Since yesterday was my only really free day to explore the city, I set off after checking and re-checking my bank account (there was about a $200 discrepancy between what my company said it was paying for and what it actually paid for. Fun.) Hopefully my math, which I repeated checked on two different calculators, worked out and I don’t run any over draft charges. Eek.
On to my mini-venture…
Apparently, the west coast has a rainy season. It’s lovely in the morning and then the rains set in and normal people take cover under awnings. I pick this time to take a 15 minute walk to Chinatown. Well, it would have been 15 minutes if my shoes did not repeatedly fall off my feet. My lovely, dependable Steve Madden flats that have only ever coyly dropped off my heel while sitting on the Metro, slipped completely off my feet crossing Geary St. San Francisco, you could imagine is about level with D.C. when it comes to “places I’d rather prefer not to be barefoot.” I elected to try and find a shoe store in the area. Chinatown does not have shoe stores. It has Hunan restaurants and a few head shops (how does one city support so many head shops?) and weird Chinese herb shops the likes of which I’ve only seen on travel specials…no shoe stores. I figured out a way to walk with my toes completely flexed so as to create a kind of hook to which my shoes could cling and made my way to City Lights to spend too much money and dry off. (Side note, I’m writing this in a Starbucks and one of the baristas just alerted everyone to a messenger bag left unattended at a table. The barista warned the person who copped to owning the bag that someone could steal it. Everyone else seemed utterly nonplussed. I immediately thought, “don’t touch it, it could be a chemical weapon.” I’ve been living near D.C. too fucking long.)
City Lights was magically. As magical as you’d expect a bookstore owned by one of the Beats to be. The building is old and in the rain smelled vaguely of mildew (booksmell mostly overwhelmed that but not completely.) The poetry room was everything I'd hoped it would be. Unfortunately, upon reaching the room on the third floor I completely forgot the name of every poet or poem I'd ever read and proceeded to wander aimlessly around the room until something popped out at me. I almost left with the collected poems of W.B. Yeats. Then I remembered that, unlike Borders, I may be judged for my book purchasing choices at an (anti)establishment of this magnitude. I picked up a collection by Philip Larkin (not particularly impressive but I love him and own nothing by him yet so I took the risk. Then I frantically flipped through my moleskine for any name that I'd come across but did not own yet. I found Robert Creeley and Dorothea Tanning. I went with the Tanning but later remembered that Mark had mentioned I should look into Albert Goldbarth. I stuck with the Tanning but not without a decent amount of back and worth.
When I finally left (it took a while to work up the reserve to stop smelling the Derrida, I left with one children's book for Kora about a duck who buys ever-expanding purple socks, the Larkin, the Tanning, the latest issue of Believer, Girlfriend in a Coma by Douglas Coupland, 7 postcards ( a picture of City Lights, Joyce, Whitman, Heaney, Bukowski sticking his fingers in his mouth, the staircase leading up to the Poetry Room, and Ginsburg), and a bumper sticker that says "HOWL if you love City Lights".
Were it not for my shoes actively falling off (requiring an emergency pair of pumas) I would have stayed longer and bought more. As it is, I think I showed an incredible amount of restraint. I want to love San Francisco but there are things I cannot reconcile. The homeless situation here dwarfs D.C. They're really all over. Not pushy or aggressive, but problematic nonetheless. No one walks fast enough. Even in the morning. It's as if they have no where to be, even at 8:45 in the morning. My skin and hair are simultaneously dry and oily. I don't know how that happens, but there it is. This climate does not agree with my face.
Really though, I'm just not cool enough for this place. I'm barely cool enough for D.C.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The post got progressively lamer the more I typed...
Well, I made it. The plane took off and landed with relatively little fanfare. I don't particularly care for air travel (what very little I have done) but I had to be assured by the nonplussed looks of the other passengers every time the plane got a little shaky or the fasten seat belts sign clicked on that we were not actually about to faceplant (planeplant?) onto the ground 30 thou' below. They did their best (not knowing what they were actually doing) but I still spent the majority of the flight with my seat belt on and my tray table in the upright and locked position.
When I was checking in at Dulles, I entered my information into a kiosk and there was apparently another person with my name flying that day. only she was headed for Paris. It would have been poor form to take her place. Also I'd probably lose my job and might create some sort of pesky international incident. And I did not have my passport on me. Paris would be nice though. I wonder if it's raining there too.
The trickiest part of this whole business travel deal is the eating alone. I've been given $75 per day. I just don't know if I can walk into a fancy restaurant and sit by myself. I just don't see it happening. I realize that no one around me would care or even really notice that I was alone but the prospect of sitting at a table by myself at anything fancier than a sandwich shop isn't terribly appealing. I can do it there (and did earlier today). Coffee shops too. But a place with cloth napkins? I just don't see it happening.
Tomorrow, we're setting up the booth for the conference and I have the rest of the day to myself. I'm going to try and find City Lights, the bookstore started by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Let's see if I can negotiate mass transit on the other side of the country. In the meantime though, I think I'm going to go to the gym before I fall asleep.
When I was checking in at Dulles, I entered my information into a kiosk and there was apparently another person with my name flying that day. only she was headed for Paris. It would have been poor form to take her place. Also I'd probably lose my job and might create some sort of pesky international incident. And I did not have my passport on me. Paris would be nice though. I wonder if it's raining there too.
The trickiest part of this whole business travel deal is the eating alone. I've been given $75 per day. I just don't know if I can walk into a fancy restaurant and sit by myself. I just don't see it happening. I realize that no one around me would care or even really notice that I was alone but the prospect of sitting at a table by myself at anything fancier than a sandwich shop isn't terribly appealing. I can do it there (and did earlier today). Coffee shops too. But a place with cloth napkins? I just don't see it happening.
Tomorrow, we're setting up the booth for the conference and I have the rest of the day to myself. I'm going to try and find City Lights, the bookstore started by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Let's see if I can negotiate mass transit on the other side of the country. In the meantime though, I think I'm going to go to the gym before I fall asleep.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Ways I have attempted to organize my bookshelf*
*Ordered from most to least efficient
1. Alphabetical, regardless of book category.
2. Book Catagory (poetry, style guide, philosophy, etc.) then alphabetical.
3. Publication Date (first, not most recent reprint or publication of most recent addition[for books containing introductions not found in previous editions]).
4. Publishing House (imprints fall in line alphabetically behind larger house).
5. Class for which work was purchased (Only worked at school and even then only for part of portable library).
6. Biographically (problematic because I do not know why I own a copy of Ain't Nobody's Business If You Do : The Absurdity of Consensual Crimes in Our Free Country.)
7. How impressive would I seem at a party if I casually mentioned having read it? (Most to Least.)
8. Brilliance of opening line. This method falls flat unless you are working only with novels and short stories.
9. Mental Illness/Major Vice that served as author's undoing. (ex. Hemingway, Burroughs, and Thompson: Guns; Poe: Mournful, never-ending remembrance...and liver failure; Woolf: pocket full of rocks [so far, she's there by herself])This method is wholly ineffective when the author is still alive and has no known addictions.
10. My own raging jealousy.
1. Alphabetical, regardless of book category.
2. Book Catagory (poetry, style guide, philosophy, etc.) then alphabetical.
3. Publication Date (first, not most recent reprint or publication of most recent addition[for books containing introductions not found in previous editions]).
4. Publishing House (imprints fall in line alphabetically behind larger house).
5. Class for which work was purchased (Only worked at school and even then only for part of portable library).
6. Biographically (problematic because I do not know why I own a copy of Ain't Nobody's Business If You Do : The Absurdity of Consensual Crimes in Our Free Country.)
7. How impressive would I seem at a party if I casually mentioned having read it? (Most to Least.)
8. Brilliance of opening line. This method falls flat unless you are working only with novels and short stories.
9. Mental Illness/Major Vice that served as author's undoing. (ex. Hemingway, Burroughs, and Thompson: Guns; Poe: Mournful, never-ending remembrance...and liver failure; Woolf: pocket full of rocks [so far, she's there by herself])This method is wholly ineffective when the author is still alive and has no known addictions.
10. My own raging jealousy.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Bring on the fanny packs, I think I just hit tacky and classless.
Walt requested that I honor his birthday in some way, presumably with a phone call or card. I did that. Except last week he apparently told the only two people in the in the area who were speaking to me on a semi-regular basis that I no longer required their acquaintance and they listened. This brings the "friends with in a four hour drive" count to a whopping 0. I also finally went to the dermatologist and was prescribed multiple creams that have, so far, only succeeded in make it look like my chin spent a week in Tahiti without packing sunscreen. Compounding this, not only have I not heard back from the therapist my mom suggested I make an appointment with, I'm also now being ignored my the nursing home at which I volunteered to be a reader. To recap:
1. Net loss of friends thanks to my exceedingly helpful ex-boyfriend.
2. face actively rejecting top layer of skin
3. Denied by both medical professionals and old people.
Owning to this most spectacularly shitty week and half I was not feeling particularly honorable, I sent Walt this:
http://www.someecards.com/viewcard/fc76abfbfd3a8d1e090c6239e169bb29
And I'm done.
1. Net loss of friends thanks to my exceedingly helpful ex-boyfriend.
2. face actively rejecting top layer of skin
3. Denied by both medical professionals and old people.
Owning to this most spectacularly shitty week and half I was not feeling particularly honorable, I sent Walt this:
http://www.someecards.com/viewcard/fc76abfbfd3a8d1e090c6239e169bb29
And I'm done.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
And that's just what they'll do...
Yesterday, while working on an endless stream of errands (which included going to the dry cleaner to pick up a dress, a skirt, and a pair of pants for which my mom did not have a ticket and had already paid for but insisted the owner had kept because of a stain that required special attention, leaving the dry cleaner with only my dress and skirt because (not completely unsurprisingly) the dry cleaner had no memory of the previous pants-related interaction and then going back to the dry cleaner after mom called the cleaners and promised not to yell...Given the number of bowing apologies made by the dry cleaner when I came back for the pants, I don't quite believe her), I walked into Starbuck(')s for a pick-me-up. I'd hoped to try the espresso truffle, which looks tasty but I never order because I usually get coffee on the way to work and only have time for the ready-to-pour-right-now variety. They were, of course, out of whatever is required to make the espresso truffle and I ordered a Venti Americano instead. But this is not the point of the post. The point is that when I walked in, the barista told me I reminded him of a snippet from the trailer for Pretty Woman. Apparently, something about the way I walk reminded this man of hookers.
I knew I shouldn't have tried the whole jeans tucked into boots thing. I was worried that with my coat it would make it look like I was recruiting for a reformed Nazi party (according to Ian, my coat is alarmingly Teutonic.) I didn't realize that my outfit made me look like I could make a living on Craigslist (I'm like 3,000 roses.) To be fair, he meant it as a compliment and told me I had a good walk. All I could think to say in return was "Well, I've been doing it for about 22 years now."
I knew I shouldn't have tried the whole jeans tucked into boots thing. I was worried that with my coat it would make it look like I was recruiting for a reformed Nazi party (according to Ian, my coat is alarmingly Teutonic.) I didn't realize that my outfit made me look like I could make a living on Craigslist (I'm like 3,000 roses.) To be fair, he meant it as a compliment and told me I had a good walk. All I could think to say in return was "Well, I've been doing it for about 22 years now."
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
move along, nothing to see here.
Last night I wrote him a letter I had no intention of sending, mostly because it snarkily outlined his less appealing points. I have a copy on my computer, where it will invariably remain despite having briefly considered posting it anonymously on Craigslist. I, if only for a mili-second, considered posting it not so anonymously here too. That would have been beyond the Pale. Also tacky and classless. I'm trying to avoid both with actively decreasing efficiency. Part of me wants to cop to every accusation and hurt feeling. To take responsibility for all of it and apologize again for all my shortcomings. The other part, when thinking about the last two or so years and especially this last month, wants to run screaming from all of it. The only problem is that I have a decent job, just got accepted to grad school and don't quite know how Bagel would fare on the lam. She does not like to walk for long periods of time and I'm get tired carrying her. I couldn't very well leave her behind though. I suppose I'm stuck.
What's difficult in all of this is how little I can actually say. I told Nicole a lot this weekend while she was in town. The problem is that she isn't in town anymore and I've only really started talking about it beyond vagaries--we grew apart, we just want different things out of life--it's hopeless bullshit and does not begin to get at the point of the thing. The only problem, and it's a rather large problem, is that the way I tell the point of the thing does not put him in the most attractive light. It's downright ugly. It's also ultimately an inaccurate picture because even though I'm the one who did the ending, it's still hurts a lot. It had hurt before and it still does. One of our mutual friends equated the way Walt feels right now to having just had an incredibly large band-aid ripped off. It makes sense, he never really saw this coming... except that that band-aid had been there for a while now and it was starting to gather fuzzy bits on all sides. Maybe he really did not see the bluish outline form around the bandage, but it had been discussed. As much as I want to believe his absolute ignorance when it came to the fuzzier bits, it hurts just the same to think maybe (and contrary to all his recent rantings) he just didn't care enough to to at least spruce it up with a new band-aid, maybe a a little rubbing alcohol, some Neosporin. Stupid is easier to forgive.
