, but he only hears about maybe 2% of the things I do. I only complain about the ones that really hurt.
Surprisingly, though I have problems with the whole walking-like-a-normal-person, I am extremely good at the harder parts of coordination. I can rub my tummy and pat my head at the same time. I am an accomplished chop-stick user, and can though I can't pick a fly out of the air I can pick up rice one grain at a time if I so choose. I can ski fairly well, albeit slowly. I am an excellent dancer and come off quite gracefully when I dance. In fact during jazz and ballet classes that is the main comment I hear. I move "pretty". It is the same with ice skating.
I did one turn around the rink next to the wall both pulling myself forward and holding myself up. Three fourths of the way around I had figured out how to slide my feet out and in enough to propel myself along without the wall and to coast for most of the way. Another half an hour had me zig-zagging my path and by forty-five minutes I was brave enough to pick up my feet just a little. This proved some problem, as did a graceful stop without having to turn a full 360 degrees, but I figure for a very short session on the ice I had mastered the basics and simply needed refinement.
Refinement may be hard to come by though as my partner in crime did one turn around the rink then promptly plopped himself down on the bench and waited while I puffed around trying to keep up with my brother and his girlfriend. Luckily being a klutz I've learned the all-important lesson of laughing at myself, and with others, when I mess up. This also allows me to be perfectly happy going my own speed and learning at my own pace. Don't worry folks, I'll get there when I get there.
It is odd though that I can master rather complicated movements so easily and have no trouble keeping my balance or my focus when executing them. I have a theory that this may come from dance class itself. I spent so many of my childhood years hearing "Don't look at your feet, they are there whether you look at them or not." that it simply ingrained itself in my head. My appendages will be there, whether I see them or not, they are in fact attached to me. Though I may not see feet moving forward, they are, and I will be moved from point A to point B. In dance performance this is desirable. You want to be looking up, smiling, be inviting and happy. People like watching faces, not bodies...they look for eyes instinctively, therefore your eyes should be available to the audience. You don't need to be worried about what your feet are doing, you tell them to do a shuffle-heel-toe and they will. More importantly it isn't required to look where your heel is toeing because if everything is working properly the person next to you is also heel-toeing and there will be no one in the way. You move left, they move left simultaneously.
Of course in the real world people do not move exactly the way you do. More over, objects do not move with you. In fact objects don't move at all. They just sit there, being solid and stationary. It's infuriating, I am moving forward, other people are moving toward me, it would stand to reason that I should be looking up, out at the world, and not have to worry about the desk sitting in the way. I'm me. I'm going places. The desk should move out of my way and go places too.
Unfortunately, it never does.
So when ice skating, or swing dancing, or following the ebb and flow of New York City streets I am exceptionally good. My body does what I tell it too, and I'm off. But when I'm thrown that curve ball, that instance where my environment dictates my movement rather than my movement dictating my environment - I'm sunk. And often black and blue.
But at least it's a pretty shade of blue...
(As an unrelated side note, the person who found my page by searching for "Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife" - get it! That book is awesome!)
Friday, November 25, 2005
If you chase two links...
Okay, I know a lot of other bloggers do this, but I feel guilty that so many people have been looking for these things and found my page. I'm certain this is not what they were looking for when they were searching for:
shepard smith
My Shepard Smith post was about me feeling very ill and adandoned. I'm sure they were looking for pictures of him like this cause he's a cutie!
glasses blind
blind "my glasses" thick
If you are blind...the glasses aren't going to help.
"Civilization IV" +"If you chase two rabbits"
The quotes is "If you chase two rabbits, you will lose both" It's a Russian Proverb. In Russian it goes: Za dvumya zaitsami pogonish'sya, ne odnogo ne poimaesh.
...and yes...Leonard Nemoy says it in Civ IV too.
my nipples rubbing against estrogen
Well there's a fancy trick!
"our thursday" poem
Haven't written a Thursday poem in awhile. Work has been rather busy lately...no time for poems, which I'm sure makes everyone happy...cause my poems suck.
"aussie bites" + cookies
I've been seeing this one on my list for a long time, apparently everyone likes to make "aussie bites". I had never heard of them till we bought them at Costco. Personally I still think they are primarily horse food. If I knew a horse, I'd give him some for Christmas.
There we go...a quick run down of some of the searches that led people here.
I'm sure they were surprised when they got here.
shepard smith
My Shepard Smith post was about me feeling very ill and adandoned. I'm sure they were looking for pictures of him like this cause he's a cutie!
glasses blind
blind "my glasses" thick
If you are blind...the glasses aren't going to help.
"Civilization IV" +"If you chase two rabbits"
The quotes is "If you chase two rabbits, you will lose both" It's a Russian Proverb. In Russian it goes: Za dvumya zaitsami pogonish'sya, ne odnogo ne poimaesh.
...and yes...Leonard Nemoy says it in Civ IV too.
my nipples rubbing against estrogen
Well there's a fancy trick!
"our thursday" poem
Haven't written a Thursday poem in awhile. Work has been rather busy lately...no time for poems, which I'm sure makes everyone happy...cause my poems suck.
"aussie bites" + cookies
I've been seeing this one on my list for a long time, apparently everyone likes to make "aussie bites". I had never heard of them till we bought them at Costco. Personally I still think they are primarily horse food. If I knew a horse, I'd give him some for Christmas.
There we go...a quick run down of some of the searches that led people here.
I'm sure they were surprised when they got here.
Things the make you go...
Something really cool about blogging, and a lot more important A Party Girl Leads China's Online Revolution
"I'm fortunate to live in a transitional society, from a highly political one to a commercial one," she wrote, "and this allows me to enjoy private pleasures, like blogging."
"I'm fortunate to live in a transitional society, from a highly political one to a commercial one," she wrote, "and this allows me to enjoy private pleasures, like blogging."
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Muddy Notice
With bizarre timing as soon as I was gearing to post the latest post (Muddy Actor) my cellphone rings.
The theatre that I auditioned for first called to inform me that the Director no longer wanted me.
No longer? I didn't know he wanted me in the first place. In a rather strange call this woman gave me more information than I believe you are ever supposed to give the rejected. Instead of the nice, clipped and professional: "Thank you for coming out, we won't be requiring your services but we hope you'll come to our auditions for the next production." I got a "You know, he doesn't need you anymore. He did want to use you, then you know, there's this whole family thing and he really hemmed and hawed and couldn't make up his mind. He was going to cast you, but now he's not. We hope you come to the next audition."
You know rejection isn't that bad. Sure there's disappointment, but such is life yes? However, to be told that I actually was going to be picked, then not, then passed over for whatever the "family" thing was. That's just plain mean.
Next time just send a card.
The theatre that I auditioned for first called to inform me that the Director no longer wanted me.
No longer? I didn't know he wanted me in the first place. In a rather strange call this woman gave me more information than I believe you are ever supposed to give the rejected. Instead of the nice, clipped and professional: "Thank you for coming out, we won't be requiring your services but we hope you'll come to our auditions for the next production." I got a "You know, he doesn't need you anymore. He did want to use you, then you know, there's this whole family thing and he really hemmed and hawed and couldn't make up his mind. He was going to cast you, but now he's not. We hope you come to the next audition."
You know rejection isn't that bad. Sure there's disappointment, but such is life yes? However, to be told that I actually was going to be picked, then not, then passed over for whatever the "family" thing was. That's just plain mean.
Next time just send a card.
Muddy Actor
The cellphone slip out of my hand and into the mud. Great. I pick it back up and don't bother to wipe it off before I hold it back up to my face. Maybe the mud will help keep my nose from freezing off as I trudge through the cold, wintery rain to my car on the other side of this country of a campus.
"Why do I even try anymore?" I whine to my husband on the other line, who is incidentally warm and comfy and not having a confidence crisis.
"Because it makes you happy." He says.
"It's really cold." I chatter.
"Are you close to the car yet?"
"No, I have half a football field to go."
I carefully pick my way around the soccer and football field. Way across the way I can see a little blue emergency light glowing, but there are no lights where I am. For all I know I am walking along the edge of a cliff overhanging the raging Atlantic rather than a steep muddy hill overhanging a goalpost.
I finally get to my car, crawl into my cushy leather seat and say goodbye to my husband.
I feel like crap. Not just because I'm cold and wet and dirty but because I've done it to myself again. I went to another audition, why do I bother even stepping out of my house?
Sunday was great. I started off for the elusive little theater on the elusive little campus while the sun was still up. After a few wrong turns I'm happily greeted but the big stone sign saying "College of Notre Dame" and I breath a sigh of relief...I found it...and with an hour to spare (and even less sunlight). Unfortunately the stone sign is the last one I see, around and around and around the campus I drive looking for a theater, or an arts center, or for the only direction provided in the notice "Bldg. F". I ask every person I meet, but for some reason the campus is peopled with people who don't attend the school and have no idea where anything it. By pure happenstance I find the library, and much more, a map to the campus. I stomp around the campus, in the dark looking for mysterious Bldg. F and finally find Le Clerc Hall. Well L is only five letters away alphabetically.
