I need to get out of the dorms.
Paying for my ritual banana, apple, and nalgene-water-refill at the food court this morning, the woman working the cash register absentmindedly pointed at my bottle and asked:"Water or Soda?"
... before I could finish saying "water", she looked at my face.
"Oh! It's you!"
A beaming smile as she rang up "water".
"I should have known - just a little tired this morning."
... to my credit, I gave her a friendly smile, and returned the favor when she wished me a "good day" after finishing paying for my "usual morning order".
.... people have "usual morning orders" at their favorite diners... they have "usual" drinks at bars, they have "usual" birthday cakes (or maybe that's just my family), they have "usual" restaurants that they frequent... and yet, I can't think of anyone else who is on speaking terms with the older women who've worked at the Wright Food Court for... well, longer than I've been here.
There's the woman who works weekday evenings - she tells me almost every time I get dinner that she's glad to see that someone eats fruits and veggies.
There's the nice lady - I think from Eastern Europe originally - that reminds every other person in line to weigh their salads... but asks me how I eat them so often without getting bored.
Usually seen in the morning, there is the woman who looks like she could be grouchy... and then she laughs, and you realize her grandchildren must *adore* her jokes. ..... however, she's more prone to frown at you if you take too long to get out your meal card.
.... then your blood runs cold.
Finally, let's not forget the above mentioned morning fruit ringer-upper... J. has gone through the line so often with me now - with his own ritual breakfast items - that she merely has to see our smiling faces approaching to correctly - down to number of fruit items - add up a total.
My Eat Wright Buddies Group does not exclude men. I have lived two and a half years in the dorms... it had better not. I became running buddies with one of the managers there last winter. He saw me - sweaty and gross in my running gear - so often, grabbing dinner post-run, that we began to trade workout and training tips. He got engaged a month or so ago - I think he told me before it became official on Facebook.
.... and hey - today... (somewhat unfortunately) - that feels like a big deal.
Oh - and last (for today, and certainly not least) - the guy who works mostly at the salad bar. (Can you tell that salad is a common theme here?) I don't even know his name, but after mistaking me for one of his bosses, we've hit it off and have been food court friends ever since. He knows that I play bass and get a little worried about performances, and I know that he works full time and can't wait to get home for the holidays. In some odd, dorm-bubble shaped way, we look out for each other.
What amazes me is that I have seen some of these people outside of the Food Court - funnily enough, I saw one in a grocery store.
... heck, that got a chuckle out of me.
However - with the exception of the grocery store escapade - seeing them out of context... out of uniform, out of their cash register domains... its as if we have never met. I remember who they are, but perhaps the lack of tray, nalgene, and multiple pounds of greenery make it difficult for them to remember me. The grocery store incident, I believe, is different only because we were still surrounded by food, and I had multiple vegetables in my cart. I can't help but wonder, then, if they would still be able to pinpoint my identity if I went through the line with a few slices of pizza and a big ol' bowl of ice cream.
... in a way, it makes me a little ... well... sad. The Wright Food Court is not their life, it is not who they are, but that is all I'll ever know about them. And - just as my salads do not define me (God, I hope they don't) - that may be all that they find of interest about me.
And, on that note - if I finally left the dorms... moved into my buddie's apartment... did all of my main shopping at the local grocery store / co-op, and took a dorm food hiatus (hiatus = break from dorm fare as coma = nap)...
... if I came back just one last time... and loaded up my tray with all sorts of fruits and veggies... broke out the nalgene... and went back to the same cash registers...
... well... would it be as if I never left?
... or would I finally need to look for a new "usual" as they'd struggle with the idea that they'd seen me before, somehow, somewhere.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
short (and stupid)
You know, it has never really occurred to me that relationship issues are fixable.
Well - no, that's not true. I figured that they had to be, given that many other people seem to do it pretty easily.
[clarification]: *my* relationship issues have never seemed fixable. Usually, I'm spiraling through extreme scenarios and outcomes in my imagination as opposed to "imagining" that two people could logically work through a rough patch. Most of the time those scenarios involve weaponry ("A duel to the .... well, not the death, but if I win, we still go out!" "It'll never work [sob sob], I've trained far too hard and I'm far too competitive... I knew that we were never meant to be!" "... You could let me win!" "I don't know how!") or at least, some sort of soap opera 'last-phrase-to-say-before-you-get-out-of-earshot': "The aliens knew I was incapable of love!"
It was kind of anti-climatic, actually. The talking and logic thing. I was maybe expecting lightning to strike, at least.
"Oh, ____! My sudden near-death experience makes me realize that talking this out with you is more imperative than ever!"
Huh.
But, hey - we all have to be wrong sometimes!
ps: Ben, it works!
Well - no, that's not true. I figured that they had to be, given that many other people seem to do it pretty easily.
[clarification]: *my* relationship issues have never seemed fixable. Usually, I'm spiraling through extreme scenarios and outcomes in my imagination as opposed to "imagining" that two people could logically work through a rough patch. Most of the time those scenarios involve weaponry ("A duel to the .... well, not the death, but if I win, we still go out!" "It'll never work [sob sob], I've trained far too hard and I'm far too competitive... I knew that we were never meant to be!" "... You could let me win!" "I don't know how!") or at least, some sort of soap opera 'last-phrase-to-say-before-you-get-out-of-earshot': "The aliens knew I was incapable of love!"
It was kind of anti-climatic, actually. The talking and logic thing. I was maybe expecting lightning to strike, at least.
"Oh, ____! My sudden near-death experience makes me realize that talking this out with you is more imperative than ever!"
Huh.
But, hey - we all have to be wrong sometimes!
ps: Ben, it works!
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Well, boy, am I bad at this.
So... I figured that by saving this page under "Bookmarks", I'd see the link enough to be guilt-tripped into updating regularly.
... It kind of worked - I've seen it regularly, and have felt daily pangs of "what a sorry excuse for a blogger I" ... I just haven't actually updated.
Whoops.
To placate the gods of cyberspace, (no lightning, please), a short piece to [hopefully] spawn more writing later. I call it:
"Thanksgiving - the Skibicki Version"
[for your reading pleasure]:
Perhaps it's part of our Polish ancestry (though none of us know any of our "native" tongue; our Babci passed on few words to her children besides those they shared at school and probably giggled about.
"What's that mean?!"
"Thank you very much."
"No way!! It sounds far too silly."
"You must be right! My mom's probably just making it up.")
- mais oui, perhaps it's due to our bloodline, but holidays are not complete without the Polish Homemade Bread. Babka, I think. (It sounds silly enough to work.) However... usually, "holidays" means the holidays - Christmas Break. Therefore, the appearance of a loaf... a golden, moist, prune-butter (pvebla?) filled, crumb-topped loaf... at our Thanksgiving celebration...
Madness.
Pandemonium.
.... Joyous rioting.
Some thirty, forty (I lost count somewhere in the cousins area) people, all of them jostling for a piece before dinner. Those *not* jostling where clearly not part of the family, but they didn't know the power of the Babka, and could thus be grudgingly forgiven. However, cousin Katie - sitting guard with a gigantic butcher knife, managed to protect the goodness until dinner was served. (At least an hour of being called the "Bread Nazi". We're a very kind family.)
... well, dinner is finally underway; the adults have filled their plates, the kids are now in line - circling around the countertop and jostling for the person in front of them to move faster so that they could take their sweet time with the mashed potatoes themselves.
As I am just about to take a piece of bread, Jason - friend of cousin Parker - speaks up. I'm pretty sure he says something akin to "so this f******* bread must be pretty special for everyone to be fighting over it."
I could be wrong.
I could have sworn I heard that f-bomb drop.
... however, that is not the issue.
... the issue... is my autopilot response as I grab one of the last pieces of baked perfection:
"Well, in the Skibicki family, we don't f*** around with our bread."
... whoops.
At least I can go down as the first Skibicki to drop that particular bomb at a family gathering. Hoowah!
Happy Holidays, everyone.
... It kind of worked - I've seen it regularly, and have felt daily pangs of "what a sorry excuse for a blogger I" ... I just haven't actually updated.
Whoops.
To placate the gods of cyberspace, (no lightning, please), a short piece to [hopefully] spawn more writing later. I call it:
"Thanksgiving - the Skibicki Version"
[for your reading pleasure]:
Perhaps it's part of our Polish ancestry (though none of us know any of our "native" tongue; our Babci passed on few words to her children besides those they shared at school and probably giggled about.
"What's that mean?!"
"Thank you very much."
"No way!! It sounds far too silly."
"You must be right! My mom's probably just making it up.")
- mais oui, perhaps it's due to our bloodline, but holidays are not complete without the Polish Homemade Bread. Babka, I think. (It sounds silly enough to work.) However... usually, "holidays" means the holidays - Christmas Break. Therefore, the appearance of a loaf... a golden, moist, prune-butter (pvebla?) filled, crumb-topped loaf... at our Thanksgiving celebration...
Madness.
Pandemonium.
.... Joyous rioting.
Some thirty, forty (I lost count somewhere in the cousins area) people, all of them jostling for a piece before dinner. Those *not* jostling where clearly not part of the family, but they didn't know the power of the Babka, and could thus be grudgingly forgiven. However, cousin Katie - sitting guard with a gigantic butcher knife, managed to protect the goodness until dinner was served. (At least an hour of being called the "Bread Nazi". We're a very kind family.)
... well, dinner is finally underway; the adults have filled their plates, the kids are now in line - circling around the countertop and jostling for the person in front of them to move faster so that they could take their sweet time with the mashed potatoes themselves.
As I am just about to take a piece of bread, Jason - friend of cousin Parker - speaks up. I'm pretty sure he says something akin to "so this f******* bread must be pretty special for everyone to be fighting over it."
I could be wrong.
I could have sworn I heard that f-bomb drop.
... however, that is not the issue.
... the issue... is my autopilot response as I grab one of the last pieces of baked perfection:
"Well, in the Skibicki family, we don't f*** around with our bread."
... whoops.
At least I can go down as the first Skibicki to drop that particular bomb at a family gathering. Hoowah!
Happy Holidays, everyone.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Another leaf-scone? Why, Mr. Bigglesworth, I just couldn't.
"But more puddle-tea would be lovely, thank you - Princess Garcia-Duck, this luncheon is absolutely delightful. I must accept your invitations more often."
... what? They were serving cucumber sandwiches and exotic herbal brews - I couldn't turn my stuffed animals down just because the tea was in the second-hand plastic cups that didn't even change colors! Hardship builds character, if you hadn't noticed.
Or... or, maybe you have the same skewed thought process that I do, and, in the recent light of our economic "bite-to-the-jugular" trauma, expected the world to go black-and-white and the word "flappers" to make a come back. That might explain why I have been suddenly addicted to the crooning of Frank Sinatra, and wake up misty-eyed to the soft, dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
... and have sudden urges to don a Fedora.
... but I will resist.
Things aren't good - you may have figured that out by watching the news, reading the paper, generally existing around people who depend on money in order to aid them in oh, what's the word - living. I'm beginning to feel that the kids my age [*cough cough* young adults] are caught in an interesting emotional and educational whirlwind; we're literally just old enough to watch our parents, our teachers, and our slightly-older, independent, self-supporting pals feel the stress of trying to do whatever they can to lessen the blow... and the strain of feeling absolutely helpless. Those slightly younger than us may or may not be concerned, depending on maturity level or just how close this financial crisis hits to home, but I get the impression that they do not scour abcnews.com for the positive word. I can't figure out whether or not to be frustrated by this stance - while I've asked older friends, and my older brother, about the situation, I still feel that I know nothing. At the least, nothing of certainty. What's connected, what will be eventually connected, why this happened, how it could be resolved, when, where, what will have to happen first...
... and then my mind opens the floodgates to the other issues. Storms seem to be getting worse - is that global warming? The weather is bonkers as is, without clouds plotting catastrophic events. The media grows progressively more obsessed with egotistic, narcissistic celebrities that DO NOT CONTRIBUTE ANYTHING TO SOCIETY. Pardon me, Paris Hilton, but do you really need a t.v show that pits __ # of kids against one another to see who can suck up to you the most - er, my bad: be your new bff? If you don't mind a brown nose out for meaningless camera time, you've got a good bunch there. Oh, and the effect on the young'uns? Two kids - who couldn't be more than 11 - rode by me on a moped a few weeks ago while I was biking and screamed - loudly, and with victorious air - "F*@# you, b%&$@#!"
In hindsight, I could have whipped out a few choice curses of my own, but I was too surprised to do anything but keep biking down the road and try to avoid potholes.
... and... in double hindsight (which is like hindsight, only infinitely wiser. [cough]) ... what would that have done but reinforce the idea that, at age 11, they were supposed to hear those things and understand what they meant, and exactly how to use them?
... oh, and let's not forget baby-seal clubbers. Another sign of down-spiraling... so despicable that I can't write anything else about it.
In any case, what I'm trying to say (I guess) is that... right now... the world may as well be in black-and-white. It's not exactly a joyous place in certain respects; there are moments when I look at the pictures on my wall and wonder if we can honestly expect that sort of idyllic atmosphere for the next few years without it feeling forced.
At the same time, though.... on that same bike ride home, after that drive-by-calamity... I witnessed proof that we could make it out of this hole:
A young mom, in overalls and her hair pulled up in a sporting, hair-everywhere pony tail - obviously designed and executed by her adorable 3 year old daughter, dressed and coiffed similarly - was sitting down for afternoon tea. I only glimpsed a... glimpse - maybe a second and a half - but it was enough to hear a giggle, and see the mother graciously begin to accept a cup of "tea" from the stuffed bear next to her.
... I bet they had leaf-scones.
... what? They were serving cucumber sandwiches and exotic herbal brews - I couldn't turn my stuffed animals down just because the tea was in the second-hand plastic cups that didn't even change colors! Hardship builds character, if you hadn't noticed.
Or... or, maybe you have the same skewed thought process that I do, and, in the recent light of our economic "bite-to-the-jugular" trauma, expected the world to go black-and-white and the word "flappers" to make a come back. That might explain why I have been suddenly addicted to the crooning of Frank Sinatra, and wake up misty-eyed to the soft, dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
... and have sudden urges to don a Fedora.
... but I will resist.
Things aren't good - you may have figured that out by watching the news, reading the paper, generally existing around people who depend on money in order to aid them in oh, what's the word - living. I'm beginning to feel that the kids my age [*cough cough* young adults] are caught in an interesting emotional and educational whirlwind; we're literally just old enough to watch our parents, our teachers, and our slightly-older, independent, self-supporting pals feel the stress of trying to do whatever they can to lessen the blow... and the strain of feeling absolutely helpless. Those slightly younger than us may or may not be concerned, depending on maturity level or just how close this financial crisis hits to home, but I get the impression that they do not scour abcnews.com for the positive word. I can't figure out whether or not to be frustrated by this stance - while I've asked older friends, and my older brother, about the situation, I still feel that I know nothing. At the least, nothing of certainty. What's connected, what will be eventually connected, why this happened, how it could be resolved, when, where, what will have to happen first...
... and then my mind opens the floodgates to the other issues. Storms seem to be getting worse - is that global warming? The weather is bonkers as is, without clouds plotting catastrophic events. The media grows progressively more obsessed with egotistic, narcissistic celebrities that DO NOT CONTRIBUTE ANYTHING TO SOCIETY. Pardon me, Paris Hilton, but do you really need a t.v show that pits __ # of kids against one another to see who can suck up to you the most - er, my bad: be your new bff? If you don't mind a brown nose out for meaningless camera time, you've got a good bunch there. Oh, and the effect on the young'uns? Two kids - who couldn't be more than 11 - rode by me on a moped a few weeks ago while I was biking and screamed - loudly, and with victorious air - "F*@# you, b%&$@#!"
In hindsight, I could have whipped out a few choice curses of my own, but I was too surprised to do anything but keep biking down the road and try to avoid potholes.