I wish I could actually explain this to my friends (the two or three I see in person on a semi-regular basis), gory details included. But they're all his friends too. Actually, they're his friends first. I wish I could talk to them, explain everything and have them tell me I did the right thing and deserve much better than I'd been handed. But I can't and they wouldn't. Even if they did sit through the tirade I've choreographed in my head, I'm not entirely sure they think I did remotely the right thing. I don't blame them for that. It makes a lot of sense. I just can't talk to them. We went out on Sunday afternoon and I had to buy boots afterwards to cheer myself up. It was nothing they did or said but there is a palpable distance and it's sad and I don't need one more reason to sit in my room and be sad.
Before I met him, I spent most every night at home. I'd run out of homework and rent DVDs from the library. Early on in our relationship, he told me he felt bad because we always hung out with his friends and that he'd like to meet some of mine. I didn't know how to tell me that I didn't really have any and that I only went out when my roommate let me tag along to whatever party she' was going to. He'd already met my roommate. Now, I can't get over how it's his friends (really, thats what they've always been) I'd have to explain all of these gory details to. I can't do that. It goes back to the tacky, classless thing. I've already let too much slip around them. I shouldn't; it isn't fair. I get mean and petty when I'm mad and hurt. Even saying this here, knowing full well they can and have already found this, seems hideously passive-aggressive. But I don't have a paper diary. I've never been able to keep one going. I'm sorry about that, the passive-aggressive part that is. I don't mean to be and can only hope this will get ignored. I just had to get out some snippet of something. I've kept it in too long, it's giving me stomachaches and acne.
I had been keeping a list of things about the relationship, things that marked our ultimate undoing. I had hoped it would be cathartic but mostly it just felt pathetic. I've re-read the list and I don't hate him so much (although, I can't help but hate him a little...it will pass, probably quickly) as I hate myself for letting it all happen.
On Saturday night, for a few minutes at least, all they wanted to do was take my picture. I hid to the best of my ability because my skin is worse than it's been in years and I really don't want evidence of that floating around when this is all over. It's hopelessly vain but when you feel like shit you really don't also need to be reminded how closely you resemble it. I should have stayed home. I have the special edition of Hamlet. An evening with a melancholy Dane would have put things in perspective, I think.
What's difficult in all of this is how little I can actually say. I told Nicole a lot this weekend while she was in town. The problem is that she isn't in town anymore and I've only really started talking about it beyond vagaries--we grew apart, we just want different things out of life--it's hopeless bullshit and does not begin to get at the point of the thing. The only problem, and it's a rather large problem, is that the way I tell the point of the thing does not put him in the most attractive light. It's downright ugly. It's also ultimately an inaccurate picture because even though I'm the one who did the ending, it's still hurts a lot. It had hurt before and it still does. One of our mutual friends equated the way Walt feels right now to having just had an incredibly large band-aid ripped off. It makes sense, he never really saw this coming... except that that band-aid had been there for a while now and it was starting to gather fuzzy bits on all sides. Maybe he really did not see the bluish outline form around the bandage, but it had been discussed. As much as I want to believe his absolute ignorance when it came to the fuzzier bits, it hurts just the same to think maybe (and contrary to all his recent rantings) he just didn't care enough to to at least spruce it up with a new band-aid, maybe a a little rubbing alcohol, some Neosporin. Stupid is easier to forgive.
I wish I could actually explain this to my friends (the two or three I see in person on a semi-regular basis), gory details included. But they're all his friends too. Actually, they're his friends first. I wish I could talk to them, explain everything and have them tell me I did the right thing and deserve much better than I'd been handed. But I can't and they wouldn't. Even if they did sit through the tirade I've choreographed in my head, I'm not entirely sure they think I did remotely the right thing. I don't blame them for that. It makes a lot of sense. I just can't talk to them. We went out on Sunday afternoon and I had to buy boots afterwards to cheer myself up. It was nothing they did or said but there is a palpable distance and it's sad and I don't need one more reason to sit in my room and be sad.
Before I met him, I spent most every night at home. I'd run out of homework and rent DVDs from the library. Early on in our relationship, he told me he felt bad because we always hung out with his friends and that he'd like to meet some of mine. I didn't know how to tell me that I didn't really have any and that I only went out when my roommate let me tag along to whatever party she' was going to. He'd already met my roommate. Now, I can't get over how it's his friends (really, thats what they've always been) I'd have to explain all of these gory details to. I can't do that. It goes back to the tacky, classless thing. I've already let too much slip around them. I shouldn't; it isn't fair. I get mean and petty when I'm mad and hurt. Even saying this here, knowing full well they can and have already found this, seems hideously passive-aggressive. But I don't have a paper diary. I've never been able to keep one going. I'm sorry about that, the passive-aggressive part that is. I don't mean to be and can only hope this will get ignored. I just had to get out some snippet of something. I've kept it in too long, it's giving me stomachaches and acne.
I had been keeping a list of things about the relationship, things that marked our ultimate undoing. I had hoped it would be cathartic but mostly it just felt pathetic. I've re-read the list and I don't hate him so much (although, I can't help but hate him a little...it will pass, probably quickly) as I hate myself for letting it all happen.
On Saturday night, for a few minutes at least, all they wanted to do was take my picture. I hid to the best of my ability because my skin is worse than it's been in years and I really don't want evidence of that floating around when this is all over. It's hopelessly vain but when you feel like shit you really don't also need to be reminded how closely you resemble it. I should have stayed home. I have the special edition of Hamlet. An evening with a melancholy Dane would have put things in perspective, I think.
Monday, November 24, 2008
...And I got this little streak in me that's twenty times mean.
There is a bit at the very beginning of Moby-Dick where Ishmael explains that when he gets in an a certain mood he has to the urge to methodically knock off the caps of people who happen to pass him on the street. It's the same part in the first chapter where he explains the need to pause before coffin warehouses. I get that. Unfortunately, I can't even bring myself to cut in line at Starbuck(')s. Ishmael sees it as the perfect time to take to the sea. Me? I write pithy, snarky poems. I just found this one going through things I wrote for one of Lou's classes. It'll never see its way to a journal or 'zine (except in a highly edited, almost unrecognizable form), so I assume it's safe for posting. It's part true, part complete lie, part my own working definition of Schadenfreude. I'm not going to say which is which. it's more fun that way (for me).
IF EVERYONE HERE DIES I GET TO BE EMPEROR
I.
I steal silverware from restaurants
and put it in a drawer in my kitchen
I wouldn’t use otherwise.
When the waitress isn’t looking
I stuff my purse full
of spoons, forks and steak knives.
Sometimes, if my bag is big enough,
I take mugs and decorative glasses too.
I stole a carafe once.
I always ask for extra napkins
so I have something to wrap them in.
She must think I’m a messy eater.
II.
I whisper obscenities at small children
getting off school buses
on sunny Friday afternoons—
just quiet enough that no one knows
exactly what I’m saying
but loud enough that
I make their parents and babysitters uncomfortable
III.
The day people told me you had a concussion
and couldn’t remember anything
passed the last 15 minutes,
I asked you questions
about conversations we never had
and laughed when you didn’t know
what in the hell I was talking about.
IV.
I find it difficult to sympathize
with Mary Magdalene.
she knew what she was getting into—
martyrs never want to go to sleep.
V.
I sniff underwear
in the women’s department
I hope someone tried on earlier
that same day.
I’m not allowed in Victoria’s Secret anymore—
they have my picture on file.
So I sit at the Starbucks
across the mall
and hope something wafts my way.
VI.
I carve voodoo dolls
of people who cut me off in traffic,
dog ear library books,
rent the movie I wanted to see,
make small talk with the cashier
when I’m already running late
and no other register is open…
I just don’t know how
to go about collecting their hair.
VII.
The night my ex-boyfriend
shot himself in the face
in the middle of a parking lot at VCU
I ate cake.
Later, at the funeral,
surrounded by Jell-O molds
and anonymous, green casseroles—
I didn’t have the stomach for it.
I didn’t take the spoons that night.
I can’t steal from church
and they’re plastic anyhow.
I offered to help clean up after
and stole the tablecloths instead.
IF EVERYONE HERE DIES I GET TO BE EMPEROR
I.
I steal silverware from restaurants
and put it in a drawer in my kitchen
I wouldn’t use otherwise.
When the waitress isn’t looking
I stuff my purse full
of spoons, forks and steak knives.
Sometimes, if my bag is big enough,
I take mugs and decorative glasses too.
I stole a carafe once.
I always ask for extra napkins
so I have something to wrap them in.
She must think I’m a messy eater.
II.
I whisper obscenities at small children
getting off school buses
on sunny Friday afternoons—
just quiet enough that no one knows
exactly what I’m saying
but loud enough that
I make their parents and babysitters uncomfortable
III.
The day people told me you had a concussion
and couldn’t remember anything
passed the last 15 minutes,
I asked you questions
about conversations we never had
and laughed when you didn’t know
what in the hell I was talking about.
IV.
I find it difficult to sympathize
with Mary Magdalene.
she knew what she was getting into—
martyrs never want to go to sleep.
V.
I sniff underwear
in the women’s department
I hope someone tried on earlier
that same day.
I’m not allowed in Victoria’s Secret anymore—
they have my picture on file.
So I sit at the Starbucks
across the mall
and hope something wafts my way.
VI.
I carve voodoo dolls
of people who cut me off in traffic,
dog ear library books,
rent the movie I wanted to see,
make small talk with the cashier
when I’m already running late
and no other register is open…
I just don’t know how
to go about collecting their hair.
VII.
The night my ex-boyfriend
shot himself in the face
in the middle of a parking lot at VCU
I ate cake.
Later, at the funeral,
surrounded by Jell-O molds
and anonymous, green casseroles—
I didn’t have the stomach for it.
I didn’t take the spoons that night.
I can’t steal from church
and they’re plastic anyhow.
I offered to help clean up after
and stole the tablecloths instead.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Perhaps the title has taken on an ironic tone...
I'm still doing some major fiddling with this poem but I wanted to put up the original and then the "fixed" version base on suggestions made by a former professor. I always thought this thing was too long and it may still be. I have not done a full line edit, it is a skeleton of what it was before.
First the Edit:
PRODUCE
Lately, I feign headaches to be alone
and wake, flushed, from fitful sleep,
from dreams where my hands
or nose or ears are missing
and no one notices but me.
The grapes in the produce section,
bunched tightly in hunks,
don’t notice this absence
the way I did that morning
in my paper dress and hospital slippers.
My knees in the air and without underwear on,
we discussed Benizir Bhutto’s
assassination before the doctor filled
the syringe and the room
went momentarily fuzzy.
The machine lisped,
the wailing welling in me
like an old Armenian woman
who’d mourn for years to come
the quiet renting in that tiny room.
The hollow spaces—
walls I didn’t know,
cavities I thought filled in
by connective tissue and millions of platelets—
ached from dilation
and the unsteady slurp
of being sucked (almost) dry.
The slow wet gulp
of a clogged drain
swallowing the last of my shower
is sinister in how it reminds me
of sounds anesthesia could not block.
These grapes, bagged
in unrepentantly happy clusters
don’t know their role in this—
what I buy to avoid
coming home with less
than when I left.
Now the Original:
THE UNKINDNESS OF GRAPES
I.
The grapes in the produce section,
bunched tightly in hunks,
don’t notice an absence
the way I did that morning
in my paper dress and hospital slippers.
II.
We sat—
me and the rest—
some reading paperback novels,
others staring mindlessly past the wall,
waiting to hear their name.
Absentminded, I did the crossword,
filling “working” into 15-across
even though it should have been “useable.”
I did not get the chance to correct myself.
III.
My knees in the air and without any panties on,
we discussed Benizir Bhutto’s
assassination before the doctor filled
the syringe and the room
went momentarily fuzzy.
The machine lisped,
the wailing welling in me
like an old Armenian woman
who’d mourn for years to come
the quiet renting in that tiny room.
But I only managed a gasping wince
before it was over and I was told
I’d be back to normal soon.
IV.
The hollow spaces in me:
walls I didn’t know,
cavities I thought filled in
by connective tissue and millions of platelets,
ached from dilation
and the unsteady slurp
of being sucked (almost) dry.
Even the slow wet gulp
of a clogged drain
swallowing the last of my shower
is sinister in how it reminds me
of the sounds
the anesthesia could not block.
V.
Every conversation we’ve had
since I left so early that morning
without leaving a note
to say where I’d be
or for how long I’d be gone,
has been an ellipsis.
What I could say to women
I’d never met, but not to you,
echoes in me when you ask
how’ve I’ve been
and why I didn’t call when
I was in town.
VI.
Lately, I feign headaches to be alone
and wake, flushed, from fitful sleep
and from dreams where my hands
or nose or ears are missing
and no one notices but me.
I am still waiting for the normal
I was promised weeks ago.
VII.
These grapes, bagged
in unrepentantly happy clusters
don’t know their role in this—
what I buy to avoid
coming home with less
than when I left.
Let me know what you think...all three of you.
First the Edit:
PRODUCE
Lately, I feign headaches to be alone
and wake, flushed, from fitful sleep,
from dreams where my hands
or nose or ears are missing
and no one notices but me.
The grapes in the produce section,
bunched tightly in hunks,
don’t notice this absence
the way I did that morning
in my paper dress and hospital slippers.
My knees in the air and without underwear on,
we discussed Benizir Bhutto’s
assassination before the doctor filled
the syringe and the room
went momentarily fuzzy.
The machine lisped,
the wailing welling in me
like an old Armenian woman
who’d mourn for years to come
the quiet renting in that tiny room.