Nevermind, it was a bitch to find the audition hall, but I'm there. For twenty minutes I'm the only one there, but finally the director shows up and a few other auditioners. The stage manager. We're all congregated in the hallway talking and laughing. It's a great bunch, small bunch (three people) by great.
I go in, do my monologue (this time I go with Lady Anne, I like her consonants, they give me a good stability) and get great feedback. The director even gives me new direction, I do well with it. I am very good with direction.
He gives me a new monologue and the same thing happens. I nail it. I feel pretty darn good. Can I come for a callback tomorrow night...you bet I can!
Or I can't. The theatre is a thirty minute drive from work. I leave right at five and that gives me one and a half hours to get there. It's raining so I figure I need a little extra time at rush hour. It takes me three hours. Stuck on the beltway, with no cellphone number to reach the director, no way to call the hall, and no one at the companies office I am stuck being that which I hate the most. The late and uncommunicative actor. I hate myself. I hate myself. I'm NEVER late.
I show up, planning to apologize in person and hear the words "Thanks for coming, we don't need you". Instead they're really nice, they let me read, read a lot. But only for one part...though I read a few scenes. I'm feeling pretty strong for the first few, then something happens. Guilt? Nerves? Lack of adrenaline? My hair dried? Something happened and my voice goes up, my stage presence goes down, my sense of space suddenly escapes me and I can't look at my partner. My hand does this stupid sawing thing in the air. Where the heck did that come from. I know I'm doing stupid things, yet can't help it. It's inexplicable. I'm botching it and I know it.
We finish, I say thank you, apologize, then head out again...in the cold rain...to drive another two hours back home. That's when I pick up the phone.
"I fudged it."
"I'm sure you did better than you think you did." he says reassuringly.
I'm not sure. Everyone there has already been part of the company. I'm the newbie and the least comfortable. Why would they want to cast someone who has to have her hands tied behind her back and find the companies flow. I'm screwed.
"Why do I even try anymore?" I whine to my husband.
"Because it makes you happy." He says.
Does it? How does it feel to be doing something? Right now it feels useless, hopeless, wet and muddy. I should just give in and be an accountant.
"Why do I even try anymore?" I whine to my husband on the other line, who is incidentally warm and comfy and not having a confidence crisis.
"Because it makes you happy." He says.
"It's really cold." I chatter.
"Are you close to the car yet?"
"No, I have half a football field to go."
I carefully pick my way around the soccer and football field. Way across the way I can see a little blue emergency light glowing, but there are no lights where I am. For all I know I am walking along the edge of a cliff overhanging the raging Atlantic rather than a steep muddy hill overhanging a goalpost.
I finally get to my car, crawl into my cushy leather seat and say goodbye to my husband.
I feel like crap. Not just because I'm cold and wet and dirty but because I've done it to myself again. I went to another audition, why do I bother even stepping out of my house?
Sunday was great. I started off for the elusive little theater on the elusive little campus while the sun was still up. After a few wrong turns I'm happily greeted but the big stone sign saying "College of Notre Dame" and I breath a sigh of relief...I found it...and with an hour to spare (and even less sunlight). Unfortunately the stone sign is the last one I see, around and around and around the campus I drive looking for a theater, or an arts center, or for the only direction provided in the notice "Bldg. F". I ask every person I meet, but for some reason the campus is peopled with people who don't attend the school and have no idea where anything it. By pure happenstance I find the library, and much more, a map to the campus. I stomp around the campus, in the dark looking for mysterious Bldg. F and finally find Le Clerc Hall. Well L is only five letters away alphabetically.
Nevermind, it was a bitch to find the audition hall, but I'm there. For twenty minutes I'm the only one there, but finally the director shows up and a few other auditioners. The stage manager. We're all congregated in the hallway talking and laughing. It's a great bunch, small bunch (three people) by great.
I go in, do my monologue (this time I go with Lady Anne, I like her consonants, they give me a good stability) and get great feedback. The director even gives me new direction, I do well with it. I am very good with direction.
He gives me a new monologue and the same thing happens. I nail it. I feel pretty darn good. Can I come for a callback tomorrow night...you bet I can!
Or I can't. The theatre is a thirty minute drive from work. I leave right at five and that gives me one and a half hours to get there. It's raining so I figure I need a little extra time at rush hour. It takes me three hours. Stuck on the beltway, with no cellphone number to reach the director, no way to call the hall, and no one at the companies office I am stuck being that which I hate the most. The late and uncommunicative actor. I hate myself. I hate myself. I'm NEVER late.
I show up, planning to apologize in person and hear the words "Thanks for coming, we don't need you". Instead they're really nice, they let me read, read a lot. But only for one part...though I read a few scenes. I'm feeling pretty strong for the first few, then something happens. Guilt? Nerves? Lack of adrenaline? My hair dried? Something happened and my voice goes up, my stage presence goes down, my sense of space suddenly escapes me and I can't look at my partner. My hand does this stupid sawing thing in the air. Where the heck did that come from. I know I'm doing stupid things, yet can't help it. It's inexplicable. I'm botching it and I know it.
We finish, I say thank you, apologize, then head out again...in the cold rain...to drive another two hours back home. That's when I pick up the phone.
"I fudged it."
"I'm sure you did better than you think you did." he says reassuringly.
I'm not sure. Everyone there has already been part of the company. I'm the newbie and the least comfortable. Why would they want to cast someone who has to have her hands tied behind her back and find the companies flow. I'm screwed.
"Why do I even try anymore?" I whine to my husband.
"Because it makes you happy." He says.
Does it? How does it feel to be doing something? Right now it feels useless, hopeless, wet and muddy. I should just give in and be an accountant.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
I don't think anyone is surprised
| Your IQ Is 110 |
 Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Above Average Your General Knowledge is Exceptional |
Below Average Logic? What a surprise!
Good thing they're not grading on coordination...then I'd really be in trouble.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Must be the flu talking
I am lying on the couch, alone. Abandoned to the stomach flu by a husband who still finds the thought of food and ale alluring. The cat braved my company for only slightly longer.
I'm lonely and grouchy and feeling melodramatic. Here I lie rotting away from the inside out and my loving husband decided it was more important to get a pint with the boys. I fantasize about dying from starvation - then I realize I haven't washed my hair and my corpse wouldn't be as pretty as I'd like, skinny, but the curls wouldn't be right. So I fantasize about drinking a whole glass of orange juice instead.
I nap through some cop show and part of the news. My dream are part dancing oranges and part Shepard Smith. With bad make-up. Somehow I wind up watching Interview with the Vampire.
Somewhere between Claudia dying and a commercial for Netscape I hear a deep voice announce.
"And now return to Brad Pitt..."
Yes, I think, because Brad Pitt waits for me.
"...in Interview with the Vampire." The deep voice finishes.
Crap, my husband is drinking beer, and Brad Pitt is drinking blood.
And my glass of orange juice is still full.
I'm lonely and grouchy and feeling melodramatic. Here I lie rotting away from the inside out and my loving husband decided it was more important to get a pint with the boys. I fantasize about dying from starvation - then I realize I haven't washed my hair and my corpse wouldn't be as pretty as I'd like, skinny, but the curls wouldn't be right. So I fantasize about drinking a whole glass of orange juice instead.
I nap through some cop show and part of the news. My dream are part dancing oranges and part Shepard Smith. With bad make-up. Somehow I wind up watching Interview with the Vampire.
Somewhere between Claudia dying and a commercial for Netscape I hear a deep voice announce.
"And now return to Brad Pitt..."
Yes, I think, because Brad Pitt waits for me.
"...in Interview with the Vampire." The deep voice finishes.
Crap, my husband is drinking beer, and Brad Pitt is drinking blood.
And my glass of orange juice is still full.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Woe to the inhabitants on Earth
To make up for the rambling potpourri bowl of nonsense I posted earlier today I've decided to post another article:
2B? NT2B?=???.
A company offering mobile phones to students has hired Professor John Sutherland, professor emeritus of English Literature at University College London, to offer subscribers text message summaries and quotes from literary classics. The hope is that messages in the truncated shorthand of mobile phones will help make great literature more accessible.
"We are confident that our version of 'text' books will genuinely help thousands of students remember key plots and quotes, and raise up educational standards rather than decrease levels of literacy," the company, Dot Mobile, said in a press release.
They have to write out plays, books, and poems in a new language to help kids learn to read our language?
Accessible? What ever happened to putting the book in the kids hand and having them read it? That wasn't accessible enough?
