Winter: 1
Tina: 0
Monday, December 7, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
I Dreamed a Dream or Two
I have really vivid dreams. It used to be that I slept so deeply that if I dreamed, I didn't know it. But since I've been married, I remember my dreams every night. I didn't realize this until I started telling my husband about my weird dreams--they are always weird--and he commented about how often I dream. I didn't believe him, so I started keeping track and found out that he was right. I dream every single night.
A few weeks ago I dreamed about going back to school, but instead of going back to college for a graduate degree or another bachelors, I went back to junior high and then high school. And all the people I went to school with--all the people I thought I never really wanted to see again--were in my dream. It was almost a nightmare. And that's just one example.
A few months ago, I dreamed about my sister-in-law Catherine. In my dream she'd written me a note, and since I apparently have a junior high mentality, I had to write one back. But when I gave her the note, she took one look at it and said, "You spelled my name wrong. See?" And actually, I had. I'd spelled it "Cathirine," which is a ridiculous way to misspell her name. You'd think that I would have spelled it with a K or left out the first E instead of changing it to an I. But she actually wasn't concerned about the I. She was concerned that I'd left the accents off of both of the Es. I gave her the weirdest look while she showed me because all I could think was, "Wouldn't the accents make your name sound like Cath-ay-rin-ay?" But she didn't notice my confusion; she just said, "Usually I don't worry about the accents because it just confuses everyone. But I thought you should know." Since we're family, you know.
I think I'll address their Christmas card to John and Cathériné Rains.
But the point is, last night I had another very strange dream, this time about my little brother, who is serving a mission for our church in Ohio.
At first Paul (my little brother) and I were out wandering around a park with some other people at night. I'm not sure why, but we were. But while we were out there, this little tiny lamb comes frollicking along from behind a bush. It was like a pygmy lamb--I'm not sure if those exist--because it was so tiny and cute. It was all alone at first, but soon a whole lamb family followed. The lambs were grazing, and most of us were just watching the lambs, but a few were playing with and cuddling the small sheep. All was happy, until we realized that there were wolves nearby, and we had to protect the lambs. (By the way, what were pygmy lambs doing in an urban park, wandering free and wild? And also, if you had a pet pygmy lamb, and you took it for a walk in the park, would you need to obey leash laws?) So we gathered in a circle around the wolves (Why? To my awake self, this seems stupid. Apparently my subconscious is extremely unintelligent, or has a death wish) with torches, to scare them back into their cave. Which actually worked, after some snarling and barking from both sides.
But then the scene changed--dreams are so bad at transitioning smoothly--and I dreamed that we were at college, and Paul was a sophomore who somehow got assigned to senior dorms. So I went to check on him, 'cause, you know, that's what older sisters do. And of course Paul and his roommates were playing video games. (Do college boys do anything else? Okay, they chase girls and play video games. In my experience, those are almost the entire extent of their extracurriculars.) So my friends and I (oh, yeah, I had friends--crazy dream) started to check out their place (Again, why? College boys have never been known for their tidiness or concern with sanitation. Again, evidence that my subconscious has a death wish), which had three floors, by the way, but the tiniest living room known to man. When we made it to the basement, what did we find but a rack of old bridesmaids' dresses (which, of course, were the ugliest I have ever seen) and formals and one wedding dress. What were they doing there, you ask? I never got to hear the reason--I'm sure Paul had one--because Jason's uncle woke us up by pounding on our bedroom door before 9 am. This, I told Jason, is why we will never actually live with his grandpa like his aunts want us to so much: we will never have privacy. Someone will always come pounding on our bedroom door early in the morning, and I will always want to poke their eyes out with a rusty fork. It wouldn't be good for familial love.
Anyway, when I wrote to tell Paul about the dream, I made sure to point out the silver lining in the dream: obviously, I've been thinking about him. The bad news is that I've apparently been wanting him to fight wolves and cross dress. Maybe simultaneously.
I told you I have weird dreams.
A few weeks ago I dreamed about going back to school, but instead of going back to college for a graduate degree or another bachelors, I went back to junior high and then high school. And all the people I went to school with--all the people I thought I never really wanted to see again--were in my dream. It was almost a nightmare. And that's just one example.
A few months ago, I dreamed about my sister-in-law Catherine. In my dream she'd written me a note, and since I apparently have a junior high mentality, I had to write one back. But when I gave her the note, she took one look at it and said, "You spelled my name wrong. See?" And actually, I had. I'd spelled it "Cathirine," which is a ridiculous way to misspell her name. You'd think that I would have spelled it with a K or left out the first E instead of changing it to an I. But she actually wasn't concerned about the I. She was concerned that I'd left the accents off of both of the Es. I gave her the weirdest look while she showed me because all I could think was, "Wouldn't the accents make your name sound like Cath-ay-rin-ay?" But she didn't notice my confusion; she just said, "Usually I don't worry about the accents because it just confuses everyone. But I thought you should know." Since we're family, you know.
I think I'll address their Christmas card to John and Cathériné Rains.
But the point is, last night I had another very strange dream, this time about my little brother, who is serving a mission for our church in Ohio.
At first Paul (my little brother) and I were out wandering around a park with some other people at night. I'm not sure why, but we were. But while we were out there, this little tiny lamb comes frollicking along from behind a bush. It was like a pygmy lamb--I'm not sure if those exist--because it was so tiny and cute. It was all alone at first, but soon a whole lamb family followed. The lambs were grazing, and most of us were just watching the lambs, but a few were playing with and cuddling the small sheep. All was happy, until we realized that there were wolves nearby, and we had to protect the lambs. (By the way, what were pygmy lambs doing in an urban park, wandering free and wild? And also, if you had a pet pygmy lamb, and you took it for a walk in the park, would you need to obey leash laws?) So we gathered in a circle around the wolves (Why? To my awake self, this seems stupid. Apparently my subconscious is extremely unintelligent, or has a death wish) with torches, to scare them back into their cave. Which actually worked, after some snarling and barking from both sides.
But then the scene changed--dreams are so bad at transitioning smoothly--and I dreamed that we were at college, and Paul was a sophomore who somehow got assigned to senior dorms. So I went to check on him, 'cause, you know, that's what older sisters do. And of course Paul and his roommates were playing video games. (Do college boys do anything else? Okay, they chase girls and play video games. In my experience, those are almost the entire extent of their extracurriculars.) So my friends and I (oh, yeah, I had friends--crazy dream) started to check out their place (Again, why? College boys have never been known for their tidiness or concern with sanitation. Again, evidence that my subconscious has a death wish), which had three floors, by the way, but the tiniest living room known to man. When we made it to the basement, what did we find but a rack of old bridesmaids' dresses (which, of course, were the ugliest I have ever seen) and formals and one wedding dress. What were they doing there, you ask? I never got to hear the reason--I'm sure Paul had one--because Jason's uncle woke us up by pounding on our bedroom door before 9 am. This, I told Jason, is why we will never actually live with his grandpa like his aunts want us to so much: we will never have privacy. Someone will always come pounding on our bedroom door early in the morning, and I will always want to poke their eyes out with a rusty fork. It wouldn't be good for familial love.
Anyway, when I wrote to tell Paul about the dream, I made sure to point out the silver lining in the dream: obviously, I've been thinking about him. The bad news is that I've apparently been wanting him to fight wolves and cross dress. Maybe simultaneously.
I told you I have weird dreams.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Dove Strikes Again
Last night Jason, Traci (his sister and now mine!), and I went to the cheap theater to escape inevitable encounters with certain persons. But that's not the point. The point is, we took candy! Yes, I always sneak outside food into theaters. Cuff me, officer; I'm a criminal.
Back to my point. We took candy, specifically, Dove chocolates. And you know how I love Dove chocolates. All that creamy goodness wrapped in blue aluminum with jokes on the inside! When the movie sucked, I was suitably entertained by my illegal treats. Let me share with you a few of Dove's better jokes:
1."Smile when you want to, cry when you need to, laugh whenever possible." Thanks for permission, Dove. I wasn't sure I was allowed to feel, but I'm glad the physical manifestations of my emotions meet with your approval.