The hollow spaces—
walls I didn’t know,
cavities I thought filled in
by connective tissue and millions of platelets—
ached from dilation
and the unsteady slurp
of being sucked (almost) dry.
The slow wet gulp
of a clogged drain
swallowing the last of my shower
is sinister in how it reminds me
of sounds anesthesia could not block.
These grapes, bagged
in unrepentantly happy clusters
don’t know their role in this—
what I buy to avoid
coming home with less
than when I left.
Now the Original:
THE UNKINDNESS OF GRAPES
I.
The grapes in the produce section,
bunched tightly in hunks,
don’t notice an absence
the way I did that morning
in my paper dress and hospital slippers.
II.
We sat—
me and the rest—
some reading paperback novels,
others staring mindlessly past the wall,
waiting to hear their name.
Absentminded, I did the crossword,
filling “working” into 15-across
even though it should have been “useable.”
I did not get the chance to correct myself.
III.
My knees in the air and without any panties on,
we discussed Benizir Bhutto’s
assassination before the doctor filled
the syringe and the room
went momentarily fuzzy.
The machine lisped,
the wailing welling in me
like an old Armenian woman
who’d mourn for years to come
the quiet renting in that tiny room.
But I only managed a gasping wince
before it was over and I was told
I’d be back to normal soon.
IV.
The hollow spaces in me:
walls I didn’t know,
cavities I thought filled in
by connective tissue and millions of platelets,
ached from dilation
and the unsteady slurp
of being sucked (almost) dry.
Even the slow wet gulp
of a clogged drain
swallowing the last of my shower
is sinister in how it reminds me
of the sounds
the anesthesia could not block.
V.
Every conversation we’ve had
since I left so early that morning
without leaving a note
to say where I’d be
or for how long I’d be gone,
has been an ellipsis.
What I could say to women
I’d never met, but not to you,
echoes in me when you ask
how’ve I’ve been
and why I didn’t call when
I was in town.
VI.
Lately, I feign headaches to be alone
and wake, flushed, from fitful sleep
and from dreams where my hands
or nose or ears are missing
and no one notices but me.
I am still waiting for the normal
I was promised weeks ago.
VII.
These grapes, bagged
in unrepentantly happy clusters
don’t know their role in this—
what I buy to avoid
coming home with less
than when I left.
Let me know what you think...all three of you.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I hope I did not just make a costly mistake
"Are completing you thesis this semester?..."
That was the subject heading on the first e-mail I received from the GMU English Lit grad student listserv. I'm fairly certain that the woman who oversees the listserv is not actually a professor. This is slightly, though far from entirely, comforting.
I might have made another costly error in judgment recently. I'm not sure yet. But I do know that the place where I post letters to Starbucks is not the place to discuss said confusing, giant messes.
Instead, here is some impromptu haiku:
He sleeps on sofa--
shoes still on. Was raised better.
He'll trip, ties laces.
That was the subject heading on the first e-mail I received from the GMU English Lit grad student listserv. I'm fairly certain that the woman who oversees the listserv is not actually a professor. This is slightly, though far from entirely, comforting.
I might have made another costly error in judgment recently. I'm not sure yet. But I do know that the place where I post letters to Starbucks is not the place to discuss said confusing, giant messes.
Instead, here is some impromptu haiku:
He sleeps on sofa--
shoes still on. Was raised better.
He'll trip, ties laces.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Decisions, decisions...
Walking into the Vienna Metro this morning I had to make an awkward decision. Shake hands with former Governor, now-Senatorial candidate Jim Gilmore, or grab an Express from the guy who stands outside the entrance on weekday mornings and hands them out...
He could have stood just inside the gateway or slightly in front of the Express fellow. Out of deference to my mother (whose overriding sense of propriety pops in my head during just such occasions[also whenever I am tempted to refer to President Bush as Grand High Ass Twat in an official sense instead of giving due respect to the office]), I shook fr.gov. Gilmore's hand first and quickly moved to get an Express. Very quickly. I'll be voting for Warner. He's had my vote since he spoke in the Bonnie last spring and, when asked, told the crowd that while law degrees and MBA's could get you pretty far, it doesn't mean anything if you don't pay attention in English class.
I'd probably vote for anyone who stumps on the importance of a liberal arts education. Hell, all Joe Biden had to do was have a staffer put a Seamus Heaney poem on his facebook page.
He could have stood just inside the gateway or slightly in front of the Express fellow. Out of deference to my mother (whose overriding sense of propriety pops in my head during just such occasions[also whenever I am tempted to refer to President Bush as Grand High Ass Twat in an official sense instead of giving due respect to the office]), I shook fr.gov. Gilmore's hand first and quickly moved to get an Express. Very quickly. I'll be voting for Warner. He's had my vote since he spoke in the Bonnie last spring and, when asked, told the crowd that while law degrees and MBA's could get you pretty far, it doesn't mean anything if you don't pay attention in English class.
I'd probably vote for anyone who stumps on the importance of a liberal arts education. Hell, all Joe Biden had to do was have a staffer put a Seamus Heaney poem on his facebook page.
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Woman at Border's Wanted to Know If I Would Require a Gift Receipt...I Did Not
I was trying to think the other night about the last time I actually sat down and wrote something. I really don't know. I re-wrote a story to get it ready to send out...but have not yet looked into sending it out. While I have three other stories (and two sketches) that definitely need work, I have not brought myself to get into it. I scribble down ideas on the Metro but then stop once I realize someone is reading over my shoulder. As uncomfortable as it makes me, I cannot bring myself to stop reading what other people scribble down.
I did make some progress this weekend. Tiny, inconspicuous progress. I finally bought a copy of Poet's Market. Hopefully, forking over cash pursuant to my delusions of grandeur will actually force me to, you know, pursue those delusions and send some of my shit (operative word) out.
I think the problem might have something to do with work. I don't read as much as I should. I don't know why since there are so many books I'd really like to plow through. Right now, I'm tacking Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities. I just couldn't get into Lady Chatterly's Lover (then again, I may pick it up again...I think I was just getting to the good part.) Invisible Cities so far follows a conversation between Marco Polo and Kubai Khan. Polo has been telling Khan about various and sundry cities that, as it turns out, are all varying descriptions on Venice. It's interesting but I feel like I'm missing a lot the first time out.
Why am I reading this? Because I do not know the meaning of "light reading".
What do I do with this poem? If there anything in here worth fixing? I have no idea:
If you actually read this, let me know.
I did make some progress this weekend. Tiny, inconspicuous progress. I finally bought a copy of Poet's Market. Hopefully, forking over cash pursuant to my delusions of grandeur will actually force me to, you know, pursue those delusions and send some of my shit (operative word) out.
I think the problem might have something to do with work. I don't read as much as I should. I don't know why since there are so many books I'd really like to plow through. Right now, I'm tacking Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities. I just couldn't get into Lady Chatterly's Lover (then again, I may pick it up again...I think I was just getting to the good part.) Invisible Cities so far follows a conversation between Marco Polo and Kubai Khan. Polo has been telling Khan about various and sundry cities that, as it turns out, are all varying descriptions on Venice. It's interesting but I feel like I'm missing a lot the first time out.
Why am I reading this? Because I do not know the meaning of "light reading".
What do I do with this poem? If there anything in here worth fixing? I have no idea:
Turkish Army
Silent except for the plastic
footfalls of army boots in snow
he cut throats in
while Marines fumbled with rifles
and gave away their position
to sleeping Chinamen—
I don’t tell him that’s not what
we call them anymore.
Instead, I avoid his stare—
ringing up the shirts he buys
for his wife in
Sicilian and will not fly,
he tells me as if the two are related.
His shoes are too white
for him to really be dangerous.
Too new and polished
to be the shoes
of an indiscriminant killer.
The Americans, he tells me,
did not keep ears like his men did
but they did not live either.
I nod but do not see the connection.
If you actually read this, let me know.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
That's nice, now could you get your hair brush out of the bathroom?
I found myself getting unnecessarily irate with my mom last night after she said the follow:
"I can't read novels, I can't read anything I can't learn something from."
This is a paraphrased version of what she said, but essentially identical to her statement (allowing for discrepancies between "can" and "don't like to"[because I can not remember which she said, the former or the latter], and for any and all emphasis created by punctuation.)
I wanted to ask her why, if it was such an apparent waste of time, did she pay so much money to have the state of Virginia teach me things from which no real knowledge can be derived. Instead, I grumbled and groused about how she wasn't trying hard enough and if she put forth the effort she could learn a great deal. That what she should have said was she "chose not to learn anything from novels because she refused to see the value inherent in them and how they are indicative of multitudinous cultures/ideas converging upon, and reacting to, one another. I mumbled something about how I had learned a great deal about a good number of things, and I was sorry she saw no value in that.
I don't know what to make of this exchange. Was it an off-hand remark? Does she really see no value in what I want to do with pretty much the rest of my life? I'm not joining the circus or running off to become a yogi (both valid life choice but would be inevitably frowned upon by mom). I want to get my doctorate. Every time I bring it up she doesn't support it, just complains that it costs to much and she does not want to see me go into debt. It is an understandable concern but I'm not going to Harvard and I'd only take out loans to pay for class, not my entire life. I only need a little help at the start of each semester so I can pay as I go.
She knows how much I miss school and how much I want to be back in classes. I don't expect her to get excited if I get in to grad school. Actually, I expect that the first thing she'll say will be something along the lines of "well, now how are you going to pay for it?"
"I can't read novels, I can't read anything I can't learn something from."
This is a paraphrased version of what she said, but essentially identical to her statement (allowing for discrepancies between "can" and "don't like to"[because I can not remember which she said, the former or the latter], and for any and all emphasis created by punctuation.)
I wanted to ask her why, if it was such an apparent waste of time, did she pay so much money to have the state of Virginia teach me things from which no real knowledge can be derived. Instead, I grumbled and groused about how she wasn't trying hard enough and if she put forth the effort she could learn a great deal. That what she should have said was she "chose not to learn anything from novels because she refused to see the value inherent in them and how they are indicative of multitudinous cultures/ideas converging upon, and reacting to, one another. I mumbled something about how I had learned a great deal about a good number of things, and I was sorry she saw no value in that.
I don't know what to make of this exchange. Was it an off-hand remark? Does she really see no value in what I want to do with pretty much the rest of my life? I'm not joining the circus or running off to become a yogi (both valid life choice but would be inevitably frowned upon by mom). I want to get my doctorate. Every time I bring it up she doesn't support it, just complains that it costs to much and she does not want to see me go into debt. It is an understandable concern but I'm not going to Harvard and I'd only take out loans to pay for class, not my entire life. I only need a little help at the start of each semester so I can pay as I go.
She knows how much I miss school and how much I want to be back in classes. I don't expect her to get excited if I get in to grad school. Actually, I expect that the first thing she'll say will be something along the lines of "well, now how are you going to pay for it?"
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
I imagine it's what Shel Silverstein smelled like...
Almost everyday, right before I turn the corner onto 21st and C, there is a man walking in the opposite direction. He's always carrying two briefcases and smoking a pipe. I smile when I see him because the pipe smell is so sweet, especially now that is it getting cooler out. I have no positive associations with spicy, sugared smell but there is something oddly inviting about this foreign, familiar smell.
He never smiles back, just looks right at me like something large behind me is about to fall. Then I pass him, turn the corner, and am hit in the face by the overwhelming smell of shit. Work crews are redoing pipe right below the State Department. The pipe smell is gone and I have to go to work.
He never smiles back, just looks right at me like something large behind me is about to fall. Then I pass him, turn the corner, and am hit in the face by the overwhelming smell of shit. Work crews are redoing pipe right below the State Department. The pipe smell is gone and I have to go to work.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Trick or oh f' it...
In the time since Kim initially mentioned throwing a Halloween party, I've gone through the following costume ideas (and subsequently--sometimes almost immediately--eliminated each):
1. 1940's pin up--Cute, but not too slutty. More Betty Grable (not pregnant), less Bettie Page. Drawback: can't find a costume that is both affordable and fits my "not a total ho'bag" criterion (yes, I have one requirement.)
2. Gypsy--I have Ghillies (Irish step-dancing shoes that double as footwear of the peasantry), floaty skirts, and flowery hair wreath. Drawback: I look really bad in head scarves and everyone would think I'm supposed to be Esmerelda from the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
3. Belly dancer--See above. Add 8 million ab crunches. Negatory.
4. Can-Can dancer--already have dance strength lined fishnet stockings and character shoes. Get to have befeathered hair and bright red lipstick. Drawback: It's been done to death and I have neither the time nor the equipment (my sewing maching is ka-put) to make a decent looking costume. I would have to make it because the ones at the store are really, really awful. Also, I can't jump into the splits.
5. Lady MacBeth--Nightgowns are easy to find. Drawback: fake blood is exceedingly sticky and would get on everything...not just my hands.
6. Courtney Love--I have red lipstick and slips. I also have fishnets. I just need a tiara, heroin addition, and my dead husband's shadow to stand in forever. Drawback: I do not have a blond wig and or any desire to go get one.
7. Lisa Loeb--"Stay" is quite possibly one of my favorite songs of all time. Drawback: No one will actually know I'm wearing a costume if I just show up in glasses and a dress.
