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.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
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.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
We are the Champions!
(Warning: Blogging in the key of drunk.)
1) I like Formula 1.
2) I'm a Renault fan.
3) I'm a Fernando Alonso fan.
4) I also really like Petter Solberg.
5) Petter Solberg does not drive Formula 1.
6) I like rally too. (Duh.)
7) After a few weeks of work heck keeping me from my blog I am trying to appease by adding this one gem of a post. AND by getting very drunk.
8) We are the champions my friends.
( The clip is of the Renault engine playing "We are the Champions". Alonso sang this as he drove over the finish line in China.)
9) My husband likes Kimi Raikkonen - but I still love him anyway.
1) I like Formula 1.
2) I'm a Renault fan.
3) I'm a Fernando Alonso fan.
4) I also really like Petter Solberg.
5) Petter Solberg does not drive Formula 1.
6) I like rally too. (Duh.)
7) After a few weeks of work heck keeping me from my blog I am trying to appease by adding this one gem of a post. AND by getting very drunk.
8) We are the champions my friends.
( The clip is of the Renault engine playing "We are the Champions". Alonso sang this as he drove over the finish line in China.)
9) My husband likes Kimi Raikkonen - but I still love him anyway.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Four Eyes
After putting it off, and being put off, for a full two years I have finally dragged my butt to a random Optometrist in a random mall. After learning that, no, in fact my insurance won't pay for this visit after all (thank you United States Government) I plop myself down and watch the t.v. in a almost blind haze.
I have no more contacts left and my glasses are broken - they'll have to lead me into the exam room by my hands...and I'll still probably walk into a wall.
The little girl waiting with me is bouncing around happily trying on all the frames and finally picking her favorite - and she hasn't even seen the doctor yet. She seems excited. In my grouchy, blind, poor, starved and work/traffic-stressed mood I think really horrible thoughts - that little girl is headed for years and years of depression and misery. She's already chubby, has flat yellow hair, and now she's going to be wearing glasses. From the way she smiles I can tell she's headed for braces too. Cruelly I think she better be smart because high school is going to be hell otherwise.
I never said I was a nice person. While I picture the poor gawky teenager she'll grow up to be (I was one too) I also mentally imagine where I will stick the pins into my TriCare Representatives VooDoo Doll.
I go through the motions. One or Two, Two or Three. Read this line. F, V, D. Oh no sorry, it's E, Y, B. Not very good at this huh? No shit lady...I CAN'T SEE!
This used to be fun...I used to like going to the Eye Doctor. I used to be fascinated by the fact that little pieces of glass could make such a huge difference. Now it's just a reminder that my eyes are failing more and more and I will have to put plastic against my eyeballs for the rest of my life.
My doctor makes the determination that I have been wearing the wrong contacts for my entire life. Everytime I go to the Eye Doctor they tell me this. Everyone else was wrong, they're right. They give me a new prescription and a new kind of lens. Then push me out the door to fork over vast sums of money. I almost cringe when I hear myself mention that I need new frames, I think the commission based salesmen can hear me...and they are drooling.
But to my surprise the Doctor disappears back into the gloom with my chart and the other salesmen jump up to help some poor man looking for sunglasses. I am left on my own without anyone to guide my frame selection. I notice for the first time that my prescription is actually pretty good and things look cleaner and clearer than they have in a long while. I start to peruse the frames. Don't like those, don't want anything like that...these are cool. I'm wandering aimlessly making small little decisions that will ultimately form my criteria for the perfect frame when it suddenly hits me.
I am all alone. Completely. Totally. This is weird.
I started wearing glasses when I was 10. My Father took me the first time and of course advised me on what frames would be best for me. He seemed to think that double bowed frames are the best choice (it's what he wore) and because I was 10 and trusted my Dad that's what I got.
And that's what I was stuck with for 4 years...renewing the lenses, keeping those terrible frames all through middle school.
The second time I got frames again my Father accompanied me, but this time I was in full rebellion mode. Everyone told me to get thick frames, hopefully plastic, so as to be durable. I got wire thin frames. Painted in psychedelic colors that came from the early 90's. They were actually perfect.
For a year, till the screws started popping loose and the arms started breaking. I wore a safety pin in place of a screw for three years. The amount of "I told you so"'s in that office was enough to make anyone insane. I capitulated by allowing myself to be stuck with a cross-breed of my first pair of glasses and my second. Within the year I had switched to contacts (which my doctor warned would make me go blind) and conveniently hid the awful pair of black wire frames that threatened to plague me with more years of bad photos and old maid looks.
I only escaped for so long. My husband and I shopped for a week for the perfect pair, a little hipster-y, a little catty, very chic for my last appointment. I was madly in love with a specific tiny pair with a nice cat like flair, he liked the rounded ones. After an hour of me hinting that he needed to love the pair I loved, and an hour of him "not getting it", we left the store with a promise to come back when I had my new prescription.
Then my husband abandoned me for some war thing half-way round the world and I once again found myself shopping for glasses in the presence of my parents.
I was sure once they saw the perfect pair they'd instantly agree it was lovely on me, or at least my mother would catch on the signals and pretend to agree. Instead my parents spent an hour playing dress-up while I was not allowed to voice my opinion. Instead of the trendy, thick, dark glasses I wanted I went home with a pair of rim-less frames that matched my hair. I actually liked them. I was really into them for a little while, only slightly disappointed at the loss of my cat-eyes. Then I turn on the news and realize I'm wearing the same glasses as Brit Hume.
I hate them for years.
And now I find myself standing in an eye glass store with no husband, no mom, no dad, no sales man, no doctors. I whip out my cellphone.
"Hey honey, I'm done at the doctors...I'm going to get new glasses."
"Do you want me to come down and help."
"Nope, I know what I want and when I get them you have to say they're cute."
And I do know what I want. The perfect pair. Not the expensive kinds my husband would gravitate too. Not the conservative boring things my parents like. I get the perfect pair. Almost catty, almost not. A perfect blend of sixties librarian and cute chick. Bookish and pretty. They are so me.
I get them, they look good, the adjuster says they're adorable. I slip them on secure in the knowledge my husband will like them, because he has too. He plays his part.
"Cute" he says.
I wiggle into the car happily with my new glasses. Glasses I picked all by myself. Glasses I choose because I liked them. Glasses I liked without any outside influence. I'm proud of myself, I am a push over no longer.
I feel like the girl at the doctors office who was all excited about getting her first pair. And even better because I do not have to face high school anymore.
Then I'm struck with sudden panic.
"Do you really like them?" I ask hesitantly in the voice all men know spells trouble.
"Yes. They're fine." He replies...he already knows he's trapped.
"Just fine? They're not cute?"
"They're cute...they look good."
I stop hassling, for a day. The next night though...
"What do you really think of my glasses?"
"Jesus. They look good."
"You're not just saying that cause I told you too?"
"They're good glasses!"
I'm not convinced. I look for subtle ways to sneak the question in, fish for a compliment. I try to catch him off-guard, bring it up at an odd moment so he can't answer based on what he thinks I think I want to hear.
It's driving him crazy, at least I'm not asking if my glasses make me look fat.
I'm less and less enthused about my glasses. I'm worried they aren't nearly as adorable as I think they are. I still like them, but now I may be falling out of love because C. doesn't like them. I want him to like them. I want him to like me. I want him to think I'm pretty too. If he doesn't like my glasses it might mean he doesn't like me. Maybe he's busy comparing me to other girls who have cute glasses and wear cute clothes and have a round butt instead of a flat one and and and...
Then last night he and I are snuggling in a nice cozy booth. I've made a last ditch effort to love the glasses by forgoing my contacts. Suddenly his nose bumps my glasses particularly hard.
"Hard to cuddle with glasses huh?"
"Yeah. But we've done it before and it didn't suck."
"That's true, we need to practice again."
"Except last time you didn't have a cute pair."
BINGO. He called them cute without my bidding. Completely out of the blue. My glasses have the C. kiss of approval.
They really are the perfect pair. And I picked them out all by myself!
I have no more contacts left and my glasses are broken - they'll have to lead me into the exam room by my hands...and I'll still probably walk into a wall.