Now, on the whole, I am not against this idea of re-translating something like Shakespeare into the new hip language fad. If Shakespeare is anything, he is adaptable. But the problem I really have is the fact that other people will be doing the translating. If you really want to make people appreciate and identify with great classics, they need to understand them for what they are. I'm a great one for explicating Shakespeare speeches into very simplified paragraphs. Much like my description of Lady Macbeth's famous speech: "This is great news, and you could get a promotion. Except you're too nice" But I can do that because I know that when she says "yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way" that's what she means. I translated it myself and have a better understanding of the text. And thus more hunger to find out what she'll say next.
If the text is explicated for you however, and worse into a shortened form, how would anyone grasp the true magic of these words. The writers who wrote the classics chose certain words to make the reader feel a certain effect. Just knowing that both lovers die at the end of Romeo and Juliet is not enough. We knew they died when we read the prologue...it's why they died, how they died, and who they left behind that resonates with us all.
Especially to a teenage student. What's another dead boy and girl in a sea of dead boys and girls?
I wish instead of trying to make things hip and cool they could let the timeless stories lie. Stop crying about how high-minded it is. Stop intimidating each new reader by assuming we need a translation to understand it. If they are written well and written true, then the audience will get it. If the story and the language reflects something inside us, we don't need translation, we just need time.
Can we stop dumbing stuff down and have a little faith? If a poor guy from Stratford can learn all about mankind and write about it...don't you think a school kid from Milwaukee can read it?
2B? NT2B?=???.
A company offering mobile phones to students has hired Professor John Sutherland, professor emeritus of English Literature at University College London, to offer subscribers text message summaries and quotes from literary classics. The hope is that messages in the truncated shorthand of mobile phones will help make great literature more accessible.
"We are confident that our version of 'text' books will genuinely help thousands of students remember key plots and quotes, and raise up educational standards rather than decrease levels of literacy," the company, Dot Mobile, said in a press release.
They have to write out plays, books, and poems in a new language to help kids learn to read our language?
Accessible? What ever happened to putting the book in the kids hand and having them read it? That wasn't accessible enough?
Now, on the whole, I am not against this idea of re-translating something like Shakespeare into the new hip language fad. If Shakespeare is anything, he is adaptable. But the problem I really have is the fact that other people will be doing the translating. If you really want to make people appreciate and identify with great classics, they need to understand them for what they are. I'm a great one for explicating Shakespeare speeches into very simplified paragraphs. Much like my description of Lady Macbeth's famous speech: "This is great news, and you could get a promotion. Except you're too nice" But I can do that because I know that when she says "yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way" that's what she means. I translated it myself and have a better understanding of the text. And thus more hunger to find out what she'll say next.
If the text is explicated for you however, and worse into a shortened form, how would anyone grasp the true magic of these words. The writers who wrote the classics chose certain words to make the reader feel a certain effect. Just knowing that both lovers die at the end of Romeo and Juliet is not enough. We knew they died when we read the prologue...it's why they died, how they died, and who they left behind that resonates with us all.
Especially to a teenage student. What's another dead boy and girl in a sea of dead boys and girls?
I wish instead of trying to make things hip and cool they could let the timeless stories lie. Stop crying about how high-minded it is. Stop intimidating each new reader by assuming we need a translation to understand it. If they are written well and written true, then the audience will get it. If the story and the language reflects something inside us, we don't need translation, we just need time.
Can we stop dumbing stuff down and have a little faith? If a poor guy from Stratford can learn all about mankind and write about it...don't you think a school kid from Milwaukee can read it?
Confusion at the water-cooler
"Mr. You-know-who isn't here yet. He's running late."
"Uh-oh, I'm not even going to get into that story." Nick says, one of my favorite male co-workers.
"Yeah, family stuff again, then you know how it goes." I say vaguely.
"Oh really? What did his wife make him do now?" says Mary my fellow schedule lady.
"Gee...why don't you tell us how you really feel?" counters the male.
"Listen, there is a thing that makes a man a man."
"Sturdy digestion?" he jokes.
"Oh! That's why they say the way to a mans heart is through his...." I wink and pat my stomach as I taper off.
"All I know is I would never tell my husband what to do. There is a certain way things work. There is a certain something that makes him a man and you don't do that to him."
We both nod at Mary. I'm not sure what Nick thinks, but I'm too confused to either agree or disagree with her. Nodding works.
(Names have been changed to protect the catty.)
The guy in question has missed quite a few days at his wife's insistence. Including one particularly fateful week where he went AWOL then pinned the blame on me and stood by as I was called out onto the carpet. Even though it was a crappy thing to do, I can't help but feel sorry whenever I hear his sob stories. And, I have to admit, I'm a little disgusted at how pussy-whipped he is.
I know, deep down, that it's not fair to judge other relationships. Or even other peoples views of gender roles. But sometimes I find myself agree almost wholeheartedly with Mary's statement: "There is a thing that makes a man a man."
Of course I'm biased. I'm currently at a phase in my life where pure, raw, rough, dominant masculinity is attractive to me. You could call it genetic - I'm young and of the perfect age for breeding. Right now I want the biggest, strongest, baddest gorilla so my children will be the biggest, strongest, gorilla babies. Well - hopefully my babies won't look like gorillas, but you get the point.
Or instead of calling it genetic you could call it cultural. Guinevere fell for Lancelot, Cathy andIsabella fell for Heathcliff, Leia fell for Han. The bad boys, the defiantly macho guys are the style. Always have been. Who doesn't at some point want a brute.
Or rather than any influences at all I may be looking for that manly man simply cause I'm me, and I come with a lot of desires that fall in the darker side of passion.
Not for me is the fairytale with a princess being swept gently off her feet and slowly wooed. No, in my fairytale I'm a rogue girl, stealing from the princesses travelling through the forest - and he is even more of a brigand than I.
Shut-up, it's a good fantasy. And probably not so uncommon, because in my fantasy I am the one who ultimately submits.
There's been a big elephant stomping around for sometime now. The adult blogs I link to aren't just there because of their lovely art and prose - they're there because they deal with topics that are close to my heart...and stomach...and quite frankly my ass. However, I am no where near as focused and far too sexually shy (yes still) to be able to blog as effectively as they can. I like spanking, and the idea of dominance and submission as ying/yang concepts. And I like the idea of ropes and wax and quite honestly pain. It's sexy. However, I am no where near as focused and far too sexually shy (yes still) to be able to blog as effectively as they can.
When I was younger my morbid side came out in the form of a large collection of skulls, bones, and blood (fake - though there was this one time at a my girlfriends house...). I spent a lot of time in graveyards (I never said I was original) and more time daydreaming in the land of gruesome, cruel, gross nightmare land. I read a lot of Anne Rice, and even more de Sade. Quite frankly I think my fascination with modern Sadism and Masochism is an improvement. At least I'm not building prisons and guillotines for my barbies anymore.
But possibly because of my leaning toward a deviant sex life I prefer men who fit into the style. Yes, I know women are just as controlling and domineering as men, but as much as I like women, and as sexy as they are, there is nothing quite so delicious as the thought of a man who is capable of putting his foot down and has no fear of being in charge. You can be mild mannered, or firey. Discreet or loud. But there is something that makes a man a man. Mary is right, it just makes me feel - deflated - to think of Mr. You-Know-Who being battered and bossed around by his wife. If only instead of chewing my ear for an hour everyday he could simply put his foot down. Tell her to shush, tell her to start pulling her weight or expect to be pulled over his knee. Or even, just possibly, tell her no.
Being a navy wife I have a strong disdain for women who can't "do" without their husbands. Heck, mine was gone for years and I managed to move an entire household across the country on my own. If I can do that, other women can direct a plumber to the broken sink. I also have a strong disdain for women who expect their husbands to leave work at the drop of a hat for them. But even as I hate childish women like that and pity their husbands, I always wonder why he can't just tell her to settle down and wait? Am I wrong in thinking a man has a right to expect support from his spouse? Am I wrong to believe that a wife's job, among other things, is to provide a soft place to land after a hard day? Am I wrong to think that when a woman refuses to act like an adult her spouse has the right to point her in the right direction?
If the things that make us women are compassion, softness, and maternal instinct - why can't the thing that makes them men be firmness, strength and guiding care? What's wrong with being impenetrable?
Perhaps the thing that so confuses me about Mary's statement is the fact that the thing that makes a man a man is a woman who's willing to be a woman.
And vice versa.
"Uh-oh, I'm not even going to get into that story." Nick says, one of my favorite male co-workers.
"Yeah, family stuff again, then you know how it goes." I say vaguely.
"Oh really? What did his wife make him do now?" says Mary my fellow schedule lady.
"Gee...why don't you tell us how you really feel?" counters the male.
"Listen, there is a thing that makes a man a man."
"Sturdy digestion?" he jokes.
"Oh! That's why they say the way to a mans heart is through his...." I wink and pat my stomach as I taper off.
"All I know is I would never tell my husband what to do. There is a certain way things work. There is a certain something that makes him a man and you don't do that to him."