8. Clarissa (Explains It All)--I get to wear the most ridiculous concotion of patterns and colors I can think of...Drawback: no fun make-up (I might as well just stay home) and I could not convince Walt to play Sam. Also see problem with #6.
9. Daria--Could finally make use of my army jacket from The Gap. Drawback: See problem with #7.
10. Dorothy Parker--Finally, an exuse to drink martinis and act superior. Drawback: Definitely an expensive costume. See also problem with #7 and #(this time indistinguishable by action, not costume).
11. Sarah Palin--I have a suit that would suffice. I have red shoes. I can do that to my hair and I own glasses. Drawback: Sarah Palin.
12. Poetry in Motion--Very simple dress, fabric markers, and "Leaves of Grass". Drawback: Even I think that's nerdy.
13. Ballerina--really too easy as I have more leotards than I have pants for work. Drawback: Really not a costume for me. Also, I don't want to wear my ballet shoes ( pointe shoes def. out of the question) all night, they'll get ruined.
14. Sally Bowles-- I have a vest. I just need shorts and a top hat. Drawback: As I no longer am in high school theatre (and surrounded by other theater kids) I don't think anyone would get it. Even if I was wearing green nail polish...Also wig required.
15. My Last Duchess--Pretty dress and a picture frame. Drawback: No one will get it. Ever. Who dresses as a Robert Browning poem for Halloween? Who even considers it?
16. Ishmael--it would just be a name tag. Drawback: See #12 add times a billion.
17. Raver--Same essential appeal as #8. This time I get to wear more glitter. Drawback: I've never actually been to a rave so my only real experience with one amounts to a couple late night showings of Go and a very special episode of Dawson's Creek where the blonde girl not played by Michelle Williams takes some E and wants to pet everyone.
18. Marla Singer: I can probably find a thirft store dress that qualifies and can scrounge up a nametag. Drawback: I don't want to spend the entire night telling people I want to have their abortion.
19. Molly Bloom: Find nightgown. Put just a little bit of blood on the front. Talk about Gibralter. Drawback: People will presume I'm Linda Blair in the Exorist and not pay any attention to the Gibralter bit.
20. Flutterby--like a butterfly if it went to a rave. Drawback: See #17.
Right now, I'm leaning toward Katy Perry. I'll have a new idea tomorrow but I already bought falsh eyelashes so I'm wearing them, dammit.
1. 1940's pin up--Cute, but not too slutty. More Betty Grable (not pregnant), less Bettie Page. Drawback: can't find a costume that is both affordable and fits my "not a total ho'bag" criterion (yes, I have one requirement.)
2. Gypsy--I have Ghillies (Irish step-dancing shoes that double as footwear of the peasantry), floaty skirts, and flowery hair wreath. Drawback: I look really bad in head scarves and everyone would think I'm supposed to be Esmerelda from the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
3. Belly dancer--See above. Add 8 million ab crunches. Negatory.
4. Can-Can dancer--already have dance strength lined fishnet stockings and character shoes. Get to have befeathered hair and bright red lipstick. Drawback: It's been done to death and I have neither the time nor the equipment (my sewing maching is ka-put) to make a decent looking costume. I would have to make it because the ones at the store are really, really awful. Also, I can't jump into the splits.
5. Lady MacBeth--Nightgowns are easy to find. Drawback: fake blood is exceedingly sticky and would get on everything...not just my hands.
6. Courtney Love--I have red lipstick and slips. I also have fishnets. I just need a tiara, heroin addition, and my dead husband's shadow to stand in forever. Drawback: I do not have a blond wig and or any desire to go get one.
7. Lisa Loeb--"Stay" is quite possibly one of my favorite songs of all time. Drawback: No one will actually know I'm wearing a costume if I just show up in glasses and a dress.
8. Clarissa (Explains It All)--I get to wear the most ridiculous concotion of patterns and colors I can think of...Drawback: no fun make-up (I might as well just stay home) and I could not convince Walt to play Sam. Also see problem with #6.
9. Daria--Could finally make use of my army jacket from The Gap. Drawback: See problem with #7.
10. Dorothy Parker--Finally, an exuse to drink martinis and act superior. Drawback: Definitely an expensive costume. See also problem with #7 and #(this time indistinguishable by action, not costume).
11. Sarah Palin--I have a suit that would suffice. I have red shoes. I can do that to my hair and I own glasses. Drawback: Sarah Palin.
12. Poetry in Motion--Very simple dress, fabric markers, and "Leaves of Grass". Drawback: Even I think that's nerdy.
13. Ballerina--really too easy as I have more leotards than I have pants for work. Drawback: Really not a costume for me. Also, I don't want to wear my ballet shoes ( pointe shoes def. out of the question) all night, they'll get ruined.
14. Sally Bowles-- I have a vest. I just need shorts and a top hat. Drawback: As I no longer am in high school theatre (and surrounded by other theater kids) I don't think anyone would get it. Even if I was wearing green nail polish...Also wig required.
15. My Last Duchess--Pretty dress and a picture frame. Drawback: No one will get it. Ever. Who dresses as a Robert Browning poem for Halloween? Who even considers it?
16. Ishmael--it would just be a name tag. Drawback: See #12 add times a billion.
17. Raver--Same essential appeal as #8. This time I get to wear more glitter. Drawback: I've never actually been to a rave so my only real experience with one amounts to a couple late night showings of Go and a very special episode of Dawson's Creek where the blonde girl not played by Michelle Williams takes some E and wants to pet everyone.
18. Marla Singer: I can probably find a thirft store dress that qualifies and can scrounge up a nametag. Drawback: I don't want to spend the entire night telling people I want to have their abortion.
19. Molly Bloom: Find nightgown. Put just a little bit of blood on the front. Talk about Gibralter. Drawback: People will presume I'm Linda Blair in the Exorist and not pay any attention to the Gibralter bit.
20. Flutterby--like a butterfly if it went to a rave. Drawback: See #17.
Right now, I'm leaning toward Katy Perry. I'll have a new idea tomorrow but I already bought falsh eyelashes so I'm wearing them, dammit.
Friday, October 10, 2008
One more thing...
I turned in my application and all required documents to Mason. I just checked the website and it looks like they received everything so now I just have to wait and see what happens. If I get in, I have to scramble to get cash to pay for it. I'll give it a week before I start completely freaking out about that though. One week.
If this doesn't pan out, I'm opening a literary-themed tex-mex restaurant. I'm calling it "Krapp's Last Taco Stand"--obscure theatre references and the general impropriety of using "Krapp" in the name of a mexican restaurant be damned!
I make totally kick ass guac.
If this doesn't pan out, I'm opening a literary-themed tex-mex restaurant. I'm calling it "Krapp's Last Taco Stand"--obscure theatre references and the general impropriety of using "Krapp" in the name of a mexican restaurant be damned!
I make totally kick ass guac.
Metro Riders--please be advised, there is a train directly behind this one...
There is almost nothing that has the power to fuck up the rest of your day quite so quickly as having to de-board the Metro on your way to work (discovering that your friendly neighborhood Starbucks is out of coffee/closed ranks a microscopically close second...and has yet to happen to me in the Nation's Capital. Thank Jesus.)
Having said that, I can deal relatively well with even these delays. I have about a half an hour window in terms of arriving "on time" at work and there are three reliable Starbuckses within in an eight block radius. When the doors closed and repeatedly reopened at the Court House stop this morning, everyone kind of knew it was time to gather belongings and make towards the platform. When the lights flashed to alert us, there was an audible grown among the throng of be-suited government employees and bleary-eyed interns but we got politely, regardless. The P.A. suggested it was train malfunction, which is usually code for "assholes who would not stand clear of the doors" as we waited for the next train. I waited for two more trains before getting into one. Mostly because my fellow Metro riders failed to notice the large gaps at the center of the train and instead corralled around the doors, perhaps blocked by some impenetrable force-field of self-importance and "personal space", unable to move to the center of the fucking train.
It's common Metro courtesy kids, we've all read the PSA posters about collecting our bags, not leaving errant copies of the Express lying around, and avoiding the label "escalump". Can't we also scooch down the lane?
Having said that, I can deal relatively well with even these delays. I have about a half an hour window in terms of arriving "on time" at work and there are three reliable Starbuckses within in an eight block radius. When the doors closed and repeatedly reopened at the Court House stop this morning, everyone kind of knew it was time to gather belongings and make towards the platform. When the lights flashed to alert us, there was an audible grown among the throng of be-suited government employees and bleary-eyed interns but we got politely, regardless. The P.A. suggested it was train malfunction, which is usually code for "assholes who would not stand clear of the doors" as we waited for the next train. I waited for two more trains before getting into one. Mostly because my fellow Metro riders failed to notice the large gaps at the center of the train and instead corralled around the doors, perhaps blocked by some impenetrable force-field of self-importance and "personal space", unable to move to the center of the fucking train.
It's common Metro courtesy kids, we've all read the PSA posters about collecting our bags, not leaving errant copies of the Express lying around, and avoiding the label "escalump". Can't we also scooch down the lane?
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
We just come this way
Saturday was Ian's wedding so naturally Kora stayed with us to give her newly official-entwined parents some much needed alone time. She had about three pounds of icing at the reception as she spent a good part of the afternoon methodically de-icing each piece of cake in her vicinity and dipping butter cream covered fingers in sugar. Because of this she was pinging well into the evening.
The next day, while we were getting ready to hand her off to Jen's sister, she decided to take all of Bagel's stuffed toys out of her crate and play with them. The only problem is that puppies and toddlers do no play the same way and Bagel was in no mood for frivolity. Kora proceed to take the stuffed rat (from IKEA and one of Bager-meister's favorites) and carry it around the house. It was funny until it was time to head out and Kora did not want to part with the rodent.
A fit of sorts insued. Kora calmed down when I asked her want she was going to do at Aunt Kristen's. She started jabbering, quickly stopped, and asked if we could relocate our dicussion to the bathroom because it was secret. It was not especially secret and relocating the the bathroom meant walking through the door in front of which we had been standing. All the same, it's proof posivite that girls are not trained so much a spring forth like some glitter obssessed Athena, fully formed and desirous of new shoes.
...She also asked for clothes for her birthday.
The next day, while we were getting ready to hand her off to Jen's sister, she decided to take all of Bagel's stuffed toys out of her crate and play with them. The only problem is that puppies and toddlers do no play the same way and Bagel was in no mood for frivolity. Kora proceed to take the stuffed rat (from IKEA and one of Bager-meister's favorites) and carry it around the house. It was funny until it was time to head out and Kora did not want to part with the rodent.
A fit of sorts insued. Kora calmed down when I asked her want she was going to do at Aunt Kristen's. She started jabbering, quickly stopped, and asked if we could relocate our dicussion to the bathroom because it was secret. It was not especially secret and relocating the the bathroom meant walking through the door in front of which we had been standing. All the same, it's proof posivite that girls are not trained so much a spring forth like some glitter obssessed Athena, fully formed and desirous of new shoes.
...She also asked for clothes for her birthday.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
I have a problem...
Grammar Girl,
I just subscribed to your podcast and love it. I have something that has irked me for a while now and was hoping to get your view on it. Perhaps I'm in the minority on this one, but shouldn't Starbucks have an apostrophe? A case study I found states that the coffee chain's name is taken from Captain Ahab's "coffee-loving first mate in Herman Melville's Moby Dick" (company background, par. 1). I do not recall, having read the novel a couple times, there being more than one first-mate named Starbuck aboard the Peaquod. Wouldn't grammatical common sense dictate that the company name should suggest possession of coffee and not plurality of coffee-drinking seamen? Incidentially, this has not deterred my Venti-a-day caffeine habit (but I have drawn an apostrophe on my cup more than once.)
Thanks,
Meredith Jones
(p.s. Should "Vent-a-day" be hypenated?)
I just subscribed to your podcast and love it. I have something that has irked me for a while now and was hoping to get your view on it. Perhaps I'm in the minority on this one, but shouldn't Starbucks have an apostrophe? A case study I found states that the coffee chain's name is taken from Captain Ahab's "coffee-loving first mate in Herman Melville's Moby Dick" (company background, par. 1). I do not recall, having read the novel a couple times, there being more than one first-mate named Starbuck aboard the Peaquod. Wouldn't grammatical common sense dictate that the company name should suggest possession of coffee and not plurality of coffee-drinking seamen? Incidentially, this has not deterred my Venti-a-day caffeine habit (but I have drawn an apostrophe on my cup more than once.)
Thanks,
Meredith Jones
(p.s. Should "Vent-a-day" be hypenated?)
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
What I do on coffee breaks
Dear Moveon.org,
I enjoy getting e-mails from moveon.org, but do you think you could bring a (perhaps another) copy editor on staff?
The quotations used to set off found and real are correctly used. The wink to the audience that this is a joke is made apparent by their inclusion. However, "watch Billy's video and spread the word by becoming his 'fan' on Facebook?" is a perfect example of when not to use quotation marks. You're neither quoting, as fan is not used sarcastically (presumably), nor is it quoted (rather, in the context, it does not require quotation.)
Please forgive my momentary English-major rage. I wouldn't point it out, but you guys don't want to end up here. I'll gladly continue to read your e-mails and pass them along to friends.
-Meredith
I realize that there are better ways to spend my time. But this was cathartic.
I enjoy getting e-mails from moveon.org, but do you think you could bring a (perhaps another) copy editor on staff?