2. "Think of every day as a Sunday." What does that even mean? Okay, it makes some sense in a Christian context, but it's not PC right now to make overt Christian references on candy wrappers. After all, it's not Christmas. (That was a hint to you, Walmart, Fred Meyer, JoAnn's, and all the rest of you retail outifts trying to gloss over the fall holidays like redheaded stepchildren during a family introduction.) So Dove probably doesn't mean this in a Christian way.
But it also evokes the thought of Sunday drives, general laziness, naps, and maybe barbeques. Is Dove telling me to do these things every day? Should I tell my boss (I know I don't actually have a job and therefore don't have a boss; this is hypothetical. Stop rubbing my failure to become gainfully employed in my face!) that I can't come in to work because I have to treat every day as a Sunday, so I'm having a barbeque instead? That I can't finish that important project on time because I have to go for a long, slow drive? Thanks for getting me fired from my hypothetical job, Dove. Jerk.
3. And speaking of failures, my personal favorite: "Remind yourself that it's okay not to be perfect." Translation: "You suck. I don't even know you, and I know that. But you can call it 'imperfection' and talk of 'tolerance' and 'human nature' if it makes you feel better, Screw Up."
And those were the nuggets of wisdom Dove had to offer during this economic crisis, all for a whopping $3.99 a bag. Now run along and buy a bag yourself so you, too, can "Share a chocolate moment with a friend." If you have any, that is. Loser.
Back to my point. We took candy, specifically, Dove chocolates. And you know how I love Dove chocolates. All that creamy goodness wrapped in blue aluminum with jokes on the inside! When the movie sucked, I was suitably entertained by my illegal treats. Let me share with you a few of Dove's better jokes:
1."Smile when you want to, cry when you need to, laugh whenever possible." Thanks for permission, Dove. I wasn't sure I was allowed to feel, but I'm glad the physical manifestations of my emotions meet with your approval.
2. "Think of every day as a Sunday." What does that even mean? Okay, it makes some sense in a Christian context, but it's not PC right now to make overt Christian references on candy wrappers. After all, it's not Christmas. (That was a hint to you, Walmart, Fred Meyer, JoAnn's, and all the rest of you retail outifts trying to gloss over the fall holidays like redheaded stepchildren during a family introduction.) So Dove probably doesn't mean this in a Christian way.
But it also evokes the thought of Sunday drives, general laziness, naps, and maybe barbeques. Is Dove telling me to do these things every day? Should I tell my boss (I know I don't actually have a job and therefore don't have a boss; this is hypothetical. Stop rubbing my failure to become gainfully employed in my face!) that I can't come in to work because I have to treat every day as a Sunday, so I'm having a barbeque instead? That I can't finish that important project on time because I have to go for a long, slow drive? Thanks for getting me fired from my hypothetical job, Dove. Jerk.
3. And speaking of failures, my personal favorite: "Remind yourself that it's okay not to be perfect." Translation: "You suck. I don't even know you, and I know that. But you can call it 'imperfection' and talk of 'tolerance' and 'human nature' if it makes you feel better, Screw Up."
And those were the nuggets of wisdom Dove had to offer during this economic crisis, all for a whopping $3.99 a bag. Now run along and buy a bag yourself so you, too, can "Share a chocolate moment with a friend." If you have any, that is. Loser.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Of Fads and Food Blogs
I try not to get into fads too much, and not for the reason you might think. Though I like being original just as much as other people, I am not about to sacrifice my Harry Potter collection on the altar of Individuality. No, I don't like getting into fads because it is too detrimental to my bank account to keep Practical Tina—a version of myself I dislike only slightly less than Fitness Tina—occupied quietly in the back of my mind where I like her. But despite my best efforts, I've fallen in with a fad that I am hopeless now to resist. Like collecting mini Beanie Babies from McDonald's when I was young, I will continue to read food blogs avidly until they are replaced by something made of plastic or I die of obesity.
At first I just took a quick gander at the first recipe on the page. If I liked it, I copied it into Word and went on to the next site. But now, sites like the Smitten Kitchen have me reading through their posts and copying recipes that include foods I hate, like matza. And I blame it on the pictures. I don't know of any recipe I would not try if I saw that it was slathered with chocolate ganache. It's my kryptonite, or Superhero Tina's, anyway.
Okay, well, the pictures are a big part of it, yes. But the real reason I am so enthralled by food blogs is, I think, that food blogs, with their recipes for foods like fudgy brownie cookies and lemon cheesecake, offend Fitness Tina. And there's almost nothing I like more than spitting in her skinny face and kicking her in her sculpted buns. And since eating is a necessity, Practical Tina doesn't put up too much of a fight at my buying obscene amounts of cream cheese, baking chocolate, and strange spices. And if Practical Tina isn't going to put up a fight, well, I'm certainly not going to complain. To the baking aisle, Superhero Tina!
At first I just took a quick gander at the first recipe on the page. If I liked it, I copied it into Word and went on to the next site. But now, sites like the Smitten Kitchen have me reading through their posts and copying recipes that include foods I hate, like matza. And I blame it on the pictures. I don't know of any recipe I would not try if I saw that it was slathered with chocolate ganache. It's my kryptonite, or Superhero Tina's, anyway.
Okay, well, the pictures are a big part of it, yes. But the real reason I am so enthralled by food blogs is, I think, that food blogs, with their recipes for foods like fudgy brownie cookies and lemon cheesecake, offend Fitness Tina. And there's almost nothing I like more than spitting in her skinny face and kicking her in her sculpted buns. And since eating is a necessity, Practical Tina doesn't put up too much of a fight at my buying obscene amounts of cream cheese, baking chocolate, and strange spices. And if Practical Tina isn't going to put up a fight, well, I'm certainly not going to complain. To the baking aisle, Superhero Tina!
Friday, April 17, 2009
Le Grand Mystere Continues
Our other sucker fish disappeared the other day, which is sad because I was starting to get attached. I'd named him Jaws.
I know; I'm a little teary too.
I'm beginning to think that some of the water from the Bermuda Triangle was rerouted to our kitchen sink in Utah. But if that's the case, why isn't Amelia Earhart swimming around in our fish tank?
The more likely theory is that the apartment managers are sneaking in when we're gone and stealing our fish for their tank. Jason and I may have to do a covert rescue mission. First we'll go into the office with a "question." Jason will distract the managers while I find Jaws and his brother in the 20 gallon tank where they'll send up Morse code (SOS, of course) in bubbles. Then we'll take shifts watching the outer door when the managers punch in the key code. Probably I will take most of these shifts because I am unemployed. (Who knew unemployment could come in handy?) After we've successfully learned the door code, we'll return to the office with another false question so I can signal to the fish (Morse code again, this time in taps on the tank) when to be ready for rescue. Finally, dressed in all black and playing the Mission: Impossible theme in our iPods, we'll sneak into the office in the dead of night with a net and some plastic bags to rescue our kidnapped pets. It will be brilliant! We'll be heroes in the world of fish. Aquatic life in the oceans will build monuments to us out of coral and seaweed.
You may be wondering why our fish would be so much happier in our tank than in our apartment managers' tank. The answer is obvious: privacy. It's the difference between sharing a three bedroom apartment with eighteen people and sharing a one bedroom apartment with only one other person. And of course, if the apartment managers are wandering around stealing peoples' pets, where's the guarantee that they'll treat the pets well? They're already on morally shaky ground.
And if you're wondering how the word will get from our tank in Provo, UT, to the fishies in the deep blue sea, that's a valid question. But the answer, again, is obvious: Amelia Earhart will use the portal between our fishtank and the Atlantic ocean to share our brave adventures with all fishkind.
I know; I'm a little teary too.
I'm beginning to think that some of the water from the Bermuda Triangle was rerouted to our kitchen sink in Utah. But if that's the case, why isn't Amelia Earhart swimming around in our fish tank?