... and... in double hindsight (which is like hindsight, only infinitely wiser. [cough]) ... what would that have done but reinforce the idea that, at age 11, they were supposed to hear those things and understand what they meant, and exactly how to use them?
... oh, and let's not forget baby-seal clubbers. Another sign of down-spiraling... so despicable that I can't write anything else about it.
In any case, what I'm trying to say (I guess) is that... right now... the world may as well be in black-and-white. It's not exactly a joyous place in certain respects; there are moments when I look at the pictures on my wall and wonder if we can honestly expect that sort of idyllic atmosphere for the next few years without it feeling forced.
At the same time, though.... on that same bike ride home, after that drive-by-calamity... I witnessed proof that we could make it out of this hole:
A young mom, in overalls and her hair pulled up in a sporting, hair-everywhere pony tail - obviously designed and executed by her adorable 3 year old daughter, dressed and coiffed similarly - was sitting down for afternoon tea. I only glimpsed a... glimpse - maybe a second and a half - but it was enough to hear a giggle, and see the mother graciously begin to accept a cup of "tea" from the stuffed bear next to her.
... I bet they had leaf-scones.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
It's got 120 calories! 25 grams of protein! Only 2 grams of sugar!
Only 57% OF YOUR DAILY SODIUM INTAKE PER SERVING!
...thus ends my brief foray into the world of beef-jerky addiction. [sigh] And I was really starting to enjoy myself... curse the involuntary movements that cause my eyes to scan nutrition labels!
... No, for serious! (See this - this is my serious face!)
Well, you can't see it, but it's a pretty grim expression, I'll have you know.
Reading the information on the back... used to be mere curiosity. When I was much younger, I couldn't care less what I was putting into my body (oh, that could be taken in so many awful ways) food-wise, as long as it was delicious and I could get away with it. Fig Newtons? Screw serving size, I'd eat a whole sleeve of 'em. (A bad example - is anyone able to stop eating those things once they've had one? I thought not.)
On a similar note, Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" just came on my stereo. I agree Marvin... Fig Newtons are worthy of orgasmic-taste-bud-loving. Now, if only my brother had not COMPLETELY CLEANED OUT MY ENTIRE FIG NEWTON STASH, I too, could get it on. For now, I'll continue to sip my coffee ("because it is bitter, and because it is my heart...") and plan a stop at the convenience store later.
In any case - back to the nutrition information and away from my now-all-consuming Fig Newton Craving. Through middle school, I could have three ice-cream bars for lunch and not bat an eyelid. Coca-Cola probably ran through my veins in stead of blood - after sophomore year of high school, while in Germany, I literally went through an entire case of 1 liters... by... my... self. It literally replaced water - if I awoke in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, I'd stumble groggily down to the basement and grab myself a bottle and chug.
... they *used* to have crack in there, right? Past-tense?
After field hockey practice, my sister and I would head to the local Starbucks and deplete our bank accounts by buying the biggest, most sugar packed frozen drink that we could think of... at *least* three times a week. And then go home and eat the scrumptious meal that my parents had prepared, and go back to the freezer for dessert. I figured as long as I was part of the sports teams, I could eat / drink how-much-of whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
... then my mom started pointing out nutrition info, or passing me random bits of data.
Did I know that the Coke I consumed (Coca-Cola, *cough*) had ___ grams of sugar in it? That drinking a can a day would cause me to gain 10 pounds in a year - not counting in everything else I ate or drank?
Did I realize that I was getting older and my metabolism was going to slow down? That I wouldn't be able to use the excuse that my body could process most things without problem?
Did it occur to me that Starbucks frappucino's did have a calorie count - some over 600? (whoops).
Did I even know what the word "moderation" meant?
... and etc. It continues today, except that I've become such a health nut that the subjects and word choices have changed a bit.
Do I really need 12 servings of fruit a day?
Did I understand that it was okay to indulge a little bit in order to prevent sudden fits of binge eating?
... Was I really binge-eating with Kashi cereal?!
99% of the time, I owe my mom a thank you note for making me aware of my own eating habits. However... that 1%... I feel that I've become slightly neurotic about my nutrition labels. No doubt that I'm exponentially better off - I'm constantly aware of what goes in my body and why. I won't eat fast-food, and Starbucks hasn't touched my savings account in quite a long time. I look for meals and snacks that are going to make me feel better - not only bodily-wise, but even mentally.
... the problem is the "indulge yourself every once in a while" bit. I can't help but feel guilty the majority of the times that I do - and if I haven't exercised that day, for example, it's completely out of the question. (Note - I will not resort to drastic measures. Purging is .... well, it's a sickness. I'm out for feeling better, not destroying my body in the process of feeling good.) ... Which is where the nutrition labels come in. Part of me wishes I could completely ignore them at least once or twice a day, just enjoy the treat, and move on. Instead, I scour the sugar content, or fat percentage... for someone who wants to eventually retire to a life of baking sweet-goodness all day, this could be emotionally scarring stuff.
I figure I'm still better off than where I was in say, the Coked-up middle school era and the whipped-cream and chocolate syrup dominated days of high school... I'd just like to see a little more middle ground. I'm getting better at it, but I excel at extremes.
...thus ends my brief foray into the world of beef-jerky addiction. [sigh] And I was really starting to enjoy myself... curse the involuntary movements that cause my eyes to scan nutrition labels!
... No, for serious! (See this - this is my serious face!)
Well, you can't see it, but it's a pretty grim expression, I'll have you know.
Reading the information on the back... used to be mere curiosity. When I was much younger, I couldn't care less what I was putting into my body (oh, that could be taken in so many awful ways) food-wise, as long as it was delicious and I could get away with it. Fig Newtons? Screw serving size, I'd eat a whole sleeve of 'em. (A bad example - is anyone able to stop eating those things once they've had one? I thought not.)
On a similar note, Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" just came on my stereo. I agree Marvin... Fig Newtons are worthy of orgasmic-taste-bud-loving. Now, if only my brother had not COMPLETELY CLEANED OUT MY ENTIRE FIG NEWTON STASH, I too, could get it on. For now, I'll continue to sip my coffee ("because it is bitter, and because it is my heart...") and plan a stop at the convenience store later.
In any case - back to the nutrition information and away from my now-all-consuming Fig Newton Craving. Through middle school, I could have three ice-cream bars for lunch and not bat an eyelid. Coca-Cola probably ran through my veins in stead of blood - after sophomore year of high school, while in Germany, I literally went through an entire case of 1 liters... by... my... self. It literally replaced water - if I awoke in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, I'd stumble groggily down to the basement and grab myself a bottle and chug.
... they *used* to have crack in there, right? Past-tense?
After field hockey practice, my sister and I would head to the local Starbucks and deplete our bank accounts by buying the biggest, most sugar packed frozen drink that we could think of... at *least* three times a week. And then go home and eat the scrumptious meal that my parents had prepared, and go back to the freezer for dessert. I figured as long as I was part of the sports teams, I could eat / drink how-much-of whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
... then my mom started pointing out nutrition info, or passing me random bits of data.
Did I know that the Coke I consumed (Coca-Cola, *cough*) had ___ grams of sugar in it? That drinking a can a day would cause me to gain 10 pounds in a year - not counting in everything else I ate or drank?
Did I realize that I was getting older and my metabolism was going to slow down? That I wouldn't be able to use the excuse that my body could process most things without problem?
Did it occur to me that Starbucks frappucino's did have a calorie count - some over 600? (whoops).
Did I even know what the word "moderation" meant?
... and etc. It continues today, except that I've become such a health nut that the subjects and word choices have changed a bit.
Do I really need 12 servings of fruit a day?
Did I understand that it was okay to indulge a little bit in order to prevent sudden fits of binge eating?
... Was I really binge-eating with Kashi cereal?!
99% of the time, I owe my mom a thank you note for making me aware of my own eating habits. However... that 1%... I feel that I've become slightly neurotic about my nutrition labels. No doubt that I'm exponentially better off - I'm constantly aware of what goes in my body and why. I won't eat fast-food, and Starbucks hasn't touched my savings account in quite a long time. I look for meals and snacks that are going to make me feel better - not only bodily-wise, but even mentally.
... the problem is the "indulge yourself every once in a while" bit. I can't help but feel guilty the majority of the times that I do - and if I haven't exercised that day, for example, it's completely out of the question. (Note - I will not resort to drastic measures. Purging is .... well, it's a sickness. I'm out for feeling better, not destroying my body in the process of feeling good.) ... Which is where the nutrition labels come in. Part of me wishes I could completely ignore them at least once or twice a day, just enjoy the treat, and move on. Instead, I scour the sugar content, or fat percentage... for someone who wants to eventually retire to a life of baking sweet-goodness all day, this could be emotionally scarring stuff.
I figure I'm still better off than where I was in say, the Coked-up middle school era and the whipped-cream and chocolate syrup dominated days of high school... I'd just like to see a little more middle ground. I'm getting better at it, but I excel at extremes.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
No, no - I'm not a whore... That's just my brother!
... and that's just wrong.
Over a month into the "Freshman Living Situation", and I'm beginning to understand that... single room aside, there is no such thing as dormitory privacy. You'd think I'd have figured that out back in, oh, 2006, when I lugged all of my belongings (and probably a few of my brother's and sister's) in duffel bags and Tupperware boxes into my first college room. Even roommate-from-Opposite-Land aside, I at least had the domicile all to myself from 11:45 p.m to 4:45 a.m... a chance to breathe and stretch out and generally enjoy having all 5 square feet to myself.
[sigh] Oh, the Golden Days.
... okay - now I'll be serious. It is glorious having a living space that I can actually do more than merely spin in a circle when I feel the urge to "get up and move around". Every night, before I turn off the final light, I smile and say a little word of thanks for the fact that, while I'll probably opt to keep any extra space, I could potentially have double my freshman year belongings! (That is, if I don't already - Narnia keeps shoving this mystery stuff that I don't remember owning through my closet.) The greatest bit? A blaring, fire-engine red soccer-mom minivan in which to transport those belongings... It's an improvement on the past with some foreshadowing of the future!
[egad, no!]
It's just... it's just... IT'S JUST THESE CRAZY PEOPLE I LIVE WITH.
No, I can't honestly say that - the girls are wonderful. Young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, out into the night for Fraternities and Fun.
... [eyes narrow] It is the men that they attract.
I walk down the hall for my evening shower.
There are freshmen boys in the way, tossing around a frisbee.
I return from my evening shower.
The last remaining male, tossing said frisbee, turns to find me with fuzzy towel, towley-hair, and the washed-up look of a drawn-out scrubbing. Cue a five-second period that seems to last for all eternity, in which he stares, clears his throat, and pivots in the slowest manner possible, then my hastened pace through the rest of the hall.
I go to brush my teeth.
As if by signal, one of my students... one of the guys... ducks in to ask me a question, startling me to slightly spit out my mouthful of bright-green Crest foam.
I wake up in the morning, bleary eyed, and haul my arm-ful of dirty dishes down for some good, old-fashioned washing.
Immediately, out pops A, or P, or B, or possible C or the other P... possibly wondering how a single person goes through 4 bowls, 3 spoons, 2 knives, a fork, and the complete works of Shakespeare - er... a coffee maker.
(You may yourself wonder the same thing. It takes a special type of person, let me tell you.)
I'm prone to believe that I would not feel nearly so... well, awkward, if I didn't teach half of the kids on this floor. OR... perhaps... maybe if I weren't an ancient junior trying to disguise myself among noobs.
Perhaps it is time to consider the option of apartment housing, no matter how brilliant the teaching gig seems to be going.
... but then again... my orange fuzzy slippers wouldn't be nearly as fun to wear if I couldn't coordinate them with my burning shades of blushing magenta.
Over a month into the "Freshman Living Situation", and I'm beginning to understand that... single room aside, there is no such thing as dormitory privacy. You'd think I'd have figured that out back in, oh, 2006, when I lugged all of my belongings (and probably a few of my brother's and sister's) in duffel bags and Tupperware boxes into my first college room. Even roommate-from-Opposite-Land aside, I at least had the domicile all to myself from 11:45 p.m to 4:45 a.m... a chance to breathe and stretch out and generally enjoy having all 5 square feet to myself.
[sigh] Oh, the Golden Days.
... okay - now I'll be serious. It is glorious having a living space that I can actually do more than merely spin in a circle when I feel the urge to "get up and move around". Every night, before I turn off the final light, I smile and say a little word of thanks for the fact that, while I'll probably opt to keep any extra space, I could potentially have double my freshman year belongings! (That is, if I don't already - Narnia keeps shoving this mystery stuff that I don't remember owning through my closet.) The greatest bit? A blaring, fire-engine red soccer-mom minivan in which to transport those belongings... It's an improvement on the past with some foreshadowing of the future!
[egad, no!]
It's just... it's just... IT'S JUST THESE CRAZY PEOPLE I LIVE WITH.
No, I can't honestly say that - the girls are wonderful. Young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, out into the night for Fraternities and Fun.
... [eyes narrow] It is the men that they attract.
I walk down the hall for my evening shower.
There are freshmen boys in the way, tossing around a frisbee.
I return from my evening shower.
The last remaining male, tossing said frisbee, turns to find me with fuzzy towel, towley-hair, and the washed-up look of a drawn-out scrubbing. Cue a five-second period that seems to last for all eternity, in which he stares, clears his throat, and pivots in the slowest manner possible, then my hastened pace through the rest of the hall.
I go to brush my teeth.
As if by signal, one of my students... one of the guys... ducks in to ask me a question, startling me to slightly spit out my mouthful of bright-green Crest foam.
I wake up in the morning, bleary eyed, and haul my arm-ful of dirty dishes down for some good, old-fashioned washing.
Immediately, out pops A, or P, or B, or possible C or the other P... possibly wondering how a single person goes through 4 bowls, 3 spoons, 2 knives, a fork, and the complete works of Shakespeare - er... a coffee maker.
(You may yourself wonder the same thing. It takes a special type of person, let me tell you.)
I'm prone to believe that I would not feel nearly so... well, awkward, if I didn't teach half of the kids on this floor. OR... perhaps... maybe if I weren't an ancient junior trying to disguise myself among noobs.
Perhaps it is time to consider the option of apartment housing, no matter how brilliant the teaching gig seems to be going.
... but then again... my orange fuzzy slippers wouldn't be nearly as fun to wear if I couldn't coordinate them with my burning shades of blushing magenta.
Friday, September 12, 2008
I'd unwind a bit, but I'm afraid that would set off the trip-wires.
A former friend of mine tried to give me a backrub once.
.... I know that's not exactly the stirring opening that you associate with most epics, but this story has actually stuck with me for longer than 5 years. (Almost literally).
We were on the indoor track and field team together for a season in high school - he sprinted / jumped, and I made my "white-girl-field-hockey/soccer-player" attempts at the 400 and 800 meter dashes of sheer-agony. (They put them with the smaller distances, but sprinting for 2 minutes?! Who the hell comes up with these things?!)
... (is it bad if I'd rather just push myself over 7 miles than kill myself over 1/2 of one?... don't answer that.)
In any case - sprinting, whether short term or cruelly prolonged, is the one part of running that I'll get worked up about. It is also - though my accidental 12.5 miler this summer proved me wrong - one of the few things involved with cardio/exercise that can make me literally ill. (That may, however, just be my mental block against it.) Therefore - after the completion of our first track meet of the season (!) in which yours truly managed to further along the argument for longer uniform shorts - the bus ride back was gradually becoming less and less comfortable. Ten minutes in, I'd given up on sitting as a normal human being should and was curled up in a fetal position upon the brown, elementary-school-broken-in leather.
[Enter the friend].