The little girl waiting with me is bouncing around happily trying on all the frames and finally picking her favorite - and she hasn't even seen the doctor yet. She seems excited. In my grouchy, blind, poor, starved and work/traffic-stressed mood I think really horrible thoughts - that little girl is headed for years and years of depression and misery. She's already chubby, has flat yellow hair, and now she's going to be wearing glasses. From the way she smiles I can tell she's headed for braces too. Cruelly I think she better be smart because high school is going to be hell otherwise.
I never said I was a nice person. While I picture the poor gawky teenager she'll grow up to be (I was one too) I also mentally imagine where I will stick the pins into my TriCare Representatives VooDoo Doll.
I go through the motions. One or Two, Two or Three. Read this line. F, V, D. Oh no sorry, it's E, Y, B. Not very good at this huh? No shit lady...I CAN'T SEE!
This used to be fun...I used to like going to the Eye Doctor. I used to be fascinated by the fact that little pieces of glass could make such a huge difference. Now it's just a reminder that my eyes are failing more and more and I will have to put plastic against my eyeballs for the rest of my life.
My doctor makes the determination that I have been wearing the wrong contacts for my entire life. Everytime I go to the Eye Doctor they tell me this. Everyone else was wrong, they're right. They give me a new prescription and a new kind of lens. Then push me out the door to fork over vast sums of money. I almost cringe when I hear myself mention that I need new frames, I think the commission based salesmen can hear me...and they are drooling.
But to my surprise the Doctor disappears back into the gloom with my chart and the other salesmen jump up to help some poor man looking for sunglasses. I am left on my own without anyone to guide my frame selection. I notice for the first time that my prescription is actually pretty good and things look cleaner and clearer than they have in a long while. I start to peruse the frames. Don't like those, don't want anything like that...these are cool. I'm wandering aimlessly making small little decisions that will ultimately form my criteria for the perfect frame when it suddenly hits me.
I am all alone. Completely. Totally. This is weird.
I started wearing glasses when I was 10. My Father took me the first time and of course advised me on what frames would be best for me. He seemed to think that double bowed frames are the best choice (it's what he wore) and because I was 10 and trusted my Dad that's what I got.
And that's what I was stuck with for 4 years...renewing the lenses, keeping those terrible frames all through middle school.
The second time I got frames again my Father accompanied me, but this time I was in full rebellion mode. Everyone told me to get thick frames, hopefully plastic, so as to be durable. I got wire thin frames. Painted in psychedelic colors that came from the early 90's. They were actually perfect.
For a year, till the screws started popping loose and the arms started breaking. I wore a safety pin in place of a screw for three years. The amount of "I told you so"'s in that office was enough to make anyone insane. I capitulated by allowing myself to be stuck with a cross-breed of my first pair of glasses and my second. Within the year I had switched to contacts (which my doctor warned would make me go blind) and conveniently hid the awful pair of black wire frames that threatened to plague me with more years of bad photos and old maid looks.
I only escaped for so long. My husband and I shopped for a week for the perfect pair, a little hipster-y, a little catty, very chic for my last appointment. I was madly in love with a specific tiny pair with a nice cat like flair, he liked the rounded ones. After an hour of me hinting that he needed to love the pair I loved, and an hour of him "not getting it", we left the store with a promise to come back when I had my new prescription.
Then my husband abandoned me for some war thing half-way round the world and I once again found myself shopping for glasses in the presence of my parents.
I was sure once they saw the perfect pair they'd instantly agree it was lovely on me, or at least my mother would catch on the signals and pretend to agree. Instead my parents spent an hour playing dress-up while I was not allowed to voice my opinion. Instead of the trendy, thick, dark glasses I wanted I went home with a pair of rim-less frames that matched my hair. I actually liked them. I was really into them for a little while, only slightly disappointed at the loss of my cat-eyes. Then I turn on the news and realize I'm wearing the same glasses as Brit Hume.
I hate them for years.
And now I find myself standing in an eye glass store with no husband, no mom, no dad, no sales man, no doctors. I whip out my cellphone.
"Hey honey, I'm done at the doctors...I'm going to get new glasses."
"Do you want me to come down and help."
"Nope, I know what I want and when I get them you have to say they're cute."
And I do know what I want. The perfect pair. Not the expensive kinds my husband would gravitate too. Not the conservative boring things my parents like. I get the perfect pair. Almost catty, almost not. A perfect blend of sixties librarian and cute chick. Bookish and pretty. They are so me.
I get them, they look good, the adjuster says they're adorable. I slip them on secure in the knowledge my husband will like them, because he has too. He plays his part.
"Cute" he says.
I wiggle into the car happily with my new glasses. Glasses I picked all by myself. Glasses I choose because I liked them. Glasses I liked without any outside influence. I'm proud of myself, I am a push over no longer.
I feel like the girl at the doctors office who was all excited about getting her first pair. And even better because I do not have to face high school anymore.
Then I'm struck with sudden panic.
"Do you really like them?" I ask hesitantly in the voice all men know spells trouble.
"Yes. They're fine." He replies...he already knows he's trapped.
"Just fine? They're not cute?"
"They're cute...they look good."
I stop hassling, for a day. The next night though...
"What do you really think of my glasses?"
"Jesus. They look good."
"You're not just saying that cause I told you too?"
"They're good glasses!"
I'm not convinced. I look for subtle ways to sneak the question in, fish for a compliment. I try to catch him off-guard, bring it up at an odd moment so he can't answer based on what he thinks I think I want to hear.
It's driving him crazy, at least I'm not asking if my glasses make me look fat.
I'm less and less enthused about my glasses. I'm worried they aren't nearly as adorable as I think they are. I still like them, but now I may be falling out of love because C. doesn't like them. I want him to like them. I want him to like me. I want him to think I'm pretty too. If he doesn't like my glasses it might mean he doesn't like me. Maybe he's busy comparing me to other girls who have cute glasses and wear cute clothes and have a round butt instead of a flat one and and and...
Then last night he and I are snuggling in a nice cozy booth. I've made a last ditch effort to love the glasses by forgoing my contacts. Suddenly his nose bumps my glasses particularly hard.
"Hard to cuddle with glasses huh?"
"Yeah. But we've done it before and it didn't suck."
"That's true, we need to practice again."
"Except last time you didn't have a cute pair."
BINGO. He called them cute without my bidding. Completely out of the blue. My glasses have the C. kiss of approval.
They really are the perfect pair. And I picked them out all by myself!
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Walking the Plank
My husband's fate was decided a few weeks ago. He's being given the boot from the Navy. Of course in true Naval form they told him he's being booted, but they won't tell him when - just to make sure that he won't be able to find a job and give them a start date.
Our hopes were pinned on the place he works now as a sailor. They promised him a MUCH bigger paycheck to do more of the same work (he has orchestrated plans for this place saving the government BILLIONS of dollars and put the whole thing together...he is their go-to guy.) Of course in true Government form they crapped out and offered to pay him less money than he is making now for a position overseeing every one in the department. No more negotiations.
In an ironic twist of fate he's now getting offers from companies that promise to pay him triple what he's making now. The irony comes from the fact that since he won't be working in his department, they'll have to contract someone to do his job, and he will be the contractor. The Government, who refuses to pay my husband $70,000 for this job will now have to pay the contractor upwards of $3 million - for my husband to do the EXACT same job he is doing now. Only he won't be responsible for it and they can't blame him.
Your tax dollars at work.
As we gear up to find out WHEN he will be separated I am trying to use my benefits as an active-duty spouse to my full advantage. Namely, I'm spending everything in my caps. Or trying too.
Today I attempted to make an appointment at my base to see an optometrist. (I wear glasses and contacts.). My first visit in two years. I was informed that if I'm a dependent I can't see an optometrist for the next few months...but I want to I can get a referral to a doctor not in my MTF (Military Treatment Facility). Usually this is taboo for people like me...and means spending a lot of money. And it's still a pain. It took me five hours of phone calls and "We appreciate your patience" music before I finally got an appointment with some random doctor in a MALL. Tricare promises to pay. We'll see. They promised to pay for my life saving operation too...and I'm still a few thousand poorer from that - and have yet to be allowed to have a follow-up appointment for it.
Dentists are worse. I am strictly forbidden to see a Dentist on base. I have to see pre-approved, in program dentists that are no less than 10 miles away from base instead. Big deal right? Every plan is like that. The best part though is I have to get a referral from a dentist I am not allowed to see in order to make an appointment with a dentist I am allowed to see.