We both nod at Mary. I'm not sure what Nick thinks, but I'm too confused to either agree or disagree with her. Nodding works.
(Names have been changed to protect the catty.)
The guy in question has missed quite a few days at his wife's insistence. Including one particularly fateful week where he went AWOL then pinned the blame on me and stood by as I was called out onto the carpet. Even though it was a crappy thing to do, I can't help but feel sorry whenever I hear his sob stories. And, I have to admit, I'm a little disgusted at how pussy-whipped he is.
I know, deep down, that it's not fair to judge other relationships. Or even other peoples views of gender roles. But sometimes I find myself agree almost wholeheartedly with Mary's statement: "There is a thing that makes a man a man."
Of course I'm biased. I'm currently at a phase in my life where pure, raw, rough, dominant masculinity is attractive to me. You could call it genetic - I'm young and of the perfect age for breeding. Right now I want the biggest, strongest, baddest gorilla so my children will be the biggest, strongest, gorilla babies. Well - hopefully my babies won't look like gorillas, but you get the point.
Or instead of calling it genetic you could call it cultural. Guinevere fell for Lancelot, Cathy andIsabella fell for Heathcliff, Leia fell for Han. The bad boys, the defiantly macho guys are the style. Always have been. Who doesn't at some point want a brute.
Or rather than any influences at all I may be looking for that manly man simply cause I'm me, and I come with a lot of desires that fall in the darker side of passion.
Not for me is the fairytale with a princess being swept gently off her feet and slowly wooed. No, in my fairytale I'm a rogue girl, stealing from the princesses travelling through the forest - and he is even more of a brigand than I.
Shut-up, it's a good fantasy. And probably not so uncommon, because in my fantasy I am the one who ultimately submits.
There's been a big elephant stomping around for sometime now. The adult blogs I link to aren't just there because of their lovely art and prose - they're there because they deal with topics that are close to my heart...and stomach...and quite frankly my ass. However, I am no where near as focused and far too sexually shy (yes still) to be able to blog as effectively as they can. I like spanking, and the idea of dominance and submission as ying/yang concepts. And I like the idea of ropes and wax and quite honestly pain. It's sexy. However, I am no where near as focused and far too sexually shy (yes still) to be able to blog as effectively as they can.
When I was younger my morbid side came out in the form of a large collection of skulls, bones, and blood (fake - though there was this one time at a my girlfriends house...). I spent a lot of time in graveyards (I never said I was original) and more time daydreaming in the land of gruesome, cruel, gross nightmare land. I read a lot of Anne Rice, and even more de Sade. Quite frankly I think my fascination with modern Sadism and Masochism is an improvement. At least I'm not building prisons and guillotines for my barbies anymore.
But possibly because of my leaning toward a deviant sex life I prefer men who fit into the style. Yes, I know women are just as controlling and domineering as men, but as much as I like women, and as sexy as they are, there is nothing quite so delicious as the thought of a man who is capable of putting his foot down and has no fear of being in charge. You can be mild mannered, or firey. Discreet or loud. But there is something that makes a man a man. Mary is right, it just makes me feel - deflated - to think of Mr. You-Know-Who being battered and bossed around by his wife. If only instead of chewing my ear for an hour everyday he could simply put his foot down. Tell her to shush, tell her to start pulling her weight or expect to be pulled over his knee. Or even, just possibly, tell her no.
Being a navy wife I have a strong disdain for women who can't "do" without their husbands. Heck, mine was gone for years and I managed to move an entire household across the country on my own. If I can do that, other women can direct a plumber to the broken sink. I also have a strong disdain for women who expect their husbands to leave work at the drop of a hat for them. But even as I hate childish women like that and pity their husbands, I always wonder why he can't just tell her to settle down and wait? Am I wrong in thinking a man has a right to expect support from his spouse? Am I wrong to believe that a wife's job, among other things, is to provide a soft place to land after a hard day? Am I wrong to think that when a woman refuses to act like an adult her spouse has the right to point her in the right direction?
If the things that make us women are compassion, softness, and maternal instinct - why can't the thing that makes them men be firmness, strength and guiding care? What's wrong with being impenetrable?
Perhaps the thing that so confuses me about Mary's statement is the fact that the thing that makes a man a man is a woman who's willing to be a woman.
And vice versa.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
I happen to like purple
| Your Blog Should Be Purple |
 You're an expressive, offbeat blogger who tends to write about anything and everything. You tend to set blogging trends, and you're the most likely to write your own meme or survey. You are a bit distant though. Your blog is all about you - not what anyone else has to say. |
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Crossing the Boards: Step NONE
Saturday I found myself winding around some remote area of B'more, following "Detour to ********* St. Business" signs alternately muttering Shakespeare lines and "Don't wash my windshield...don't! stop!" at the world around me.
Apparently the new street-gang prank to play is turning the street signs cockeyed...I'm on Main St - I'm not on Main St - I'm on Main St again - I'm driving off a pier...
Fortunately I managed to find this warehouse-turn-office without going for a swim. And once I parked I suddenly felt a huge rush of joy. I was going to an audition. For months my verve, my energy, my happy-go-lucky-girl-who-skips-for-no-reason self had been hidden. Then all at once she was back. I was genuinely happy, smiling...when I walked I bounced. It's been awhile since I've been that undepressed.
In fact, the last time I was this undepressed...I was quitting theatre.
The audition was great. The kind I like. No theatre games, no "pretend you are a tree". I walked in, I did my monologue, got a side, read my side...went home. Short, sweet, and I did very well for myself. In fact - I was good.
And I was happy. Driving home I was feeling that strange euphoric calm that comes from expending too much adrenaline too fast. It was fabulous. I felt like the embodiment of "rosy". I wasn't out of breath or exhausted, I was just rested and tired at the same time. I was relaxed. I was excited. Really - I was sated.
I kept my rose colored glasses all the way home, kept it through the chores I finished in a Snow White-esque scene where I was humming and singing, and yeah, whistling while I worked. I kept them on as I curled up on the couch, a book in hand, a soft blanket, a cat. Waiting for my husband to get home so I could tell him all about it.
Sometime between curling up and him coming home - the glasses fell off and was replaced with a little voice. What are you doing?
I shrugged it off. I knew what I was doing...I was getting a little booster shot of joy. Just a taste to tide me through the holiday season. I hadn't even bothered to bring my cellphone in from the car. The audition was all I needed.
Still I heard it whispering Who are you kidding?
Sunday I found myself skipping through the parking lot of our mall. Indulging in bad chinese food and smelly girly stuff from Bath & Body Works. The day was gorgeous, I was gorgeous, my husband was gorgeous. I was feeling good and it wasn't because of theatre. See...all I needed was a kick start.
Are you really sure?
I ignored the voice as best I could until I realized that I had checked my cellphone maybe five times in the course of one day. Rare, seeing as how I normally don't check my phone at all on weekends. I was checking for a call from the theatre.
Crap! I'm like a cocaine addict. One little snort at a party and suddenly I'm sitting in a crack den offering blow jobs for another line.
What am I doing? I shouldn't be doing theatre, I shouldn't be auditioning. One audition leads to another and another and another. I keep searching for that little rosy glow I get...and before I know it I'm dealing with all kinds of abuse just to get there. That glow is bad...that glow is poison...it keeps sucking the life out of me.
My stupid little voice is laughing at me. It knows I want to do a play, want to get involved with a company, it knows I would do anything to do more theatre - and it's all because I went to that stupid audition.
I should be planning for winter term, I should be going to school.
What the hell am I doing?
Why do I keep putting a hundred percent into the parts of my life that keep me down, theatre, marriage, dead-end job - and give up, sacrifice, the parts that could make me more than what I am? Why do I keep choosing abuse and submission over activity?
Stupid audition, stupid play.
Apparently the new street-gang prank to play is turning the street signs cockeyed...I'm on Main St - I'm not on Main St - I'm on Main St again - I'm driving off a pier...
Fortunately I managed to find this warehouse-turn-office without going for a swim. And once I parked I suddenly felt a huge rush of joy. I was going to an audition. For months my verve, my energy, my happy-go-lucky-girl-who-skips-for-no-reason self had been hidden. Then all at once she was back. I was genuinely happy, smiling...when I walked I bounced. It's been awhile since I've been that undepressed.
In fact, the last time I was this undepressed...I was quitting theatre.
The audition was great. The kind I like. No theatre games, no "pretend you are a tree". I walked in, I did my monologue, got a side, read my side...went home. Short, sweet, and I did very well for myself. In fact - I was good.
And I was happy. Driving home I was feeling that strange euphoric calm that comes from expending too much adrenaline too fast. It was fabulous. I felt like the embodiment of "rosy". I wasn't out of breath or exhausted, I was just rested and tired at the same time. I was relaxed. I was excited. Really - I was sated.