"Today's news took even McCain's biggest admirers by surprise. In fact, we just 'found' an amazing video from Billy Mires, the 'real' bus driver of the Straight Talk Express reacting to McCain's impressive technological feat."
The quotations used to set off found and real are correctly used. The wink to the audience that this is a joke is made apparent by their inclusion. However, "watch Billy's video and spread the word by becoming his 'fan' on Facebook?" is a perfect example of when not to use quotation marks. You're neither quoting, as fan is not used sarcastically (presumably), nor is it quoted (rather, in the context, it does not require quotation.)
Please forgive my momentary English-major rage. I wouldn't point it out, but you guys don't want to end up here. I'll gladly continue to read your e-mails and pass them along to friends.
-Meredith
I realize that there are better ways to spend my time. But this was cathartic.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Books I did not finish the first time...
Despite being a perpetual listmaker, I've posted nary a to-do list on this blog. In an effort to remedy that (and in honor of being oh-so-close-to-done with Jane Eyre):
10 Books I Did Not Finish the First Time, 2 Books I Did Not Finish the Second Time and 1 Book I've read so many times I lost count/am embarrassed to admit:*
1. The Great Gatsby-F. Scott Fitzgerald (first assigned in the 9th grade.)
2. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man- James Joyce (12th grade, I've since read it twice despite not particularly liking it.)
3. The Picture of Dorian Gray- Oscar Wilde
4. Jane Eyre- Charlotte Bronte (summer reading list, 4th grade. Still reading.)
5. Pride and Prejudice- Jane Austen (I tried reading this so many, many times.)
6. Heart of Darkness- Joesph Conrad (12th grade. Junior year. It was only 70 pages, why didn't I read it back then?)
7. Cat's Cradle- Kurt Vonnegut (not his best work. Comparatively, I read Slaugterhouse-Five in a single sitting. I only got two hours of sleep the night before 9th grade started.
8. Handmaid's Tale- Margaret Atwood (I think I took this out of the library three times before actually finishing it.)
9. Atonement- Ian McEwen (Cheated. Got it at audible.com. Started on a cartrip back to Radford. Finished it by taking Bagel on hour-long walks for the rest of the week in 30 degree weather. She did not complain.)
10. King Lear- Shakespeare (My 12th teacher kept referring to King Lear's classic hubris as "a problematic first example of Modern Man's tempestuous struggle with the rest of the world." There are many things wrong with that sentence--namely, it's bullshit. Lear's tempest was of his own making, he's no more an example of modernism than Oedipus or Jason. Asshole.)
11. Ulysses-James Joyce. (Giant, fuckin' accomplishment the first time. Mini accomplishment in the next go round)
12. Catcher in the Rye- J.D. Salinger. (First time I read this, it changed my life. Second time, I threw it against the wall. You have to be in a very particular place to read this book. I call it the 1oth grade.)
13. Bridget Jones's Diary- Helen Fielding (I read it when I don't feel like thinking and nothing is on television. Has not stopped being funny.)
*in that order
10 Books I Did Not Finish the First Time, 2 Books I Did Not Finish the Second Time and 1 Book I've read so many times I lost count/am embarrassed to admit:*
1. The Great Gatsby-F. Scott Fitzgerald (first assigned in the 9th grade.)
2. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man- James Joyce (12th grade, I've since read it twice despite not particularly liking it.)
3. The Picture of Dorian Gray- Oscar Wilde
4. Jane Eyre- Charlotte Bronte (summer reading list, 4th grade. Still reading.)
5. Pride and Prejudice- Jane Austen (I tried reading this so many, many times.)
6. Heart of Darkness- Joesph Conrad (12th grade. Junior year. It was only 70 pages, why didn't I read it back then?)
7. Cat's Cradle- Kurt Vonnegut (not his best work. Comparatively, I read Slaugterhouse-Five in a single sitting. I only got two hours of sleep the night before 9th grade started.
8. Handmaid's Tale- Margaret Atwood (I think I took this out of the library three times before actually finishing it.)
9. Atonement- Ian McEwen (Cheated. Got it at audible.com. Started on a cartrip back to Radford. Finished it by taking Bagel on hour-long walks for the rest of the week in 30 degree weather. She did not complain.)
10. King Lear- Shakespeare (My 12th teacher kept referring to King Lear's classic hubris as "a problematic first example of Modern Man's tempestuous struggle with the rest of the world." There are many things wrong with that sentence--namely, it's bullshit. Lear's tempest was of his own making, he's no more an example of modernism than Oedipus or Jason. Asshole.)
11. Ulysses-James Joyce. (Giant, fuckin' accomplishment the first time. Mini accomplishment in the next go round)
12. Catcher in the Rye- J.D. Salinger. (First time I read this, it changed my life. Second time, I threw it against the wall. You have to be in a very particular place to read this book. I call it the 1oth grade.)
13. Bridget Jones's Diary- Helen Fielding (I read it when I don't feel like thinking and nothing is on television. Has not stopped being funny.)
*in that order
Thursday, September 11, 2008
obligatory 9/11 post. Please ignore.
On the way home from yoga this evening I did not expect to start crying because of a segment on emergency preparedness. Coming home from work today, packed tightly on to the metro because there had been a delay, I read my book--like I do every other day-- but my head wasn't all in it, trying to drown out the noise of other people on their cell phones.
Downstairs, mom is watching another in a seven-year string of 9/11 specials and I went upstairs because I still can't figure out how either tower came down, even though I watched it all happen in class. This one is new, they've compiled video from what people shot that day. The plane hitting the second tower, people jumping out of windows, scared co-eds filing into an elevator because this just might be the end of the world. One clip was a little girl looking out an apartment window, asking her father where the building went. It takes children years to think abstractly. Then there are the people covered in ash after the two buildings came down. They don't react to anything, just walk around in the cloud explaining to one another what just happened. As if the act of saying out loud what you cannot fully comprehend will make it tangible. As if it could ever be anything but completely unreal.
What gets me is the paper. The raining ,ticker-tape parade of paper coming out of the towers. Entire histories falling down. Companies. Just sprinkling down. How the paper is still here but people had to bury wallets and watches.
What isn't on tape is a girl named Olga walking into Mr. Smith's theatre room and saying should could not audition for Medea that afternoon. Her father worked in the 2nd tower (maybe the 1st?) and she had to find out what happened. There was the line of kids, because we did not all have cell phones, waiting to use the office phones because a brother or a father or a sister worked at the Pentagon.
The shirt I wore to school that day said Make Love, Not War. Why is that what I remember?
They cut the feed to news stations after the towers fell. We all had to go back to class. Most teachers gave up teaching, they either put in movies or read aloud from what they could find online. My chemistry teacher asked us to open our textbooks and look at chemical structures. I watched the classroom door and saw Zach's head pop into view. We had an entire conversation in two looks. Mine wondering if he had any news on our other brother, Micah, who was taking his second flight ever, home from Florida and his that everything was fine but Ian was here to take us home. When we got in the car all Ian said was, "aren't you glad Mom made an emergency contact?" We went to his house. Neither of us were hungry but we sat, watched the news and ate the brownies that Maggie had given me that morning. They were awful but at least it was something to do.
This morning on NPR, the news caster speculated as to how many people had PTSD because of 9/11. I suppose that could be true of people who were there. Who lost someone.
I suppose people might still wake up in the middle of the night because of it. I know it took me a while to get back to sleep. But I've always been like that. I never can sleep when something bothers me. Except I did fall asleep watching the news that afternoon. Ian and I both fell asleep on the floor of his apartment. After we finished off the brownies. We had to eat them dry because he had no milk. I remember thinking that he had grenadine, but no milk. He'd just moved out of my parents' house. I know I don't have it as uneasy as it all still makes me. The uneasiness is healthy I think.
When I was very young, I used to have dreams that Dracula was hiding in the bathroom, behind the shoer curtain. That night, when I finally got to sleep, I had the dream again. Only this time it was Osama Bin Laden. I went down stairs after that and watched TV until I fell back asleep. Thankfully, Comedy Central was doing regular programming. No one else was. I should have written them a letter for that.
While we were watching things tonight, my mom told me that she knows things are still ok because children are constantly being born. To her, that's proof that God wants us to go on about our lives.
That made me want to cry too.
I really didn't expect to start crying on the car ride home tonight.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
And the mind of a four and half year-old...
When I was in high school I was arguably far less at ease with my own body. I was never overweight in any (really) noticeable way, I just jiggled more than I was comfortable with. It did not help that I had a number of rather svelte friends (actually, I should really qualify this: they were just a lot smaller than me in general. It's really easy to feel like a giant if your friends are all 5-nothing and 98 lbs. At the same time, I was rocking a 5/6 at Express and worried that traveling ranchers--those who travel routinely to the D.C/Metro area-- might mistake me for straying cattle) who loved to discuss how their doctors told them to gain, rather than lose, weight. My mom spent most shopping trips telling me to go up a size. I was 19 before I realized I wasn't actually a large at the Gap (never haven been really, thanks mom!) I want to think that she assumed I would still "grow into things" even in high school.
This paranoia was only compounded by costumes I was shoved into during high school. When I was in 10th grade I played Medea in our present-day adaptation (set in the ghetto, yeah. I can prove it. I have it all on DVD) of the Euripides tragedy. I had to wear a cropped one-sleeve shirt. You know how hard it is to stay that sucked in for two hours and yell (ahem, "project') at the same time. Not cool. The next year, I was a Hot Box dancer in Guys and Dolls. Of the four costumes I had to wear, two required sit-ups (one of those was a bikini...always a good choice when teachers are present) and one was sewn too small. Way too small.
One of the tiny girls was usually the costumer.
The point of explaining all this? It all went through my head yesterday when, after doing a body composition test on me at the gym, a personal trainer told me I needed to gain 5 lbs and I have a body age of 18. apparently my body composition is only 15.1% fat (I have 123~ lbs of lean muscle and 23~ of fat, which amounts to 15%...or something like that.) 18.1% and under is where athletes want to be. 14% and under is unhealthy for women. Apparently if I lose two pounds I will be unhealthy. Here's where I get confused. Paul, the trainer whose services I will not be requiring, wants me to gain 5 pounds of lean muscle. Not fat. Wouldn't that make my fat to muscle ratio lower, thereby putting me closer to the "dangerous" range? I'm not good with math.
Other than that, I didn't learn anything about my body I didn't already know. I'm smack dab in the 50th percentile of women my age when it comes to strength. I need to work on that.
I'm in the 90th percentile in terms of flexibility (though not in the 90th percentile of any dance class I've ever taken). They made me take a sit-and-reach test. Total Presidential Physical Fitness test flashbacks (always did well in those, by the by).
The only really crappy thing is that he suggested I spend more time in the scary free weight section of the gym and far less time on the Nautilus machines. I really like some of those machines (some of them are admittedly lame). I don't know what to do in the scary free weight section. It's scary. All the men (because it's mostly men over there) growl in front of the mirrors and say vaguely erotic things to each other, without being attractive enough that I'm cool with it.
I'm going to the gym tonight, we'll see if I can brave the free weights.
On a completely unrelated note, I came home from the gym last night and found Bagel, my faithful ward, hanging out in the kitty litter. Not eating kitty shit (mercifully) just chilling in the box. If she would learn how to use it, that would be one thing. As it is, she's getting a bath when I get home tonight. Maybe two.
This paranoia was only compounded by costumes I was shoved into during high school. When I was in 10th grade I played Medea in our present-day adaptation (set in the ghetto, yeah. I can prove it. I have it all on DVD) of the Euripides tragedy. I had to wear a cropped one-sleeve shirt. You know how hard it is to stay that sucked in for two hours and yell (ahem, "project') at the same time. Not cool. The next year, I was a Hot Box dancer in Guys and Dolls. Of the four costumes I had to wear, two required sit-ups (one of those was a bikini...always a good choice when teachers are present) and one was sewn too small. Way too small.
One of the tiny girls was usually the costumer.
The point of explaining all this? It all went through my head yesterday when, after doing a body composition test on me at the gym, a personal trainer told me I needed to gain 5 lbs and I have a body age of 18. apparently my body composition is only 15.1% fat (I have 123~ lbs of lean muscle and 23~ of fat, which amounts to 15%...or something like that.) 18.1% and under is where athletes want to be. 14% and under is unhealthy for women. Apparently if I lose two pounds I will be unhealthy. Here's where I get confused. Paul, the trainer whose services I will not be requiring, wants me to gain 5 pounds of lean muscle. Not fat. Wouldn't that make my fat to muscle ratio lower, thereby putting me closer to the "dangerous" range? I'm not good with math.
Other than that, I didn't learn anything about my body I didn't already know. I'm smack dab in the 50th percentile of women my age when it comes to strength. I need to work on that.
I'm in the 90th percentile in terms of flexibility (though not in the 90th percentile of any dance class I've ever taken). They made me take a sit-and-reach test. Total Presidential Physical Fitness test flashbacks (always did well in those, by the by).
The only really crappy thing is that he suggested I spend more time in the scary free weight section of the gym and far less time on the Nautilus machines. I really like some of those machines (some of them are admittedly lame). I don't know what to do in the scary free weight section. It's scary. All the men (because it's mostly men over there) growl in front of the mirrors and say vaguely erotic things to each other, without being attractive enough that I'm cool with it.
I'm going to the gym tonight, we'll see if I can brave the free weights.