It's a dental nightmare. More so when my husbands SSN gets flagged as "About to Separate". Once that happens it's an unwritten rule to not let anyone on that plan get an appointment with anyone.
Probably because they'll do what I'll do which is use up my lifetime caps (thousands and thousands of dollars) getting dental work and doctors appointments before we are no longer with Tricare.
The Navy would prefer us to be sickly and have bad teeth - we're easier to control that way and don't complain about the mushy food.
The last few weeks have been a steady pace of "Bad re-enlistment" days. They just keep bending us over and screwing us with another arbitrary crappy Navy rule or ordinance. They're being even worse to my roommate. And they still plug away at work, going above and beyond what is expected of them...which is precisely why the Navy is kicking them out. They don't want hard, smart, skilled workers who ranks among the best of the best in their field, they want people who don't know how to mop. I'll be glad to be rid of the unorganized, no-nothing, arbitrary, prejudiced, backwards, pussified, fish-slapping, abusive, asinine, old-fashioned dirty old boys club called the Navy.
Do I sound bitter?
Our hopes were pinned on the place he works now as a sailor. They promised him a MUCH bigger paycheck to do more of the same work (he has orchestrated plans for this place saving the government BILLIONS of dollars and put the whole thing together...he is their go-to guy.) Of course in true Government form they crapped out and offered to pay him less money than he is making now for a position overseeing every one in the department. No more negotiations.
In an ironic twist of fate he's now getting offers from companies that promise to pay him triple what he's making now. The irony comes from the fact that since he won't be working in his department, they'll have to contract someone to do his job, and he will be the contractor. The Government, who refuses to pay my husband $70,000 for this job will now have to pay the contractor upwards of $3 million - for my husband to do the EXACT same job he is doing now. Only he won't be responsible for it and they can't blame him.
Your tax dollars at work.
As we gear up to find out WHEN he will be separated I am trying to use my benefits as an active-duty spouse to my full advantage. Namely, I'm spending everything in my caps. Or trying too.
Today I attempted to make an appointment at my base to see an optometrist. (I wear glasses and contacts.). My first visit in two years. I was informed that if I'm a dependent I can't see an optometrist for the next few months...but I want to I can get a referral to a doctor not in my MTF (Military Treatment Facility). Usually this is taboo for people like me...and means spending a lot of money. And it's still a pain. It took me five hours of phone calls and "We appreciate your patience" music before I finally got an appointment with some random doctor in a MALL. Tricare promises to pay. We'll see. They promised to pay for my life saving operation too...and I'm still a few thousand poorer from that - and have yet to be allowed to have a follow-up appointment for it.
Dentists are worse. I am strictly forbidden to see a Dentist on base. I have to see pre-approved, in program dentists that are no less than 10 miles away from base instead. Big deal right? Every plan is like that. The best part though is I have to get a referral from a dentist I am not allowed to see in order to make an appointment with a dentist I am allowed to see.
It's a dental nightmare. More so when my husbands SSN gets flagged as "About to Separate". Once that happens it's an unwritten rule to not let anyone on that plan get an appointment with anyone.
Probably because they'll do what I'll do which is use up my lifetime caps (thousands and thousands of dollars) getting dental work and doctors appointments before we are no longer with Tricare.
The Navy would prefer us to be sickly and have bad teeth - we're easier to control that way and don't complain about the mushy food.
The last few weeks have been a steady pace of "Bad re-enlistment" days. They just keep bending us over and screwing us with another arbitrary crappy Navy rule or ordinance. They're being even worse to my roommate. And they still plug away at work, going above and beyond what is expected of them...which is precisely why the Navy is kicking them out. They don't want hard, smart, skilled workers who ranks among the best of the best in their field, they want people who don't know how to mop. I'll be glad to be rid of the unorganized, no-nothing, arbitrary, prejudiced, backwards, pussified, fish-slapping, abusive, asinine, old-fashioned dirty old boys club called the Navy.
Do I sound bitter?
Monday, October 10, 2005
Surprising Fruit Oracle
Last night over dinner I quizzed my husband on what order he chooses to eat his food. In a perfectly predictable manner he eats his favorite parts of a meal first so that if he gets full halfway through the meal he will be certain to have had what he wanted. Seems logical right?
I on the other hand tend to eat things from least favorite to most, so that the last thing I eat is my favorite thing. Much like when I was a child and had to choke down my share of cow's tongue. I would force the bumpy, grainy meat down my throat, then reward myself for not throwing it up by munching happily on my asparagus and peas.
What I could never understand though was why they always served milk with cow's tongue...that was just gross.
In anycase...I do the same thing today even when I am not faced with such horrors as borscht and cow's tongue (and lord save me - liver). Take my daily fruit salad for instance. The cantaloupe goes first, then the honeydew. Now I like cantaloupe and honeydew fine, in fact I am very favorable towards honeydew, but when in contention with my third and fourth picks (watermelon and grapes) they fall short. I never mix up eating my fruit (like say eating a melon piece then eating a grape) all of them have to be eaten together, at the same time. Then they are broken down by appearance and size as well. Small goes first, juiciest pieces go last. In the end I am left with a salad plate full of grapes to munch on and leave me with a good grape-y feeling all the day.
I have, as my tastes and motor-skills improve, taken my need to separate and rank foodstuffs to a whole new level. I do it in my mouth. A scoop of my favorite ice cream (Coldstone's Sweet Cream with Gummi Bear mix-in's) provide me with infinite tongue exercise. First and foremost is my visual ranking. Red bears first, followed by yellow, green and white etc. Of course since it's mixed in sometimes I miss a couple of bears and end up having to eat a green bear after I've started on the white or something. And this is fine...which I think is a testament to my potential for sanity. I'm not going to be washing my hands five hundred times a day anytime soon.
However, once I have done a quick initial survey of my ice cream there is the problem of the scoop. If I scoop carefully I can get a bite of cream with just one bear present. Once scooped it should be a mere matter to consume. However, it's not. I have to separate, with my tongue, the cream from the bear, completely. I will not chew on the bear till the cream is melted and gone. To the normal onlooker it just seems like I'm enjoying my ice cream and savoring each creamy taste...but so much more is happening.
Once the bear has been separated and cleaned thoroughly, I start to swirl it around to make sure that the first bite will be the deadly jugular-esque guillotine bite. In short - First I bite the head off...then I suck the guts out...oh how they wiggle and squirm.
Okay, maybe not really. But I do bite the head first, then the arms and legs (tricky, cause your mouth is cold and your bear is small). Then I can either suck the rest of the gelatiny mammal to just the idea of sugar, or chomp it all up and start on the next bear.
People wonder why it takes me so long to eat ice cream.
After my discussion with my husband last night, and my observation of other restuarant-goers scarffing down their food indiscriminately - I think I might be weird. More so, because I see my denial of all the good parts of my meal as a challenge, a hurdle, and ultimately a self-punishment.
I'm notorious for not being able to finish my food. Eating is a very delicate thing with me. Eat too late and I can't eat a lot, eat too early and I can't remember to stop before I eat too much. Eat too fast - I get sick. Eat too slow, or allow me to talk during the meal, and I will fill myself on my own bloviating rather than my chicken ceasar salad. It makes me feel guilty. So many people have never seen just one full plate of food and I who am never in want for food can't even finish my own plate. It also makes me guilty when my husband is watching me. He takes me out to nice places, I get something I want and then barely touch it. I end up being that nightmare of all men who date, even if I do always take price into account when ordering food. I don't mean too, but I just can't eat that much at one time, my stomach will not hold it all.
That's where the self-punishment comes in. My husband has made a few jokes about my eating habits, but he never comes off as too annoyed or concerned with it. It may in fact be because he isn't annoyed or concerned, but the fact remains I feel guilty and I can twist that guilt in a hundred different ways till I feel like he is supremely disappointed in me and I have failed him. All from some leftover lettuce.
However, the guilt is relieved when I "punish" myself. If I eat my least favorite foods first and save the best for last...I will have to eat the whole thing in order to get to the last part. If I don't finish this hamburger, I won't get to eat any fries. And if I can't finish the whole meal, the only parts of it I was deprived of were the parts I really wanted...and it's all my own fault for not finishing my plate.