I kept my rose colored glasses all the way home, kept it through the chores I finished in a Snow White-esque scene where I was humming and singing, and yeah, whistling while I worked. I kept them on as I curled up on the couch, a book in hand, a soft blanket, a cat. Waiting for my husband to get home so I could tell him all about it.
Sometime between curling up and him coming home - the glasses fell off and was replaced with a little voice. What are you doing?
I shrugged it off. I knew what I was doing...I was getting a little booster shot of joy. Just a taste to tide me through the holiday season. I hadn't even bothered to bring my cellphone in from the car. The audition was all I needed.
Still I heard it whispering Who are you kidding?
Sunday I found myself skipping through the parking lot of our mall. Indulging in bad chinese food and smelly girly stuff from Bath & Body Works. The day was gorgeous, I was gorgeous, my husband was gorgeous. I was feeling good and it wasn't because of theatre. See...all I needed was a kick start.
Are you really sure?
I ignored the voice as best I could until I realized that I had checked my cellphone maybe five times in the course of one day. Rare, seeing as how I normally don't check my phone at all on weekends. I was checking for a call from the theatre.
Crap! I'm like a cocaine addict. One little snort at a party and suddenly I'm sitting in a crack den offering blow jobs for another line.
What am I doing? I shouldn't be doing theatre, I shouldn't be auditioning. One audition leads to another and another and another. I keep searching for that little rosy glow I get...and before I know it I'm dealing with all kinds of abuse just to get there. That glow is bad...that glow is poison...it keeps sucking the life out of me.
My stupid little voice is laughing at me. It knows I want to do a play, want to get involved with a company, it knows I would do anything to do more theatre - and it's all because I went to that stupid audition.
I should be planning for winter term, I should be going to school.
What the hell am I doing?
Why do I keep putting a hundred percent into the parts of my life that keep me down, theatre, marriage, dead-end job - and give up, sacrifice, the parts that could make me more than what I am? Why do I keep choosing abuse and submission over activity?
Stupid audition, stupid play.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Conspiracy
Last night we stayed up late drinking the new barley wine at our favorite watering hole. Instead of well thought out posts about stuff I need to be doing for my audition I am posting strange links.
http://people.csail.mit.edu/rahimi/helmet/
http://people.csail.mit.edu/rahimi/helmet/
Head Scratcher
I consider myself an intelligent person. I have, at least, a good handle on reading comprehension. But sometimes, during the course of my work, I come across something I just do not understand. Is it me? Is there a hidden corporate lingo only known to those that inhabit the fancy boardrooms? Is it the new hip thing to be redundant AND confusing?
Given the fluid nature of our structure at this time, it is not prudent to bring in a ****** at this time.
Call me dumb, but I don't get it.
Given the fluid nature of our structure at this time, it is not prudent to bring in a ****** at this time.
Call me dumb, but I don't get it.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Crossing the Boards: Step 1
This past weekend we went to see "The Tragedy of Coriolanus" at a local theatre. It was good, almost too modernized, but still it was good.
The play was more than just a play, it was the tipping point, the tempting sip if you will, of an attempt to break a bad habit.
You see, I am addicted to theater. I love it. I love watching it, I love working in it, I love the way it sounds, the way it looks, the way it smells. Even the way it tastes. I adore it.
The theater however does not love me back. Filled with many young kids looking for an easy and fun major, many full-grown adults looking for a way to skirt adulthood, and far too many people who missed the day when responsibility, duty, and organization were taught in their respective childhoods. The theatre is a place where I would gladly give out my blood, sweat, and tears - in fact my obsessive workaholic personality triples in the theatre - but the rewards for my very life essence are low and uninteresting. Usually it's a kick in the teeth, served with a smile.
This is not because I don't get cast in things, on the contrary, I get cast in a lot of things. However, I am usually the only one in the cast who has any concept of organization and punctuality, which means I am usually asked to do things that are very "administrative assistant" like...something I try to avoid seeing as how I spend a good 50-60 hours a week doing that.
Because of the psyche-poisoning effects of theatre, and the fact my husband gets grumpy when I spend all my time at rehearsal (a necessity), I resolved this spring to go cold-turkey and quit theatre all together. No more being in plays, no more classes, no more reading plays, no more seeing plays, no more Sundance Channel. No more listening to tapes of Shakespearean Actors, no more Musical theatre cd's. None. I quit, I'm walking away. I am even searching for a new major rather than finishing the theatre one. No more theatre.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have fallen off the wagon. I am now in danger of being run over by the wagon...and probably the horse it came in with...
After reading that horrid book (See "Waste of Paper") and the play. After re-reading King Lear (for fun). After putting away all my scripts in alphabetical order. And worse of all, after some punk kid who has no idea said that he was a "better actor" than I was, I gave up. And at the same time a tantalizing audition with a "grown-up" company for "The Imaginary Invalid". My name is in and now the preparation begins.
Step One: Pick a monologue. Thankfully, I already have a large repertoire and memorize things very quickly. Below is the choosen monologue.
JULIA
This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation!
Tears the letter
JULIA
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!
I'll kiss each several paper for amends.
Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia!
As in revenge of thy ingratitude,
I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.
And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'
Poor wounded name! my bosom as a bed
Shall lodge thee till thy wound be thoroughly heal'd;
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away
Till I have found each letter in the letter,
Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear
Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock
And throw it thence into the raging sea!
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,
'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
To the sweet Julia:' that I'll tear away.
And yet I will not, sith so prettily
He couples it to his complaining names.
Thus will I fold them one on another:
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.
The play was more than just a play, it was the tipping point, the tempting sip if you will, of an attempt to break a bad habit.
You see, I am addicted to theater. I love it. I love watching it, I love working in it, I love the way it sounds, the way it looks, the way it smells. Even the way it tastes. I adore it.
The theater however does not love me back. Filled with many young kids looking for an easy and fun major, many full-grown adults looking for a way to skirt adulthood, and far too many people who missed the day when responsibility, duty, and organization were taught in their respective childhoods. The theatre is a place where I would gladly give out my blood, sweat, and tears - in fact my obsessive workaholic personality triples in the theatre - but the rewards for my very life essence are low and uninteresting. Usually it's a kick in the teeth, served with a smile.
This is not because I don't get cast in things, on the contrary, I get cast in a lot of things. However, I am usually the only one in the cast who has any concept of organization and punctuality, which means I am usually asked to do things that are very "administrative assistant" like...something I try to avoid seeing as how I spend a good 50-60 hours a week doing that.
Because of the psyche-poisoning effects of theatre, and the fact my husband gets grumpy when I spend all my time at rehearsal (a necessity), I resolved this spring to go cold-turkey and quit theatre all together. No more being in plays, no more classes, no more reading plays, no more seeing plays, no more Sundance Channel. No more listening to tapes of Shakespearean Actors, no more Musical theatre cd's. None. I quit, I'm walking away. I am even searching for a new major rather than finishing the theatre one. No more theatre.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have fallen off the wagon. I am now in danger of being run over by the wagon...and probably the horse it came in with...
After reading that horrid book (See "Waste of Paper") and the play. After re-reading King Lear (for fun). After putting away all my scripts in alphabetical order. And worse of all, after some punk kid who has no idea said that he was a "better actor" than I was, I gave up. And at the same time a tantalizing audition with a "grown-up" company for "The Imaginary Invalid". My name is in and now the preparation begins.
Step One: Pick a monologue. Thankfully, I already have a large repertoire and memorize things very quickly. Below is the choosen monologue.
JULIA
This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation!
Tears the letter
JULIA
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!
I'll kiss each several paper for amends.
Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia!
As in revenge of thy ingratitude,
I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.
And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'
Poor wounded name! my bosom as a bed
Shall lodge thee till thy wound be thoroughly heal'd;
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away
Till I have found each letter in the letter,
Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear
Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock
And throw it thence into the raging sea!
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,
'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
To the sweet Julia:' that I'll tear away.
And yet I will not, sith so prettily
He couples it to his complaining names.
Thus will I fold them one on another:
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Luscious
Is there anyway to eat a strawberry but sensuously?
Honestly? Have you even seen someone pick up a strawberry and crush it with their molars, gnawing it into strawberry goo? No? Neither have I. It'd be a crime too. Strawberries are meant to be enjoyed, savored and by extension they make you adored, desired.
They look so soft. So delicate and gentle. The little seeds and bumps just make them look like pillows. Dark, red, pillows. Like the sexy red satin sheets you find in bachelor pads. If the crown were leopard print rather than green strawberries would only be sold in sex shops. I can't imagine grabbing strawberries by the handful. You can't just palm a berry and rush off. You need to pick it up with two fingers, gently. Treat it like fine china. You don't want it to pop too soon, don't want the sticky sweet on your fingers. No, walk your fingers up slowly and softly till you've got the thing by the hair. Drag the tips along it's skin till you can get a good hold of it. Let the leaves tickle your hand before taking it in hand.