On a completely unrelated note, I came home from the gym last night and found Bagel, my faithful ward, hanging out in the kitty litter. Not eating kitty shit (mercifully) just chilling in the box. If she would learn how to use it, that would be one thing. As it is, she's getting a bath when I get home tonight. Maybe two.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Don't forget the legwarmers...
Walking to work from the Metro, I could see college students in matching shirts (presumably RAs or other organization who volunteers their members to help with student move-in days) congregating outside various GWU dorms. I miss move-in day. I miss refusing my parents' help unpacking because I couldn't remember into which box the contraband items. I never thought to mark them in a manner that would be obvious to me and not them. I miss having to make three trips to the store because on the first two trips, I forgot to buy Command hooks. I miss textbook shopping.
I bought new pens the other day because I just couldn't handle it anymore and had to buy some form of school supply. Mayhaps this is the first sign of some sort of academe-psychosis?
*********************
Last night at Tysons with Walt, while shopping for adult-type work clothes, I was thinking of all the things I cannot throw on in the morning and run out the door--namely leotards. I usually had a dance class first thing in the morning. Leotards matching nothing and therefore everything and I wore them religiously. So inconvenient, yet comfortable. If I couldn't get back home to change, I wore them into the afternoon and no one thought that was strange (if they did, I was gleefully unawares). Now, my only excuse for leotards is if I take up yoga classes again or find a place to take dance (this is harder after the age of 14). This is not happening immediately, so there the leotards and capezio tights sit underneath my bed. Sad negleted leotards.
On a related note, I am now almost to a week's worth of pants if I could just remember to take the one way too big pair to the tailor. Actually, I'm going to need to a few things in soon if I keep going to the gym. This is more inconvenient than it seems. Once the weather gets legitimately cooler I will have far more in the way of "work-appropriate clothing." Then I will be able to occasionally buy fun things and avoid stores whose color scheme revolves around beige.
Blah.
I bought new pens the other day because I just couldn't handle it anymore and had to buy some form of school supply. Mayhaps this is the first sign of some sort of academe-psychosis?
*********************
Last night at Tysons with Walt, while shopping for adult-type work clothes, I was thinking of all the things I cannot throw on in the morning and run out the door--namely leotards. I usually had a dance class first thing in the morning. Leotards matching nothing and therefore everything and I wore them religiously. So inconvenient, yet comfortable. If I couldn't get back home to change, I wore them into the afternoon and no one thought that was strange (if they did, I was gleefully unawares). Now, my only excuse for leotards is if I take up yoga classes again or find a place to take dance (this is harder after the age of 14). This is not happening immediately, so there the leotards and capezio tights sit underneath my bed. Sad negleted leotards.
On a related note, I am now almost to a week's worth of pants if I could just remember to take the one way too big pair to the tailor. Actually, I'm going to need to a few things in soon if I keep going to the gym. This is more inconvenient than it seems. Once the weather gets legitimately cooler I will have far more in the way of "work-appropriate clothing." Then I will be able to occasionally buy fun things and avoid stores whose color scheme revolves around beige.
Blah.
Friday, August 22, 2008
If she'd taken my doubleshot on ice, I would have shanked her.
There are a number of things about Starbucks I really love:
-The Venti Iced Americano
-Knowing that where ever I am, there is one nearby should I need the aforementioned beverage.
There are also a number of things about Starbucks I do not really love:
-That the company name does not include an apostrophe. Starbucks is the first mate in Moby-Dick, as such, he is a single entity. Granted, there are multiple iterations of Starbucks but it would be like calling a coffee shop "Jones". It really requires possession.
-Sometimes baristas fuck things up irreperably. I ordered an iced coffee one day and what I received tasted like old oranges. It was, however, affective in keeping me awake. I cannot be sleepy with evil in my mouth.
-people who populate Starbuckses. Actually people who populate coffee shops in general. I walked into the Saxby's outside Mason on afternoon earlier this year and saw a guy busily typing away on his MacBook in a shirt that read "GMU MFA Student". I suddenly and violentely regretted every afternoon I spent at the Coffee Mill trying to crank out a draft for Fiction Writing.
But that is not the kind of coffee shop patron that necessitated that post. In D.C., everyone is v. busy and important...or would like to give that impression to the rest of the known universe. I got in line and ordered my usual Iced Venti unsweetened Iced Coffee. The girl behind me order an identical drink. Not unusual at all. It's a simple, yet effective, order. However, after I paid and moved over to the bar where orders are picked up, the girl that was behind me, started hovering in front of me. I knew what she was doing. She kept mentioning to her Gay BBF how much time it seemed to take for her order to come up. Let me remind you that this is the GWU Starbucks at 8 AM. It's going to be busy. The one across from the Warner Theatre outside Metro Center is much worse and the the one outside the GW hosptical has a line out the door most mornings. Girlie-girl got off light. I've stood in those other lines. Many, many mornings.
She kept looking at me behind her and smiling. We both knew she would grab the first iced coffee down the pike. She clearly was raised by ravenous, caffeine-starved wolves who, in their turn had to be continually remined to wait in line and decided not to raise their daughter with such restrictions. Way to go wolves. Way the fuck to go.
Coffee-bandit also proceeded to pour part of her illicit brew into the trash to make way for cream. Where I a bigger bitch this is wear I would point out that despite the flowiness of her top, she was sporting some serious muffin-top. Crumble topping. I am not, however, a bigger bitch. She did have pretty cool glasses. Not cool enough to explain her behavior.
It's ok. She'll get hers. The universe has a way of straightening this sort of thing out.
-The Venti Iced Americano
-Knowing that where ever I am, there is one nearby should I need the aforementioned beverage.
There are also a number of things about Starbucks I do not really love:
-That the company name does not include an apostrophe. Starbucks is the first mate in Moby-Dick, as such, he is a single entity. Granted, there are multiple iterations of Starbucks but it would be like calling a coffee shop "Jones". It really requires possession.
-Sometimes baristas fuck things up irreperably. I ordered an iced coffee one day and what I received tasted like old oranges. It was, however, affective in keeping me awake. I cannot be sleepy with evil in my mouth.
-people who populate Starbuckses. Actually people who populate coffee shops in general. I walked into the Saxby's outside Mason on afternoon earlier this year and saw a guy busily typing away on his MacBook in a shirt that read "GMU MFA Student". I suddenly and violentely regretted every afternoon I spent at the Coffee Mill trying to crank out a draft for Fiction Writing.
But that is not the kind of coffee shop patron that necessitated that post. In D.C., everyone is v. busy and important...or would like to give that impression to the rest of the known universe. I got in line and ordered my usual Iced Venti unsweetened Iced Coffee. The girl behind me order an identical drink. Not unusual at all. It's a simple, yet effective, order. However, after I paid and moved over to the bar where orders are picked up, the girl that was behind me, started hovering in front of me. I knew what she was doing. She kept mentioning to her Gay BBF how much time it seemed to take for her order to come up. Let me remind you that this is the GWU Starbucks at 8 AM. It's going to be busy. The one across from the Warner Theatre outside Metro Center is much worse and the the one outside the GW hosptical has a line out the door most mornings. Girlie-girl got off light. I've stood in those other lines. Many, many mornings.
She kept looking at me behind her and smiling. We both knew she would grab the first iced coffee down the pike. She clearly was raised by ravenous, caffeine-starved wolves who, in their turn had to be continually remined to wait in line and decided not to raise their daughter with such restrictions. Way to go wolves. Way the fuck to go.
Coffee-bandit also proceeded to pour part of her illicit brew into the trash to make way for cream. Where I a bigger bitch this is wear I would point out that despite the flowiness of her top, she was sporting some serious muffin-top. Crumble topping. I am not, however, a bigger bitch. She did have pretty cool glasses. Not cool enough to explain her behavior.
It's ok. She'll get hers. The universe has a way of straightening this sort of thing out.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
It's a lot of look...
This weekend I will, yet again, take my meager earnings to the mall. If getting into heaven rests on my ability to refrain from covetousness, I am totally and completely screwed. Like, table-of-one-at-the-ninth-layer-of-hell screwed.
I can stop myself from over-indulging in most anything--cupcakes, alcohol, dangerous men. The fall line from Michael Kors ready-to-wear collection makes me feel things I cannot politely describe.
I spent a lot of high school trying to look "different". I died my hair various shades of black cherry. I had fuschia-colored fishnet stocking (I wore whenever humanly possible). I had 42" wide pants (at the bottom, not the top--I've managed to negotiate a 6 most of my mid/post-puberty life, which has lately slid down to a 4 at some stores...my new favorite stores.) I rocked plaid mini skirts and shirts with PUNK! written on them in red glitter(the irony did not entirely escape me, thank you very much.)
I eschewed twinsets (still do, unless they are leopard print or otherwise necessary) and khaki. But I find myself compelled to explore this wonderful structured retro-schoolgirl glamour. Mostly it's this dress (forth down from the top) that does it to me. I could do that. I can do that hair. I've had similar glasses. I already own a pair of brown leather peep-toe heels that would compliment the overall feel. It's so...structured. I prefer structure else where in my wardrobe. Why would I think that etherial works in my wardrobe better that darting and a sleek sillohuette? Frankly, it also works better with my body type. Flimsy looks big on curves.
Now I must attempt my Michael Kors fantasties (also D&G this season) on my Forever21 budget.
Alas and woe is me.
I can stop myself from over-indulging in most anything--cupcakes, alcohol, dangerous men. The fall line from Michael Kors ready-to-wear collection makes me feel things I cannot politely describe.
I spent a lot of high school trying to look "different". I died my hair various shades of black cherry. I had fuschia-colored fishnet stocking (I wore whenever humanly possible). I had 42" wide pants (at the bottom, not the top--I've managed to negotiate a 6 most of my mid/post-puberty life, which has lately slid down to a 4 at some stores...my new favorite stores.) I rocked plaid mini skirts and shirts with PUNK! written on them in red glitter(the irony did not entirely escape me, thank you very much.)
I eschewed twinsets (still do, unless they are leopard print or otherwise necessary) and khaki. But I find myself compelled to explore this wonderful structured retro-schoolgirl glamour. Mostly it's this dress (forth down from the top) that does it to me. I could do that. I can do that hair. I've had similar glasses. I already own a pair of brown leather peep-toe heels that would compliment the overall feel. It's so...structured. I prefer structure else where in my wardrobe. Why would I think that etherial works in my wardrobe better that darting and a sleek sillohuette? Frankly, it also works better with my body type. Flimsy looks big on curves.
Now I must attempt my Michael Kors fantasties (also D&G this season) on my Forever21 budget.
Alas and woe is me.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
She only comes when she's on top...and other reasons people should hire me to write the break-up letters.
More on that idea I mentioned last time:
Since starting to look what I need to do to a)apply to graduate school and b)go there while in good standing with creditors/the government, I've been trying to come up with ways to sneak a little extra cash here and there.
I will write your break-up letters. I think I can do this. I'll set up an eBay account, crank out a few samples of various styles and get PayPal up and running. This can be done. I can create transcripts to be passive-agressively left on answering machines while (ex)loved-ones are abroad. I can write break-up letters, e-mails, post-it notes (handwriting is an extra, non-negotiable charge).
I can also write why-did-you-break-up-with-me letters. I've actually received a couple of those. Also, I'm-sorry-I-broke-up-with-you-because-you-look-fuckin'-great letters.
On an unrelated note, Former Professor asked me to take a look at a story he's working on. This is strange in ways I cannot fully explain, least of which is that I don't think I'm actually qualified to critique the work of more successful (in that they have been published) writers. In asking me he called me a "rigorous critic". Don't know what that means beyond "annoyingly particular".
Hopefully the story isn't total shit.
Since starting to look what I need to do to a)apply to graduate school and b)go there while in good standing with creditors/the government, I've been trying to come up with ways to sneak a little extra cash here and there.
I will write your break-up letters. I think I can do this. I'll set up an eBay account, crank out a few samples of various styles and get PayPal up and running. This can be done. I can create transcripts to be passive-agressively left on answering machines while (ex)loved-ones are abroad. I can write break-up letters, e-mails, post-it notes (handwriting is an extra, non-negotiable charge).
I can also write why-did-you-break-up-with-me letters. I've actually received a couple of those. Also, I'm-sorry-I-broke-up-with-you-because-you-look-fuckin'-great letters.
On an unrelated note, Former Professor asked me to take a look at a story he's working on. This is strange in ways I cannot fully explain, least of which is that I don't think I'm actually qualified to critique the work of more successful (in that they have been published) writers. In asking me he called me a "rigorous critic". Don't know what that means beyond "annoyingly particular".
Hopefully the story isn't total shit.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Dear John...
I had planned to take tiny bits of my bi-weekly earnings and spend them on building a respectable work/rest of life wardrobe, saving for school and imaginary-in-the-future rent and all the other fees that go along with. Nope. Not gonna happen.
I have to replace my iPod. About two weeks ago I dropped it coming out of the Vienna Metro and it's been acting skishy since. It won't turn off or sync, and it makes laborious computer hard drive dying sounds whenever I request a change of song. So that's like, $250 bucks. Gone.
Also, my dearest Bagel has a stye in her eye. I only noticed last night. I'm pretty sure that means it only showed up then as I get a pretty good look at the girl once a day. I was just going to let it be for a week but then I made the mistake of looking up the condition online. It turns out it could be completely benign...or Bagel will be blind by the time I pull up to my house this evening. I stopped looking up people symptoms online because of this. Why did I think it would be any different for animals?