Notorious (such an ominous word) for his extremely-literal-deep-tissue back massages, my buddy took one look at my pathetic attempt to "work out kinks" by stretching absolutely nothing at all, almost literally pulled me back into a sitting position, and offered a trade. If I would give him a quick, superficial backrub (I was notorious for my extremely-awful-deep-tissue back-massages), then he'd spend the rest of the bus ride getting my back into typical human form.
Fair was fair - less-than-mediocre for what promised to be ridiculously thorough. I agreed, and quickly attacked his back, figuring that maybe the "open-assault" mindset would put more power into my impact.
... it was a good thought, at the least - one that could have been executed by someone more talented than I.
30 seconds later - after quite a bit of badly-masked laughing and a few "ow's!", the friend had had enough, and told me to twirl around and prepare to have my life changed.
10 seconds in: "Wow... Dani, you weren't kidding, you're really worked up back here..."
20 seconds in: "... I think this one is starting to come un- nope."
30 seconds: "... have you ever had ANYONE try this before?!"
1 minute: "Oh my God, why didn't you warn me?! It's like trying to knead concrete!"
2 minutes: "I can't... it's not... my hands... MY HANDS!!! MY HANDS ARE CRAMPING UP?!"
.... 10 minutes later - after having abandoned the mission at the 2. 5 minute mark:
"WHAT ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU?!?! STEEL?!! I CAN'T CLOSE MY FISTS!!?!"
... How's that for built-up-tension?
.... I know that's not exactly the stirring opening that you associate with most epics, but this story has actually stuck with me for longer than 5 years. (Almost literally).
We were on the indoor track and field team together for a season in high school - he sprinted / jumped, and I made my "white-girl-field-hockey/soccer-player" attempts at the 400 and 800 meter dashes of sheer-agony. (They put them with the smaller distances, but sprinting for 2 minutes?! Who the hell comes up with these things?!)
... (is it bad if I'd rather just push myself over 7 miles than kill myself over 1/2 of one?... don't answer that.)
In any case - sprinting, whether short term or cruelly prolonged, is the one part of running that I'll get worked up about. It is also - though my accidental 12.5 miler this summer proved me wrong - one of the few things involved with cardio/exercise that can make me literally ill. (That may, however, just be my mental block against it.) Therefore - after the completion of our first track meet of the season (!) in which yours truly managed to further along the argument for longer uniform shorts - the bus ride back was gradually becoming less and less comfortable. Ten minutes in, I'd given up on sitting as a normal human being should and was curled up in a fetal position upon the brown, elementary-school-broken-in leather.
[Enter the friend].
Notorious (such an ominous word) for his extremely-literal-deep-tissue back massages, my buddy took one look at my pathetic attempt to "work out kinks" by stretching absolutely nothing at all, almost literally pulled me back into a sitting position, and offered a trade. If I would give him a quick, superficial backrub (I was notorious for my extremely-awful-deep-tissue back-massages), then he'd spend the rest of the bus ride getting my back into typical human form.
Fair was fair - less-than-mediocre for what promised to be ridiculously thorough. I agreed, and quickly attacked his back, figuring that maybe the "open-assault" mindset would put more power into my impact.
... it was a good thought, at the least - one that could have been executed by someone more talented than I.
30 seconds later - after quite a bit of badly-masked laughing and a few "ow's!", the friend had had enough, and told me to twirl around and prepare to have my life changed.
10 seconds in: "Wow... Dani, you weren't kidding, you're really worked up back here..."
20 seconds in: "... I think this one is starting to come un- nope."
30 seconds: "... have you ever had ANYONE try this before?!"
1 minute: "Oh my God, why didn't you warn me?! It's like trying to knead concrete!"
2 minutes: "I can't... it's not... my hands... MY HANDS!!! MY HANDS ARE CRAMPING UP?!"
.... 10 minutes later - after having abandoned the mission at the 2. 5 minute mark:
"WHAT ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU?!?! STEEL?!! I CAN'T CLOSE MY FISTS!!?!"
... How's that for built-up-tension?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
First and Foremost, I pride myself on my Hypocrisy!
... If my thirteen year-old counterpart could see me right now, she would not be pleased.
For starters, I'm 20. She'd wonder how the hell I'd managed to age 7 years without her noticing.
on a more serious note, I'd think she'd feel a tremor of shock to find me without some sort of team-gear, or sports-team affiliation.
... you know, no olympic medals, scars from climbing everest, wheatie's box deal... the usual lineup.
What every 20 year old previously involved in athletics obtains by 20, right?
She'd probably also frown in my general direction after seeing my romantic tendencies. With deft aim, she'd chuck a few choice books at my nose.
"What happened to true love?!" she'd snap. "What happened to never ending loyalty, blinding faith in finding that one, the total devotion to the first deep, intense, emotional rollercoaster?!"
... [keep in mind, my 13 year old self prided herself on being "deep".]
I'd pick up the book, and rub my nose for quite a bit - hopefully thinking carefully before I answered her.
Hopefully.
"Look, Dani - " I'd start, but she'd cut me off.
"You went down the path that you swore you'd never even set foot on! You can't possibly think this is right!" She'd be looking me in the eyes, but she'd be fuming, and thinking rightfully so.
"Yes..." - the answer would be slow, drawn out. "But - can you fault me?"
Her mouth would open, I'd cut in this time.
"Dani, right now you're used to watching other girls dating boys and pretending that you don't want to see what that's like. You concentrate on the concept of true love because it keeps you separated from your worry that you'll never have a chance at it. Next year, someone will say "I love you" and you will run as fast as possible in the other direction - and it'll happen two years after that, and again, you'll flee. For good reason, but still... at 13, love would overwhelm you. True love could chuck a book at your nose and you still would have no idea what it is - you just would know that you wouldn't want it. Not now. Not at 13. In fact, not for a while."
... She might actually listen at this point.
"I'm not telling you to become the town whore. I'm not even telling you to *try* to date guys - if you decide that a hasty retreat is the best idea, listen to your gut and get the hell out of there. However..."
An eyebrow raise. Touche, 13 year old memory.
"Well, do what makes you comfortable. Just don't expect any knights in shining armor."
Now a sigh.
"Fine - expect what you will. Just try not to be so serious. At 20, its the unexpected that well... uh... well, just roll with the punches. Life gets more interesting that way."
She grips her book.
"I still think you sold out."
My turn to raise an eyebrow.
"I know. I kind of did. But... compromising isn't the same as changing who you are. If you're rigid as a freaking board, someone's going to break you and there's really no way to fix that sort of damage."
"... did you just quote Mulan or something?"
"Maybe."
"You're too old for Disney movies."
"My darling Danielle Elizabeth Meier, if there is one thing you must learn from this encounter, one is never too old for Disney movies."
For starters, I'm 20. She'd wonder how the hell I'd managed to age 7 years without her noticing.
on a more serious note, I'd think she'd feel a tremor of shock to find me without some sort of team-gear, or sports-team affiliation.
... you know, no olympic medals, scars from climbing everest, wheatie's box deal... the usual lineup.
What every 20 year old previously involved in athletics obtains by 20, right?
She'd probably also frown in my general direction after seeing my romantic tendencies. With deft aim, she'd chuck a few choice books at my nose.
"What happened to true love?!" she'd snap. "What happened to never ending loyalty, blinding faith in finding that one, the total devotion to the first deep, intense, emotional rollercoaster?!"
... [keep in mind, my 13 year old self prided herself on being "deep".]
I'd pick up the book, and rub my nose for quite a bit - hopefully thinking carefully before I answered her.
Hopefully.
"Look, Dani - " I'd start, but she'd cut me off.
"You went down the path that you swore you'd never even set foot on! You can't possibly think this is right!" She'd be looking me in the eyes, but she'd be fuming, and thinking rightfully so.
"Yes..." - the answer would be slow, drawn out. "But - can you fault me?"
Her mouth would open, I'd cut in this time.
"Dani, right now you're used to watching other girls dating boys and pretending that you don't want to see what that's like. You concentrate on the concept of true love because it keeps you separated from your worry that you'll never have a chance at it. Next year, someone will say "I love you" and you will run as fast as possible in the other direction - and it'll happen two years after that, and again, you'll flee. For good reason, but still... at 13, love would overwhelm you. True love could chuck a book at your nose and you still would have no idea what it is - you just would know that you wouldn't want it. Not now. Not at 13. In fact, not for a while."
... She might actually listen at this point.
"I'm not telling you to become the town whore. I'm not even telling you to *try* to date guys - if you decide that a hasty retreat is the best idea, listen to your gut and get the hell out of there. However..."
An eyebrow raise. Touche, 13 year old memory.
"Well, do what makes you comfortable. Just don't expect any knights in shining armor."
Now a sigh.
"Fine - expect what you will. Just try not to be so serious. At 20, its the unexpected that well... uh... well, just roll with the punches. Life gets more interesting that way."
She grips her book.
"I still think you sold out."
My turn to raise an eyebrow.
"I know. I kind of did. But... compromising isn't the same as changing who you are. If you're rigid as a freaking board, someone's going to break you and there's really no way to fix that sort of damage."
"... did you just quote Mulan or something?"
"Maybe."
"You're too old for Disney movies."
"My darling Danielle Elizabeth Meier, if there is one thing you must learn from this encounter, one is never too old for Disney movies."
Friday, August 29, 2008
briefly:
i am tempted to believe that the older i get, the more old -fashioned i become... not because i cannot keep up with the times, but because perhaps that is how i have been all along.
... it's just hard to see that when you're thirteen and you think that, if you get your heart broken one more time, you'll curl up as ashes and blow away in the wind.
...
then again, at thirteen, i was physically and emotionally incapable of going with the flow.
working on it.
huh. :)
... it's just hard to see that when you're thirteen and you think that, if you get your heart broken one more time, you'll curl up as ashes and blow away in the wind.
...
then again, at thirteen, i was physically and emotionally incapable of going with the flow.
working on it.
huh. :)
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Excuse me, Miss, but could you please tell me what country I'm in?
... Guess who's home?
[home as in Indiana University - Wright Dormitory - Room Roughly the Size of a Spacious Penitentiary Cell.]
.... yes, that would be me. :) And, after days of driving, unloading, unpacking (staring blankly at my possessions and trying not to:
1. break down in tears
2. scream obscenities
3. curse the local deity's name
4. spontaneously combust
I have finally ... finally ... gotten settled in. Hall-le-freakin-lujiah.
Perhaps it was the mindset that I shouldn't leave the containment quarters - er, my room - until I'd finished putting everything in its proper place that did me in - by the time 7:30 came around last evening, I had accomplished a great deal of nothing besides nearly taking my own life with the set of bunk beds (but I'm only one person!) and tacking up a picture of my Babci to remind me that murder and mass destruction go against the moral and religious grain. In other words... well... no, you understand.
Mais oui - 7:30 p.m, my mind checked out, and I could do no more. Hence the slight manhandling of my bike as I high-tailed it out of the building and onto the road for some quality me-and-my-masochistic-route-ideas time.
It was a good idea - I came back to my room around 9:30 and actually finished up before 1 a.m! A victory, if I do say so myself.
In any case - I used to think biking was a ... well, to be honest, a soft option. Mind, I consider myself a runner, so if I can't feel my legs literally pounding the pavement, something must be horribly wrong. However - flash back to last summer, when I ran every day and nearly destroyed my right leg... and all the resulting power walking I had to do in order to allow it to properly heal.
The term "dorkwalking" is in itself enough to make a person start to look at other means of beating the tar out of their own body.
Hence: the bike. I realized that it's what you make of it - riding down to WaWa is not an effective work out, but tearing around town and the Valley for an hour or so is. My only problem is I tend to get explorer-crazy when I bike. I see a new, foreign road - next thing you know, I have no idea where the hell I am. It adds to the fun.
"Dani, what the hell did you do for the last 3 hours?!"
"Oh, sorry guys ... [cue gasping breaths and hands clutching chest] I ... I didn't mean to be so late but I... [wheeze wheeze] I ended up in freakin' Canada man - no idea how I got there..."
".... Oh. Well. Did you bring back a souvenir?"
A few days before I came back to school, I veered off onto the back roads of Wilmington, Delaware ... as mentioned above, what we call the Valley. Gorgeous by day, slightly terrifying at night (rows upon rows of fields, winding roads, massive hills... you either get engulfed by a love of nature or swamped by a sudden desire to run away screaming from axe-murderers, aliens, Mel Gibson...) so I decided that a late afternoon escapade would work out. For the first hour it was brilliant - dodging cars that honked lovingly, swearing magnificently as I scaled the hills, pulling up my shorts after they fell down for the nth time - I was having a blast. Then... I turned right on a whim.
Suddenly, the roads are paved differently. The license plates all read Pennsylvania. There is an air of tension and foreboding, as if the daring of a native Delawarean to enter such a place is grounds in itself to send her body back to the First State in a box. Even the nature sounds treacherous - a lizard sunbathing distinctively stuck his tongue out at me as I rode by.
... as you can see, this was Serious.
The further I ride, the more and more I am convinced that I will somehow miss civilization entirely. Whatever signs of humanity I see are obviously inhabited by evil beings who want to see me get tired and finally get off of my bike. Worse, I begin to fear that, by the time I rectify my mistake by either turning around or finally recognizing my surroundings, the sun will sink down in a fiery display and leave me to wind my way home in the dark.
and... even if I survive the dark, I would most certainly not survive the lecture from my parents about riding in the Valley alone, at night, without a helmet.
As you might figure, I was in a pickle.
... until I came out of a tight curve and was deposited at a main road about 2 miles away from my house.
Needless to say, I'm still convinced that I passed unknowingly - even if only briefly - into a twilight zone area of Pennsylvania. Further - the next time I ride here, I may just end up North of the Border if I'm not careful - and I won't rule out Mexico either.
... I'll just bring money in order to retrieve something pretty as proof.
[home as in Indiana University - Wright Dormitory - Room Roughly the Size of a Spacious Penitentiary Cell.]
.... yes, that would be me. :) And, after days of driving, unloading, unpacking (staring blankly at my possessions and trying not to:
1. break down in tears
2. scream obscenities
3. curse the local deity's name
4. spontaneously combust
I have finally ... finally ... gotten settled in. Hall-le-freakin-lujiah.
Perhaps it was the mindset that I shouldn't leave the containment quarters - er, my room - until I'd finished putting everything in its proper place that did me in - by the time 7:30 came around last evening, I had accomplished a great deal of nothing besides nearly taking my own life with the set of bunk beds (but I'm only one person!) and tacking up a picture of my Babci to remind me that murder and mass destruction go against the moral and religious grain. In other words... well... no, you understand.
Mais oui - 7:30 p.m, my mind checked out, and I could do no more. Hence the slight manhandling of my bike as I high-tailed it out of the building and onto the road for some quality me-and-my-masochistic-route-ideas time.
It was a good idea - I came back to my room around 9:30 and actually finished up before 1 a.m! A victory, if I do say so myself.
In any case - I used to think biking was a ... well, to be honest, a soft option. Mind, I consider myself a runner, so if I can't feel my legs literally pounding the pavement, something must be horribly wrong. However - flash back to last summer, when I ran every day and nearly destroyed my right leg... and all the resulting power walking I had to do in order to allow it to properly heal.
The term "dorkwalking" is in itself enough to make a person start to look at other means of beating the tar out of their own body.
Hence: the bike. I realized that it's what you make of it - riding down to WaWa is not an effective work out, but tearing around town and the Valley for an hour or so is. My only problem is I tend to get explorer-crazy when I bike. I see a new, foreign road - next thing you know, I have no idea where the hell I am. It adds to the fun.
"Dani, what the hell did you do for the last 3 hours?!"
"Oh, sorry guys ... [cue gasping breaths and hands clutching chest] I ... I didn't mean to be so late but I... [wheeze wheeze] I ended up in freakin' Canada man - no idea how I got there..."
".... Oh. Well. Did you bring back a souvenir?"