Of course all this is an inner monologue. And as I look back on it - probably a pretty freaky one. However, I get so tired of making so many decisions, of being so rigidly and boringly self-disciplined that I have to find secret ways of rewarding and punishing myself. I don't know where it came from, or why I still do it, other than it is a constant that makes life bearable and sometimes exciting. It extends far beyond food. My MP3 player is ordered in such a way that there are intervals between my favorite songs. So if I run through three Natalie Merchants songs that I sorta like I am rewarded by a quick rest with the Liz Phair song that I really like - and I'll have jogged for an extra 15 minutes longer than normal. If I spend my evening reading a good book then I must stay awake till 1am doing the laundry (instead of, you know, leaving it for later like a normal person.) If I skip washing the car tonight then I have to wax it the next time. Didn't do sit-ups yesterday? Can't wear the jean skirt today. Back and forth, back and forth.
And my life's enemy becomes myself. Perhaps I'm not crazy and other people employ these tactics to stay afloat and grown-up. Perhaps I was just infused with a healthy amount of unanswerable guilt as a kid. Perhaps my bouts of depression are all stemmed from my inability to let these little slip-ups go.
And perhaps my contemplation over a bowl of fruit can give me more insight into myself than I thought it could.
I on the other hand tend to eat things from least favorite to most, so that the last thing I eat is my favorite thing. Much like when I was a child and had to choke down my share of cow's tongue. I would force the bumpy, grainy meat down my throat, then reward myself for not throwing it up by munching happily on my asparagus and peas.
What I could never understand though was why they always served milk with cow's tongue...that was just gross.
In anycase...I do the same thing today even when I am not faced with such horrors as borscht and cow's tongue (and lord save me - liver). Take my daily fruit salad for instance. The cantaloupe goes first, then the honeydew. Now I like cantaloupe and honeydew fine, in fact I am very favorable towards honeydew, but when in contention with my third and fourth picks (watermelon and grapes) they fall short. I never mix up eating my fruit (like say eating a melon piece then eating a grape) all of them have to be eaten together, at the same time. Then they are broken down by appearance and size as well. Small goes first, juiciest pieces go last. In the end I am left with a salad plate full of grapes to munch on and leave me with a good grape-y feeling all the day.
I have, as my tastes and motor-skills improve, taken my need to separate and rank foodstuffs to a whole new level. I do it in my mouth. A scoop of my favorite ice cream (Coldstone's Sweet Cream with Gummi Bear mix-in's) provide me with infinite tongue exercise. First and foremost is my visual ranking. Red bears first, followed by yellow, green and white etc. Of course since it's mixed in sometimes I miss a couple of bears and end up having to eat a green bear after I've started on the white or something. And this is fine...which I think is a testament to my potential for sanity. I'm not going to be washing my hands five hundred times a day anytime soon.
However, once I have done a quick initial survey of my ice cream there is the problem of the scoop. If I scoop carefully I can get a bite of cream with just one bear present. Once scooped it should be a mere matter to consume. However, it's not. I have to separate, with my tongue, the cream from the bear, completely. I will not chew on the bear till the cream is melted and gone. To the normal onlooker it just seems like I'm enjoying my ice cream and savoring each creamy taste...but so much more is happening.
Once the bear has been separated and cleaned thoroughly, I start to swirl it around to make sure that the first bite will be the deadly jugular-esque guillotine bite. In short - First I bite the head off...then I suck the guts out...oh how they wiggle and squirm.
Okay, maybe not really. But I do bite the head first, then the arms and legs (tricky, cause your mouth is cold and your bear is small). Then I can either suck the rest of the gelatiny mammal to just the idea of sugar, or chomp it all up and start on the next bear.
People wonder why it takes me so long to eat ice cream.
After my discussion with my husband last night, and my observation of other restuarant-goers scarffing down their food indiscriminately - I think I might be weird. More so, because I see my denial of all the good parts of my meal as a challenge, a hurdle, and ultimately a self-punishment.
I'm notorious for not being able to finish my food. Eating is a very delicate thing with me. Eat too late and I can't eat a lot, eat too early and I can't remember to stop before I eat too much. Eat too fast - I get sick. Eat too slow, or allow me to talk during the meal, and I will fill myself on my own bloviating rather than my chicken ceasar salad. It makes me feel guilty. So many people have never seen just one full plate of food and I who am never in want for food can't even finish my own plate. It also makes me guilty when my husband is watching me. He takes me out to nice places, I get something I want and then barely touch it. I end up being that nightmare of all men who date, even if I do always take price into account when ordering food. I don't mean too, but I just can't eat that much at one time, my stomach will not hold it all.
That's where the self-punishment comes in. My husband has made a few jokes about my eating habits, but he never comes off as too annoyed or concerned with it. It may in fact be because he isn't annoyed or concerned, but the fact remains I feel guilty and I can twist that guilt in a hundred different ways till I feel like he is supremely disappointed in me and I have failed him. All from some leftover lettuce.
However, the guilt is relieved when I "punish" myself. If I eat my least favorite foods first and save the best for last...I will have to eat the whole thing in order to get to the last part. If I don't finish this hamburger, I won't get to eat any fries. And if I can't finish the whole meal, the only parts of it I was deprived of were the parts I really wanted...and it's all my own fault for not finishing my plate.
Of course all this is an inner monologue. And as I look back on it - probably a pretty freaky one. However, I get so tired of making so many decisions, of being so rigidly and boringly self-disciplined that I have to find secret ways of rewarding and punishing myself. I don't know where it came from, or why I still do it, other than it is a constant that makes life bearable and sometimes exciting. It extends far beyond food. My MP3 player is ordered in such a way that there are intervals between my favorite songs. So if I run through three Natalie Merchants songs that I sorta like I am rewarded by a quick rest with the Liz Phair song that I really like - and I'll have jogged for an extra 15 minutes longer than normal. If I spend my evening reading a good book then I must stay awake till 1am doing the laundry (instead of, you know, leaving it for later like a normal person.) If I skip washing the car tonight then I have to wax it the next time. Didn't do sit-ups yesterday? Can't wear the jean skirt today. Back and forth, back and forth.
And my life's enemy becomes myself. Perhaps I'm not crazy and other people employ these tactics to stay afloat and grown-up. Perhaps I was just infused with a healthy amount of unanswerable guilt as a kid. Perhaps my bouts of depression are all stemmed from my inability to let these little slip-ups go.
And perhaps my contemplation over a bowl of fruit can give me more insight into myself than I thought it could.
People watching
We went to see Corpse Bride last night. It was cute - the trailer for Harry Potter looks awesome. These facts and opinions are not the purpose of this post.
We sat in front of a group of girls, or women, probably my age or a little younger before the movie. Their chatter was idiotic and for some reason it ticked my husband off. Of course he didn't want to talk with me and ignore the girls so he sat around being grouchy, swearing every time I tried to bring up a new topic and in general working towards his premium membership in Oscars's Grouch Club. Seriously...I'm buying him a trashcan for Christmas. And an elephant...
Despite my partner's melancholy I still enjoyed listening to the little girls prattle. The best part of the whole conversation was this little gem:
"I haven't spent anything. I mean I could move out, but why spend money on a place of my own when I can live in hell for free."
"With your Mom?"
"Yeah, for free."
Indeed.
However, though our movie was spent surrounded by discontented youth, our dinner before the movie was spent surrounded by babies. One particular baby. She was adorable. While her parents argued over fajitas or taquitos she devised the most fascinating game ever. She took a folded napkin, grabbed hold, moved it up onto the table and smiled. She then proceeded to move the napkin back down to her high chair. And then up to the table again. Then back down. I was enthralled. I could not figure out where the joy in this game came from - but it was certainly there because she did it for the better part of 15 minutes. Impressive - especially for a baby.
When the food came she decided that all tortillas taste better when eaten off one's wrist. And in the process of placing the food on her wrist then gnawing on her mexican-flavored arm my husband caught her eye. The little vixen. We waved.
"Smile." I directed my normally gruff-faced husband. He did. Then went back to his beer.
The baby kept looking.
"You must be funny looking." I stated.
"Must be." he mumbled into his enchilada.