And the shape! That bell! That point! You can gentle wrap your lips around it, caress it. If you're me you'll slide the tip of your tongue around and delight in the small jabs each seed makes. Either way it's warming up. Can't you feel it swell, still soft and lush against your mouth. It might as well be kissing you back. How can you not feel a sensual warmth build up in you as your teeth press down. Doesn't it feel like a crescendo when it finally gives that final "pop" and instead of earthy fruit you taste sweet, tangy strawberry. So much more that a fruit, so much more than a kiss. This isn't the food of the gods, no, this is the food of the earth, this is dirty, sticky, tangy, base. This is human, this is wild and untamed. It's sour and sweet and fills your mouth completely. There's juice all over your lips - and how can you resist dragging the tip of your tongue over it, sucking on that soft skin, as soft as the strawberry, licking it all away. Greedy, greedy.
Even when you're mean it's sweet. Even if you pull your lips all the way away from it, sliding the berry between your sharp incisors. Even when you bite hard and rough, kinky and bad. Even if your naughty with it - the fruit is sweet. The reward is delicious. No matter what, you'll know you'll be fulfilled.
And how can anyone not watch this show and be mesmerized. Do you really want to turn away when you see someone lift that red piece of ecstasy to their mouths? Man, woman, ugly or beautiful, there is something about the strawberry that makes them enticing. When I watch I feel a twinge of envy...wouldn't it be nice to be there. Be the enjoyer, be the enjoyed.
And can't you feel eyes on you as you lift that little soft, firm, bursting red bell to your mouth. Don't you know you're being watched? Someone, somewhere is getting their fill of you from afar. Getting their fill of that strawberry. Somewhere in the shadows, someone is sharing an intimate moment with you, and you will never know who it is. Oh sure, you may be able to look up and catch someone's eyes...but will you really know if it's them or someone else? And can you keep from blushing as red as your treat? Can they keep from devouring you as wholly as you did the berry?
Is there anyway to eat a strawberry other than sensuously?
Honestly? Have you even seen someone pick up a strawberry and crush it with their molars, gnawing it into strawberry goo? No? Neither have I. It'd be a crime too. Strawberries are meant to be enjoyed, savored and by extension they make you adored, desired.
They look so soft. So delicate and gentle. The little seeds and bumps just make them look like pillows. Dark, red, pillows. Like the sexy red satin sheets you find in bachelor pads. If the crown were leopard print rather than green strawberries would only be sold in sex shops. I can't imagine grabbing strawberries by the handful. You can't just palm a berry and rush off. You need to pick it up with two fingers, gently. Treat it like fine china. You don't want it to pop too soon, don't want the sticky sweet on your fingers. No, walk your fingers up slowly and softly till you've got the thing by the hair. Drag the tips along it's skin till you can get a good hold of it. Let the leaves tickle your hand before taking it in hand.
And the shape! That bell! That point! You can gentle wrap your lips around it, caress it. If you're me you'll slide the tip of your tongue around and delight in the small jabs each seed makes. Either way it's warming up. Can't you feel it swell, still soft and lush against your mouth. It might as well be kissing you back. How can you not feel a sensual warmth build up in you as your teeth press down. Doesn't it feel like a crescendo when it finally gives that final "pop" and instead of earthy fruit you taste sweet, tangy strawberry. So much more that a fruit, so much more than a kiss. This isn't the food of the gods, no, this is the food of the earth, this is dirty, sticky, tangy, base. This is human, this is wild and untamed. It's sour and sweet and fills your mouth completely. There's juice all over your lips - and how can you resist dragging the tip of your tongue over it, sucking on that soft skin, as soft as the strawberry, licking it all away. Greedy, greedy.
Even when you're mean it's sweet. Even if you pull your lips all the way away from it, sliding the berry between your sharp incisors. Even when you bite hard and rough, kinky and bad. Even if your naughty with it - the fruit is sweet. The reward is delicious. No matter what, you'll know you'll be fulfilled.
And how can anyone not watch this show and be mesmerized. Do you really want to turn away when you see someone lift that red piece of ecstasy to their mouths? Man, woman, ugly or beautiful, there is something about the strawberry that makes them enticing. When I watch I feel a twinge of envy...wouldn't it be nice to be there. Be the enjoyer, be the enjoyed.
And can't you feel eyes on you as you lift that little soft, firm, bursting red bell to your mouth. Don't you know you're being watched? Someone, somewhere is getting their fill of you from afar. Getting their fill of that strawberry. Somewhere in the shadows, someone is sharing an intimate moment with you, and you will never know who it is. Oh sure, you may be able to look up and catch someone's eyes...but will you really know if it's them or someone else? And can you keep from blushing as red as your treat? Can they keep from devouring you as wholly as you did the berry?
Is there anyway to eat a strawberry other than sensuously?
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Waste of Paper
I'm restless, distraught, depressed, put-out. Today I finally shut the cover for good on a truly bad book.
There is a bad taste in my mouth.
I've never been finicky about my reading. I'll crack open anything, granted I may not finish it, but I will give it a good go. And when I was younger, living in a house that was literally bursting at the seams with books, it wasn't so bad. Read a few chapters of this book or that and if it was swill you could simply reach your hand out for something else.
Now that I live in a house with less books (and one that begs order - like you know - actually making the books live on shelves) reading a bad book seems less palatable - more tragic.
This particular book I started months ago, and was instantly struck by it's complete and utter suckiness. I went through whole chapters just letting my eyes fall down the page. I read every word, but had no idea what it was I had read. I would go back and try again only to realize how much I didn't want to know what I had missed.
But still, I had paid $4.95 (bargain book bin!) for this book, and it is about one of my favorite subjects, so I persevered. And a few days ago it finally started to pick up. It had elements that started to interest me. I was fueled by my anger over the first part and my hope for the second. It had some promise. I wanted to know what was going to happen, the writing was still crap, the subplots were still cumbersome and in the way, but I didn't need "Climbing Mt. Everest" willpower to get to the next page.
It felt much like I'd been hiking under misty, cold, clammy clouds and finally the sun was threatening to break through.
And it felt like that all the way to the end. I had this hope that at the next page everything would resolve into something satisfactory. I would be rewarded for my diligence, I paid for the dinner, I would get my time in the sack. Something in the next few words would make it all possible.
Third to the last page - nothing.
Second to the last page - nada.
Last page, last chance, this page is getting very short, where is it, I know there is something here, some gem, some treasure that only is given to those that stick it out. The last few lines will be a wealth of knowledge, of joy, it will bring me satisfaction, it will bring me peace.
Nothing. Trite, sentimental, disjointed crap. That's okay for my blog, but not for a book.
I finished the book right before dinner and have been saddened ever since. All I want to do is curl up and cry, no I want to keen. I want to rock myself until I'm dizzy, I want to wail and moan until I feel less betrayed.
Why? Why? Why would they make this a book? Why would they tempt someone like me with it. Why was it so booky? So alluring and sexy sitting in a box, a shiny cover wrapped around a nice thick hardback. It was such a perfect book, the perfect weight, the perfect size. The promise of a literary adventure, smart, intellectual, the kind of thing to make you yearn for a library. It promised a mind-trip to London, to the inner-depths of the British Library, it promised fun love and reading joy. I could picture myself curled up outside, leaning against a tree, an apple in my hand as I looked down at the sweet words filling my lap.
It tempted me with a reading fantasy of the first order.
It promised so much. Then it committed the ultimate crime, it challenged you. Like a kung fu movie, where the apprentice must go through hell before he learns the secrets of his master, the book made you trudge through bad exposition and stupid characterization before you could learn how to do the five-fingered-butterfly-poke. And so, I read, and was lead on by a good paragraph here and there, a spark of imagination, a promising whisper that the rest of the book would lead me to nirvana.
And yet, for all it's seduction, all it's promising, it's flirting, it's teasing - it didn't put out.
Instead I'm frustrated, saddened, confused. It seems a crime that just any book can get published. I've read many a manuscript from friends that actually are very good. I've read ones that may need a little work, but have great promise. None of them are books, none of them are ever given that great honor. And yet I can go to Borders and pick up a hundred books that deserve to be locked up in a basement and never spoken of again. Don't publishers know that there are people out there who live for books? People who choose to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune only because we know that next book is right around the corner. Do they know how painful it is to realize that the book, the holy thing they hold in their hand, is really only some authors mid-life crisis - published because she has "friends" in the business?
I feel sick, hot, angered and beaten down. I take this seriously, I want to love books, I don't want to hate them. I want that high that comes from completing a story that will live on in me.
I don't want swill to live on in me. I don't want bad characters with bad stories to whisper bad prose in my head. If I'm going to be crazy obsessed, at least allow me to be crazy obsessed with good figments of my imagination.