The more likely theory is that the apartment managers are sneaking in when we're gone and stealing our fish for their tank. Jason and I may have to do a covert rescue mission. First we'll go into the office with a "question." Jason will distract the managers while I find Jaws and his brother in the 20 gallon tank where they'll send up Morse code (SOS, of course) in bubbles. Then we'll take shifts watching the outer door when the managers punch in the key code. Probably I will take most of these shifts because I am unemployed. (Who knew unemployment could come in handy?) After we've successfully learned the door code, we'll return to the office with another false question so I can signal to the fish (Morse code again, this time in taps on the tank) when to be ready for rescue. Finally, dressed in all black and playing the Mission: Impossible theme in our iPods, we'll sneak into the office in the dead of night with a net and some plastic bags to rescue our kidnapped pets. It will be brilliant! We'll be heroes in the world of fish. Aquatic life in the oceans will build monuments to us out of coral and seaweed.
You may be wondering why our fish would be so much happier in our tank than in our apartment managers' tank. The answer is obvious: privacy. It's the difference between sharing a three bedroom apartment with eighteen people and sharing a one bedroom apartment with only one other person. And of course, if the apartment managers are wandering around stealing peoples' pets, where's the guarantee that they'll treat the pets well? They're already on morally shaky ground.
And if you're wondering how the word will get from our tank in Provo, UT, to the fishies in the deep blue sea, that's a valid question. But the answer, again, is obvious: Amelia Earhart will use the portal between our fishtank and the Atlantic ocean to share our brave adventures with all fishkind.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Knowing (SPOILER!)
(So, I'm going to tell what happens in the movie. Normally I don't do this--not for books, not for movies, not for anything--but I feel like I have to. So know that if you read this, it will spoil the movie for you. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!)
So, we went and saw Knowing today. You've probably seen the previews. Nicolas Cage, a page full of numbers, prophecies of disaster--is this ringing any bells? Well, it should be. And that's basically the movie. Our friend Nic tries to make sense of the idea that events could be known before they happened, and then he stops trying to make sense of things and buys a gun. But anyway, I'm right there with Nic (who, as a side note, I find sort of creepy) throughout the movie. Figure out what the next disaster will be, try to stop said disaster, save the world--no problem. But then he finds out that the last prophecy is going to destroy the whole world, and there really isn't anything he can do to stop it. He can't even save his son and the daughter and granddaughter of the crazy woman who made the prophecies. And I'm still holding out for Nic; I mean, there has to be a solution, right? Oh, and there is. That solution? Aliens.
Oh, of course! Aliens! I can't believe that plot twist surprised me because it makes total sense that alie--oh, wait, no. No it doesn't. It's completely random. This group of guys who look like hairy white supremacists and who I thought--not without reason--were possibly Satan and his demons or worse for the whole movie suddenly turn out to be benevolent alien angels who give children bunnies.
I am not kidding.
Oh, and the two children Nic was trying to protect get taken by the aliens and turned into Adam and Eve while Nic and the rest of the earthlings die. The end.
Jason says that I can't forget that a new Ford F-250 gets destroyed by fire. This is obviously the greatest tragedy of the story.
But what I want to know is What were the writers thinking? I mean, I really want to know. So I did an interview with the writers of the movie in my head to see what they said.
Me: So. Aliens?
Writers: Yes, aliens.
Me: Hmmm. What's up with that?
Writers: What do you mean?
Me: Well, it's kind of random. You know, the whole white-supremacists-turned-alien-angels thing. So I was wondering, did you just not know how to end the movie? And so you just thought, Oh, right, aliens?
Writers: Well, no, actually. We wanted to end the movie that way from the beginning.
Me: Right. So, then, you hated the movie and thought you would make it as ridiculous as possible?
Writers: No. This was one of our favorite projects.
Me: Hm. Well, I also noticed that Nicolas Cage had a certain fondness for bourbon in the movie. Do you also have a fondness for bourbon? Were you perhaps drunk when you wrote the movie, and then when you found out what you had written it was too late to change it?
Writers: Well, we will admit to a certain fondness for bourbon and other alcoholic drinks, but we believe this to be the sanest work of our lives. There is a depth to the script that we love. It asks questions that have no clear answers. We just wanted to get people thinking, you know?
Me: About what? How this movie was extremely similar to A.I. in its ending and how much we hated A.I.? Cause believe me, I hated A.I. And it also ended with random aliens.
Writers: No, we wanted people to think about the forces that control the universe. Are events predetermined and controlled? Or are they random? And if they are predetermined, are the forces setting these events in motion good or evil?
Me: Well, see, I was thinking about predestination verses coincidence, and then the aliens showed up and I got distracted. I kind of can't get beyond that now. Not even to think about good and evil. The aliens all I can think about. The only question I can even get through my mind is What in the H is the deal with those aliens?
Writers: Well, that's too bad. I'm sorry to see that our message was unclear to you. We never meant for the aliens to take over the movie. They were just supposed to be a stand in for whatever is out there, possibly controlling all our destinies.
Me: Well, maybe not aliens next time, okay? Or maybe at least give some kind of, I don't know, clue that maybe aliens might come up. But otherwise, really great movie!
Writers: Thanks. We're glad you enjoyed it.
So there you have it. The writers were on crack. It's the only logical conclusion.
So, we went and saw Knowing today. You've probably seen the previews. Nicolas Cage, a page full of numbers, prophecies of disaster--is this ringing any bells? Well, it should be. And that's basically the movie. Our friend Nic tries to make sense of the idea that events could be known before they happened, and then he stops trying to make sense of things and buys a gun. But anyway, I'm right there with Nic (who, as a side note, I find sort of creepy) throughout the movie. Figure out what the next disaster will be, try to stop said disaster, save the world--no problem. But then he finds out that the last prophecy is going to destroy the whole world, and there really isn't anything he can do to stop it. He can't even save his son and the daughter and granddaughter of the crazy woman who made the prophecies. And I'm still holding out for Nic; I mean, there has to be a solution, right? Oh, and there is. That solution? Aliens.
Oh, of course! Aliens! I can't believe that plot twist surprised me because it makes total sense that alie--oh, wait, no. No it doesn't. It's completely random. This group of guys who look like hairy white supremacists and who I thought--not without reason--were possibly Satan and his demons or worse for the whole movie suddenly turn out to be benevolent alien angels who give children bunnies.
I am not kidding.
Oh, and the two children Nic was trying to protect get taken by the aliens and turned into Adam and Eve while Nic and the rest of the earthlings die. The end.
Jason says that I can't forget that a new Ford F-250 gets destroyed by fire. This is obviously the greatest tragedy of the story.
But what I want to know is What were the writers thinking? I mean, I really want to know. So I did an interview with the writers of the movie in my head to see what they said.
Me: So. Aliens?
Writers: Yes, aliens.
Me: Hmmm. What's up with that?
Writers: What do you mean?
Me: Well, it's kind of random. You know, the whole white-supremacists-turned-alien-angels thing. So I was wondering, did you just not know how to end the movie? And so you just thought, Oh, right, aliens?
Writers: Well, no, actually. We wanted to end the movie that way from the beginning.
Me: Right. So, then, you hated the movie and thought you would make it as ridiculous as possible?
Writers: No. This was one of our favorite projects.
Me: Hm. Well, I also noticed that Nicolas Cage had a certain fondness for bourbon in the movie. Do you also have a fondness for bourbon? Were you perhaps drunk when you wrote the movie, and then when you found out what you had written it was too late to change it?
Writers: Well, we will admit to a certain fondness for bourbon and other alcoholic drinks, but we believe this to be the sanest work of our lives. There is a depth to the script that we love. It asks questions that have no clear answers. We just wanted to get people thinking, you know?
Me: About what? How this movie was extremely similar to A.I. in its ending and how much we hated A.I.? Cause believe me, I hated A.I. And it also ended with random aliens.
Writers: No, we wanted people to think about the forces that control the universe. Are events predetermined and controlled? Or are they random? And if they are predetermined, are the forces setting these events in motion good or evil?
Me: Well, see, I was thinking about predestination verses coincidence, and then the aliens showed up and I got distracted. I kind of can't get beyond that now. Not even to think about good and evil. The aliens all I can think about. The only question I can even get through my mind is What in the H is the deal with those aliens?
Writers: Well, that's too bad. I'm sorry to see that our message was unclear to you. We never meant for the aliens to take over the movie. They were just supposed to be a stand in for whatever is out there, possibly controlling all our destinies.