The fact is, he must exude something unseen to normal people. For some reason he attracts the undivided attention of small babies and deadly predators - such as jaguars, tigers, and really mean swans. Having a wife who is, shall we say, kitty-crazy, we go to see the big cats a lot. And every time we do they always follow C. It never fails. I'm not sure if they feel he's a threat to their territory or would just make a pretty good midday snack. Regardless, it's freaky the way they look at him. I swear their eyes glow red.
It's also a little disconcerting how long babies will stare at him. The girl last night did not take her eyes off him till we left. Is this because he looks grouchy? Does it worry the kids that he's such a sourpuss? Is it the fact his hair looks like it'd be fun to pet? (And it is very fun to pet.) Does he have an aura that magnetically attracts babies with little communication skills? Maybe it's cause he's got that round baby face stuck on a very not-baby body.
Whatever it is I sometimes worry that uncaged babies will try to eat him one day. That'd be just awful.
We sat in front of a group of girls, or women, probably my age or a little younger before the movie. Their chatter was idiotic and for some reason it ticked my husband off. Of course he didn't want to talk with me and ignore the girls so he sat around being grouchy, swearing every time I tried to bring up a new topic and in general working towards his premium membership in Oscars's Grouch Club. Seriously...I'm buying him a trashcan for Christmas. And an elephant...
Despite my partner's melancholy I still enjoyed listening to the little girls prattle. The best part of the whole conversation was this little gem:
"I haven't spent anything. I mean I could move out, but why spend money on a place of my own when I can live in hell for free."
"With your Mom?"
"Yeah, for free."
Indeed.
However, though our movie was spent surrounded by discontented youth, our dinner before the movie was spent surrounded by babies. One particular baby. She was adorable. While her parents argued over fajitas or taquitos she devised the most fascinating game ever. She took a folded napkin, grabbed hold, moved it up onto the table and smiled. She then proceeded to move the napkin back down to her high chair. And then up to the table again. Then back down. I was enthralled. I could not figure out where the joy in this game came from - but it was certainly there because she did it for the better part of 15 minutes. Impressive - especially for a baby.
When the food came she decided that all tortillas taste better when eaten off one's wrist. And in the process of placing the food on her wrist then gnawing on her mexican-flavored arm my husband caught her eye. The little vixen. We waved.
"Smile." I directed my normally gruff-faced husband. He did. Then went back to his beer.
The baby kept looking.
"You must be funny looking." I stated.
"Must be." he mumbled into his enchilada.
The fact is, he must exude something unseen to normal people. For some reason he attracts the undivided attention of small babies and deadly predators - such as jaguars, tigers, and really mean swans. Having a wife who is, shall we say, kitty-crazy, we go to see the big cats a lot. And every time we do they always follow C. It never fails. I'm not sure if they feel he's a threat to their territory or would just make a pretty good midday snack. Regardless, it's freaky the way they look at him. I swear their eyes glow red.
It's also a little disconcerting how long babies will stare at him. The girl last night did not take her eyes off him till we left. Is this because he looks grouchy? Does it worry the kids that he's such a sourpuss? Is it the fact his hair looks like it'd be fun to pet? (And it is very fun to pet.) Does he have an aura that magnetically attracts babies with little communication skills? Maybe it's cause he's got that round baby face stuck on a very not-baby body.
Whatever it is I sometimes worry that uncaged babies will try to eat him one day. That'd be just awful.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Thursday Poem #1
On Thursdays I publish a report involving a bunch of different commodities. Each group supposedly sends me their report and then I re-do it and format it to be part of the whole.
I say supposedly because there are always a few groups that never get me their reports on time. A huge offender is the Seafood team. I have found myself sending so many emails to them every Thursday asking the same damn thing in the same damn way I had to find some way to stop the monotony (and keep the mood light for them). So Thursday Poem Day was started. Initially I was just sending my favorite parts of Lewis Carroll poems and then lacing them in with the reports, but it was brought to my attention that you know I write a lot so I should compose things of my own.
I'm terrible at writing poetry. Honestly I suck at it. My hope is that as I struggle to throw something together every week for my report reminders, maybe I'll get a little better at this poetry thing.
And since I'm embarrassing myself in front of my fish people, why not go all out and embarrass myself on the web too.
Yesterdays Fish Poem Follows:
A fish could never write a book
He's far more concerned with hooks
He swims in schools but never learns
To write about his concerns
Instead we list the end
Of a fish who didn't spend
His fishy-fun time avoiding
Sports like angling and boating
And now our Thursday sport
Is attempting to write a report
Of a fish whose only fate
Is to end up on someone's plate!
In my defense...the reply to my poem from the fish team was:
We're done, at last to grant your wish
Here's our weekly report on fish
I say supposedly because there are always a few groups that never get me their reports on time. A huge offender is the Seafood team. I have found myself sending so many emails to them every Thursday asking the same damn thing in the same damn way I had to find some way to stop the monotony (and keep the mood light for them). So Thursday Poem Day was started. Initially I was just sending my favorite parts of Lewis Carroll poems and then lacing them in with the reports, but it was brought to my attention that you know I write a lot so I should compose things of my own.
I'm terrible at writing poetry. Honestly I suck at it. My hope is that as I struggle to throw something together every week for my report reminders, maybe I'll get a little better at this poetry thing.
And since I'm embarrassing myself in front of my fish people, why not go all out and embarrass myself on the web too.
Yesterdays Fish Poem Follows:
A fish could never write a book
He's far more concerned with hooks
He swims in schools but never learns
To write about his concerns
Instead we list the end
Of a fish who didn't spend
His fishy-fun time avoiding
Sports like angling and boating
And now our Thursday sport
Is attempting to write a report
Of a fish whose only fate
Is to end up on someone's plate!
In my defense...the reply to my poem from the fish team was:
We're done, at last to grant your wish
Here's our weekly report on fish
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Scaring the Straights
(Scaring the Straights {working title} is a fictional story in installments by Katy.)
CHAPTER I: HELLO! MY NAME IS:
A convention center would be lonely looking without conventions. There is too much space, like a sardine can that has no sardines in it, it's just sad. A convention center needs the booths, it needs the people. It gives it shape, it give it breath. A big empty warehouse can be transformed into a teaming mass of flesh that seems impenetrable.
Unless you actually look around.
Thousands of people walk by the steps. Some carrying plates of food, bags of swag and brochures. Most have coffee, or smell like they've had coffee. All of them wear the little blue and white tags that are the bane of every suit designers life: Hello! My name is:
A thousand names flash by. Hello! My name is: John. Hello! My name is: Peggy. My name is Joshua, Dave, Wazir, Julia K., Katrina, Corina, Michael, Matthew, Bob and Robert. Mary wrote her name in cursive, Jeff wrote in block letters. Francesca couldn't find a sharpie so she used a ballpoint. Travis Kovacevich tried to fit his whole name including the Jr. on the tag but had to write the r. on the side so it looks like his last name is smiling. It's rare to find a Kovacevich smiling...
The smell of more coffee. Burnt beans double packed into large urns. Lots of sugar and lots of cream hides the fact that it tastes like cardboard from the dumpsters outside. The good cookies are gone, all that's left are the oatmeal raisin and the bran muffins. People are beginning to break out their blackberries for their third morning check. The managers and CEO's forward all thirty messages on to their minions with little FYI notes. The minions are the ones who are headed for carpal tunnel by trying to posture themselves to their bosses with quick responses typed only by thumbs. I knew about this last week. The market is actually going up and I just spoke with....blah blah blah. Their bosses don't read it anyway and the assistants who are copied only skim to see if a meeting needs to be set up. Otherwise it's just a waste of electrons.
More names float by. Jennifer who adds in parentheses to call her "Jen". There is Indigo...guess how she was conceived. More John's, lots and lots of Johns. Amber, Rob, Robbie, Robert, Joe, Heather, Jules, Mackenzie - but her friends call her Mac, Patrick, Roslyn, Teresa, Lewis, Batman, Roy, Laura...Batman?
"You must be tired this morning."
Batman looks up at me standing on the stairs, he actually does look tired and, like everyone else, he smells of coffee. He's also got that wired vibe, the kind people have when they are awake only because of the four bottles of Jolt they downed last night. Sure they look like corpses but they feel like corpses in the electric chair.