I really should look into my own online-breakup letter writing service. I could set up a Paypal account. Get something going on eBay. This could be done.
I have to replace my iPod. About two weeks ago I dropped it coming out of the Vienna Metro and it's been acting skishy since. It won't turn off or sync, and it makes laborious computer hard drive dying sounds whenever I request a change of song. So that's like, $250 bucks. Gone.
Also, my dearest Bagel has a stye in her eye. I only noticed last night. I'm pretty sure that means it only showed up then as I get a pretty good look at the girl once a day. I was just going to let it be for a week but then I made the mistake of looking up the condition online. It turns out it could be completely benign...or Bagel will be blind by the time I pull up to my house this evening. I stopped looking up people symptoms online because of this. Why did I think it would be any different for animals?
I really should look into my own online-breakup letter writing service. I could set up a Paypal account. Get something going on eBay. This could be done.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
The sirens that went off during the vows were're harbingers at all...
It's been quite a couple of days and I don't think I've mentioned the wedding of the year.
After begging off the actual "wedding of the year" up in Boston, Walt and I took a mini-road trip down to the Radford/Christiansburg for a weekend of matrimonial festivities/dropping off graduate rec. forms to former professors and employers. The latter went smoothly and both Tims seemed more than glad to aid in my post undergraduate asperations. We opted to stay with my college roommate and her husband (of about two months) over one of Walt's friends from school I only recently met (but who is, ostensibly, awesome.) If we stayed with my roommate we could bring my dog. At the time, this seemed like a simple solution to the problem of who would walk the dog while I was away. Bad idea. College Roommate lives in a town infested with fleas that (which?who?) latched on to Bagel the moment we took her outside. Totally not cool considering a)fleas bring plague and I don't like posies, b)I had no means of preparing Bagel for fleas or aiding in their immediate demise and the stuff CR put on her did not work...at all, and c)how do you conveniently forget about a massive pest control issue after your friend/weekend guest asks if it is ok to bring her pet with her? I spent the weekend alternately convinced I had fleas and picking them off the dog. Neither of us was pleased with spending our time in such a manner.
If only this had been the totally sucky thing about the weekend. Nope. Not with a wedding on the docket. After handing out the rec forms, we (me, Walt, Walt's friend, CR and Spouse) went to lunch at the local mexican place. CR proceeded to drink a 32 oz. beer. I also had a, comparably diminutive 22 oz. beer (for the purposes of full disclosure). I wouldn't mention this at all except CR drank so much during the reception that she fell, hit her head, puked on herself, and had to be transported via ambulance to the hospital.
Totally fucking classy.
I say this out of genuine regard for her safety and well-being, but also overwhelming ire. When I talked to her after the fact, she said that she'd probably be drunk constantly were it not for the "scrutiny of [Spouse]." Granted, Spouse also apparently took a picture of her during the apex of her shenanigans. I'm kind of amazed by his forethought. When we were talking she kept mentioning how she's been down on herself and how this was all very embarrassing. Given how she chose to vent these feelings, I don't have a ton of sympathy. I hate that she lives so far away and I wish they had the means/opportunity to move somewhere better. Still, she kind of ruined someone else's wedding. Frankly, she was doing good job messing up the day way before she passed out. She fell on the dance floor and couldn't manage to say anything in a decibel range that did not include the entire wedding party in the conversation. Repeated requests that she switch to water or soda were met with "you're not the boss of me." No, I'm not. And clearly you aren't either.
Granted, this was a long-time coming. This is the girl who, if money allows, will drink 7 beers when the occasion calls for none. But that was college. The rest of us have since moved on to lifestyles far more forgiving of our livers' limitations. Personally, I've discovered a whole world of things that can get done on Sunday morning if one is not asleep/nursing a hangover/desperate for macaroni and cheese. Also my clothes fit much better. Much. Much. Better.
I don't know if I should wait until I'm less mad to tell her she has a drinking problem. I also don't know how to even go about telling her. We're not really phone people but this is not a AIM conversation. I think a letter is in order, not an e-mail.
...
After CR went to the hospital, Walt and I called his friend. We took my flea-ridden pup over, where I washed her repeated, and fell asleep on his couches. I woke up the next morning with a wicked head cold.
I had to leave work Monday morning at 11am after my boss suggested that I go get lots and lots of sleep.
So to recap: Dog got fleas. Took college roommate to hospital. Got sick=Best Weekend Ever.
After begging off the actual "wedding of the year" up in Boston, Walt and I took a mini-road trip down to the Radford/Christiansburg for a weekend of matrimonial festivities/dropping off graduate rec. forms to former professors and employers. The latter went smoothly and both Tims seemed more than glad to aid in my post undergraduate asperations. We opted to stay with my college roommate and her husband (of about two months) over one of Walt's friends from school I only recently met (but who is, ostensibly, awesome.) If we stayed with my roommate we could bring my dog. At the time, this seemed like a simple solution to the problem of who would walk the dog while I was away. Bad idea. College Roommate lives in a town infested with fleas that (which?who?) latched on to Bagel the moment we took her outside. Totally not cool considering a)fleas bring plague and I don't like posies, b)I had no means of preparing Bagel for fleas or aiding in their immediate demise and the stuff CR put on her did not work...at all, and c)how do you conveniently forget about a massive pest control issue after your friend/weekend guest asks if it is ok to bring her pet with her? I spent the weekend alternately convinced I had fleas and picking them off the dog. Neither of us was pleased with spending our time in such a manner.
If only this had been the totally sucky thing about the weekend. Nope. Not with a wedding on the docket. After handing out the rec forms, we (me, Walt, Walt's friend, CR and Spouse) went to lunch at the local mexican place. CR proceeded to drink a 32 oz. beer. I also had a, comparably diminutive 22 oz. beer (for the purposes of full disclosure). I wouldn't mention this at all except CR drank so much during the reception that she fell, hit her head, puked on herself, and had to be transported via ambulance to the hospital.
Totally fucking classy.
I say this out of genuine regard for her safety and well-being, but also overwhelming ire. When I talked to her after the fact, she said that she'd probably be drunk constantly were it not for the "scrutiny of [Spouse]." Granted, Spouse also apparently took a picture of her during the apex of her shenanigans. I'm kind of amazed by his forethought. When we were talking she kept mentioning how she's been down on herself and how this was all very embarrassing. Given how she chose to vent these feelings, I don't have a ton of sympathy. I hate that she lives so far away and I wish they had the means/opportunity to move somewhere better. Still, she kind of ruined someone else's wedding. Frankly, she was doing good job messing up the day way before she passed out. She fell on the dance floor and couldn't manage to say anything in a decibel range that did not include the entire wedding party in the conversation. Repeated requests that she switch to water or soda were met with "you're not the boss of me." No, I'm not. And clearly you aren't either.
Granted, this was a long-time coming. This is the girl who, if money allows, will drink 7 beers when the occasion calls for none. But that was college. The rest of us have since moved on to lifestyles far more forgiving of our livers' limitations. Personally, I've discovered a whole world of things that can get done on Sunday morning if one is not asleep/nursing a hangover/desperate for macaroni and cheese. Also my clothes fit much better. Much. Much. Better.
I don't know if I should wait until I'm less mad to tell her she has a drinking problem. I also don't know how to even go about telling her. We're not really phone people but this is not a AIM conversation. I think a letter is in order, not an e-mail.
...
After CR went to the hospital, Walt and I called his friend. We took my flea-ridden pup over, where I washed her repeated, and fell asleep on his couches. I woke up the next morning with a wicked head cold.
I had to leave work Monday morning at 11am after my boss suggested that I go get lots and lots of sleep.
So to recap: Dog got fleas. Took college roommate to hospital. Got sick=Best Weekend Ever.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Kids today with the hair and the endless excuses.
I came home Sunday after The Best/Worst Wedding Ever (more on that later) only to be met by my mother flailing this in my face. I already had a headache and it was only make exponentially worse by listening to the petulant whining of unrepentant cheaters.
The questions raised by this article should not be, "are the standards of one of Virginia's, and moreover the United States', most prestigious universities 'too harsh'?" It should be, "why do students continually think they can skirt rules and nothing will come of it?"
I went to a far less impressive Virginia university but the honor system there was no less clear. Citing improperly is tantamount to plagiarism because you are not adequately attributing the work of others and instead, passing it off as your own. The students in the article seem to have paraphrased parts of Wikipedia entries (I'll get to why that's an awful idea in a minute) and did not remember where their notes ended and the language used in the article began. There is an exceedingly simple solution to this: if the assignment calls for you to watch a movie and summarize it, you do exactly that. If you actually watch the movie (and perhaps take your own notes if necessary), you shouldn't need a wiki-summary. You can write your own in your own voice. Problem solved. Yes, the two summaries might say the same thing but with different words and syntax. You have a writing fingerprint and the people whose job it is to read your stuff will invariably notice when you stop writing like yourself.
If you absolutely must reference an article in your summary (a dead giveaway that you didn't actually watch the movie), cite. Not hard to do. If you take an idea and reword it, cite the idea. Every style guide I've ever used (MLA, APA, and Chicago) has a way for you to cite a paraphrase. Here's an example of how to do it in MLA:
The students also argue that research in the online age actually makes drawing the line between your own thoughts and the notes you take from others more difficult. The opposite is actually true. Unlike looking something up in a book, you don't have to hand-copy titles and site URLs. You can copy-paste everything into a word. doc and have all your notes in a convenient location. You can know what you borrowed and where you borrowed it from without so much as a hand cramp.
Admittedly, I did not know all of those going into college. But these students are not first-day freshmen. Plagiarism issues are made painfully clear to incoming students, both in the universally issued student handbook and in every freshmen composition and/or research class, required at pretty much every college. Ever.
No excuse for this. None. At. All. Damn, I have to get my doctorate and start teaching. Actually, I might start teaching with my masters just to put the kibosh on this everyone-gets-out-of-jail-free bullshit.
Now a word on Wikipedia...
While the open-source, peer-edited encyclopedia is immensely helpful when you want to, say, remind yourself who wrote Gravity's Rainbow. It is not a reliable research tool, though. Certainly not at the collegiate level. Far too many articles are not adequately researched or cited. Many are bias or one-sided. It has too many flaws not to be used with the utmost caution.
Ok, end of rant.
The questions raised by this article should not be, "are the standards of one of Virginia's, and moreover the United States', most prestigious universities 'too harsh'?" It should be, "why do students continually think they can skirt rules and nothing will come of it?"
I went to a far less impressive Virginia university but the honor system there was no less clear. Citing improperly is tantamount to plagiarism because you are not adequately attributing the work of others and instead, passing it off as your own. The students in the article seem to have paraphrased parts of Wikipedia entries (I'll get to why that's an awful idea in a minute) and did not remember where their notes ended and the language used in the article began. There is an exceedingly simple solution to this: if the assignment calls for you to watch a movie and summarize it, you do exactly that. If you actually watch the movie (and perhaps take your own notes if necessary), you shouldn't need a wiki-summary. You can write your own in your own voice. Problem solved. Yes, the two summaries might say the same thing but with different words and syntax. You have a writing fingerprint and the people whose job it is to read your stuff will invariably notice when you stop writing like yourself.
If you absolutely must reference an article in your summary (a dead giveaway that you didn't actually watch the movie), cite. Not hard to do. If you take an idea and reword it, cite the idea. Every style guide I've ever used (MLA, APA, and Chicago) has a way for you to cite a paraphrase. Here's an example of how to do it in MLA:
Ahab’s insistence that he can develop a blueprint for the whale’s movement, coupled with his private sense of injustice, serves to create the egocentric Western binarisms that cannot penetrate the whale any better than Ishmael’s meandering definitions (MD, 178).Would you look at that. I managed to get across the gist of a quote without actually quoting the passage, at the same time making it clear to my audience that I didn't make this shit up. And it only took me two seconds. Incidentally, that's from my senior thesis on Moby-Dick. For which I did not use Wikipedia.
The students also argue that research in the online age actually makes drawing the line between your own thoughts and the notes you take from others more difficult. The opposite is actually true. Unlike looking something up in a book, you don't have to hand-copy titles and site URLs. You can copy-paste everything into a word. doc and have all your notes in a convenient location. You can know what you borrowed and where you borrowed it from without so much as a hand cramp.
Admittedly, I did not know all of those going into college. But these students are not first-day freshmen. Plagiarism issues are made painfully clear to incoming students, both in the universally issued student handbook and in every freshmen composition and/or research class, required at pretty much every college. Ever.
No excuse for this. None. At. All. Damn, I have to get my doctorate and start teaching. Actually, I might start teaching with my masters just to put the kibosh on this everyone-gets-out-of-jail-free bullshit.
Now a word on Wikipedia...
While the open-source, peer-edited encyclopedia is immensely helpful when you want to, say, remind yourself who wrote Gravity's Rainbow. It is not a reliable research tool, though. Certainly not at the collegiate level. Far too many articles are not adequately researched or cited. Many are bias or one-sided. It has too many flaws not to be used with the utmost caution.
Ok, end of rant.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
He wasn't even a fun drunk...