A few days before I came back to school, I veered off onto the back roads of Wilmington, Delaware ... as mentioned above, what we call the Valley. Gorgeous by day, slightly terrifying at night (rows upon rows of fields, winding roads, massive hills... you either get engulfed by a love of nature or swamped by a sudden desire to run away screaming from axe-murderers, aliens, Mel Gibson...) so I decided that a late afternoon escapade would work out. For the first hour it was brilliant - dodging cars that honked lovingly, swearing magnificently as I scaled the hills, pulling up my shorts after they fell down for the nth time - I was having a blast. Then... I turned right on a whim.
Suddenly, the roads are paved differently. The license plates all read Pennsylvania. There is an air of tension and foreboding, as if the daring of a native Delawarean to enter such a place is grounds in itself to send her body back to the First State in a box. Even the nature sounds treacherous - a lizard sunbathing distinctively stuck his tongue out at me as I rode by.
... as you can see, this was Serious.
The further I ride, the more and more I am convinced that I will somehow miss civilization entirely. Whatever signs of humanity I see are obviously inhabited by evil beings who want to see me get tired and finally get off of my bike. Worse, I begin to fear that, by the time I rectify my mistake by either turning around or finally recognizing my surroundings, the sun will sink down in a fiery display and leave me to wind my way home in the dark.
and... even if I survive the dark, I would most certainly not survive the lecture from my parents about riding in the Valley alone, at night, without a helmet.
As you might figure, I was in a pickle.
... until I came out of a tight curve and was deposited at a main road about 2 miles away from my house.
Needless to say, I'm still convinced that I passed unknowingly - even if only briefly - into a twilight zone area of Pennsylvania. Further - the next time I ride here, I may just end up North of the Border if I'm not careful - and I won't rule out Mexico either.
... I'll just bring money in order to retrieve something pretty as proof.
Friday, August 15, 2008
As I'm sure someone in a dither once said, "I am in a pickle..."
I once knew a girl who could not feel her toes -
it spread to her buttocks and up to her nose;
While sitting or standing, smelling or prancing,
Driving to dancing, trotting then lancing,
Hopping towards shopping and fanning while fencing,
No idea had she of what she was sensing.
The poor girl knew nothing of the life that she led -
so she opted to feel with her whole heart, instead.
-dm
Remember that whole business about my last post - about Love, but not Mine; the gnarley, disgusting travesty of emotion that made my stomach clench and my eyes water of their own accord?
Yes, well.... about that. This time, I have a dilemma, and it thoroughly - and intentionally - involves me. It is a Love, but I am horribly, 99% certain that despite my best efforts and the diligence of the other party, it is not *my* Love... (or very strong "like" - urgh.) again.
Perhaps I am a shallow person - I'd like to think that I am not, but hey, you never know. If it is any consolation (to myself), the men in the past that I have fallen for have not necessarily been considered Don Juans - or worse (better?) the Derek Zoolanders and Hansel's of their time. All the same, no matter how wonderful of a relationship - a friendly, marvelously peachy, platonic coexistance... I craze a physical attraction. I've heard the phrase "just like kissing my brother", and I have to disagree with that particular wording, as kissing my brother would most likely traumatize me for the rest of my living days, but in the sense that the romance, the spark, the ZING... isn't there... well... I need the Zing.
Perhaps I am a shallow person, but the man in question pulled a movie moment and I ... felt... nothing. [cringe]
[side note: my ex boyfriend has pointed out that platonic relationships, when you actually read some goddamn plato, are far more intimate and intense - true, maybe not as romantic, but about as deep and complex as you can get - than your ordinary sex 'n sugar squeeze significant other. I've read plato - and I've kicked myself for not figuring that one out before he did.]
Mais oui - nothing. No zing. No spark. And... now... absence makes the heart grow fonder - I've heard - and we're finally seperated for the first time since June 16th... and still, zilch.
(then again, texting does take away the illusion of distance.)
I want to try. I want to try and see if I'm just a confused bint in a pickle, and once I head back up to IU I will suddenly feel that spark, those fireworks, the great lean towards truth, love, and happiness, though not necessarily in that order.
... I am concerned that I will not.
... and... I'm pretty goddamn sorry, because I have been trying the whole summer... and I don't think this is something you "try" at.
My toes and my nose and my buttocks (well, that's okay) are great - my heart needs a jolt or two.
it spread to her buttocks and up to her nose;
While sitting or standing, smelling or prancing,
Driving to dancing, trotting then lancing,
Hopping towards shopping and fanning while fencing,
No idea had she of what she was sensing.
The poor girl knew nothing of the life that she led -
so she opted to feel with her whole heart, instead.
-dm
Remember that whole business about my last post - about Love, but not Mine; the gnarley, disgusting travesty of emotion that made my stomach clench and my eyes water of their own accord?
Yes, well.... about that. This time, I have a dilemma, and it thoroughly - and intentionally - involves me. It is a Love, but I am horribly, 99% certain that despite my best efforts and the diligence of the other party, it is not *my* Love... (or very strong "like" - urgh.) again.
Perhaps I am a shallow person - I'd like to think that I am not, but hey, you never know. If it is any consolation (to myself), the men in the past that I have fallen for have not necessarily been considered Don Juans - or worse (better?) the Derek Zoolanders and Hansel's of their time. All the same, no matter how wonderful of a relationship - a friendly, marvelously peachy, platonic coexistance... I craze a physical attraction. I've heard the phrase "just like kissing my brother", and I have to disagree with that particular wording, as kissing my brother would most likely traumatize me for the rest of my living days, but in the sense that the romance, the spark, the ZING... isn't there... well... I need the Zing.
Perhaps I am a shallow person, but the man in question pulled a movie moment and I ... felt... nothing. [cringe]
[side note: my ex boyfriend has pointed out that platonic relationships, when you actually read some goddamn plato, are far more intimate and intense - true, maybe not as romantic, but about as deep and complex as you can get - than your ordinary sex 'n sugar squeeze significant other. I've read plato - and I've kicked myself for not figuring that one out before he did.]
Mais oui - nothing. No zing. No spark. And... now... absence makes the heart grow fonder - I've heard - and we're finally seperated for the first time since June 16th... and still, zilch.
(then again, texting does take away the illusion of distance.)
I want to try. I want to try and see if I'm just a confused bint in a pickle, and once I head back up to IU I will suddenly feel that spark, those fireworks, the great lean towards truth, love, and happiness, though not necessarily in that order.
... I am concerned that I will not.
... and... I'm pretty goddamn sorry, because I have been trying the whole summer... and I don't think this is something you "try" at.
My toes and my nose and my buttocks (well, that's okay) are great - my heart needs a jolt or two.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
so let go, let go, jump in - boundless pleasure with boundless pain
Tonight, I do not understand.
Rather, I see, but I cannot for the life of me comprehend my body's reactions. I have been told that I'm a sensitive person, but usually by my family for losing rationality and, thus, "my cool", upon being teased, joshed, messed with, and generally disoriented.
I've also been told that I have more hot buttons than a Manhattan Elevator.
... yeah. Well. Just 'cause it's true doesn't mean it should be tested.
In any case, my head is reeling and my stomach is rejecting the peaches it consumed earlier... I'm at a loss.
... more or less, the problem is Love.
Not mine. Being single has its benefits - I don't have to worry about the possibility of being sucker punched. However.. there is something about the summer that brings out the best and worst in people. (I know I'm being vague, but I'm trying to also be respectful. I don't do it all that often - forgive me.)
Allow me to explain. Kind of.
At age 20, I am sitting here musing over the "loves" I have had. Won't lie, I've had a few. At least, I've felt so strongly towards certain men that the consequences have both uplifted me and sickened me. If I were to delve further into it, I have probably committed the same atrocious acts of unintended (... and sometimes intended...) hurt that have been done to me. I will go so far as to say that everyone on this planet, no matter how or why, has marred someone that they have "loved", or that has "loved" them.
I have never cheated, nor have I been cheated on. (As far as I know.)
I have, however, been unexpectedly dropped like a hot dish at a restaurant.
I have also done my fair share of dropping. Insecurities, stupidity, paranoia, angst... the list goes on for a while. I'm not the brightest crayon in the box - I am just lucky that the people I have hurt have it in them to forgive me when I screw up.
[good god, I'm scatterbrained tonight. back to the original point]:
Again, this is not my love. And... the person that housed that love... I have known for less than two months. I would call us friends, but not close. Music camp is miraculous in the sense that people form friendships ridiculously quickly, but the two of us don't sit and chat over cocoa, if you know what I mean. However, when you are with the same people for 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for a little over seven weeks... you can put pieces together.
To see this person, eyes red, head in his hands - my body began to feel wretched.
It is not my problem. It is not my love. Maybe it was the way that he would talk about his, though - or the calm, collected demeanor he radiated without even trying. Perhaps it was in the way that he acted as if seemingly impossible, untouchable things were nothing at all...
No one could understand how such a person could be reduced to tears.
Or... at least... no one could fathom the hurt that would cause it.
Maybe that's why my body laments it. It is not my love. But to see the depth of another's and watch it explode...
Frou Frou says that "there is beauty in the breakdown". Maybe. All I see is pain.
Rather, I see, but I cannot for the life of me comprehend my body's reactions. I have been told that I'm a sensitive person, but usually by my family for losing rationality and, thus, "my cool", upon being teased, joshed, messed with, and generally disoriented.
I've also been told that I have more hot buttons than a Manhattan Elevator.
... yeah. Well. Just 'cause it's true doesn't mean it should be tested.
In any case, my head is reeling and my stomach is rejecting the peaches it consumed earlier... I'm at a loss.
... more or less, the problem is Love.
Not mine. Being single has its benefits - I don't have to worry about the possibility of being sucker punched. However.. there is something about the summer that brings out the best and worst in people. (I know I'm being vague, but I'm trying to also be respectful. I don't do it all that often - forgive me.)
Allow me to explain. Kind of.
At age 20, I am sitting here musing over the "loves" I have had. Won't lie, I've had a few. At least, I've felt so strongly towards certain men that the consequences have both uplifted me and sickened me. If I were to delve further into it, I have probably committed the same atrocious acts of unintended (... and sometimes intended...) hurt that have been done to me. I will go so far as to say that everyone on this planet, no matter how or why, has marred someone that they have "loved", or that has "loved" them.
I have never cheated, nor have I been cheated on. (As far as I know.)
I have, however, been unexpectedly dropped like a hot dish at a restaurant.
I have also done my fair share of dropping. Insecurities, stupidity, paranoia, angst... the list goes on for a while. I'm not the brightest crayon in the box - I am just lucky that the people I have hurt have it in them to forgive me when I screw up.
[good god, I'm scatterbrained tonight. back to the original point]:
Again, this is not my love. And... the person that housed that love... I have known for less than two months. I would call us friends, but not close. Music camp is miraculous in the sense that people form friendships ridiculously quickly, but the two of us don't sit and chat over cocoa, if you know what I mean. However, when you are with the same people for 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for a little over seven weeks... you can put pieces together.
To see this person, eyes red, head in his hands - my body began to feel wretched.
It is not my problem. It is not my love. Maybe it was the way that he would talk about his, though - or the calm, collected demeanor he radiated without even trying. Perhaps it was in the way that he acted as if seemingly impossible, untouchable things were nothing at all...
No one could understand how such a person could be reduced to tears.
Or... at least... no one could fathom the hurt that would cause it.
Maybe that's why my body laments it. It is not my love. But to see the depth of another's and watch it explode...
Frou Frou says that "there is beauty in the breakdown". Maybe. All I see is pain.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Your curves... they're so deliciously... grainy...
I am starting to understand how people can become married to their instruments.
... typically, that phrase is meant as a bit of a bitter joke - that musicians don't have time for real spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, boytoys, blow-up dolls, etc, because they're too busy practicing. I don't know if there has actually been a case where someone went to the local Civil Court and asked to be ceremoniously tied for life to their bassoon, but hey, you never know. After this morning...
I opened my locker - bass locker, that is; big enough for a slightly drowsy vampire to take a nap in comfortably - after brunch to work up some excerpts. I hadn't put its case on the night before, due to the fact that there really wasn't a need, so as I pulled it out, I was basically holding my bass in the nude.
(hang on tight folks, we're about to go "romance novel").
This is possibly going to sound silly - or worse, cheesy - and in the most extreme, just plain stupid - but holding my bass can sometimes feel more comforting than a small child falling asleep in one's arms. Basses... are sturdy instruments. If you put your head down on the cool, wooden surface of their shoulder, it'll support you. Violins - and their owners - would probably snap under the pressure of such an activity. When you tug it into position, you're very much being hugged. Together, you're secure - with an instrument you've been playing for a long time, you know the feel of the curves and the wood under your hands. It almost tucks into you. Imagine embracing someone a bit bigger/ taller than you - that you trust and know as the best of friends - and that wants nothing more than to make sweet music with you. That, upon hugging them, they fall right under your fingers and into your arms and you understand just how to get them to sing.
It's ..... it's a comfort food for the musical soul. No sass, no questioning - just the action of reaching out to feel, and suddenly the possibilities are endless.
I wish men were like that.
... typically, that phrase is meant as a bit of a bitter joke - that musicians don't have time for real spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, boytoys, blow-up dolls, etc, because they're too busy practicing. I don't know if there has actually been a case where someone went to the local Civil Court and asked to be ceremoniously tied for life to their bassoon, but hey, you never know. After this morning...
I opened my locker - bass locker, that is; big enough for a slightly drowsy vampire to take a nap in comfortably - after brunch to work up some excerpts. I hadn't put its case on the night before, due to the fact that there really wasn't a need, so as I pulled it out, I was basically holding my bass in the nude.
(hang on tight folks, we're about to go "romance novel").
This is possibly going to sound silly - or worse, cheesy - and in the most extreme, just plain stupid - but holding my bass can sometimes feel more comforting than a small child falling asleep in one's arms. Basses... are sturdy instruments. If you put your head down on the cool, wooden surface of their shoulder, it'll support you. Violins - and their owners - would probably snap under the pressure of such an activity. When you tug it into position, you're very much being hugged. Together, you're secure - with an instrument you've been playing for a long time, you know the feel of the curves and the wood under your hands. It almost tucks into you. Imagine embracing someone a bit bigger/ taller than you - that you trust and know as the best of friends - and that wants nothing more than to make sweet music with you. That, upon hugging them, they fall right under your fingers and into your arms and you understand just how to get them to sing.
It's ..... it's a comfort food for the musical soul. No sass, no questioning - just the action of reaching out to feel, and suddenly the possibilities are endless.
I wish men were like that.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Hospital Fairy: Magic for Severe Boo-Boos and Long E.R Visits
... I am beginning to believe that I carry a yearly jinx. I'm not quite sure how to express the exact term via verbiage, but once a year - rather, once a summer, someone I know goes to the E.R.
Correction: I *take* someone I know to the E.R.
But! Before you - if I know you and if you are within a vicinity of five miles (give or a take a few hundred) of me, and have suddenly had the urge to FLEE! FLEE BEFORE I COME FOR YOU AS WELL! - keep in mind that it deals with only minor injuries and inconveniences.
so... you know... if you don't mind spending a few hours waiting to see if you need either an amputation or a bag of ice... want to hang out? You have until next summer before you have to start getting worried, because well... The Hospital Fairy already visited this year.
It started two summers ago - I was a relatively green camp counselor for the YMCA, and Freddy was the 12-year-old only child of a slightly neurotic woman and her panic-jaded husband. (Before I start to sound mean - they interacted adorably.) Freddy, as must be told, was at summer camp for the very first time. At age 12, this is a problem - as an only child, it is the making for a catastrophe. You see, day camps - such as the one that I worked for - take children off of their parents hands, wear them out while "having fun" - also known as every physical activity known to man that will burn off sticky PB+J sandwiches and ice cream cones - and then send them back exhausted and unable to do anything but eat their broccoli, answer their parents questions about their days with monosyllable words, and crash into bed, Duck Tales p.j's half-on. If you think about it, it's genius - every summer, ages 6 through 13, parents can literally - and quite cleverly - buy themselves some breathing room, a quieter house, and their children's supervision until school starts again.