"I'm sorry?" he asks. There's an edge there, like he's kicking himself inside for acknowledging my presence.
"Up all night and then here bright and early."
"What?" Now he's doing the back-off-slowly shuffle, like he was talking to a psycho.
"You know, up all night...fighting crime..." I look pointedly at his name tag...and he thinks I'm the psycho.
He looks pointedly at his name tag too. A light goes off in his head...it makes him look more jittery. In his mind he must be swearing.
"Oh. Right."
"So...do you wear vinyl or polyester or what? I've always wondered." I say casually...honestly "Oh right"? Theres a good conversation filler.
"I'm sorry...it was just a thing."
"Yeah I know all about it. You're parents were murdered so you taught yourself how to fight and then you swore to protect Gotham City..." The poor boy is squirming where he stands. Maybe I should cut him a break. "But really - Batman?"
"I was hoping people would think I was crazy and be too afraid to talk to me."
"Did it work?"
"Till you."
"No I thought you were crazy too."
"You just weren't afraid."
"Why should I be? Batman is a good guy." Then I stood up and put my suit jacket back on. The tag on the front says Hello! My name is:
Catwoman
"If you'll excuse me...I need a cup of coffee." I descend from my people-watching perch and brush past the caped crusader. The convention center seems smaller now, less expansive and packed. It breathes in and sweeps me off into the crowd, exhaling stale cookies and burnt coffee. Batman turns to watch me walk by and ends up bumping into Hello! My name is: Carol. By the time they've disentangled the convention center is big again and I'm just part of the mass of people who are too afraid to talk to Batman.
CHAPTER I: HELLO! MY NAME IS:
A convention center would be lonely looking without conventions. There is too much space, like a sardine can that has no sardines in it, it's just sad. A convention center needs the booths, it needs the people. It gives it shape, it give it breath. A big empty warehouse can be transformed into a teaming mass of flesh that seems impenetrable.
Unless you actually look around.
Thousands of people walk by the steps. Some carrying plates of food, bags of swag and brochures. Most have coffee, or smell like they've had coffee. All of them wear the little blue and white tags that are the bane of every suit designers life: Hello! My name is:
A thousand names flash by. Hello! My name is: John. Hello! My name is: Peggy. My name is Joshua, Dave, Wazir, Julia K., Katrina, Corina, Michael, Matthew, Bob and Robert. Mary wrote her name in cursive, Jeff wrote in block letters. Francesca couldn't find a sharpie so she used a ballpoint. Travis Kovacevich tried to fit his whole name including the Jr. on the tag but had to write the r. on the side so it looks like his last name is smiling. It's rare to find a Kovacevich smiling...
The smell of more coffee. Burnt beans double packed into large urns. Lots of sugar and lots of cream hides the fact that it tastes like cardboard from the dumpsters outside. The good cookies are gone, all that's left are the oatmeal raisin and the bran muffins. People are beginning to break out their blackberries for their third morning check. The managers and CEO's forward all thirty messages on to their minions with little FYI notes. The minions are the ones who are headed for carpal tunnel by trying to posture themselves to their bosses with quick responses typed only by thumbs. I knew about this last week. The market is actually going up and I just spoke with....blah blah blah. Their bosses don't read it anyway and the assistants who are copied only skim to see if a meeting needs to be set up. Otherwise it's just a waste of electrons.
More names float by. Jennifer who adds in parentheses to call her "Jen". There is Indigo...guess how she was conceived. More John's, lots and lots of Johns. Amber, Rob, Robbie, Robert, Joe, Heather, Jules, Mackenzie - but her friends call her Mac, Patrick, Roslyn, Teresa, Lewis, Batman, Roy, Laura...Batman?
"You must be tired this morning."
Batman looks up at me standing on the stairs, he actually does look tired and, like everyone else, he smells of coffee. He's also got that wired vibe, the kind people have when they are awake only because of the four bottles of Jolt they downed last night. Sure they look like corpses but they feel like corpses in the electric chair.
"I'm sorry?" he asks. There's an edge there, like he's kicking himself inside for acknowledging my presence.
"Up all night and then here bright and early."
"What?" Now he's doing the back-off-slowly shuffle, like he was talking to a psycho.
"You know, up all night...fighting crime..." I look pointedly at his name tag...and he thinks I'm the psycho.
He looks pointedly at his name tag too. A light goes off in his head...it makes him look more jittery. In his mind he must be swearing.
"Oh. Right."
"So...do you wear vinyl or polyester or what? I've always wondered." I say casually...honestly "Oh right"? Theres a good conversation filler.
"I'm sorry...it was just a thing."
"Yeah I know all about it. You're parents were murdered so you taught yourself how to fight and then you swore to protect Gotham City..." The poor boy is squirming where he stands. Maybe I should cut him a break. "But really - Batman?"
"I was hoping people would think I was crazy and be too afraid to talk to me."
"Did it work?"
"Till you."
"No I thought you were crazy too."
"You just weren't afraid."
"Why should I be? Batman is a good guy." Then I stood up and put my suit jacket back on. The tag on the front says Hello! My name is:
Catwoman
"If you'll excuse me...I need a cup of coffee." I descend from my people-watching perch and brush past the caped crusader. The convention center seems smaller now, less expansive and packed. It breathes in and sweeps me off into the crowd, exhaling stale cookies and burnt coffee. Batman turns to watch me walk by and ends up bumping into Hello! My name is: Carol. By the time they've disentangled the convention center is big again and I'm just part of the mass of people who are too afraid to talk to Batman.
It's my blog and I'll be happy if I want too.
My cellphone doesn't get very good reception in my house. It works everywhere...but there. So when my Mom called my cell phone last night I didn't even hear it.
No matter - this morning I had a new voicemail waiting for me. It waited while I trucked my stuff to the car, waited while I sat in traffic on the 295, waited in traffic on the 32. It waited till I had fetched coffee and calendars for my bosses...then it got all my attention.
My Mama had her ultrasound for her biopsy yesterday. Previously these ultrasounds have found bumps and shadows and all sorts of things in the vicinity of her lungs and breasts. But yesterday they couldn't even find a cyst. Nothing...not a thing. No cutting my Mom up and no shooting her full of stuff.
This is good news. During Breast Cancer Awareness Month you're surrounded by stories and memories. My co-workers, my friends, my aunts (every single one of them), my grandma, my great-grandma. The list grows. Then you find out that people you barely know have been battling cancer for years too. The one good thought that comes from BCAM...most of these women are still alive.
In anycase, in the face of all this gloom and horror - there is good news. Sometimes it really is just a dirty film.
No matter - this morning I had a new voicemail waiting for me. It waited while I trucked my stuff to the car, waited while I sat in traffic on the 295, waited in traffic on the 32. It waited till I had fetched coffee and calendars for my bosses...then it got all my attention.
My Mama had her ultrasound for her biopsy yesterday. Previously these ultrasounds have found bumps and shadows and all sorts of things in the vicinity of her lungs and breasts. But yesterday they couldn't even find a cyst. Nothing...not a thing. No cutting my Mom up and no shooting her full of stuff.
This is good news. During Breast Cancer Awareness Month you're surrounded by stories and memories. My co-workers, my friends, my aunts (every single one of them), my grandma, my great-grandma. The list grows. Then you find out that people you barely know have been battling cancer for years too. The one good thought that comes from BCAM...most of these women are still alive.
In anycase, in the face of all this gloom and horror - there is good news. Sometimes it really is just a dirty film.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Shakedown
I hate to say this (mostly because for some reason there is a high school teacher haunting my blog, otherwise I wouldn't feel guilty) but I learned very little from my AP American History teacher in high school. Actually I learned very little from most of my high school teachers. As I talk more and more with my fellow scholastic-over-achievers from my childhood we've all noticed that most of our skills and knowledge came from our 8th grade Honors English teacher and our parents. Mostly our parents. Public education in Hawaii is some-what...lacking. Of course our high school achievements don't really matter now. Some yellow-sashed kids went to MIT, Harvard and Westpoint. One committed suicide, one dropped out of school to live in Amsterdam and one is now a successful, prize winning scientist. I skipped college, ran away to New York and then married a sailor. The devil is always in the details huh?