Me: Well, maybe not aliens next time, okay? Or maybe at least give some kind of, I don't know, clue that maybe aliens might come up. But otherwise, really great movie!
Writers: Thanks. We're glad you enjoyed it.
So there you have it. The writers were on crack. It's the only logical conclusion.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Neighbors
A play, in one act.
Scene 1
Scene: JASON is at the computer, silently reading. TINA is on the couch across from the computer, rereading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. The clock reads 5:30.
Silence, except for the clock ticking away the seconds TINA should be spending writing her paper for her Shakespeare class.
VOICE (singing faintly, from above): But I won't hesitate no more, no more--
VOICE trails off. TINA glances up from Harry Potter, and then back down. Silence and clock continue.
After a few minutes, JASON types on the keyboard, scrolls through the list of sites his Google search returned, and clicks on one in the middle of the page. TINA continues wasting time.
VOICE (again from above, louder): Look into your heart and you'll find love, love, love, love, love--
VOICE fades again.TINA smiles and chuckles softly without looking up, and then turns a page in what is not her Shakespeare paper. JASON continues silently reading.
A shorter time passes, marked by the ticking clock.
VOICE (from above, loudly): WA-OOOOOHHHHH WA-OOOHH WA-OH OH OH OH ha ha! I been spending way too long checking my tongue in the mirror--
TINA: (laughs loudly)
VOICE continues singing.
JASON: Yeah, that's been going on since I got home--at 2:30.
Curtain.
Scene 1
Scene: JASON is at the computer, silently reading. TINA is on the couch across from the computer, rereading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. The clock reads 5:30.
Silence, except for the clock ticking away the seconds TINA should be spending writing her paper for her Shakespeare class.
VOICE (singing faintly, from above): But I won't hesitate no more, no more--
VOICE trails off. TINA glances up from Harry Potter, and then back down. Silence and clock continue.
After a few minutes, JASON types on the keyboard, scrolls through the list of sites his Google search returned, and clicks on one in the middle of the page. TINA continues wasting time.
VOICE (again from above, louder): Look into your heart and you'll find love, love, love, love, love--
VOICE fades again.TINA smiles and chuckles softly without looking up, and then turns a page in what is not her Shakespeare paper. JASON continues silently reading.
A shorter time passes, marked by the ticking clock.
VOICE (from above, loudly): WA-OOOOOHHHHH WA-OOOHH WA-OH OH OH OH ha ha! I been spending way too long checking my tongue in the mirror--
TINA: (laughs loudly)
VOICE continues singing.
JASON: Yeah, that's been going on since I got home--at 2:30.
Curtain.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Circus Comes to Provo
See what I mean about being our own circus? (See my first post.) Now if only I could grow a beard, we'd be in business.
Friday, March 20, 2009
A Conversation
A conversation, via text, between me (Tina, 5'3") and John (oldest brother of Tina, 5'6") on John's birthday.
Me: Happy birthday, biggest brother! I hope it's a good one.
John: Biggest brother? Are you calling me fat? You jerk!
Me: Do you prefer that interpretation to the one in which "biggest" was a taunt about your height? Since it's your birthday, I'll let you choose.
John: Well played. A+.
Me: Happy birthday, biggest brother! I hope it's a good one.
John: Biggest brother? Are you calling me fat? You jerk!
Me: Do you prefer that interpretation to the one in which "biggest" was a taunt about your height? Since it's your birthday, I'll let you choose.
John: Well played. A+.
Friday, March 13, 2009
King Lear is a Comedy
King Lear is the tragedy of all Shakespeare's tragedies. All the evil forces, all the bad acts, all the betrayal of the other tragedies combine together in this play to make you feel that life may not be worth living after all. And yet I still found Lear extremely funny.
Top three reasons I found King Lear funny:
3. No one insults like Shakespeare, and he outdid himself with Lear.
Ex. "And from th' most extremest part upward of thy head/To the descent and dust below thy foot/A most toad-spotted traitor." 5.3. 136-39
I'm not exactly sure why I think "toad-spotted traitor" is so entertaining, but I do. What does "toad-spotted" mean anyway?
2. There's something infinitely entertaining about the image of a naked old man leading armed soldiers on a merry chase. And it's even funnier when the old man is not totally naked, but instead dressed only in sea weed.
1. The funniest thing about Lear, at least in my text, is that from the time he betrays his father until he dies, Edmund, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Gloucester, is simply called "Bastard" in his cues.
Ex. 4.2: Enter Goneril, Bastard, and Steward.
3.7: Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Bastard, and Servants.
I'm not sure if that was just meant to be a slight against the evil Edmund, but it's sure funny to read, especially if you read it as an intended insult, which I do.
Top three reasons I found King Lear funny:
3. No one insults like Shakespeare, and he outdid himself with Lear.
Ex. "And from th' most extremest part upward of thy head/To the descent and dust below thy foot/A most toad-spotted traitor." 5.3. 136-39
I'm not exactly sure why I think "toad-spotted traitor" is so entertaining, but I do. What does "toad-spotted" mean anyway?
2. There's something infinitely entertaining about the image of a naked old man leading armed soldiers on a merry chase. And it's even funnier when the old man is not totally naked, but instead dressed only in sea weed.
1. The funniest thing about Lear, at least in my text, is that from the time he betrays his father until he dies, Edmund, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Gloucester, is simply called "Bastard" in his cues.
Ex. 4.2: Enter Goneril, Bastard, and Steward.
3.7: Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Bastard, and Servants.
I'm not sure if that was just meant to be a slight against the evil Edmund, but it's sure funny to read, especially if you read it as an intended insult, which I do.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Goodbye Beautiful: The Tale of a Fateful Encounter with a Homeless Man
I don't fear very much, but I do fear homeless people. I know, this is unfair. I shouldn't fear someone because he or she is unwashed or maybe smelling of substances of questionable legality. And, in reality, that's not why I fear homeless people. It has more to do with the truly insane ones that I met on the docks of downtown Seattle when I was five and separated from my family. But that's another story.
This fear of homeless people...well, maybe it didn't increase so much as it shifted to "creeped out and slightly amused by homeless people" in December. I was leaving the Provo library (one of my favorite libraries, incidentally) to walk the three blocks home just after nine in the morning when I was approached by a homeless man.
He asked if he could speak to me for a minute, and I said sure, mostly because I feel guilty saying anything but yes to homeless people. Also,I'm a little afraid to say anything but yes to homeless people. But I digress.
So he starts telling me this story. I have to admit that I couldn't understand about three-quarters of what he was saying to me. It was a combination of accent, word choice, and fear that mushed his words to an incomprehensible jumble in my ears. But I did understand the start of his story, which was "I moved down here a few months ago," and the end, which was "And somehow I ended up homeless."
You know, somehow that ending didn't really make me sympathetic to his cause. I've never been homeless (which is perhaps another reason I fear homeless people--I fear the state of homelessness), but it seems to me that homelessness isn't one of those bombs that fate drops out of nowhere. I mean, there's usually a train--lose your job, can't pay rent, get kicked out, whatever. Sickness comes out of nowhere. Losing your job comes out of nowhere. Living under a bridge is usually one of those things you're able to fight against, or at least see coming.
And it seems to me that if "and somehow I ended up homeless" is the best slogan the homeless of Provo have, it's no wonder they're homeless. Perhaps the Provo library, where they all spend their days (doing what, I don't know) could offer some free marketing classes to their biggest patrons. Maybe "'Somehow I Ended Up Homeless' and Other Lines that Don't Get You Breakfast," "How to Gain the Sympathy and Money of Unsuspecting Victims," and "Looking Worse Off than You Actually Are" could be some possible topics. Just a suggestion.
But again, I digress. So after I told the homeless man that I had no money (the truth!) he asked if he could at least know my name. I told him my first name, and he told me his, which I couldn't understand. Something with "Jr." at the end. He shook my hand--and then held onto it. For much longer than necessary. And looked into my eyes.
I was getting pretty nervous, so I pulled my hand back and said that I had to go. And he concluded the whole interview with, "Goodbye, beautiful."