However, can you now see the potential problem with Freddy? A great kid - polite, fun to watch.... but someone who had never been truly "allowed" a whole summer without Mom and Dad always around. No day camp, retreat, exile, nada. Thus - while Freddy was excited to experience what we called "All Sports Camp" for the week, his mother was a wreck.
... It didn't help that his first day of camp involved ice skating. Dear Sweet Mother of God, the woman sent him to a place where she was convinced - and no one could persuade her otherwise - that Freddy - sweet, adorable, polite, precious Freddy - was going to fall and crack his head open. She spent 20 minutes holding up the bus instructing me - "just one more time", that if there wasn't proper padding, helmets, etc, he was not to skate. If he was too cold, he was not to skate. If he experienced a momentary stab of anything but sheer bliss, he was not to skate.
And good God, if he did fall and crack his head open, please call her, the ambulance, her husband, and then her again.
Well, Freddy didn't manage to crack his head open, but he did fall. The boy broke the laws of physics - and this I still do not understand - but not only did he manage to fall and slit his own wrist ... but he slit the wrist with the foot from the same side. Landed on his butt, but somehow became a contortionist to pull that off.
And... guess who had to make that phone call home??
Later, as I was running through the incident with my boss, I couldn't help but notice that, within the actual ambulance, Freddy was brilliant. Calm, cool, joked, enjoyed the ride, if you will. His mother, on the other hand, who met us at the hospital, looked as if she had aged a thousand years and had decided that summer camp was no longer a possibility ever, ever again. Mrs. Freddy's Mom made the word "panic" look like "serene lake at sunset".
But perhaps I just don't know this woman - when Mr. Freddy's Dad appeared some 20 minutes into our ER visit, he seemed to expect a quivering blob of crying motherly mess, and was surprised that she was only shaking ever so slightly. (Keep in mind that Freddy managed to miss everything important with the blade - not to make light of it, but if he had to cut himself on the wrist, he did a great job of cutting in the right spot.)
"See?", she trembled, as he sat down: "I barely panicked at all!"
Makes the possible broken arm (kid was a drama queen and wasn't even bruised), and the stress fracture this year ... look easy as cupcakes.
Correction: I *take* someone I know to the E.R.
But! Before you - if I know you and if you are within a vicinity of five miles (give or a take a few hundred) of me, and have suddenly had the urge to FLEE! FLEE BEFORE I COME FOR YOU AS WELL! - keep in mind that it deals with only minor injuries and inconveniences.
so... you know... if you don't mind spending a few hours waiting to see if you need either an amputation or a bag of ice... want to hang out? You have until next summer before you have to start getting worried, because well... The Hospital Fairy already visited this year.
It started two summers ago - I was a relatively green camp counselor for the YMCA, and Freddy was the 12-year-old only child of a slightly neurotic woman and her panic-jaded husband. (Before I start to sound mean - they interacted adorably.) Freddy, as must be told, was at summer camp for the very first time. At age 12, this is a problem - as an only child, it is the making for a catastrophe. You see, day camps - such as the one that I worked for - take children off of their parents hands, wear them out while "having fun" - also known as every physical activity known to man that will burn off sticky PB+J sandwiches and ice cream cones - and then send them back exhausted and unable to do anything but eat their broccoli, answer their parents questions about their days with monosyllable words, and crash into bed, Duck Tales p.j's half-on. If you think about it, it's genius - every summer, ages 6 through 13, parents can literally - and quite cleverly - buy themselves some breathing room, a quieter house, and their children's supervision until school starts again.
However, can you now see the potential problem with Freddy? A great kid - polite, fun to watch.... but someone who had never been truly "allowed" a whole summer without Mom and Dad always around. No day camp, retreat, exile, nada. Thus - while Freddy was excited to experience what we called "All Sports Camp" for the week, his mother was a wreck.
... It didn't help that his first day of camp involved ice skating. Dear Sweet Mother of God, the woman sent him to a place where she was convinced - and no one could persuade her otherwise - that Freddy - sweet, adorable, polite, precious Freddy - was going to fall and crack his head open. She spent 20 minutes holding up the bus instructing me - "just one more time", that if there wasn't proper padding, helmets, etc, he was not to skate. If he was too cold, he was not to skate. If he experienced a momentary stab of anything but sheer bliss, he was not to skate.
And good God, if he did fall and crack his head open, please call her, the ambulance, her husband, and then her again.
Well, Freddy didn't manage to crack his head open, but he did fall. The boy broke the laws of physics - and this I still do not understand - but not only did he manage to fall and slit his own wrist ... but he slit the wrist with the foot from the same side. Landed on his butt, but somehow became a contortionist to pull that off.
And... guess who had to make that phone call home??
Later, as I was running through the incident with my boss, I couldn't help but notice that, within the actual ambulance, Freddy was brilliant. Calm, cool, joked, enjoyed the ride, if you will. His mother, on the other hand, who met us at the hospital, looked as if she had aged a thousand years and had decided that summer camp was no longer a possibility ever, ever again. Mrs. Freddy's Mom made the word "panic" look like "serene lake at sunset".
But perhaps I just don't know this woman - when Mr. Freddy's Dad appeared some 20 minutes into our ER visit, he seemed to expect a quivering blob of crying motherly mess, and was surprised that she was only shaking ever so slightly. (Keep in mind that Freddy managed to miss everything important with the blade - not to make light of it, but if he had to cut himself on the wrist, he did a great job of cutting in the right spot.)
"See?", she trembled, as he sat down: "I barely panicked at all!"
Makes the possible broken arm (kid was a drama queen and wasn't even bruised), and the stress fracture this year ... look easy as cupcakes.
Friday, July 11, 2008
The words of this song are about *me*...
So... Cousin of mine, you have partially "stolen" my idea - note the quotation marks - and ordinarily, this would be the cause for an immense magnitude of unleashed wrath.
... but hey, I'm so impressed by your telepathic thievery that I'll let it slide this time. No harm done. [grin]
In any case, as I walked towards the Mess Hall yesterday for dinner (or was it lunch? I've been down here so long, I've lost track of what meals I've eaten and what meals I haven't, and for someone who enjoys food as much as I do, that's a feat.) with a few other bass players, one of them mentioned the tendency to notice the music of a song before even registering the lyrics. "Much more natural," said he, "to first concentrate and be fixated by the flow of the notes and harmonies before a decision can be made over how cheesy - er... fitting - the words are."
True - but what we never got a chance to debate around, thanks to the introduction of cafeteria style Chicken Parmesan with Succotash! was what happened when the two came together. Not chicken and lima beans, mind you - music and words. Though the first two are delicious, the second two can be utterly soul-explosive. Maybe it's just me, but there are quite a few bands out there who, in an attempt to sound "deep" and "meaningful", have begun to put out albums that look like this:
Chicken Soup for Battered Souls above the Plains of War - the sophomore album from Used Listerine!
1. I Have Longed for your Breath on My Toast in the Morning
2. The Unbearable Heaviness of Having Emotions To Go with My Mohawk
3. The Government Killed My Father, And Yet I Am a Congressman
4. Tolstoy
5. How to Save Car Batteries for Your Soul Chevrolet
6. My Mother Won't Like this Song
7. Fuck
8. My Heart Exploded and Became the Stars in Your Eyes, But This Is Not a Pick Up Line
9. Sex for The Chaste
10. I Wish I Was a Dinosaur, They Had no Inner Turmoil
11. Darkness and Pencil Tips
Has it occurred to any one of these bands that we won't give a fudge about what sort of bent they have about using obscure metaphors if their music sounds like a rusty bicycle chain dragging across frozen tundra in the middle of a cold, rare, Frosty July in Alaska?!
(okay, fine, that was a simile, but cut me a little slack and let me make my point.)
Often, the title - and thus, the lyrics - become so ridiculously twisted and mental that it's literally impossible to tell what you're supposed to be feeling. Singing in the shower starts to resemble AP Literature 12.
"Okay, so in line one, he's against drug use, as it seems to have killed his ex-girlfriend."
"Good point, but in line two, doesn't he clearly state several times that he snorts crack in order to avoid the pain of her demise?"
"A valid point - but as you may have noticed, in line three, he suggests that he wrote this all in a haze of LCD - so the girlfriend AND the crack could clearly be his hallucinations working against him."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.... of course."
"I gotcha - wait.... but Sir, than how to we explain line four?"
"That, Mr. Johnson, will have to addressed after we explore lines eight, fifteen, and three-seven 3/4, because we won't be able to fully discover why he tattooed the opening line from "Red Fish, Blue Fish" until AFTER we discuss his obsessive compulsions about Sushi."
... it has occurred to me that one of the most brilliant things about my major... and hopefully, in a few years, my job... is that I am expected to *feel*, but not necessarily to articulate via verbiage. For example, take Debussey's "La Mer" - we're playing it this Sunday in concert, and I can almost feel the brine in my veins.* (to be taken to mean: Dear Sweet God, I love this piece) Being in that orchestra... feeling everyone move and breathe around me and show their souls so naturally to their fellow players and their audience... it doesn't need words. Doesn't need titles. Doesn't need an explanation, it just needs to feel , and ... it does. For twenty minutes or so, I am the ocean, and I am at peace. Debussey gives a brief title to each movement, but he does not go so far as to assume that we need a full explanation... we just need to hear the music.
I just wish certain bands understood the brilliance of simplicity. Where the music comes from within, and suddenly, even without meaning to, without even picking up a pen or shooting ideas off, you understand what you should be singing, if singing anything at all.
Sometimes words are overrated.
.... (I just hope I don't persuade you to stop reading.)
... but hey, I'm so impressed by your telepathic thievery that I'll let it slide this time. No harm done. [grin]
In any case, as I walked towards the Mess Hall yesterday for dinner (or was it lunch? I've been down here so long, I've lost track of what meals I've eaten and what meals I haven't, and for someone who enjoys food as much as I do, that's a feat.) with a few other bass players, one of them mentioned the tendency to notice the music of a song before even registering the lyrics. "Much more natural," said he, "to first concentrate and be fixated by the flow of the notes and harmonies before a decision can be made over how cheesy - er... fitting - the words are."
True - but what we never got a chance to debate around, thanks to the introduction of cafeteria style Chicken Parmesan with Succotash! was what happened when the two came together. Not chicken and lima beans, mind you - music and words. Though the first two are delicious, the second two can be utterly soul-explosive. Maybe it's just me, but there are quite a few bands out there who, in an attempt to sound "deep" and "meaningful", have begun to put out albums that look like this:
Chicken Soup for Battered Souls above the Plains of War - the sophomore album from Used Listerine!
1. I Have Longed for your Breath on My Toast in the Morning
2. The Unbearable Heaviness of Having Emotions To Go with My Mohawk
3. The Government Killed My Father, And Yet I Am a Congressman
4. Tolstoy
5. How to Save Car Batteries for Your Soul Chevrolet
6. My Mother Won't Like this Song
7. Fuck
8. My Heart Exploded and Became the Stars in Your Eyes, But This Is Not a Pick Up Line
9. Sex for The Chaste
10. I Wish I Was a Dinosaur, They Had no Inner Turmoil
11. Darkness and Pencil Tips
Has it occurred to any one of these bands that we won't give a fudge about what sort of bent they have about using obscure metaphors if their music sounds like a rusty bicycle chain dragging across frozen tundra in the middle of a cold, rare, Frosty July in Alaska?!
(okay, fine, that was a simile, but cut me a little slack and let me make my point.)
Often, the title - and thus, the lyrics - become so ridiculously twisted and mental that it's literally impossible to tell what you're supposed to be feeling. Singing in the shower starts to resemble AP Literature 12.
"Okay, so in line one, he's against drug use, as it seems to have killed his ex-girlfriend."
"Good point, but in line two, doesn't he clearly state several times that he snorts crack in order to avoid the pain of her demise?"
"A valid point - but as you may have noticed, in line three, he suggests that he wrote this all in a haze of LCD - so the girlfriend AND the crack could clearly be his hallucinations working against him."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.... of course."
"I gotcha - wait.... but Sir, than how to we explain line four?"
"That, Mr. Johnson, will have to addressed after we explore lines eight, fifteen, and three-seven 3/4, because we won't be able to fully discover why he tattooed the opening line from "Red Fish, Blue Fish" until AFTER we discuss his obsessive compulsions about Sushi."
... it has occurred to me that one of the most brilliant things about my major... and hopefully, in a few years, my job... is that I am expected to *feel*, but not necessarily to articulate via verbiage. For example, take Debussey's "La Mer" - we're playing it this Sunday in concert, and I can almost feel the brine in my veins.* (to be taken to mean: Dear Sweet God, I love this piece) Being in that orchestra... feeling everyone move and breathe around me and show their souls so naturally to their fellow players and their audience... it doesn't need words. Doesn't need titles. Doesn't need an explanation, it just needs to feel , and ... it does. For twenty minutes or so, I am the ocean, and I am at peace. Debussey gives a brief title to each movement, but he does not go so far as to assume that we need a full explanation... we just need to hear the music.
I just wish certain bands understood the brilliance of simplicity. Where the music comes from within, and suddenly, even without meaning to, without even picking up a pen or shooting ideas off, you understand what you should be singing, if singing anything at all.
Sometimes words are overrated.
.... (I just hope I don't persuade you to stop reading.)
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Keep that tone with *me*, mister, and I'll Dr. Beat *you*!
and.... I've pretty much lost everyone but the musicians there. Ah well - I'm amused. [grin]
- and... to be honest ... that means 33% of the people who "read" this blog are laughing. Looking around quickly to make sure no one can see / hear, maybe, but definitely letting out a chuckle. Or two.
... then quickly resuming the Poker Face of Stonewall Jackson. "Give this girl a few more years of whiffing her way through entries - then maybe we'll admit we think something is funny."
Ha ha.
Haaah.....
In any case, guess who's survived almost two weeks of North Carolina mountain summer! Er, pardon - Nooorth Car-ooh-liiiiihnaah Moun'ain Suhhme'. (!) (I assume that Shaw is now rolling in his grave, but that's okay - when you're buried 6 feet under, no one can hear you scream obscenities about upstart quasi-adults.) And... funnily enough... in this quaint little town barely large enough to be found on Google Earth (though certainly not a *real* atlas, all ye nonbelievers), let alone when you're actually driving through it - "This is a nice pass-through area," you smile, and then glue your head back to your map. "Now, how many more miles is it to Brevard?' - I have experienced a multitude of firsts. All of them that you would expect from letting a gaggle of giggling teenage girls loose on the... town.
Case in point: Guess who went clubbing for the first time?
[looks around happily]
(no, not her!) ME! :D
I'll be honest - this is only the internet. Not only was this a club, but this was an all-out-dancing, get-your-freaky-moves-on club. For everyone 18 and up - hoorah, for the first time, for being 20!
... need I say more? No. No I needn't.
Well, at said club, while I wasn't part of a group doing reconnaissance work for one of our fellow band camp - pardon, "orchestra" camp - members while he wasn't, er, himself, I was actually *dancing*. For the vast majority of that, I mean tangoing / wrestling with the certain, extremely animated "Scott" (now, where's that little asterix thing that I can just do *(ah! there it is! the name isn't really Scott.)) but for about half an hour, with a stranger! I asked a tall, Hollister t-shirt-wearing (don't say a word) guy named Mitch, who happened to be hulking in the corner, to dance!
... I know, I'm shocked as well! And, the best part of the whole experience was that, not only did he say yes (I had the chloroform ready, though, just in case. "His dance moves are oddly slumped and limp!" "Yes, well, he's very dependent on me to keep our mobility up while he er.... rests."), but he didn't touch my tush once! There was a brief period where he sandwiched me with another guy, meaning a brief period of panic for *me*, but curiuosly enough, while the friend was very happy break dancing on the podium, he seemed to tire of being the outside of an oreo pretty quickly, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the night without surprises.