Almost directly before starting this experiment in actually keeping and up-to-date record of my goings-on, I stumbled upon the intricately detailed online journal of an ex-boyfriend's (possible) ex-girlfriend. The ex was wholly unremarkable, save for introducing me to the nuanced genius of Bruce Springsteen (something I actively fought, mind you, not particularly caring for the "Dancing in the Dark" phase of the Boss's career.) We dated from my junior year of high school to the end of my first year of college. We suffered, not at all surprisingly, from a total lack of compatibility and I can't remember now what worked well enough that we stuck it out as long as we did. I suppose that's how it goes with high school boyfriends. The end, and the little bit of unwashed history that followed directly, was not my proudest moment and somewhere in there (or before, this was never clear) he started dating her.
When I spoke to him some time a little less than two years ago, he'd broken up with her on account of her perceived insanity. He was also going through considerable family problems, though the two were unrelated. I felt for the kid (despite how little I felt for him in general) and thought he might finally be able to get out of the rut he'd been in as long as I'd known him. Such, apparent in her diary, is not the case.
I don't know that my entire life is together. I only just started my first big-girl job, I'm still at home and all the plans I've made for myself since starting college have not, yet anyhow, come to fruition. But I felt bad for this girl. She always, despite my general distaste for her while I was still with the aforementioned ex (she would call at 2 am asking him to come kill a bug in her dorm. It seemed suspect then and still does now) seemed smart. I can't remember what she looked like but she wasn't unattractive by any stretch of the imagination. She was a good photographer when we were in high school. How does their relationship still hinder her so much? I just can't fathom it. I can't imagine getting so worked up over someone like that.
When I spoke to him some time a little less than two years ago, he'd broken up with her on account of her perceived insanity. He was also going through considerable family problems, though the two were unrelated. I felt for the kid (despite how little I felt for him in general) and thought he might finally be able to get out of the rut he'd been in as long as I'd known him. Such, apparent in her diary, is not the case.
I don't know that my entire life is together. I only just started my first big-girl job, I'm still at home and all the plans I've made for myself since starting college have not, yet anyhow, come to fruition. But I felt bad for this girl. She always, despite my general distaste for her while I was still with the aforementioned ex (she would call at 2 am asking him to come kill a bug in her dorm. It seemed suspect then and still does now) seemed smart. I can't remember what she looked like but she wasn't unattractive by any stretch of the imagination. She was a good photographer when we were in high school. How does their relationship still hinder her so much? I just can't fathom it. I can't imagine getting so worked up over someone like that.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
I didn't have the heart to be gay. I'll disappoint my parents by writing.
The story I've been working on for a few weeks now (longer really but this is active work) is, save a few misplaced commas, done. This means that I'll have to send my ever-so-slightly retarded baby out into the world soon. I've done this before and don't expect the results to be any different. I sent this one out (to Glimmer Train of all places in a moment of undergraduate well-I'm better-than-the-dipshits-in-my-intro-fiction-writing-class-I-must-be-publishable! grandiosity) and it was promptly (a relative term) rejected...albeit politely. I've since sent a few poems back and have heard nothing. I think I sent them out around the middle of May. I can't image that the poety editors at Magazine-that-shall-remain-nameless have been sitting on these poems beucase they cannot yet form the words required to admire and appreciate my genius. They have probably just forgotten that I exist.
Oh well. This is the life of an unprofessional writer, right? It takes years to get published, if that little. I suppose I will have to finally shell out the cash for a copy of the Writer's Market and stop pretending to do thing and actually, you know, do it.
More on this later. Especially after the second rejection comes it. That should be a good read.
Oh well. This is the life of an unprofessional writer, right? It takes years to get published, if that little. I suppose I will have to finally shell out the cash for a copy of the Writer's Market and stop pretending to do thing and actually, you know, do it.
More on this later. Especially after the second rejection comes it. That should be a good read.
Monday, August 4, 2008
It's a shame I won't get to buy that dress I'm never going to wear again...
After receiving an e-mail this morning from the the maid of honor in one of the 19 million weddings I'm attending this year (did I miss the part of graduation where they passed out that Kool-Aid?) and one of two I in which I was asked to be a bridesmaid, I had to beg off. This particular wedding has seemed semi-ridiculous since jump but I kept hoping it would mellow. It has not.
Today I found out how to go through an entire paycheck in one fell swoop (without having anything to show for it):
$877
-200 (getting there and back)
-250 (staying there for the weekend)
-160 (being clothed during the ceremony. This includes, but is not limited to, dyeable shoes.)
-60 (the present, which could not include bacon-of-the-month at this price.)
-200 (boarding my dog, may not be necessary but I have to assume it because the rest of my family will be at my cousin's wedding.)
_____
7.00
What can you do for &7?
- buy two Venti iced coffees from Starbucks (You get change!)
-Pay my current overdue charges at the library.
-go to and almost get home from work for one day (in 14).
-go to an afternoon movie and sneak in some gum and soda you stole from your mother.
-lie in bed and cry (but not so much that you require kleenex, it's cost prohibitive) until you get paid again.
-
Today I found out how to go through an entire paycheck in one fell swoop (without having anything to show for it):
$877
-200 (getting there and back)
-250 (staying there for the weekend)
-160 (being clothed during the ceremony. This includes, but is not limited to, dyeable shoes.)
-60 (the present, which could not include bacon-of-the-month at this price.)
-200 (boarding my dog, may not be necessary but I have to assume it because the rest of my family will be at my cousin's wedding.)
_____
7.00
What can you do for &7?
- buy two Venti iced coffees from Starbucks (You get change!)
-Pay my current overdue charges at the library.
-go to and almost get home from work for one day (in 14).
-go to an afternoon movie and sneak in some gum and soda you stole from your mother.
-lie in bed and cry (but not so much that you require kleenex, it's cost prohibitive) until you get paid again.
-
Saturday, August 2, 2008
It's not like I gave her sprinkles.
At Woody's earlier tonight, while enjoying some soft serve with Walt and my trusty Bagel, I was confronted by a woman waiting in line for her own ice cream.
"You know most dogs are lactose intolerant, right?" This was not offered out of the kindness of her heart or stemming from a general concern for the lactic tolerance of our four-legged friends. She was just taking a shit on the best part of my day. I didn't quite know what to say to her and at the time could only manage,
"She's fine, thanks." With the same fake smile she used to impart to veterinary wisdom. Later on, in the car I thought of better, pithier things to say:
" If that bother you, you should see my cat down scotch."
" Yes, but she needs something to take the edge off all those martinis she lapped up earlier."
" Well the ice cream offsets the gin."
" You're a miserable cunt who should not be eating ice cream but instead actively adjusting the size of your ass. Stop shitting on my life."
...Perhaps that last one was unnecessary. But it would have felt nice.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Conversations I've had with people after they find out I majored in English. OR-- A PSA for the pseudo-literary.
CONVERSATION 1:
Sherpa-on-Metro: (After I have dozed off during trek home while reading Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut) Must not be a very interesting book.
Me: (waking up suddenly because he's also kind of a close talker) No, no, it is. Just didn't get much sleep last night.
Sherpa: Vonnegut, huh? Have you read Slaughterhouse-5?
Me: Yes, actually a number of years ago. I loved it, he manages to suffuse an obvious tragedy irreverence and irony without tempering the narrative.
Sherpa: I've never read it. Is Cat's Cradle any good?
Me: Yes it is, I read it originally as part of a class on Eco-fiction.
Sherpa: NPR is also interesting.
Me: This is my stop. Enjoy your weekend.
CONVERSATION #2
Dude-at-work-who-doesn't-look-people-in-the-eye: So what's your degree in?
Me: English Literature
Dude: Do you read Poetry Magazine?
Me: When I can pick it up, but I have to say many of my favorite poets are dead.
Dude: Do you enjoy the modernists?
Me: Actually one of my favorite classes at school was on the British and Irish Modernists
Dude: My favorite is John Updike.
Me: Is he a modernist? (note--I know he is not a modernist. I was trying to be nice. Updike is a modernist only if you extend the definition of modernism to include people who have written since the Modern Era of the English language began...before Shakespeare.)
Dude: Well I mean, he wrote in the 20th century.
Me: That doesn't necessarily make him a modernist, it all depends on his style. Would you call it stream-of-conscience?
Dude: I also like Wallace Stevens
Me: "The Emperor of Ice Cream" is one of my favorite poems. The thing about Stevens was the rich internal life he created as a contrast to his 'real' life.
Dude: So what are your favorite books?
Me: Moby-Dick and Ulysses, the one by Joyce...not Homer.
Dude: I've read some Melville, just not Moby-Dick.
Me: That's a shame, it's far and away his best work. Really the culmination of his particular vision.
Dude: I'm going to the park to eat my sandwich now.
CONVERSATION #3
Any-number-people-I've-discussed-my-collegiate-career-with-since-2004: What are you majoring in again?
Me: English Literature
Rest-of-the-World: Oh, so you want to be a high school teacher then?
Me: Nope, maybe I'll get my doctorate, but I could never teach. I don't especially like children.
Rest-of-the-World: ah, ok...Have you read The Lovely Bones?
Me: (looking down at my imaginary watch) You know, I've really got to run. We'll catch up sometime, ok?
Sherpa-on-Metro: (After I have dozed off during trek home while reading Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut) Must not be a very interesting book.
Me: (waking up suddenly because he's also kind of a close talker) No, no, it is. Just didn't get much sleep last night.
Sherpa: Vonnegut, huh? Have you read Slaughterhouse-5?
Me: Yes, actually a number of years ago. I loved it, he manages to suffuse an obvious tragedy irreverence and irony without tempering the narrative.
Sherpa: I've never read it. Is Cat's Cradle any good?
Me: Yes it is, I read it originally as part of a class on Eco-fiction.
Sherpa: NPR is also interesting.
Me: This is my stop. Enjoy your weekend.
CONVERSATION #2
Dude-at-work-who-doesn't-look-people-in-the-eye: So what's your degree in?
Me: English Literature
Dude: Do you read Poetry Magazine?
Me: When I can pick it up, but I have to say many of my favorite poets are dead.
Dude: Do you enjoy the modernists?
Me: Actually one of my favorite classes at school was on the British and Irish Modernists
Dude: My favorite is John Updike.
Me: Is he a modernist? (note--I know he is not a modernist. I was trying to be nice. Updike is a modernist only if you extend the definition of modernism to include people who have written since the Modern Era of the English language began...before Shakespeare.)
Dude: Well I mean, he wrote in the 20th century.
Me: That doesn't necessarily make him a modernist, it all depends on his style. Would you call it stream-of-conscience?
Dude: I also like Wallace Stevens
Me: "The Emperor of Ice Cream" is one of my favorite poems. The thing about Stevens was the rich internal life he created as a contrast to his 'real' life.
Dude: So what are your favorite books?
Me: Moby-Dick and Ulysses, the one by Joyce...not Homer.
Dude: I've read some Melville, just not Moby-Dick.
Me: That's a shame, it's far and away his best work. Really the culmination of his particular vision.
Dude: I'm going to the park to eat my sandwich now.
CONVERSATION #3
Any-number-people-I've-discussed-my-collegiate-career-with-since-2004: What are you majoring in again?
Me: English Literature
Rest-of-the-World: Oh, so you want to be a high school teacher then?
Me: Nope, maybe I'll get my doctorate, but I could never teach. I don't especially like children.
Rest-of-the-World: ah, ok...Have you read The Lovely Bones?
Me: (looking down at my imaginary watch) You know, I've really got to run. We'll catch up sometime, ok?
Do you ever get the feeling that it just isn't your day?
The sandals I wore to work this morning have proceeded to give me blisters on each foot and in various locations on and around my toes. They also, having a leather sole, make a farty sound whenever I walk, not unlike that armpit trick I never mastered. Little did I know I could re-created it with the help of my now-inflamed feet.
At least I didn't spill coffee on myself today. That was yesterday. I was wearing a white dress. I knew well enough not to pack chips and salsa for lunch (opening refrigerator for jar immediately conjured images of horrible salsa/stigmata/period stain on nice, white, bias-cut Ann Taylor cotton), but did not take into account that once the lid was put on the coffee at Starbucks that I should not, under any circumstances, remove it. Especially not to add ice to my "iced" coffee (quotation marks necessary as it did not resemble anything cold and was, in fact, too hot to drink easily with a straw. Much like sucking down broth or those evil Campbell's Soup-to-go cups that seem like a scalding waiting to happen.) In replacing the lid, I crumpled the cup and emptied the contents on to the floor of the office kitchen and the lower half of me. Right when the managing editor walked by. This is how she knows me now.
This is also not the first time I have managed to spill coffee onto a white article of clothing in the month that I've had this job.
At least I didn't spill coffee on myself today. That was yesterday. I was wearing a white dress. I knew well enough not to pack chips and salsa for lunch (opening refrigerator for jar immediately conjured images of horrible salsa/stigmata/period stain on nice, white, bias-cut Ann Taylor cotton), but did not take into account that once the lid was put on the coffee at Starbucks that I should not, under any circumstances, remove it. Especially not to add ice to my "iced" coffee (quotation marks necessary as it did not resemble anything cold and was, in fact, too hot to drink easily with a straw. Much like sucking down broth or those evil Campbell's Soup-to-go cups that seem like a scalding waiting to happen.) In replacing the lid, I crumpled the cup and emptied the contents on to the floor of the office kitchen and the lower half of me. Right when the managing editor walked by. This is how she knows me now.
This is also not the first time I have managed to spill coffee onto a white article of clothing in the month that I've had this job.
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