The whole meeting almost seems like a scene out of a bad romance, except for the incomprehensible homeless man playing the lead male role, which shifts the whole incident from "romantic" to "creepy." And I'm left wondering if I can actually take the his last words to me as a compliment. I mean, it's entirely possible that he would say the same thing to a six hundred pound walrus with a mustache if he thought the walrus would give him money, or at least a fish. Not that I need to hear compliments from strangers and homeless people. But it would maybe make me feel a little better about the whole episode.
(On a side note, I seem to keep coming back to fish, don't I? What's up with that?)
This fear of homeless people...well, maybe it didn't increase so much as it shifted to "creeped out and slightly amused by homeless people" in December. I was leaving the Provo library (one of my favorite libraries, incidentally) to walk the three blocks home just after nine in the morning when I was approached by a homeless man.
He asked if he could speak to me for a minute, and I said sure, mostly because I feel guilty saying anything but yes to homeless people. Also,I'm a little afraid to say anything but yes to homeless people. But I digress.
So he starts telling me this story. I have to admit that I couldn't understand about three-quarters of what he was saying to me. It was a combination of accent, word choice, and fear that mushed his words to an incomprehensible jumble in my ears. But I did understand the start of his story, which was "I moved down here a few months ago," and the end, which was "And somehow I ended up homeless."
You know, somehow that ending didn't really make me sympathetic to his cause. I've never been homeless (which is perhaps another reason I fear homeless people--I fear the state of homelessness), but it seems to me that homelessness isn't one of those bombs that fate drops out of nowhere. I mean, there's usually a train--lose your job, can't pay rent, get kicked out, whatever. Sickness comes out of nowhere. Losing your job comes out of nowhere. Living under a bridge is usually one of those things you're able to fight against, or at least see coming.
And it seems to me that if "and somehow I ended up homeless" is the best slogan the homeless of Provo have, it's no wonder they're homeless. Perhaps the Provo library, where they all spend their days (doing what, I don't know) could offer some free marketing classes to their biggest patrons. Maybe "'Somehow I Ended Up Homeless' and Other Lines that Don't Get You Breakfast," "How to Gain the Sympathy and Money of Unsuspecting Victims," and "Looking Worse Off than You Actually Are" could be some possible topics. Just a suggestion.
But again, I digress. So after I told the homeless man that I had no money (the truth!) he asked if he could at least know my name. I told him my first name, and he told me his, which I couldn't understand. Something with "Jr." at the end. He shook my hand--and then held onto it. For much longer than necessary. And looked into my eyes.
I was getting pretty nervous, so I pulled my hand back and said that I had to go. And he concluded the whole interview with, "Goodbye, beautiful."
The whole meeting almost seems like a scene out of a bad romance, except for the incomprehensible homeless man playing the lead male role, which shifts the whole incident from "romantic" to "creepy." And I'm left wondering if I can actually take the his last words to me as a compliment. I mean, it's entirely possible that he would say the same thing to a six hundred pound walrus with a mustache if he thought the walrus would give him money, or at least a fish. Not that I need to hear compliments from strangers and homeless people. But it would maybe make me feel a little better about the whole episode.
(On a side note, I seem to keep coming back to fish, don't I? What's up with that?)
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Wilkie Collins
I’ve formerly recommended Wilkie Collins’s books based solely on my experience reading The Moonstone, which I quite liked. And I promised an update when I finished reading The Woman in White, Collins’s earlier mystery novel. Here’s my consensus: Is it possible for me to grow up to be a 19th century male writer? Because I think he’s my new hero.
Collins’s novels aren't action packed, especially not in the way that modern mystery novels or movies are. While his plots are complex enough to keep you wondering how the forces of good will win in the end, his characters are the real reason to read. Each character is given a chance to speak for him- or herself, and they each express a unique voice and personality that draws you in, sometimes despite yourself. For instance, I ended up loving the villain, Count Fosco, despite—or maybe because of—his nefariousness. He loves white mice, vanilla bon bons, and the true heroine of the novel, Marian. His glee at duping the heroes is almost contagious, and I couldn’t help rooting for him, just a little.
The epistolary narrative style Collins favors might make you hesitate, but it shouldn’t. I felt that the broken narratives—written like letters or diary entries—helped me continue reading when the plot felt dry. After all, if I didn’t like the narrator, I could always look forward to a change in outlook in a few chapters.
I wouldn’t recommend reading Wilkie Collins on an every day, "entertainment reading" basis; his stories move a little too slowly for that. But if you're willing to read a little slower and you want to meet some of the most interesting fictional people in existence, you really should give Collins a try.
Collins’s novels aren't action packed, especially not in the way that modern mystery novels or movies are. While his plots are complex enough to keep you wondering how the forces of good will win in the end, his characters are the real reason to read. Each character is given a chance to speak for him- or herself, and they each express a unique voice and personality that draws you in, sometimes despite yourself. For instance, I ended up loving the villain, Count Fosco, despite—or maybe because of—his nefariousness. He loves white mice, vanilla bon bons, and the true heroine of the novel, Marian. His glee at duping the heroes is almost contagious, and I couldn’t help rooting for him, just a little.
The epistolary narrative style Collins favors might make you hesitate, but it shouldn’t. I felt that the broken narratives—written like letters or diary entries—helped me continue reading when the plot felt dry. After all, if I didn’t like the narrator, I could always look forward to a change in outlook in a few chapters.
I wouldn’t recommend reading Wilkie Collins on an every day, "entertainment reading" basis; his stories move a little too slowly for that. But if you're willing to read a little slower and you want to meet some of the most interesting fictional people in existence, you really should give Collins a try.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Pick Up the Phone
I don't usually do these types of question deals, but this one was pretty funny, so I thought I'd try. And it turned out pretty funny. To do this yourself, you're supposed to copy the list of questions and erase my answers. Then, for the answer to the first question, you press play on your music player while it's set to shuffle. For the answer to the next question, you hit "next."
If someone says, "Is this okay?" You say?
“Done Hangin' on Maybe” (Evan and Jaron)
What do you like in a guy/girl?
“No One Needs to Know” (Shania Twain)
How do you feel today?
“Hakuna Matata” (Lion King)
What is your life's purpose?
“Poor Unfortunate Souls” (The Little Mermaid)
What is your motto?
“Out of the Rain” (The Duhks)
What do your friends think of you?
“Crazy” (Simple Plan)
What do you think of your parents?
“The Luckiest” (Ben Folds)
What do you think about very often?
“Secret Valentine” (We the Kings)
What is 2+2?
“Building a Mystery” (Sarah McLachlan)
What do you think of your best friend?
“Don’t Be Stupid” (Shania Twain)
What do you think of the person you like?
“Brighter than Sunshine” (Aqualung)
What is your life's story?
“I Believe” (Diamond Rio)
What do you want to be when you grow up?
“Eleanor Rigby” (The Beatles)
What do you think of when you see the person you like?
“Madly” (Tristan Prettyman)
What will you dance to at your wedding?
“Thank You” (Simple Plan)
What will they play at your funeral?
“Celebrity” (Brad Paisley)
What is your hobby/interest?
“Car Crash” (Matt Nathanson)
What is your biggest fear?
“Then I Did” (Rascal Flatts)
What is your biggest secret?
“How Lucky I Am” (Emerson Drive)
What do you think of your friends?
“Yellow Submarine” (The Beatles)
How would you describe yourself?
“Addicted” (Simple Plan)
What will you post this as?
“Pick up the Phone” (Evan and Jaron)
If someone says, "Is this okay?" You say?
“Done Hangin' on Maybe” (Evan and Jaron)
What do you like in a guy/girl?
“No One Needs to Know” (Shania Twain)
How do you feel today?
“Hakuna Matata” (Lion King)
What is your life's purpose?
“Poor Unfortunate Souls” (The Little Mermaid)
What is your motto?
“Out of the Rain” (The Duhks)
What do your friends think of you?
“Crazy” (Simple Plan)
What do you think of your parents?
“The Luckiest” (Ben Folds)
What do you think about very often?
“Secret Valentine” (We the Kings)
What is 2+2?
“Building a Mystery” (Sarah McLachlan)
What do you think of your best friend?