... though the drag show was a bit of a surprise. Confederate Flag Sparkling Dresses, anyone? Anyone?
I thought not.
It was probably the first time that - looking back only briefly - I can remember being awake and in the mood for a Huddle House (greasy waffle place) at 2:30 in the morning, but that egg-like substance with that gooey orange sauce that they called an omelet wasn't too bad at all. [grin]
So... looking back... we have:
First time clubbing. Check!
First time asking a stranger to dance. Check!
First time experiencing what many other girls enjoyed doing at junior prom. Check!
First drag show. Check!
First dress made out of sequins and Stonewall Jackson. Check!
First time I'll admit to the fact that I really, *really* want to do it all again.... well, no. I've been breaking out the "Egyptian" all week, just to practice.
... and baby, I do a *mean* Egyptian up there on those podiums.
- and... to be honest ... that means 33% of the people who "read" this blog are laughing. Looking around quickly to make sure no one can see / hear, maybe, but definitely letting out a chuckle. Or two.
... then quickly resuming the Poker Face of Stonewall Jackson. "Give this girl a few more years of whiffing her way through entries - then maybe we'll admit we think something is funny."
Ha ha.
Haaah.....
In any case, guess who's survived almost two weeks of North Carolina mountain summer! Er, pardon - Nooorth Car-ooh-liiiiihnaah Moun'ain Suhhme'. (!) (I assume that Shaw is now rolling in his grave, but that's okay - when you're buried 6 feet under, no one can hear you scream obscenities about upstart quasi-adults.) And... funnily enough... in this quaint little town barely large enough to be found on Google Earth (though certainly not a *real* atlas, all ye nonbelievers), let alone when you're actually driving through it - "This is a nice pass-through area," you smile, and then glue your head back to your map. "Now, how many more miles is it to Brevard?' - I have experienced a multitude of firsts. All of them that you would expect from letting a gaggle of giggling teenage girls loose on the... town.
Case in point: Guess who went clubbing for the first time?
[looks around happily]
(no, not her!) ME! :D
I'll be honest - this is only the internet. Not only was this a club, but this was an all-out-dancing, get-your-freaky-moves-on club. For everyone 18 and up - hoorah, for the first time, for being 20!
... need I say more? No. No I needn't.
Well, at said club, while I wasn't part of a group doing reconnaissance work for one of our fellow band camp - pardon, "orchestra" camp - members while he wasn't, er, himself, I was actually *dancing*. For the vast majority of that, I mean tangoing / wrestling with the certain, extremely animated "Scott" (now, where's that little asterix thing that I can just do *(ah! there it is! the name isn't really Scott.)) but for about half an hour, with a stranger! I asked a tall, Hollister t-shirt-wearing (don't say a word) guy named Mitch, who happened to be hulking in the corner, to dance!
... I know, I'm shocked as well! And, the best part of the whole experience was that, not only did he say yes (I had the chloroform ready, though, just in case. "His dance moves are oddly slumped and limp!" "Yes, well, he's very dependent on me to keep our mobility up while he er.... rests."), but he didn't touch my tush once! There was a brief period where he sandwiched me with another guy, meaning a brief period of panic for *me*, but curiuosly enough, while the friend was very happy break dancing on the podium, he seemed to tire of being the outside of an oreo pretty quickly, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the night without surprises.
... though the drag show was a bit of a surprise. Confederate Flag Sparkling Dresses, anyone? Anyone?
I thought not.
It was probably the first time that - looking back only briefly - I can remember being awake and in the mood for a Huddle House (greasy waffle place) at 2:30 in the morning, but that egg-like substance with that gooey orange sauce that they called an omelet wasn't too bad at all. [grin]
So... looking back... we have:
First time clubbing. Check!
First time asking a stranger to dance. Check!
First time experiencing what many other girls enjoyed doing at junior prom. Check!
First drag show. Check!
First dress made out of sequins and Stonewall Jackson. Check!
First time I'll admit to the fact that I really, *really* want to do it all again.... well, no. I've been breaking out the "Egyptian" all week, just to practice.
... and baby, I do a *mean* Egyptian up there on those podiums.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
...but... but... commercial merchandising TOLD me to!
My Diet Coke has a nifty new label on it - if you're judging by the fact that previous cans I've gotten out of the singular and particular vending machine located at the Brevard Music Festival Camp(us) have had Christmas themes. (As you may have noted, it's June 22nd).
It says, simply: "Live Positively".
Well, technically, first there is a picture of a cup of Coke. Followed by a man in the midst of a mad dash, presumably - for that Coke. Last, a bottle of Coke is depicted - well, we're assuming now, it could be a bottle of anything - followed by the slogan, and the Coca Cola logo. However, there it is - a brief message from your friendly Coca Cola company, telling you to Live Positively.
Honey, there are a lot of things you can be "positive" about, and not all of them are fun to er... live with.
... let's pretend that I didn't make an STD/AIDs reference, shall we?
In any case, take last Wednesday night - there was a small lump under my right eye for a few weeks, and I had no idea what it was. It really didn't draw any attention as it was nothing more than a... lump... and I just assumed that someone had, oh, punched me in the eye a while back and I just hadn't noticed. However, just to be sure, I brought my mom on the case.
Cue concern and indignation that I had not addressed this issue days, weeks, months, YEARS ago. (How could I not have predicted this and alerted her and other medical personnel in advance? [grin]) Next thing we know, she's on her laptop, looking up symptoms and asking if I had any STD's, because, well, she's "positive" that it's no ordinary, hot-compress-can-take-it-away lump.
... and... I'm positive that I really don't want to see a doctor about a seemingly trivial lump the day before I head down South for the summer, but that's exactly what I did.
Move to Thursday afternoon, I'm in the eye doctor's examination chair, and after about 2 seconds, he's positive that it's a sty. (ain't Google fun?) And... not only that... he's positive that it's the biggest sty that they - the men and women of the optometrists' world - have seen in a long time.
Well, three cheers and a cupcake for that!
... which leads us to his dictation of my options: I can either "try" to use hot compresses to break it down (he's positive that won't do a darned thing), or they can just, oh, cut it out, right then and there.
.... EEEEHHHH?!
Cue my automatic panic response: "Can... we... call... my ... mom... and... ask... her...?!"
Dr. L is a concise man, and barely 30 seconds into the conversation with my mom, having explained the situation quite nicely, and having her blessing to stick a few needles and a scalpel into my eye, he wraps up the conversation before she can ask to talk to me and assure me that after 10 seconds of me shaking and freaking out silently, I won't be able to feel a thing and the rest of the procedure will just be honky-dorry.
... at this point, watching him hang up, I am *positive* that I want nothing more than to run like a mad man out of that room and away from those needles. I've never really had a phobia about the pointy things, but there is holding-your-mom's-hand-during-your-checkup-scared, and then there is positively-out-of-my-mind-all-alone-you-have-three-needles-poised-for-entry-in-your-hand-OH-MY-GOOD-SWEET-MOTHER-OF-GOD-scared.
Let us just say that there are nail marks in that chair's arm-rests that will not be coming out any time soon.
Live positively, Diet Coke? ... Choose your answer wisely.
It says, simply: "Live Positively".
Well, technically, first there is a picture of a cup of Coke. Followed by a man in the midst of a mad dash, presumably - for that Coke. Last, a bottle of Coke is depicted - well, we're assuming now, it could be a bottle of anything - followed by the slogan, and the Coca Cola logo. However, there it is - a brief message from your friendly Coca Cola company, telling you to Live Positively.
Honey, there are a lot of things you can be "positive" about, and not all of them are fun to er... live with.
... let's pretend that I didn't make an STD/AIDs reference, shall we?
In any case, take last Wednesday night - there was a small lump under my right eye for a few weeks, and I had no idea what it was. It really didn't draw any attention as it was nothing more than a... lump... and I just assumed that someone had, oh, punched me in the eye a while back and I just hadn't noticed. However, just to be sure, I brought my mom on the case.
Cue concern and indignation that I had not addressed this issue days, weeks, months, YEARS ago. (How could I not have predicted this and alerted her and other medical personnel in advance? [grin]) Next thing we know, she's on her laptop, looking up symptoms and asking if I had any STD's, because, well, she's "positive" that it's no ordinary, hot-compress-can-take-it-away lump.
... and... I'm positive that I really don't want to see a doctor about a seemingly trivial lump the day before I head down South for the summer, but that's exactly what I did.
Move to Thursday afternoon, I'm in the eye doctor's examination chair, and after about 2 seconds, he's positive that it's a sty. (ain't Google fun?) And... not only that... he's positive that it's the biggest sty that they - the men and women of the optometrists' world - have seen in a long time.
Well, three cheers and a cupcake for that!
... which leads us to his dictation of my options: I can either "try" to use hot compresses to break it down (he's positive that won't do a darned thing), or they can just, oh, cut it out, right then and there.
.... EEEEHHHH?!
Cue my automatic panic response: "Can... we... call... my ... mom... and... ask... her...?!"
Dr. L is a concise man, and barely 30 seconds into the conversation with my mom, having explained the situation quite nicely, and having her blessing to stick a few needles and a scalpel into my eye, he wraps up the conversation before she can ask to talk to me and assure me that after 10 seconds of me shaking and freaking out silently, I won't be able to feel a thing and the rest of the procedure will just be honky-dorry.
... at this point, watching him hang up, I am *positive* that I want nothing more than to run like a mad man out of that room and away from those needles. I've never really had a phobia about the pointy things, but there is holding-your-mom's-hand-during-your-checkup-scared, and then there is positively-out-of-my-mind-all-alone-you-have-three-needles-poised-for-entry-in-your-hand-OH-MY-GOOD-SWEET-MOTHER-OF-GOD-scared.
Let us just say that there are nail marks in that chair's arm-rests that will not be coming out any time soon.
Live positively, Diet Coke? ... Choose your answer wisely.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Lobster Thighs, thanks to Mahler Licks
Beach = Sun + Sand + Salty Sea Brine... everything that I want out of a two day vacation (time is limited in the Meier Household, if that wasn't quite clear), plus a parting gift.
... see... ghostly, glowing skin - redolent of hard work shredding licks and runs in the dark, cool caves of the music school practice rooms... while it helps light a way home on those dark nights... apparently does not take well to a sudden exposure to the nuclear blast that is the closest star to our planet. Especially at hours at a time. Without, erm, sunscreen...
[wince]
Don't be too hard on me - I wasn't intentionally tanning, I was just trying to give my legs a chance to see some of the outside world. My previous shorts tan was/ is the protective parent of shorts tans.... it ... never... goes... AWAY. Who am I to deny the Sun's chance to corrupt that creamy goodness?!
... well... the Sun has a wicked sense of humor. Did my thighs crisp faster than bacon in the oven? Heck yes. Do I have a more prominent red line than the start of the South? Oh yes.
... did I still get a shorts tan?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I don't know how, I wore a bathing suit for more than 5 hours, I cast aside my soccer shorts in favor of a more human-looking color layout, AND I STILL MANAGED TO BURN ALONG THE GOD-DARN SHORTS TAN. THE PALENESS OF MY QUADS HAS ACTUALLY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO REPEL THE RAYS OF THE SUN. The Sun came down, asked politely if it could bestow perhaps a light sheen of pink or brown, and my shorts tan said, "Back off, Woman! We've been here for 20 years, and Dani doesn't look normal if *we* have anything to say about it!"
..... [grumble grumble grumble]
North Carolina tomorrow - tihme tooo get maaah twaaaaaaang back on. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
... see... ghostly, glowing skin - redolent of hard work shredding licks and runs in the dark, cool caves of the music school practice rooms... while it helps light a way home on those dark nights... apparently does not take well to a sudden exposure to the nuclear blast that is the closest star to our planet. Especially at hours at a time. Without, erm, sunscreen...
[wince]
Don't be too hard on me - I wasn't intentionally tanning, I was just trying to give my legs a chance to see some of the outside world. My previous shorts tan was/ is the protective parent of shorts tans.... it ... never... goes... AWAY. Who am I to deny the Sun's chance to corrupt that creamy goodness?!
... well... the Sun has a wicked sense of humor. Did my thighs crisp faster than bacon in the oven? Heck yes. Do I have a more prominent red line than the start of the South? Oh yes.
... did I still get a shorts tan?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I don't know how, I wore a bathing suit for more than 5 hours, I cast aside my soccer shorts in favor of a more human-looking color layout, AND I STILL MANAGED TO BURN ALONG THE GOD-DARN SHORTS TAN. THE PALENESS OF MY QUADS HAS ACTUALLY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO REPEL THE RAYS OF THE SUN. The Sun came down, asked politely if it could bestow perhaps a light sheen of pink or brown, and my shorts tan said, "Back off, Woman! We've been here for 20 years, and Dani doesn't look normal if *we* have anything to say about it!"
..... [grumble grumble grumble]
North Carolina tomorrow - tihme tooo get maaah twaaaaaaang back on. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
I was once the lucky recipient of a Hand-Me-Down Thong.
*IT* was leopard-print. And had fuzzy fringe. *AND*. Not just leopard-print, not just fuzzy... both.
... a catastrophe of massive proportions that only the fashion industry could call its own.
Now, I won't tell you who gave it to me because I'm still praying that it was an (*twitch twitch*) accident on their part. Honestly, what person in their right mind would intentionally put the above-mentioned object in a sack full of deliciously chic (albeit far too small) h-m-d skirts and sweaters? Give such an atrocity freely to a person who considers thongs to be naught but strings sewed into a loop and called "appropriate underwear" by a designer with a satanic sense of humor? Freely pass on something they found while raiding Tarzan's closet?!
... only someone in my family.
I haven't blushed this much since I went underwear shopping with my Grandmother and, while contemplating which pair of nice sensible bloomers would work for her, Enter Saleswoman:
"If you look over here - (points to rack of colorful pastels, snappy prints, and outrageous patterns) - you might find something a little more interesting."
GM and I: "We're plain drawers people, thanks."
SW: "But you never know who's going to see it!!"
....
Happy 85th Birthday, Babci. Enjoy that light baby blue we bought you.
... a catastrophe of massive proportions that only the fashion industry could call its own.
Now, I won't tell you who gave it to me because I'm still praying that it was an (*twitch twitch*) accident on their part. Honestly, what person in their right mind would intentionally put the above-mentioned object in a sack full of deliciously chic (albeit far too small) h-m-d skirts and sweaters? Give such an atrocity freely to a person who considers thongs to be naught but strings sewed into a loop and called "appropriate underwear" by a designer with a satanic sense of humor? Freely pass on something they found while raiding Tarzan's closet?!
... only someone in my family.
I haven't blushed this much since I went underwear shopping with my Grandmother and, while contemplating which pair of nice sensible bloomers would work for her, Enter Saleswoman:
"If you look over here - (points to rack of colorful pastels, snappy prints, and outrageous patterns) - you might find something a little more interesting."
GM and I: "We're plain drawers people, thanks."
SW: "But you never know who's going to see it!!"
....
Happy 85th Birthday, Babci. Enjoy that light baby blue we bought you.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
What does it mean to be a "professional?"
... that's a good question, Hutton Honors College. There's a distinct possibility that a lot of people out there wake up one morning, realize that they've been at the same job or working so hard at a singular hobby / activity / ritual / sacrifice / fetish, that, goshdarnit, they've *got* to be a professional. Or, even - why not call yourself one? Just for fun?
(Rhyming not intended. Usually unexpected.)
What I'm trying to say, HHC, is that defining "professionalism" really depends on the person who's doing the talking... or the walking, if you will.
What? You want *my* opinion? Well, I'm so glad you asked!