But mostly, as I curl into a little ball, saddened by my latest literary fix, I feel betrayed. I feel betrayed that I gave this woman the benefit of the doubt - and she didn't come through. I had faith in her, as I have faith in all authors, and she didn't rise to the challenge.
Oh bitterest of disappointments - betrayal of the most henious kind - most disgusting poison of the mind.
What a waste of paper.
There is a bad taste in my mouth.
I've never been finicky about my reading. I'll crack open anything, granted I may not finish it, but I will give it a good go. And when I was younger, living in a house that was literally bursting at the seams with books, it wasn't so bad. Read a few chapters of this book or that and if it was swill you could simply reach your hand out for something else.
Now that I live in a house with less books (and one that begs order - like you know - actually making the books live on shelves) reading a bad book seems less palatable - more tragic.
This particular book I started months ago, and was instantly struck by it's complete and utter suckiness. I went through whole chapters just letting my eyes fall down the page. I read every word, but had no idea what it was I had read. I would go back and try again only to realize how much I didn't want to know what I had missed.
But still, I had paid $4.95 (bargain book bin!) for this book, and it is about one of my favorite subjects, so I persevered. And a few days ago it finally started to pick up. It had elements that started to interest me. I was fueled by my anger over the first part and my hope for the second. It had some promise. I wanted to know what was going to happen, the writing was still crap, the subplots were still cumbersome and in the way, but I didn't need "Climbing Mt. Everest" willpower to get to the next page.
It felt much like I'd been hiking under misty, cold, clammy clouds and finally the sun was threatening to break through.
And it felt like that all the way to the end. I had this hope that at the next page everything would resolve into something satisfactory. I would be rewarded for my diligence, I paid for the dinner, I would get my time in the sack. Something in the next few words would make it all possible.
Third to the last page - nothing.
Second to the last page - nada.
Last page, last chance, this page is getting very short, where is it, I know there is something here, some gem, some treasure that only is given to those that stick it out. The last few lines will be a wealth of knowledge, of joy, it will bring me satisfaction, it will bring me peace.
Nothing. Trite, sentimental, disjointed crap. That's okay for my blog, but not for a book.
I finished the book right before dinner and have been saddened ever since. All I want to do is curl up and cry, no I want to keen. I want to rock myself until I'm dizzy, I want to wail and moan until I feel less betrayed.
Why? Why? Why would they make this a book? Why would they tempt someone like me with it. Why was it so booky? So alluring and sexy sitting in a box, a shiny cover wrapped around a nice thick hardback. It was such a perfect book, the perfect weight, the perfect size. The promise of a literary adventure, smart, intellectual, the kind of thing to make you yearn for a library. It promised a mind-trip to London, to the inner-depths of the British Library, it promised fun love and reading joy. I could picture myself curled up outside, leaning against a tree, an apple in my hand as I looked down at the sweet words filling my lap.
It tempted me with a reading fantasy of the first order.
It promised so much. Then it committed the ultimate crime, it challenged you. Like a kung fu movie, where the apprentice must go through hell before he learns the secrets of his master, the book made you trudge through bad exposition and stupid characterization before you could learn how to do the five-fingered-butterfly-poke. And so, I read, and was lead on by a good paragraph here and there, a spark of imagination, a promising whisper that the rest of the book would lead me to nirvana.
And yet, for all it's seduction, all it's promising, it's flirting, it's teasing - it didn't put out.
Instead I'm frustrated, saddened, confused. It seems a crime that just any book can get published. I've read many a manuscript from friends that actually are very good. I've read ones that may need a little work, but have great promise. None of them are books, none of them are ever given that great honor. And yet I can go to Borders and pick up a hundred books that deserve to be locked up in a basement and never spoken of again. Don't publishers know that there are people out there who live for books? People who choose to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune only because we know that next book is right around the corner. Do they know how painful it is to realize that the book, the holy thing they hold in their hand, is really only some authors mid-life crisis - published because she has "friends" in the business?
I feel sick, hot, angered and beaten down. I take this seriously, I want to love books, I don't want to hate them. I want that high that comes from completing a story that will live on in me.
I don't want swill to live on in me. I don't want bad characters with bad stories to whisper bad prose in my head. If I'm going to be crazy obsessed, at least allow me to be crazy obsessed with good figments of my imagination.
But mostly, as I curl into a little ball, saddened by my latest literary fix, I feel betrayed. I feel betrayed that I gave this woman the benefit of the doubt - and she didn't come through. I had faith in her, as I have faith in all authors, and she didn't rise to the challenge.
Oh bitterest of disappointments - betrayal of the most henious kind - most disgusting poison of the mind.
What a waste of paper.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Star Trekking Across Civilization
Civilization IV came out. My husband of course bought it.
While I enjoyed Civilization III because it had cute sayings like "Your soldiers are harassing women and stealing chickens" Civ IV brings a whole new type of creepy to contend with:
Leonard Nemoy.
My husbands computer now spouts random, and often useless, sayings as performed by Dr. Spock. It's really freaky.
"So, hey, want to get some Indian for dinner?"
"If you chase two rabbits; you shall lose both of them." says Mr. Nemoy.
"Er, okay...I don't think they make rabbit marsala...."
"Hath not the potter have power over the clay to make one vessel into honor and one into dishonor?"
"I'm sure they have china plates at the restaurant."
"Giddy-up"
Huh?
"Giddy-up"
Oh...that was a soldier getting on a horse...not Leonard Nemoy. He doesn't ride horses.
"The lord bless you and keep you..."
"Oh shut up."
"The lord lift his...:
"Seriously shut-up...go mind meld with something!"
"I am the lord thy God; you shall have no other God before me."
"You're a little smug aren't you?"
"Live long and..."
That's it...I'm beaming myself to bed!
While I enjoyed Civilization III because it had cute sayings like "Your soldiers are harassing women and stealing chickens" Civ IV brings a whole new type of creepy to contend with:
Leonard Nemoy.
My husbands computer now spouts random, and often useless, sayings as performed by Dr. Spock. It's really freaky.
"So, hey, want to get some Indian for dinner?"
"If you chase two rabbits; you shall lose both of them." says Mr. Nemoy.
"Er, okay...I don't think they make rabbit marsala...."
"Hath not the potter have power over the clay to make one vessel into honor and one into dishonor?"
"I'm sure they have china plates at the restaurant."
"Giddy-up"
Huh?
"Giddy-up"
Oh...that was a soldier getting on a horse...not Leonard Nemoy. He doesn't ride horses.
"The lord bless you and keep you..."
"Oh shut up."
"The lord lift his...:
"Seriously shut-up...go mind meld with something!"
"I am the lord thy God; you shall have no other God before me."
"You're a little smug aren't you?"
"Live long and..."
That's it...I'm beaming myself to bed!
Young'un
When I was younger I was described as the five year old going on fifty. Then the ten year old going on one-hundred, then the fourteen year old going on forty...you get the picture.
When I was eighteen and had struck out on my own (meaning I was a phone hostess at a Times Square Restaurant - woo!) girls who were twenty-two and twenty-three thought I was twenty-seven or much older. Not that I looked it, I generally look like I'm twelve, but I act it, especially at work.
So I am curious as to how anyone in my office found out that I am young. Perhaps it's my boundless energy and willingness to scrabble up the side of a wall in order to hang banners. Perhaps it's my limitless joy in cookies. Perhaps it's because I spend quite a few of my nights drinking heavily and then am up bright and early with no real remorse or hangover. Perhaps it's because I haven't been able to break myself of calling people "Sir" "Maam" and "Mr./Ms. So-and-so".
Perhaps it's because I dressed up as a kitty cat for Halloween and ended all my sentences with "meow" for an entire day.
Alright that was a little immature, but my bosses adored it. So much so they have taken to calling me "Kitty" rather than "Katy" - yeah I'm all about that. They also took to petting me on the head. Okay, so I was wearing cat ears and cats do in fact love to be scratched behind the ears, and come to think of it I love to be scratched behind the ears - however, the weird thing is...they continue to do it.
Whether I'm sitting on the floor trying to file thousands of legal contract or at my desk typing up a new report, or on sitting on my desk haggling for a cheaper airfare...for some reason I am irresistible to pet. Even my fellow admins now walk by and pat me on the head, give me a good scratch on the neck...I feel like I should be shaking my leg in uncontainable joy. Pity I don't wear my cat tail to work everyday.
In addition to my random petting the pet names have returned with avengence. Along with "Kitty" and "Katy-Kitty" my favorite "kiddo" has returned. Also "sweetie" "honey" "dear-heart" "darling" "cutie" and "girl" (not it the "girlfriend" way but in the "what a good girl" way). I suppose I should be outraged by it all...but I kinda like the familiarity and the pet names - and I think some of the people who call me that have actually forgotten my real name and I don't want to embarrass them.
Maybe my favorite scene that comes with being labelled the "young" one in the team or the "kid" is when someone swears. The first time my boss slipped up and said - of all things - "bullshit" in my presence he looked as though a truck was about to hit him.