However! I did learn one extremely useful and interesting (at least to me) skill from my AP History teacher that I probably would never have learned from anyone else - The Art of the Handshake.
Shake on it Kathryn he told me one day when I had successfully argued my way out of one of his dumb recess I-am-a-God-and-you-are-my-minions Fests disguised as extra study time. Shake like a man, let me know who you are. Straighten the arm, but never reach - let them come to you. Fit your thumb into the hand - all the way to the heel, wrap firmly and shake down once. That's how you shake like a man Kathryn, that's how you seal the deal.
It is also, I learned later, a good way to size up a person quickly and let them know exactly where they stand in the pecking order.
Every handshake to me is a little war. A little stand-off on a hill. I'm sure most of it is subconscious in ourselves...but all the little details in a handshake really put forth an idea of the person and the situation. How long do you hold a hand? When do you make eye contact and when do you break it? Do you shake or let it hang? How far do you reach? How hard do you squeeze? One hand or two? There are so many little parts of a handshake that can give away so much.
I particularly enjoy shaking hands with politicians (something you get to do a lot when your Father is a Business and Government Reporter.) Shaking the hand of a politician is like cracking open a bad egg. You sit for hours listening to them posture about their strength and importance, then you shake their hands. The good ones shake male hands firmly, locked in tight, almost like they were sharing a confidence. Female hands they completely enclose, but never firmly. Like they were holding the hand of a porcelain doll. But even if they are good handshakers, politicians always reach - they always come to you. Maybe it's because their job is all about begging, always begging for a vote, for a favor. Maybe they're the ultimate service worker, maybe they just didn't know you should let people come to you.
Business men on the other hand are choosy about who they reach out for. Customers obviously can wait for the hand to come to them, Salesmen need to have long arms. Men will always reach out for women - irregardless of the position that woman holds. Most business men have a firm grip, almost far too tight. You'd think they were holding money in their hand rather than flesh. Business men also like to shake in a closed body position. While most people will face you at least a little and open the torso to shake, Business men will turn their sides to you, even reach over their chests to get to you. If they are facing directly they won't make eye contact, or they will turn their feet opposite. Also, the stronger of the business men will keep both feet on the ground, while the weaker will lift their heels, or even the entire foot.
The more I live within the corporate world the more I realize that this might be a guard against false friends. So many times I see my bosses chatter with associates back and forth about trivial matters. What they had for dinner last night, the next great movie. But they never feel any real interest towards any of these personal subjects. In fact they probably hate one another...but they have to look like their close friends - just to keep everyone else out.
Of course I'm picking on the men because by and large handshaking is a "man" thing. Men have been doing it for a long time...centuries. Back when men offered hands to show they weren't carrying any weapons...women didn't have much call to get out of the house. It's only been recently that female handshakes have come into their own.
And we do have one and it is extremely powerful. As male hands grow bigger and ours remain small we have to find new ways to make the shake even, or perhaps gain ground. A man's hand can engulf a woman's. Often you can see men emphasizing the size difference by doing the double clasp. Grip the woman's hand and hold her arm out, then clasp your second hand over, turn your body completely toward her and lean in close. It's a complete violation of personal space and a big point for the man. He can say I have your arm, I have your space, I have your attention - all without looking like the ass he really is.
A woman's handshake needs to take control to even the odds before he can pull her in. A woman shake is all about withholding something, anything, everything. Maybe that's a metaphor for the way women need to behave in society, maybe it's just a skill we use subconsciously. Women, when they shake like women, only offer their fingers, and sometimes only their fingertips. They never hold their hand out. The elbow stays at our side, our forearm curves towards them, we beckon our victim towards us. Only the tip of the thumb will come in contact with the shakers hand, never the heel of the hand. It's not a hold. We caress their hand with our thumb, maybe rub their knuckle - just a little - to throw them off their guard. Make them look up, tilt their heads away from the shake and into our eyes. Give 'em the look. There are many versions of the look, the one that makes men want to protect us, the one that makes them want to comfort us, the one that makes them want to rip our clothes off. Women practice these looks, I know I did. It's an art, and when well-performed can get us whatever we want - whenever we want. Does this sound unfair? Try being 5'4'' surrounded by seven men who are all above 6'2'' and like to call you "kiddo". I use what I have.
A woman's shake is more about the eyes than about the hand. A good female handshaker will never let a man hold their hand for too long. They never bother to offer it in the first place. When it's good, a woman shaking your hand should feel like a gift. I am allowing you into my world for now...but not too close. Women usually smile - it's disarming. A pretty smile, a soft doe-eyed look, an elusive handshake. You can visibly see men get flustered with this. They straighten their collar, they turn their feet out, their hips slip out of line with their torso, they bend at the waist. All a girl has to do is shake nice.
Of course there are counter-measures to the all powerful feminine shake. I recently had dinner with a salesman who was trying to get my husband to buy his stuff. In addition to his impeccable clothing and brilliantly warm smile he had a very disarming handshake. Instead of reaching out and taking my fingers gently (as most men do) he turned his palm up. Usually, when offering just the tips of ones fingers there is the fear that the other party will hold them far too tight and squeeze the fingers together - even hurt them. My Father is a finger-hurter. No matter what men usually have a hard time not squishing fingers, which I've noticed usually gives the point to the woman. However, this particular salesman by-passed this problem by essentially bringing to my fingers a resting place. With his palm cupped up, fingers curved towards him, my own slender fingers fit perfectly over his. He was able to add pressure from the bottom, but caress my own knuckles instead of smashing my digits. He could have almost kissed my hand. He might have been able to pull it off too (if we weren't in a bar), however most men can't do the hand kissing thing without coming off as really creepy. I don't recommend it.
Kissing or no, the shake was sensuous and completely non-threatening and non-creepy. He certainly put me off my guard by treating me like a woman instead of a pint-sized man. There was no posturing from the double-clasp...just a simple change of the wrist and suddenly he was my guide rather than my follower. It was brilliant.
Beyond the hand-cupping shake men can also gain the "upper hand" of a woman by employing their eyes as well. Men who aren't afraid to hold eye contact with a woman and continue to have their hand get equal ground. Notice I said "have their hand" not "hold" because the perfect way to deal with a feminine shake is to simply let the hand rest, touch, and be. No shaking up and down, no clutching or grasping...simply sharing I suppose. Also, the look is important. A few men I've met can carry off a rather imposing look that is more erotic than condescending. My husband can't pull it off, and most men who think of themselves as "Dominant" or "Alpha Males" are really bad at it. Usually it's the quite ones who can look down at a woman or man...and make knees shake. Whenever I see these looks employed I notice that other men will pull their hands away first and women will keep their hands there longer. This has got to be one of those cave-man left overs...whatever it is...thank god for those looks.
If one can't pull off the uber look, a good friendly disarming smile and crinkling eyes will do the trick. Women will feel flattered and men will feel at ease.
So maybe this isn't a great primer on the intricacies of handshakes. It's really just a mix of my opinions and the many images I see as I go through life. But boy do I love handshakes...and boy do I love trying to read stuff into them. They really make me wag my tail. (Which is a whole 'nother post entirely.)
However! I did learn one extremely useful and interesting (at least to me) skill from my AP History teacher that I probably would never have learned from anyone else - The Art of the Handshake.
Shake on it Kathryn he told me one day when I had successfully argued my way out of one of his dumb recess I-am-a-God-and-you-are-my-minions Fests disguised as extra study time. Shake like a man, let me know who you are. Straighten the arm, but never reach - let them come to you. Fit your thumb into the hand - all the way to the heel, wrap firmly and shake down once. That's how you shake like a man Kathryn, that's how you seal the deal.
It is also, I learned later, a good way to size up a person quickly and let them know exactly where they stand in the pecking order.
Every handshake to me is a little war. A little stand-off on a hill. I'm sure most of it is subconscious in ourselves...but all the little details in a handshake really put forth an idea of the person and the situation. How long do you hold a hand? When do you make eye contact and when do you break it? Do you shake or let it hang? How far do you reach? How hard do you squeeze? One hand or two? There are so many little parts of a handshake that can give away so much.