A professional is someone ... or something... that's been working to not only accomplish something by getting through the task at hand with an acceptable - or better - outcome, but also managing to repair and nullify any screwups... er... mistakes... made along the way.
(Hey... that wasn't funny at all!)
I always find that the bit about making mistakes is the hairiest part of the whole shebang. It almost seems that, to achieve the sacred title of "professional", you're not allowed to err. Humanity is heavily and with much an amusing facial expression, frowned upon. It's the Kung Fu Master of titles - if you can screw up (or be beaten by the callow youths in your dojo), you don't deserve the consideration.
... I disagree. Even Mr. Miyagi probably took a few falls and punches in the Karate Kid. ("Wax on, wax off" gets harder with age.) The way that I'd like to be remembered as a "professional" musician ... if I ever get there ... is as someone who made a few thousand mistakes working her way slowly, note by note, measure by measure, wax on by wax off, to each new audition / performance... and then rocked the houses' socks off. David Baker, all around cool cat and jazz legend (I'm speaking lightly, mind - trying to find words to describe the type of musician - hell, *person*, that Dr. Baker is would require the invention of a new phrase. He radiates love.) once said that, "if you're in the practice room and you sound *perfect*... you're not practicing right." At the least, you're not working on what you *should* be. Sounding awful for prolongated periods of time is... 99% of the time... a sign that you're taking what you're worst at, facing it down, and refusing to give up on it until your ears stop bleeding.
That... slightly reduced to "experienced enough to accept, learn from, and repair mistakes... not-yet-jaded to the point where you don't care anymore"... is what I call a true professional.
... and if worse comes to worse, you can always be a Professional Screw-up. I've been told it could be one of my future vocations.... [grin]
(Rhyming not intended. Usually unexpected.)
What I'm trying to say, HHC, is that defining "professionalism" really depends on the person who's doing the talking... or the walking, if you will.
What? You want *my* opinion? Well, I'm so glad you asked!
A professional is someone ... or something... that's been working to not only accomplish something by getting through the task at hand with an acceptable - or better - outcome, but also managing to repair and nullify any screwups... er... mistakes... made along the way.
(Hey... that wasn't funny at all!)
I always find that the bit about making mistakes is the hairiest part of the whole shebang. It almost seems that, to achieve the sacred title of "professional", you're not allowed to err. Humanity is heavily and with much an amusing facial expression, frowned upon. It's the Kung Fu Master of titles - if you can screw up (or be beaten by the callow youths in your dojo), you don't deserve the consideration.
... I disagree. Even Mr. Miyagi probably took a few falls and punches in the Karate Kid. ("Wax on, wax off" gets harder with age.) The way that I'd like to be remembered as a "professional" musician ... if I ever get there ... is as someone who made a few thousand mistakes working her way slowly, note by note, measure by measure, wax on by wax off, to each new audition / performance... and then rocked the houses' socks off. David Baker, all around cool cat and jazz legend (I'm speaking lightly, mind - trying to find words to describe the type of musician - hell, *person*, that Dr. Baker is would require the invention of a new phrase. He radiates love.) once said that, "if you're in the practice room and you sound *perfect*... you're not practicing right." At the least, you're not working on what you *should* be. Sounding awful for prolongated periods of time is... 99% of the time... a sign that you're taking what you're worst at, facing it down, and refusing to give up on it until your ears stop bleeding.
That... slightly reduced to "experienced enough to accept, learn from, and repair mistakes... not-yet-jaded to the point where you don't care anymore"... is what I call a true professional.
... and if worse comes to worse, you can always be a Professional Screw-up. I've been told it could be one of my future vocations.... [grin]
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Hello, Mr. Bond... and welcome to my Dark Lab of Blogging.
Mwa hahahahaha.
er... *cough* *cough* Hey there!
So... taking a break from dancing around in my boxers and old pj t-shirts to "Call on Me" to update whoever (ifever) is out there on the past ... week? or so? Perchance?
It matters not! Onward, brave souls!
... bear with me, I just finished my second mug of coffee. Note I didn't use the word "cup" - measurement of my daily intake would either cause a national crisis ("there'll be none left for the rest of us!!") or send Starbucks et co rushing and banging down my door, and it's far too early for both.
I am still in college - 9 30 ish can still be considered "early". Mais oui, moving on...
In summation: Dashing, muscle-y older brother has escaped academic and military prison known as the United States Military Academy. (two claps). Family - including self - all extraordinarily proud of the big guy, albeit walking around a "post" built entirely out of steep hills in heels and a dress severely tried both my patience and any secret, minute desire I may have or have had to start getting in touch with my feminine side.
(to be serious, though I doubt Fezz reads this, I really am proud of him. I just, ya know, can't let him know. Aren't siblings fun?!)
On the side, at the "hop" - an old fashioned, formal dance the night before graduation, discovered that even if my dad and I can't dance like normal human beings together (i.e find the goddamn beat), it's still entertaining, and goodness knows I enjoyed the experience. Now, I just have to get married for the *rest* of you to enjoy that particular spectacle! [grin]
oh, and little black dress plus *huge* white heels apparently do not equal fashion success. Whoops. Where's the Indiana Music School wind section when you need fashion advice?
(oh that was meaner than I intended it... sorry, Fruitcake, but I was as lost as a jock at a D+D convention.)
... SCORE!
... wait... nah. Other embarassing self-realizations will be revealed over the World Wide Web at other, more opportune moments.
Also, little sister Muffin officially finished with her Junior year. Dear Entity, what in tarnation happened to her being that itty bitty freshman that carried the field hockey team's equipment?! Not only has she taken my car, but she probably drives it better than me. (but cut me some slack, I'm rusty.) Slight perk, though - while merging onto the NJ Turnpike to get back home from USMA, was very useful in checking my blindspots on the right side.
... *%&#$@! minivan!
*please hold while "writer" thinks of what she herself has been doing for the undetermined period of time.*
Oh, right - eating all the fruit in the house, running and biking around town so much that it looks like I don't have a job (i don't, as you might recall), rereading all of my old books - Superfudge, by the way, never gets old. I'll be singing "Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye!" until someone beats it out of me.
(that's not a request)
And before I forget, I've been practicing bass. I figure I should since... that's... my.... career... and... well....
well, it helps that I'm pretty enamoured with the darned thing. Too bad it's been labeled as the Drag Queen of contrabass.
Und... last but certainly not least... I have been continuing to get my old lady on. Love it. Golden girls marathons, here I come.
one final note - before you scoff ("Golden Girls?! Has she lost her mind?!"), yesterday's episode was about a guy running for office that... was... previously... a.... woman.
Take that, politically correct conventionalism!
And with that, it's 10 am, and I've got to get my Dorothy, Rose, Blanche, and Sofia on. (While, I, ya know, clean up the kitchen for my dear, sweet Mama. It's good to be home. *grin*)
er... *cough* *cough* Hey there!
So... taking a break from dancing around in my boxers and old pj t-shirts to "Call on Me" to update whoever (ifever) is out there on the past ... week? or so? Perchance?
It matters not! Onward, brave souls!
... bear with me, I just finished my second mug of coffee. Note I didn't use the word "cup" - measurement of my daily intake would either cause a national crisis ("there'll be none left for the rest of us!!") or send Starbucks et co rushing and banging down my door, and it's far too early for both.
I am still in college - 9 30 ish can still be considered "early". Mais oui, moving on...
In summation: Dashing, muscle-y older brother has escaped academic and military prison known as the United States Military Academy. (two claps). Family - including self - all extraordinarily proud of the big guy, albeit walking around a "post" built entirely out of steep hills in heels and a dress severely tried both my patience and any secret, minute desire I may have or have had to start getting in touch with my feminine side.
(to be serious, though I doubt Fezz reads this, I really am proud of him. I just, ya know, can't let him know. Aren't siblings fun?!)
On the side, at the "hop" - an old fashioned, formal dance the night before graduation, discovered that even if my dad and I can't dance like normal human beings together (i.e find the goddamn beat), it's still entertaining, and goodness knows I enjoyed the experience. Now, I just have to get married for the *rest* of you to enjoy that particular spectacle! [grin]
oh, and little black dress plus *huge* white heels apparently do not equal fashion success. Whoops. Where's the Indiana Music School wind section when you need fashion advice?
(oh that was meaner than I intended it... sorry, Fruitcake, but I was as lost as a jock at a D+D convention.)
... SCORE!
... wait... nah. Other embarassing self-realizations will be revealed over the World Wide Web at other, more opportune moments.
Also, little sister Muffin officially finished with her Junior year. Dear Entity, what in tarnation happened to her being that itty bitty freshman that carried the field hockey team's equipment?! Not only has she taken my car, but she probably drives it better than me. (but cut me some slack, I'm rusty.) Slight perk, though - while merging onto the NJ Turnpike to get back home from USMA, was very useful in checking my blindspots on the right side.
... *%&#$@! minivan!
*please hold while "writer" thinks of what she herself has been doing for the undetermined period of time.*
Oh, right - eating all the fruit in the house, running and biking around town so much that it looks like I don't have a job (i don't, as you might recall), rereading all of my old books - Superfudge, by the way, never gets old. I'll be singing "Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye!" until someone beats it out of me.
(that's not a request)
And before I forget, I've been practicing bass. I figure I should since... that's... my.... career... and... well....
well, it helps that I'm pretty enamoured with the darned thing. Too bad it's been labeled as the Drag Queen of contrabass.
Und... last but certainly not least... I have been continuing to get my old lady on. Love it. Golden girls marathons, here I come.
one final note - before you scoff ("Golden Girls?! Has she lost her mind?!"), yesterday's episode was about a guy running for office that... was... previously... a.... woman.
Take that, politically correct conventionalism!
And with that, it's 10 am, and I've got to get my Dorothy, Rose, Blanche, and Sofia on. (While, I, ya know, clean up the kitchen for my dear, sweet Mama. It's good to be home. *grin*)
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
hopefully there'll be a typewriter up there on Mount Everest... next to the snow bank where I'm going to put all my gold medals.
Last night, I was sprawled over my bed at home - legs hanging over one side, majority of my torso and up over the other side - holding a Foxtrot comic book above my head and emitting small, quiet chuckles to myself... for an hour or two. (I don't care how old I get, I still think Jason could take over the world... if his Mom would just let him.) However, once I sat back up and let the blood flow back to the rest of my body, saying "no" to the little black spots that wanted me to pass out, "just for a bit", it occurred to me that I used to spend time in my old bedroom working madly on the following:
A book - which would somehow bring out that deeper side of me that *I* didn't even know existed.
Well... that, or the greatest piece of Fan Fiction the world has ever seen! (That's right, I went there.)
A Cunning Plan... but for what, I still haven't devised.
A premature "Bucket List", if you will, including the scaling of Mount Everest (after I retire) and the completion of one of the world's greatest Ultra Marathons in South Africa, home of a "hill" named "Polly" that's guaranteed to bring even the most hardened street pounder to a walk.
A means to somehow compete in the Olympics in the following events: Track and Field (I'd learn quickly), Soccer, and Field Hockey, and heck, if they needed an extra man anywhere, they could just give me a shout. (Except for swimming... I'm about as buoyant as a very large rock, and slower than a typical participant in Senior Swim Day.) Gold Medals would be won and accepted humbly, saying only that I've admired the world's athletes at these games since I could remember, and how bloody BRILLIANT it was that I could simply compete against them.
To pull together a ragtag group of misfits and outsiders and pull off the greatest heist the world has ever seen... using only our collective, natural talents.... and duct tape.
To acknowledge that I used to spell "duct tape" - "duck tape" ... oh, good, look, I can cross one of these off!
And... finally:
To find, rescue (or at least, help out *grumble grumble*) my true love, and live happily ever after.
At age 7... or 8... or 17... the majority of these still seemed highly possible. Forgetting, of course, though, the cunning plan - "cunning" and "Dani Meier" probably don't belong in the same sentence. At 20... it's interesting to see what I'd still like to have under my belt by the time I... (insert death euphemism *here*), whenever that happens. 50, 60, 10 years? It'd be nice to go smiling. (This entry is rapidly becoming more morbid by the minute - what I'm trying to say is that my priorities have changed.)
thank you, after thoughts.
For instance, I'd still love to write that book. And I have a pretty decent idea of what I'd be banging out on my computer, or in my notebook, if I ever sat down to it. And I'd also like one day run ... or crawl... up Polly. True Love? We'll see. A friend once told me that only a man can make the same mistake twice... well... if that's true, women must be able to do that multiple times... if a mistake is a mistake, begging your pardon. When I was 7, I had no idea that I'd choose an instrument bigger than I am and use it to pursue a career... I still thought I had dormant superpowers and it was only a matter of a few years (and puberty) before I could join the X-Men. 13 years ago, I thought I was adopted, for pete's sake, just because I couldn't find any baby pictures of me around the house. (They were hidden... or, at least, "stored", which means the same thing in this house.)
The point is... at two decades of life, maybe I shouldn't be reading comics upside down on top of my old bed at home, instead of working diligently to accomplish what I used to think would fulfill my entire being, my entire purpose. However... I've worked hard at what I'm pretty damn sure is the right road for me right now... and I think I deserve to lean back and let the blood rush to my head a bit more.
Just for fun.
A book - which would somehow bring out that deeper side of me that *I* didn't even know existed.
Well... that, or the greatest piece of Fan Fiction the world has ever seen! (That's right, I went there.)
A Cunning Plan... but for what, I still haven't devised.
A premature "Bucket List", if you will, including the scaling of Mount Everest (after I retire) and the completion of one of the world's greatest Ultra Marathons in South Africa, home of a "hill" named "Polly" that's guaranteed to bring even the most hardened street pounder to a walk.
A means to somehow compete in the Olympics in the following events: Track and Field (I'd learn quickly), Soccer, and Field Hockey, and heck, if they needed an extra man anywhere, they could just give me a shout. (Except for swimming... I'm about as buoyant as a very large rock, and slower than a typical participant in Senior Swim Day.) Gold Medals would be won and accepted humbly, saying only that I've admired the world's athletes at these games since I could remember, and how bloody BRILLIANT it was that I could simply compete against them.
To pull together a ragtag group of misfits and outsiders and pull off the greatest heist the world has ever seen... using only our collective, natural talents.... and duct tape.
To acknowledge that I used to spell "duct tape" - "duck tape" ... oh, good, look, I can cross one of these off!
And... finally:
To find, rescue (or at least, help out *grumble grumble*) my true love, and live happily ever after.
At age 7... or 8... or 17... the majority of these still seemed highly possible. Forgetting, of course, though, the cunning plan - "cunning" and "Dani Meier" probably don't belong in the same sentence. At 20... it's interesting to see what I'd still like to have under my belt by the time I... (insert death euphemism *here*), whenever that happens. 50, 60, 10 years? It'd be nice to go smiling. (This entry is rapidly becoming more morbid by the minute - what I'm trying to say is that my priorities have changed.)
thank you, after thoughts.
For instance, I'd still love to write that book. And I have a pretty decent idea of what I'd be banging out on my computer, or in my notebook, if I ever sat down to it. And I'd also like one day run ... or crawl... up Polly. True Love? We'll see. A friend once told me that only a man can make the same mistake twice... well... if that's true, women must be able to do that multiple times... if a mistake is a mistake, begging your pardon. When I was 7, I had no idea that I'd choose an instrument bigger than I am and use it to pursue a career... I still thought I had dormant superpowers and it was only a matter of a few years (and puberty) before I could join the X-Men. 13 years ago, I thought I was adopted, for pete's sake, just because I couldn't find any baby pictures of me around the house. (They were hidden... or, at least, "stored", which means the same thing in this house.)
The point is... at two decades of life, maybe I shouldn't be reading comics upside down on top of my old bed at home, instead of working diligently to accomplish what I used to think would fulfill my entire being, my entire purpose. However... I've worked hard at what I'm pretty damn sure is the right road for me right now... and I think I deserve to lean back and let the blood rush to my head a bit more.