“Don’t Be Stupid” (Shania Twain)
What do you think of the person you like?
“Brighter than Sunshine” (Aqualung)
What is your life's story?
“I Believe” (Diamond Rio)
What do you want to be when you grow up?
“Eleanor Rigby” (The Beatles)
What do you think of when you see the person you like?
“Madly” (Tristan Prettyman)
What will you dance to at your wedding?
“Thank You” (Simple Plan)
What will they play at your funeral?
“Celebrity” (Brad Paisley)
What is your hobby/interest?
“Car Crash” (Matt Nathanson)
What is your biggest fear?
“Then I Did” (Rascal Flatts)
What is your biggest secret?
“How Lucky I Am” (Emerson Drive)
What do you think of your friends?
“Yellow Submarine” (The Beatles)
How would you describe yourself?
“Addicted” (Simple Plan)
What will you post this as?
“Pick up the Phone” (Evan and Jaron)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
A Recommendation
Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone. Read it; it's fabulous. Especially if you have a fondness for nineteenth century writing, which I do. Writers in the nineteenth century preferred character development over plot, so the book sometimes moves slowly, but the characters who narrate the story more than make up for the pace.
Also, it's considered to be one of the first mystery novels. Actually, he wrote one before The Moonstone called The Woman in White, but people seem to prefer The Moonstone generally. I'll let you know how I feel after I finish WIW. Thank you, and good night.
Also, it's considered to be one of the first mystery novels. Actually, he wrote one before The Moonstone called The Woman in White, but people seem to prefer The Moonstone generally. I'll let you know how I feel after I finish WIW. Thank you, and good night.
Monday, February 9, 2009
A Change of Identity
No, I am not changing my name (as I should have a year ago), nor am I undergoing surgery of any kind. I just thought I would let you all know that, according to the extremely reliable phone of my sister-in-law Traci (http://runningstray.blogspot.com/), I no longer exist.
It's true. Every time she tries to type my name into her phone (for a text message or just to add me to her contacts list), the auto correct on her phone denies my existence. "Tina," obviously, is not real. No. Apparently, I am "Tuna."
I am half sister, half fish.
At first I just told Traci to tell her phone, "Har! Like I haven't heard that one before!" from me, but then I became accustomed to my fate. And also, it started to make sense. Everyone thinks I'm nutty as squirrel poo for being from Seattle yet not liking fish, and now I know why. It's because I am one! How could I eat my comrades in fins? This also explains my devastation over the loss of a certain gilled friend (see below).
What I really want to know, though, is where the split is. I mean, do I split between fish and female right down the middle, or is it at my waist? Or is the split more of a random act of nature, taking one arm here and both lungs there? Actually, we can be pretty sure both lungs are human, as I have little-to-no trouble breathing on land. So maybe it is more of an inner nature thing. I have the body of a human, but the soul of a fish. I can walk on two legs, but I have an eternal craving for the ocean and krill.
Hmmm. That doesn't sound right either. Oh well.
It's true. Every time she tries to type my name into her phone (for a text message or just to add me to her contacts list), the auto correct on her phone denies my existence. "Tina," obviously, is not real. No. Apparently, I am "Tuna."
I am half sister, half fish.
At first I just told Traci to tell her phone, "Har! Like I haven't heard that one before!" from me, but then I became accustomed to my fate. And also, it started to make sense. Everyone thinks I'm nutty as squirrel poo for being from Seattle yet not liking fish, and now I know why. It's because I am one! How could I eat my comrades in fins? This also explains my devastation over the loss of a certain gilled friend (see below).
What I really want to know, though, is where the split is. I mean, do I split between fish and female right down the middle, or is it at my waist? Or is the split more of a random act of nature, taking one arm here and both lungs there? Actually, we can be pretty sure both lungs are human, as I have little-to-no trouble breathing on land. So maybe it is more of an inner nature thing. I have the body of a human, but the soul of a fish. I can walk on two legs, but I have an eternal craving for the ocean and krill.
Hmmm. That doesn't sound right either. Oh well.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
A Brief Lesson in Literacy and Chocolate Cake
I get really random, really bad cravings. You’d almost think I was pregnant, but I’ve been this way for my whole life. Also, I never crave gross combinations of foods. I never want pickles and fudge ice cream, for instance. At least not together. But these cravings, they’re instantaneous. And relentless. One minute I’ll be a normal girl in her early twenties, and the next minute I’m a rabid monster out for blood, or in one case, chocolate cake.
Hooo boy, did I want some chocolate cake. And not just any old chocolate cake. Oh, no. I wanted the kind of chocolate cake that has little streams of hot fudge running through it. I had fantasies about that chocolate cake. I could see it there, sitting warm and tempting in the pan, fresh from the oven. I could see my hand holding a fork and heading for that warm, gooey deliciousness. I could see the prongs of the fork sinking into the chocolate and pulling a chunk out, and I could see my hand lifting the bite to my mouth. (I know, I know. Where’s the plate, right? You’re thinking that I skipped the step where I cut out a piece and put it on a plate, or at least a paper towel, like a civilized being would do. You obviously don’t know me at all.)
I suffered through cravings for three days. (I told you they were relentless.) One of my roommates finally took pity on me and let me go to the store with her to purchase the ingredients that would end my suffering—and my roommates’. After three days of groaning, I’d succeeded in dragging half my roommates into the craving with me and making the other half crazy with annoyance.
But to put a true end to the annoyance and the craving, I had to make the cake. Now, I am the first to admit that I have had many mishaps with food: the Great Tomato Sauce Explosion; the Toffee, Plastic Bowl, and Microwave Incident; the Tolo Chocolate Sauce Fiasco…the list goes on. But in my defense, I am actually a decent cook, when I’m paying attention to what I’m doing.
I really tried to pay attention with the chocolate cake. I swear. I checked the directions repeatedly to make sure that I had all the needed ingredients. I kept thinking, Hmmm, this recipe does call for an oddly large amount of cooking oil, which should have been a thought that brought the rest of my brain to full attention. My brain, upon looking back, seemed to have prematurely gone into ecstasy over the mere prospect of chocolate cake, and was not available to give me a little help.
As I dumped the second two-thirds cup of cooking oil into the mix, I happened to look down at the directions again. And that’s when I realized that I am illiterate.
The requirement of one and a thirds cup was for water, not oil. Somehow, I had missed that little bit of information the first few times I looked at the back of the box. My reaction to this was (and this is a direct quote), "Oh, crap." I yelled the order to start bailing the boat, and began scooping up as much oil from the bowl into the measuring cup as I could without also scooping up chocolate cake mix. I estimate that I got about half the oil out, which left me with about 2/3 cup oil in my cake. The actual required amount was half a cup, so I figured, hey, what’s a little extra oil among cakes?
I added the other ingredients, in their proper amounts, and the consistency seemed right. However, when we tasted the batter, Bridget and I could definitely taste the oil more than any other ingredient, including the chocolate. This we took as a bad sign. We were debating whether to actually cook the cake or not when Camille walked in, talking on the phone, and without consulting me or Bridget, she stuck her finger in the cake mix and tasted it. She didn't sense anything weird (meaning she didn't taste anything weird, though I'm sure she could have used her other senses as well), so we decided maybe it just tasted like oil to us 'cause we knew that there was an excess of oil. We decided to give the cake another chance, and to teach me to read. (I wasn’t an English major or an editing minor at that point. I was an archaeology major, and dead people don’t always expect you to be able to read.)
Thirty minutes later, we had a chocolate cake, or what looked like a chocolate cake. Despite copious amounts of hot fudge in and on the cake, it did not taste like chocolate cake. Did it taste like oil? No, actually, we couldn’t taste the oil, which came as a pleasant surprise to everyone. It didn’t, however, even taste like cake of any kind. No, it tasted like cardboard.
I need not go into details about my despair. I’d had another of my kitchen catastrophes, and I was left cakeless. I think that gives you a fair idea of what I felt that night. On the bright side, however, I didn’t blow anything up, set anything on fire, cover the entire kitchen (surfaces and appliances) in hot toffee, or fling chocolate sauce on anyone’s expensive clothing. So I guess you could say the night turned out not so bad after all.