I particularly enjoy shaking hands with politicians (something you get to do a lot when your Father is a Business and Government Reporter.) Shaking the hand of a politician is like cracking open a bad egg. You sit for hours listening to them posture about their strength and importance, then you shake their hands. The good ones shake male hands firmly, locked in tight, almost like they were sharing a confidence. Female hands they completely enclose, but never firmly. Like they were holding the hand of a porcelain doll. But even if they are good handshakers, politicians always reach - they always come to you. Maybe it's because their job is all about begging, always begging for a vote, for a favor. Maybe they're the ultimate service worker, maybe they just didn't know you should let people come to you.
Business men on the other hand are choosy about who they reach out for. Customers obviously can wait for the hand to come to them, Salesmen need to have long arms. Men will always reach out for women - irregardless of the position that woman holds. Most business men have a firm grip, almost far too tight. You'd think they were holding money in their hand rather than flesh. Business men also like to shake in a closed body position. While most people will face you at least a little and open the torso to shake, Business men will turn their sides to you, even reach over their chests to get to you. If they are facing directly they won't make eye contact, or they will turn their feet opposite. Also, the stronger of the business men will keep both feet on the ground, while the weaker will lift their heels, or even the entire foot.
The more I live within the corporate world the more I realize that this might be a guard against false friends. So many times I see my bosses chatter with associates back and forth about trivial matters. What they had for dinner last night, the next great movie. But they never feel any real interest towards any of these personal subjects. In fact they probably hate one another...but they have to look like their close friends - just to keep everyone else out.
Of course I'm picking on the men because by and large handshaking is a "man" thing. Men have been doing it for a long time...centuries. Back when men offered hands to show they weren't carrying any weapons...women didn't have much call to get out of the house. It's only been recently that female handshakes have come into their own.
And we do have one and it is extremely powerful. As male hands grow bigger and ours remain small we have to find new ways to make the shake even, or perhaps gain ground. A man's hand can engulf a woman's. Often you can see men emphasizing the size difference by doing the double clasp. Grip the woman's hand and hold her arm out, then clasp your second hand over, turn your body completely toward her and lean in close. It's a complete violation of personal space and a big point for the man. He can say I have your arm, I have your space, I have your attention - all without looking like the ass he really is.
A woman's handshake needs to take control to even the odds before he can pull her in. A woman shake is all about withholding something, anything, everything. Maybe that's a metaphor for the way women need to behave in society, maybe it's just a skill we use subconsciously. Women, when they shake like women, only offer their fingers, and sometimes only their fingertips. They never hold their hand out. The elbow stays at our side, our forearm curves towards them, we beckon our victim towards us. Only the tip of the thumb will come in contact with the shakers hand, never the heel of the hand. It's not a hold. We caress their hand with our thumb, maybe rub their knuckle - just a little - to throw them off their guard. Make them look up, tilt their heads away from the shake and into our eyes. Give 'em the look. There are many versions of the look, the one that makes men want to protect us, the one that makes them want to comfort us, the one that makes them want to rip our clothes off. Women practice these looks, I know I did. It's an art, and when well-performed can get us whatever we want - whenever we want. Does this sound unfair? Try being 5'4'' surrounded by seven men who are all above 6'2'' and like to call you "kiddo". I use what I have.
A woman's shake is more about the eyes than about the hand. A good female handshaker will never let a man hold their hand for too long. They never bother to offer it in the first place. When it's good, a woman shaking your hand should feel like a gift. I am allowing you into my world for now...but not too close. Women usually smile - it's disarming. A pretty smile, a soft doe-eyed look, an elusive handshake. You can visibly see men get flustered with this. They straighten their collar, they turn their feet out, their hips slip out of line with their torso, they bend at the waist. All a girl has to do is shake nice.
Of course there are counter-measures to the all powerful feminine shake. I recently had dinner with a salesman who was trying to get my husband to buy his stuff. In addition to his impeccable clothing and brilliantly warm smile he had a very disarming handshake. Instead of reaching out and taking my fingers gently (as most men do) he turned his palm up. Usually, when offering just the tips of ones fingers there is the fear that the other party will hold them far too tight and squeeze the fingers together - even hurt them. My Father is a finger-hurter. No matter what men usually have a hard time not squishing fingers, which I've noticed usually gives the point to the woman. However, this particular salesman by-passed this problem by essentially bringing to my fingers a resting place. With his palm cupped up, fingers curved towards him, my own slender fingers fit perfectly over his. He was able to add pressure from the bottom, but caress my own knuckles instead of smashing my digits. He could have almost kissed my hand. He might have been able to pull it off too (if we weren't in a bar), however most men can't do the hand kissing thing without coming off as really creepy. I don't recommend it.
Kissing or no, the shake was sensuous and completely non-threatening and non-creepy. He certainly put me off my guard by treating me like a woman instead of a pint-sized man. There was no posturing from the double-clasp...just a simple change of the wrist and suddenly he was my guide rather than my follower. It was brilliant.
Beyond the hand-cupping shake men can also gain the "upper hand" of a woman by employing their eyes as well. Men who aren't afraid to hold eye contact with a woman and continue to have their hand get equal ground. Notice I said "have their hand" not "hold" because the perfect way to deal with a feminine shake is to simply let the hand rest, touch, and be. No shaking up and down, no clutching or grasping...simply sharing I suppose. Also, the look is important. A few men I've met can carry off a rather imposing look that is more erotic than condescending. My husband can't pull it off, and most men who think of themselves as "Dominant" or "Alpha Males" are really bad at it. Usually it's the quite ones who can look down at a woman or man...and make knees shake. Whenever I see these looks employed I notice that other men will pull their hands away first and women will keep their hands there longer. This has got to be one of those cave-man left overs...whatever it is...thank god for those looks.
If one can't pull off the uber look, a good friendly disarming smile and crinkling eyes will do the trick. Women will feel flattered and men will feel at ease.
So maybe this isn't a great primer on the intricacies of handshakes. It's really just a mix of my opinions and the many images I see as I go through life. But boy do I love handshakes...and boy do I love trying to read stuff into them. They really make me wag my tail. (Which is a whole 'nother post entirely.)
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Doing It
Last Thursday we went to our first yoga class. I really enjoyed it. The husband liked it too, though you couldn't tell from all the groaning and fussing coming from my left side. I have to admit some of the poses were a tad difficult...but seriously, shush people.
Ever notice how it's mostly the men who whine in classes like that. The women stay silent. Maybe it's like a tool for attention or something. I dunno. All I know is that in all the classes I take I rarely hear a girl fuss or groan when we do something hard.
But that's not the point to this post. The point is something our teacher said in the beginning. I'm trying to remember exactly how he said it, but I probably have a few things wrong.
What's it feel like? (silence) What does it feel like to be doing? Doing something? (more silence)
Everyone get these ideas to try something, to do something that may make life better. That little seed gets planted, but for whatever reason the phone call isn't made, the appointment isn't set, the time never comes up. For whatever reason, we just never follow through.
But by virtue of you being here, at this class, you did it. You did something. Where ever the seed came from, you decided to give it a chance. And whether this is the last time you come here, or if you decided to continue, you made that step. You did something.
What does it feel like?
I'm not sure what it feels like. Like I want to keep making steps, like I need to keep making steps. Like I'm finally the one empowered rather than being the one who is empowering.
I think though that that little speech is gonna stick with me.
What does it feel like to be doing something?
Ever notice how it's mostly the men who whine in classes like that. The women stay silent. Maybe it's like a tool for attention or something. I dunno. All I know is that in all the classes I take I rarely hear a girl fuss or groan when we do something hard.
But that's not the point to this post. The point is something our teacher said in the beginning. I'm trying to remember exactly how he said it, but I probably have a few things wrong.
What's it feel like? (silence) What does it feel like to be doing? Doing something? (more silence)
Everyone get these ideas to try something, to do something that may make life better. That little seed gets planted, but for whatever reason the phone call isn't made, the appointment isn't set, the time never comes up. For whatever reason, we just never follow through.
But by virtue of you being here, at this class, you did it. You did something. Where ever the seed came from, you decided to give it a chance. And whether this is the last time you come here, or if you decided to continue, you made that step. You did something.
What does it feel like?
I'm not sure what it feels like. Like I want to keep making steps, like I need to keep making steps. Like I'm finally the one empowered rather than being the one who is empowering.
I think though that that little speech is gonna stick with me.
What does it feel like to be doing something?
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