Just for fun.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Mozart muddles, Beethoven befuddles, and family... what?
On a particular trip on a particular Sunday, involving an entire particular family on one particular bus on its way to a particular place... (I'm done now, I'm swear)... I had a... *certain* conversation with a certain person. Prior to my decision to go to Indiana University as a music major, he'd had... doubts, we'll call them - about that route, that career. In all fairness, I think he had me pegged as going into the whole athletic shebang, and I didn't get really serious about the music performance idea until my senior year of high school.
... end of fairness.
I won't lie, the *last* time we discussed my career, I was less than fond of my him. Irritated, which I am rarely with family. That's all we'll say about that.
This conversation, however - complete 180. Unfortunately, not in the sense that it made me warm to him anymore, but in the manner that he was addressing me. Out of nowhere, (at least, to me) he became an afficianado of classical music. Had been listening for years and years, was a huge fan, everyday to and fro in the daily grind and wind would have it blasting out his car and home stereos. Mostly classical period - you know, the lighter stuff, the Bach and Mozart and Handel - he's a big fan of Handel.
... huh.
I don't want to pull the "shenanigans" card - it's family, after all, and who am I to say "baloney with extra ketchup" to my clan? Blood is supposedly thicker than water, stronger than old grudges or old wounds, and I'm sure that he loves me as one of his many relations for who I am and what I do. This feels like a Surgeon General's warning, or some sort of disclaimer, I know. Bear with me, I have a point.
And... here it is: Whether you are the local expert or the village idiot on a certain *anything*, please - for the love of GOD - do not pretend to be anything other than you are. In other words, there are enough pretentious people out there, possibly insecure and anxious to prove their worth and their knowledge. It's a bad spot to be in, worrying that someone will think less of you for perhaps not knowing everything about everything and anything. Help yourself out and portray yourself honestly, and I sincerely doubt that people will cast you down and ostracize you for not knowing, say, metronome markings to Beethoven scores.
... at least, I won't. Hell, I don't even know those.
(I probably should... but that's not up for discussion.)
Maybe I'm completely wrong on this, and our latest conversation, this person and I, was a valid, from the heart interest in the life that I've chosen. In that case, I apologize and I need to stop being so cynical on this front. However... please don't come to me with guidance and advice about what I should listen to, play, look for in my *life*... when you weren't so um... fond... of that choice a few short semesters ago. It reminds me far too much of an image of a confident, arrogant young rookie coming up to a seasoned veteran, saying with a smile and a wink:
"Try it this way - I've been doing this for years."
... end of fairness.
I won't lie, the *last* time we discussed my career, I was less than fond of my him. Irritated, which I am rarely with family. That's all we'll say about that.
This conversation, however - complete 180. Unfortunately, not in the sense that it made me warm to him anymore, but in the manner that he was addressing me. Out of nowhere, (at least, to me) he became an afficianado of classical music. Had been listening for years and years, was a huge fan, everyday to and fro in the daily grind and wind would have it blasting out his car and home stereos. Mostly classical period - you know, the lighter stuff, the Bach and Mozart and Handel - he's a big fan of Handel.
... huh.
I don't want to pull the "shenanigans" card - it's family, after all, and who am I to say "baloney with extra ketchup" to my clan? Blood is supposedly thicker than water, stronger than old grudges or old wounds, and I'm sure that he loves me as one of his many relations for who I am and what I do. This feels like a Surgeon General's warning, or some sort of disclaimer, I know. Bear with me, I have a point.
And... here it is: Whether you are the local expert or the village idiot on a certain *anything*, please - for the love of GOD - do not pretend to be anything other than you are. In other words, there are enough pretentious people out there, possibly insecure and anxious to prove their worth and their knowledge. It's a bad spot to be in, worrying that someone will think less of you for perhaps not knowing everything about everything and anything. Help yourself out and portray yourself honestly, and I sincerely doubt that people will cast you down and ostracize you for not knowing, say, metronome markings to Beethoven scores.
... at least, I won't. Hell, I don't even know those.
(I probably should... but that's not up for discussion.)
Maybe I'm completely wrong on this, and our latest conversation, this person and I, was a valid, from the heart interest in the life that I've chosen. In that case, I apologize and I need to stop being so cynical on this front. However... please don't come to me with guidance and advice about what I should listen to, play, look for in my *life*... when you weren't so um... fond... of that choice a few short semesters ago. It reminds me far too much of an image of a confident, arrogant young rookie coming up to a seasoned veteran, saying with a smile and a wink:
"Try it this way - I've been doing this for years."
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Hey there, Delilah, please move back from New York City...
Dear Plain White T's,
If you really loved Delilah, you'd get your tush to NYC and stop flooding the radio with "Oh, what you do to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"'s...
I'll show you what you do to me... and I'll show you what I'll do to *you* if you don't knock it off.
Thanks,
Dani Meier
P.S: "You are to blame, you know it's true."
In other news, while biking today at the YMCA, a message flashed across my screen:
"Do or do not, there is no try."
And to think - I was under the impression that he was too short to reach the pedals...
*cough*
"The force is strong with this one - he just bench pressed a small child!"
"No, no, that's his trainer!"
"Well, that explains the cane that he's beating him with..."
If you really loved Delilah, you'd get your tush to NYC and stop flooding the radio with "Oh, what you do to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"'s...
I'll show you what you do to me... and I'll show you what I'll do to *you* if you don't knock it off.
Thanks,
Dani Meier
P.S: "You are to blame, you know it's true."
In other news, while biking today at the YMCA, a message flashed across my screen:
"Do or do not, there is no try."
And to think - I was under the impression that he was too short to reach the pedals...
*cough*
"The force is strong with this one - he just bench pressed a small child!"
"No, no, that's his trainer!"
"Well, that explains the cane that he's beating him with..."
Monday, May 12, 2008
"I'd like a fat-free, no-carb, no-whip, splenda-substitute, soy-product Hot Chocolate, please."
"Ma'am... [sigh] no. *No*."
"But - what - what - the menu says I can -"
"It is a travesty, a tragedy, and an insult to both mankind *and* hot chocolate. *No*."
"Bu-"
"NO. Bad!"
You know... it just occurred to me that, should you order such a "drink" (though would there be anything actually in the cup?!) such as that 5 years ago, your "barista" or drink-maker-of-choice would either stare blankly at you for a while ("er... I mean..." [as you duck your eyes in shame] "... a medium coffee. Black. Extra-bitterness.") or they'd laugh nervously, wondering how they were going to get the crazy person out of the cafe. It'd be absurd, and I'm pretty positive you'd be ostracized from coffee spots world-wide.
And yet...
at some point in time, someone came along with a fresh cup of joe, shoved it into the unfortunate lunatic's hand, and sat them down somewhere - with comforting eyes and a friendly smile - to say:
"Hey, all that nonsense you came up with a few months ago? About substituting everything that makes up a delicious hot drink with ingredients that don't taste one iota as good? Well, I think you've got a good head on those shoulders... and I want to *do* that."
Before I go any further, I do drink and eat fat-free, no-carb, lacking-in-whip, splenda-substituted food. HOWEVER! I'll be damned before I start using soy. No way - that's a low *so* down there that even I will not deem to stoop to it.
... in any case... there was a definite point where people began deciding that it would be easier to subsitute all of the amazingly delicious, but nutritiously awful food and ingredients with doctored science projects that save US calories while supposedly saving us the taste, as well!
... sometimes.
To be honest, it *is* a good idea... in a way. One of the nicest things about having those substitutions is that you feel that you can still eat the foods that you love, without worrying that you won't be able to fit into your jeans. At the same time - shouldn't we also be focusing on (rather than constantly making substitutions) eating those things in moderation? As in - learning slowly how to love the foods that your body will love you for eating? I'm not talking soy and tofu... necessarily. (Sorry, vegetarians, but I'm a bit of a blood-thirty omnivore, myself.) Fruit. Veggies. Leaner meats. Desserts that do not drown the eater in a sea of chocolate and sugar. Or, at the least - struggling to stay afloat in the sea of chocolate syrup on a few nights a week.
For example... my mother suggested upon my return home from Indiana that I consider writing down everything I eat during the day. Not to lose weight, she pointed out - to be aware of how much I consume during a day. (If you're not aware, apparently I am a tornado of refrigerator destruction.) I'm in good shape right now because I run like a fiend and generally devour massive amounts of say, grapes, as opposed to Pringles, but! For the future, losing the tendency to graze would be good.
("I see a massive grocery bill ... mostly produce...")
so... I figure... I can either substitute with all the finesse of someone who singlehandedly boosts coffeeshop profits, or... I can start to rationalize the amount of food I put away.
Or I can just run more.
...
We'll see.
"But - what - what - the menu says I can -"
"It is a travesty, a tragedy, and an insult to both mankind *and* hot chocolate. *No*."
"Bu-"
"NO. Bad!"
You know... it just occurred to me that, should you order such a "drink" (though would there be anything actually in the cup?!) such as that 5 years ago, your "barista" or drink-maker-of-choice would either stare blankly at you for a while ("er... I mean..." [as you duck your eyes in shame] "... a medium coffee. Black. Extra-bitterness.") or they'd laugh nervously, wondering how they were going to get the crazy person out of the cafe. It'd be absurd, and I'm pretty positive you'd be ostracized from coffee spots world-wide.
And yet...
at some point in time, someone came along with a fresh cup of joe, shoved it into the unfortunate lunatic's hand, and sat them down somewhere - with comforting eyes and a friendly smile - to say:
"Hey, all that nonsense you came up with a few months ago? About substituting everything that makes up a delicious hot drink with ingredients that don't taste one iota as good? Well, I think you've got a good head on those shoulders... and I want to *do* that."
Before I go any further, I do drink and eat fat-free, no-carb, lacking-in-whip, splenda-substituted food. HOWEVER! I'll be damned before I start using soy. No way - that's a low *so* down there that even I will not deem to stoop to it.
... in any case... there was a definite point where people began deciding that it would be easier to subsitute all of the amazingly delicious, but nutritiously awful food and ingredients with doctored science projects that save US calories while supposedly saving us the taste, as well!
... sometimes.
To be honest, it *is* a good idea... in a way. One of the nicest things about having those substitutions is that you feel that you can still eat the foods that you love, without worrying that you won't be able to fit into your jeans. At the same time - shouldn't we also be focusing on (rather than constantly making substitutions) eating those things in moderation? As in - learning slowly how to love the foods that your body will love you for eating? I'm not talking soy and tofu... necessarily. (Sorry, vegetarians, but I'm a bit of a blood-thirty omnivore, myself.) Fruit. Veggies. Leaner meats. Desserts that do not drown the eater in a sea of chocolate and sugar. Or, at the least - struggling to stay afloat in the sea of chocolate syrup on a few nights a week.
For example... my mother suggested upon my return home from Indiana that I consider writing down everything I eat during the day. Not to lose weight, she pointed out - to be aware of how much I consume during a day. (If you're not aware, apparently I am a tornado of refrigerator destruction.) I'm in good shape right now because I run like a fiend and generally devour massive amounts of say, grapes, as opposed to Pringles, but! For the future, losing the tendency to graze would be good.
("I see a massive grocery bill ... mostly produce...")
so... I figure... I can either substitute with all the finesse of someone who singlehandedly boosts coffeeshop profits, or... I can start to rationalize the amount of food I put away.
Or I can just run more.
...
We'll see.
Friday, May 9, 2008
What can I say? All my friends are stuck at school and I'm haunting the internet...
First, Chris... I blatantly copied you. No excuse or beating around the bush - I have literally decided to start my own blog for the sole reason that you have one and it's hilarious. (And deep... oh so deep.) Thus - and you may see where this is going - by writing and keeping up my own, I too will become hilarious. It's foolproof, and I'm sure that you'll agree with me when I say the previous statement is complete baloney.
...*cough*
In any case, all nepotism-leaning tendencies of social success via blog aside, hey there! I'm really not as ridiculously pretentious as I might sound right now, but you see... all my friends are still at school. Now, ordinarily in the hip, happenin' town of Wilmington, Delaware, you could possibly see me out on "the town" - risking my life to go bowling (the adrenaline rush that springs out of the mad sprint from your car to the building is enough to keep you high all night), paying a fifth of my paycheck to catch the latest flick, or ... ...
(hang on, i'm thinking.)
Well, whatever it is, I'm sure it's a lot of fun, as well.
See, getting shot / shooting strikes, or breaking the bank at Regal - those are fun things to do with *people*. At the moment, however, my neck of the woods seems to be lacking that particular element. The nice woman at Wawa might enjoy a good ball-toss, but our five minute conversation over our coffee addictions still doesn't warrant a last second invitation to throw down the pins, if you know what I mean. In other words, Indiana University lets its students out wondrously early - which at first prompts "huzzah's" and much celebration in true college style - but about a week into the consequent "family time" and the absent-minded wandering around the house and around town... alone... that celebration starts to turn into, well... almost frustration. "I'm home!" you want to protest to someone - anyone! "I've finally made it back from the Land of Corn and would like to enjoy the spoils of victory with my loyal compatriots... except... they're... not... Here!!"
I've discovered that the dog is an excellent listener, but you can only rant indignantly for so long before she comes to the conclusion that there will not be, most likely, any treat or ball toss in store for her, and leaves.
In any case - the dog is now officially avoiding me, and in stead of playing the crazy person (playing, you ask? who's *playing?*) and talking to myself, I have discovered my good, old friend, "Mr. Internet".
It's either this or I start making high school aged friends.
"What, you can't come over tonight? Well, why not?! Oh. Curfew and AP test. Gotcha."
...
Yeah... what you're thinking - I'm thinking. I think.
This could be fun, though - getting in touch with myself on that inner, more personal level. That's how it happens, right? The understanding / deep realization thing? You start a blog?
Survey says:...
...*cough*
In any case, all nepotism-leaning tendencies of social success via blog aside, hey there! I'm really not as ridiculously pretentious as I might sound right now, but you see... all my friends are still at school. Now, ordinarily in the hip, happenin' town of Wilmington, Delaware, you could possibly see me out on "the town" - risking my life to go bowling (the adrenaline rush that springs out of the mad sprint from your car to the building is enough to keep you high all night), paying a fifth of my paycheck to catch the latest flick, or ... ...
(hang on, i'm thinking.)
Well, whatever it is, I'm sure it's a lot of fun, as well.
See, getting shot / shooting strikes, or breaking the bank at Regal - those are fun things to do with *people*. At the moment, however, my neck of the woods seems to be lacking that particular element. The nice woman at Wawa might enjoy a good ball-toss, but our five minute conversation over our coffee addictions still doesn't warrant a last second invitation to throw down the pins, if you know what I mean. In other words, Indiana University lets its students out wondrously early - which at first prompts "huzzah's" and much celebration in true college style - but about a week into the consequent "family time" and the absent-minded wandering around the house and around town... alone... that celebration starts to turn into, well... almost frustration. "I'm home!" you want to protest to someone - anyone! "I've finally made it back from the Land of Corn and would like to enjoy the spoils of victory with my loyal compatriots... except... they're... not... Here!!"
I've discovered that the dog is an excellent listener, but you can only rant indignantly for so long before she comes to the conclusion that there will not be, most likely, any treat or ball toss in store for her, and leaves.
In any case - the dog is now officially avoiding me, and in stead of playing the crazy person (playing, you ask? who's *playing?*) and talking to myself, I have discovered my good, old friend, "Mr. Internet".
It's either this or I start making high school aged friends.
"What, you can't come over tonight? Well, why not?! Oh. Curfew and AP test. Gotcha."
...
Yeah... what you're thinking - I'm thinking. I think.
This could be fun, though - getting in touch with myself on that inner, more personal level. That's how it happens, right? The understanding / deep realization thing? You start a blog?
Survey says:...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