Hooo boy, did I want some chocolate cake. And not just any old chocolate cake. Oh, no. I wanted the kind of chocolate cake that has little streams of hot fudge running through it. I had fantasies about that chocolate cake. I could see it there, sitting warm and tempting in the pan, fresh from the oven. I could see my hand holding a fork and heading for that warm, gooey deliciousness. I could see the prongs of the fork sinking into the chocolate and pulling a chunk out, and I could see my hand lifting the bite to my mouth. (I know, I know. Where’s the plate, right? You’re thinking that I skipped the step where I cut out a piece and put it on a plate, or at least a paper towel, like a civilized being would do. You obviously don’t know me at all.)
I suffered through cravings for three days. (I told you they were relentless.) One of my roommates finally took pity on me and let me go to the store with her to purchase the ingredients that would end my suffering—and my roommates’. After three days of groaning, I’d succeeded in dragging half my roommates into the craving with me and making the other half crazy with annoyance.
But to put a true end to the annoyance and the craving, I had to make the cake. Now, I am the first to admit that I have had many mishaps with food: the Great Tomato Sauce Explosion; the Toffee, Plastic Bowl, and Microwave Incident; the Tolo Chocolate Sauce Fiasco…the list goes on. But in my defense, I am actually a decent cook, when I’m paying attention to what I’m doing.
I really tried to pay attention with the chocolate cake. I swear. I checked the directions repeatedly to make sure that I had all the needed ingredients. I kept thinking, Hmmm, this recipe does call for an oddly large amount of cooking oil, which should have been a thought that brought the rest of my brain to full attention. My brain, upon looking back, seemed to have prematurely gone into ecstasy over the mere prospect of chocolate cake, and was not available to give me a little help.
As I dumped the second two-thirds cup of cooking oil into the mix, I happened to look down at the directions again. And that’s when I realized that I am illiterate.
The requirement of one and a thirds cup was for water, not oil. Somehow, I had missed that little bit of information the first few times I looked at the back of the box. My reaction to this was (and this is a direct quote), "Oh, crap." I yelled the order to start bailing the boat, and began scooping up as much oil from the bowl into the measuring cup as I could without also scooping up chocolate cake mix. I estimate that I got about half the oil out, which left me with about 2/3 cup oil in my cake. The actual required amount was half a cup, so I figured, hey, what’s a little extra oil among cakes?
I added the other ingredients, in their proper amounts, and the consistency seemed right. However, when we tasted the batter, Bridget and I could definitely taste the oil more than any other ingredient, including the chocolate. This we took as a bad sign. We were debating whether to actually cook the cake or not when Camille walked in, talking on the phone, and without consulting me or Bridget, she stuck her finger in the cake mix and tasted it. She didn't sense anything weird (meaning she didn't taste anything weird, though I'm sure she could have used her other senses as well), so we decided maybe it just tasted like oil to us 'cause we knew that there was an excess of oil. We decided to give the cake another chance, and to teach me to read. (I wasn’t an English major or an editing minor at that point. I was an archaeology major, and dead people don’t always expect you to be able to read.)
Thirty minutes later, we had a chocolate cake, or what looked like a chocolate cake. Despite copious amounts of hot fudge in and on the cake, it did not taste like chocolate cake. Did it taste like oil? No, actually, we couldn’t taste the oil, which came as a pleasant surprise to everyone. It didn’t, however, even taste like cake of any kind. No, it tasted like cardboard.
I need not go into details about my despair. I’d had another of my kitchen catastrophes, and I was left cakeless. I think that gives you a fair idea of what I felt that night. On the bright side, however, I didn’t blow anything up, set anything on fire, cover the entire kitchen (surfaces and appliances) in hot toffee, or fling chocolate sauce on anyone’s expensive clothing. So I guess you could say the night turned out not so bad after all.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Le Grand Mystere du Petit Poisson
The sad tale of our many aquatic friends is long and complicated (and also a tragedy) so I will pass on relating the whole story for now. Suffice it to say, since November, we have been the owners and protectors of two small scum suckers. That sounds like an insult, but it is merely the truth.
Anyway, after our last eight fish died (that's the tragic part), I was trying to distance myself, in case my bad karma killed our new fish. Every once in a while I would look in, see how they were doing, notice that the tank continued to be a scum-free fishy apartment, and go my way.
But after a weekend trip, we couldn't find one of our little fish tenants. Usually scum suckers are not difficult to find, as they tend to attach themselves to the sides of the tank, but I couldn't find our friend anywhere. We searched the filter, and he was not in it, alive or dead. He's not in or under any of the rocks. And we were only gone three days, not long enough for him to decompose. And we have seen neither gill nor fin of him since. So here are the theories:
1. His brother in sucking turned cannibal and ate him.
2. He made a bid for freedom and leaped from the tank, ending his days in agony in an unknown locale.
3. He has been relocated by the witness protection program so he can testify against the neon tetra mafia he worked for when he lived at the pet store.
4. He’s Harry Houdini, reincarnated in fish form, and he has escaped his watery confinement to become a celebrity among fish.
Personally, I lean toward the witness protection program option because I've seen what tight groups those neon tetras form. Also, they are very flashy and I don't know where they get the money to keep themselves in such style. I have a feeling that Le Grand Mystere du Petit Poisson will remain unsolved--at least until we move in April, when we will probably find his poor little carcass, not quite decomposed enough to hide the bullet hole from the neon tetra gun that did him in.
Anyway, after our last eight fish died (that's the tragic part), I was trying to distance myself, in case my bad karma killed our new fish. Every once in a while I would look in, see how they were doing, notice that the tank continued to be a scum-free fishy apartment, and go my way.
But after a weekend trip, we couldn't find one of our little fish tenants. Usually scum suckers are not difficult to find, as they tend to attach themselves to the sides of the tank, but I couldn't find our friend anywhere. We searched the filter, and he was not in it, alive or dead. He's not in or under any of the rocks. And we were only gone three days, not long enough for him to decompose. And we have seen neither gill nor fin of him since. So here are the theories:
1. His brother in sucking turned cannibal and ate him.
2. He made a bid for freedom and leaped from the tank, ending his days in agony in an unknown locale.
3. He has been relocated by the witness protection program so he can testify against the neon tetra mafia he worked for when he lived at the pet store.
4. He’s Harry Houdini, reincarnated in fish form, and he has escaped his watery confinement to become a celebrity among fish.
Personally, I lean toward the witness protection program option because I've seen what tight groups those neon tetras form. Also, they are very flashy and I don't know where they get the money to keep themselves in such style. I have a feeling that Le Grand Mystere du Petit Poisson will remain unsolved--at least until we move in April, when we will probably find his poor little carcass, not quite decomposed enough to hide the bullet hole from the neon tetra gun that did him in.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
The Long and Short
This semester I have drawn the short straw and am stuck in classes with all the anal students and irrelevant commenters. This doesn't always bother me as much as it is this semester, but then, usually I only have one irrelevant commenter in one of my classes, and the obsessive compulsives keep their disorders to themselves.
My technical writing class, however, brings out the worst in all people. I suppose this is what I get for taking technical communication, which is marketed to science/engineering types, who have a higher tendency toward obsession with detail. This, however, is extreme. And I do not exaggerate. I have lived with many obsessive compulsives, and I have a high tolerance for it, but this is beyond my ability to deal with.
Take, for instance, typical grading proceedure for daily quizzes. I swear that the people in my class think that in order for an answer to be correct, it has to be word-for-word from the book. I kid you not. I offer this example as evidence:
The other day, one of our quiz questions requested that we name and define an organizational scheme for written documents. I wrote down: "Sequential organization--arranging information in order of steps or time." The girl who was grading my quiz turned to me and said, "I'm not sure this is correct. I mean, this is the right definition, but in the book it calls it 'chronological' organization." I just looked at her for about 30 seconds while I debated internally about whether she was serious or not. Really? I mean, really? Was it such a big difference that it required a conference? Eventually she said, "Well, I'll give you half a point, okay?" I just turned away. I have, in fact, seen it called sequential or chronological organization. This is something we talk about extensively in my editing classes.