"I didn't say that, you didn't hear me say that. I'm sorry I said that!"
I smiled and prepared to say my standard come back to all political correctness issues "I'm married to a sailor."
That usually puts everyone at ease. If I can deal with my husband, I can deal with anyone.
It didn't really help with my boss though. Gentleman that he is, he is very careful to not swear in my presence, nor allow me to hear other people swear. I used to think this was because I am a woman, until we were on a conference call with another female who could have made my husband blush. The more she talked and the hotter the words came, the more my boss started to squirm. He cast sidelong glances my direction, he tried to turn the phone down, I think I saw steam coming from under his collar. Finally he said:
"Listen, you just had something in your mouth I wouldn't put in my hand. Cool it...Katy is hear with me."
"Oooh! Oh! I am sooooo sorry Katy. I didn't know, please ignore everything I said!"
I couldn't laugh, I wondered why, of all people, I had been labelled the prude. Me, the one who drinks on Sunday, and Saturday, and heck Monday through Friday. The one who blasts Marilyn Manson on the way to work. Why is everyone so afraid of me. Heck, I wear fishnets to work! I should be worried about walking on eggshells with other people.
It's not till this new petting phase kicked in that I really got it. I'm young enough to be the daughter of most people here. In fact most people here have a daughter my age. Like real good girls they are already graduating from college and planning their weddings. I'm sure they grew up just as sheltered as the people in this office try to keep me. Unfortunately, it's a little too late for me. No amount of rose-colored words will change the fact that I'm still not finished with school, eloped at the age of twenty and probably will never be termed a "real classy lady" a "lady" maybe - but never classy.
I just wished that since I have been embracing my new-found grown-up life other people would have let me grow-up by now.
When I was eighteen and had struck out on my own (meaning I was a phone hostess at a Times Square Restaurant - woo!) girls who were twenty-two and twenty-three thought I was twenty-seven or much older. Not that I looked it, I generally look like I'm twelve, but I act it, especially at work.
So I am curious as to how anyone in my office found out that I am young. Perhaps it's my boundless energy and willingness to scrabble up the side of a wall in order to hang banners. Perhaps it's my limitless joy in cookies. Perhaps it's because I spend quite a few of my nights drinking heavily and then am up bright and early with no real remorse or hangover. Perhaps it's because I haven't been able to break myself of calling people "Sir" "Maam" and "Mr./Ms. So-and-so".
Perhaps it's because I dressed up as a kitty cat for Halloween and ended all my sentences with "meow" for an entire day.
Alright that was a little immature, but my bosses adored it. So much so they have taken to calling me "Kitty" rather than "Katy" - yeah I'm all about that. They also took to petting me on the head. Okay, so I was wearing cat ears and cats do in fact love to be scratched behind the ears, and come to think of it I love to be scratched behind the ears - however, the weird thing is...they continue to do it.
Whether I'm sitting on the floor trying to file thousands of legal contract or at my desk typing up a new report, or on sitting on my desk haggling for a cheaper airfare...for some reason I am irresistible to pet. Even my fellow admins now walk by and pat me on the head, give me a good scratch on the neck...I feel like I should be shaking my leg in uncontainable joy. Pity I don't wear my cat tail to work everyday.
In addition to my random petting the pet names have returned with avengence. Along with "Kitty" and "Katy-Kitty" my favorite "kiddo" has returned. Also "sweetie" "honey" "dear-heart" "darling" "cutie" and "girl" (not it the "girlfriend" way but in the "what a good girl" way). I suppose I should be outraged by it all...but I kinda like the familiarity and the pet names - and I think some of the people who call me that have actually forgotten my real name and I don't want to embarrass them.
Maybe my favorite scene that comes with being labelled the "young" one in the team or the "kid" is when someone swears. The first time my boss slipped up and said - of all things - "bullshit" in my presence he looked as though a truck was about to hit him.
"I didn't say that, you didn't hear me say that. I'm sorry I said that!"
I smiled and prepared to say my standard come back to all political correctness issues "I'm married to a sailor."
That usually puts everyone at ease. If I can deal with my husband, I can deal with anyone.
It didn't really help with my boss though. Gentleman that he is, he is very careful to not swear in my presence, nor allow me to hear other people swear. I used to think this was because I am a woman, until we were on a conference call with another female who could have made my husband blush. The more she talked and the hotter the words came, the more my boss started to squirm. He cast sidelong glances my direction, he tried to turn the phone down, I think I saw steam coming from under his collar. Finally he said:
"Listen, you just had something in your mouth I wouldn't put in my hand. Cool it...Katy is hear with me."
"Oooh! Oh! I am sooooo sorry Katy. I didn't know, please ignore everything I said!"
I couldn't laugh, I wondered why, of all people, I had been labelled the prude. Me, the one who drinks on Sunday, and Saturday, and heck Monday through Friday. The one who blasts Marilyn Manson on the way to work. Why is everyone so afraid of me. Heck, I wear fishnets to work! I should be worried about walking on eggshells with other people.
It's not till this new petting phase kicked in that I really got it. I'm young enough to be the daughter of most people here. In fact most people here have a daughter my age. Like real good girls they are already graduating from college and planning their weddings. I'm sure they grew up just as sheltered as the people in this office try to keep me. Unfortunately, it's a little too late for me. No amount of rose-colored words will change the fact that I'm still not finished with school, eloped at the age of twenty and probably will never be termed a "real classy lady" a "lady" maybe - but never classy.
I just wished that since I have been embracing my new-found grown-up life other people would have let me grow-up by now.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
I got bit by a vampire
He came through my window, during a storm. First I heard the screen being clawed to shreds, then I heard him breathing heavily on the glass. He was ugly, hideous. All his teeth were pointed and they bit at the glass. Rough, decaying enamel against smooth, cool, wet glass. Eeeeeeee. Eeeeeeeeeee. I could see the fissure in the glass grow longer and longer. Eeeeeeeee-eeeecccchhhhhhhh! The glass shattered into the room letting in cold October rain and wind, the smell of wet leaves, green grass....and decay. Garbage, stinking rotten flesh, disease and filth. He smelled of it all, and looked worse.
He advanced slowly, seeming to pull the blankets I had wrapped tight around me away with just a look. My cat yeowled and ran away. So much for a guard cat. I turned and looked over my shoulder at my husband, but he simply rolled over and began snoring again. Still the creature advanced. Only a few moments before I had been awake, alert, startled into motion by the storm, now I felt drowsy. My eyes kept closing, my lashes seeming to pull them down. I knew I had to keep them open, stay awake, stay alert. Still he advanced. With every step he took and felt my body sinking further onto the bed. A dark, heavy cloud descended on me. It was unpleasant. It smelled of eggs too long left out and road kill. The creatures robe surrounded me, wet and heavy with rain. It crawled against my skin, soaking me to the core. I shivered and gagged. I had to gasp for breath and I drew in poisoned air. Air so foul and toxic my lungs burned. My body shook, my limbs went numb, the creatures weight bared down on my hard, his disgusting mouth came close to my face and as I turned my head away he pressed his long, pointed teeth to my neck, drawing in breath before he whispered in my ear...
Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.
I reached out from under the creature and with the last bit of strength I had left, the last bit he had not sucked out of me I hit him over the head. Over and over, I slammed my fist into his neck, till the incessant beeping stopped and suddenly the creature disappeared leaving only an eerie red glow in the room and a heavy weight on my soul.
This alarm clock is going to kill me someday.
He advanced slowly, seeming to pull the blankets I had wrapped tight around me away with just a look. My cat yeowled and ran away. So much for a guard cat. I turned and looked over my shoulder at my husband, but he simply rolled over and began snoring again. Still the creature advanced. Only a few moments before I had been awake, alert, startled into motion by the storm, now I felt drowsy. My eyes kept closing, my lashes seeming to pull them down. I knew I had to keep them open, stay awake, stay alert. Still he advanced. With every step he took and felt my body sinking further onto the bed. A dark, heavy cloud descended on me. It was unpleasant. It smelled of eggs too long left out and road kill. The creatures robe surrounded me, wet and heavy with rain. It crawled against my skin, soaking me to the core. I shivered and gagged. I had to gasp for breath and I drew in poisoned air. Air so foul and toxic my lungs burned. My body shook, my limbs went numb, the creatures weight bared down on my hard, his disgusting mouth came close to my face and as I turned my head away he pressed his long, pointed teeth to my neck, drawing in breath before he whispered in my ear...
Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.
I reached out from under the creature and with the last bit of strength I had left, the last bit he had not sucked out of me I hit him over the head. Over and over, I slammed my fist into his neck, till the incessant beeping stopped and suddenly the creature disappeared leaving only an eerie red glow in the room and a heavy weight on my soul.
This alarm clock is going to kill me someday.
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