Now, what I want to know is do these people really believe that such small details mean so much? Are there not more important things to worry about? Whether or not it is ethical for our troops to be in Iraq, for instance? Possibly whether Obama will be a good leader or not? The state of the economy? Starving orphans who have been made to fight in bloody civil wars in Africa? Of course not. Forgive me for my joking. Whether the correct term is "chronological" or "sequential" is a much more important issue.
Speaking of obsessive compulsives and issues, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend in technical writing: the Irrelevant Brazilian. Now, I promise I am not being racist. Not all Brazilians are irrelevant. And, actually, his being Brazilian only relates to the issue in that his nationality is the only thing I know about him because that is all he talks about, in all his long comments, regardless of the topic of the class. How to write instructions? He comments about being Brazilian. Putting cats to sleep (actually came up in class)? Let's talk about him being Brazilian. The appropriate way to poach lions in Africa? Being Brazilian comes up in some way.
I am not wrong. Or kidding.
Every comment the Irrelevant Brazilian makes is both irrelevant and about Brazil. Or his family in Brazil. And, I get it, when you're that far away, certainly they and your home country would be on your mind frequently. But just because you think about something does not mean that it warrants a comment in class.
In my "Bible as Literature" class, the irrelevant commenter is not Brazilian, nor does he make comments about Brazil. Instead, he keeps his comments to things related to the bible, but he seems to be confused about what kind of class it is. And while there are certainly a lot of religion classes at BYU, "The Bible as Literature" is not one of them. Because of this, his comments come off not so much as irrelevant as they do know-it-all and sometimes holier-than-thou. Which is, in some ways, more annoying.
You may be thinking that this is the only connection these two people share (besides their gender), but you would be oh so wrong. In fact, they each have another thing in common: they are both in groups for projects with me. Like I said: the short straw.
My technical writing class, however, brings out the worst in all people. I suppose this is what I get for taking technical communication, which is marketed to science/engineering types, who have a higher tendency toward obsession with detail. This, however, is extreme. And I do not exaggerate. I have lived with many obsessive compulsives, and I have a high tolerance for it, but this is beyond my ability to deal with.
Take, for instance, typical grading proceedure for daily quizzes. I swear that the people in my class think that in order for an answer to be correct, it has to be word-for-word from the book. I kid you not. I offer this example as evidence:
The other day, one of our quiz questions requested that we name and define an organizational scheme for written documents. I wrote down: "Sequential organization--arranging information in order of steps or time." The girl who was grading my quiz turned to me and said, "I'm not sure this is correct. I mean, this is the right definition, but in the book it calls it 'chronological' organization." I just looked at her for about 30 seconds while I debated internally about whether she was serious or not. Really? I mean, really? Was it such a big difference that it required a conference? Eventually she said, "Well, I'll give you half a point, okay?" I just turned away. I have, in fact, seen it called sequential or chronological organization. This is something we talk about extensively in my editing classes.
Now, what I want to know is do these people really believe that such small details mean so much? Are there not more important things to worry about? Whether or not it is ethical for our troops to be in Iraq, for instance? Possibly whether Obama will be a good leader or not? The state of the economy? Starving orphans who have been made to fight in bloody civil wars in Africa? Of course not. Forgive me for my joking. Whether the correct term is "chronological" or "sequential" is a much more important issue.
Speaking of obsessive compulsives and issues, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend in technical writing: the Irrelevant Brazilian. Now, I promise I am not being racist. Not all Brazilians are irrelevant. And, actually, his being Brazilian only relates to the issue in that his nationality is the only thing I know about him because that is all he talks about, in all his long comments, regardless of the topic of the class. How to write instructions? He comments about being Brazilian. Putting cats to sleep (actually came up in class)? Let's talk about him being Brazilian. The appropriate way to poach lions in Africa? Being Brazilian comes up in some way.
I am not wrong. Or kidding.
Every comment the Irrelevant Brazilian makes is both irrelevant and about Brazil. Or his family in Brazil. And, I get it, when you're that far away, certainly they and your home country would be on your mind frequently. But just because you think about something does not mean that it warrants a comment in class.
In my "Bible as Literature" class, the irrelevant commenter is not Brazilian, nor does he make comments about Brazil. Instead, he keeps his comments to things related to the bible, but he seems to be confused about what kind of class it is. And while there are certainly a lot of religion classes at BYU, "The Bible as Literature" is not one of them. Because of this, his comments come off not so much as irrelevant as they do know-it-all and sometimes holier-than-thou. Which is, in some ways, more annoying.
You may be thinking that this is the only connection these two people share (besides their gender), but you would be oh so wrong. In fact, they each have another thing in common: they are both in groups for projects with me. Like I said: the short straw.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Yummy Candy, Crappy Sentiments
Today I received the ultimate crappy Valentine's Day candy sentiment from the master of all crappy candy sentiments, Dove chocolates. A group of girls presented about theater in my Shakespeare class, and as a treat, one of the girls handed out the little Dove chocolate miniatures. You know, the kind that are usually square, with a worse-than-fortune-cookie sentiment on the inside of the wrapper? Yeah, it was that kind. Only, for Valentine's Day the candy is heart shaped and the saying on the inside was worse than usual.
After I had opened my candy, I read, "Be your own Valentine." Now, that sentence, though one of the worst sentiments ever expressed on candy wrapper, was also one of the funniest. What, I thought, could be a better sentiment for a young, single girl to receive from her chocolate when she's sitting at home alone on Valentine's Day? I only hope that the thousands of young, single girls who buy themselves bags of Dove chocolates on Valentine's will open and read the sentiment on that particular chocolate right as Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy finally hook up.
Thank you, Dove, for contributing to the tears of single adult women everywhere.
After I had opened my candy, I read, "Be your own Valentine." Now, that sentence, though one of the worst sentiments ever expressed on candy wrapper, was also one of the funniest. What, I thought, could be a better sentiment for a young, single girl to receive from her chocolate when she's sitting at home alone on Valentine's Day? I only hope that the thousands of young, single girls who buy themselves bags of Dove chocolates on Valentine's will open and read the sentiment on that particular chocolate right as Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy finally hook up.
Thank you, Dove, for contributing to the tears of single adult women everywhere.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Raining and Pouring
Jason got a job this week, after being unemployed for six months. Unless you've spent six months wondering how you were going to pay rent, insurance, tuition, and still eat, it would be hard to understand how I feel right now.
He texted me with the news on Monday, just before my eleven am class. I heard the little tinkle of notification and thought, "I'd better turn that off before my next class." And then I read the message: "I got a job." The brevity, I admit, annoyed me. This is the kind of news you want to shout about, but also be as specific about as possible. So I called him, which, if you know me well, you know is a big thing. I avoid talking on the phone at all costs.
"A real job?" I asked. He'd been working temp work off and on, whenever there was something for him to do at a construction site, which is how we had managed to scrape by for the past half year.
"Yep."
"Like, a real job? A permanent job?"
"Yep."
And that's when I let myself feel the relief and the joy. The worry had been getting worse and worse the last few weeks. When Jason first lost his job, I was confident that everything would work out, that he would find another job, that we would be able to pay our bills and save money to move back home in April. But the months passed, and we were saved by miracles every month at rent time. To be honest, I'd held on to my confidence until the past two weeks. I just kept hearing about how bad the economy was, and watching businesses and banks collapse, and I started thinking that if Jason couldn't find a job when the economy wasn't as bad, how was he supposed to find one now, when companies like Circuit City are going out of business?
The reversal of roles was sort of comical to me. When we were eating dinner on Saturday, I'd started to melt down. I like to think that I have a pretty high stress tolerance. I usually work best under pressure, and I'd held it together for almost six months. But suddenly, I couldn't take it. I was worried about how we were going to pay rent in two weeks, how we were going to pay back the short-term loan for my tuition this semester (which is currently the reason my parents don't know I have a blog. After all, there are some things you shouldn't tell my dad until after it's all over), how things were going to work out with the speeding ticket I got last year (long story), and how I was going to handle 5 English/editing classes in this, my last semester of college. Oh yeah. And I'm supposed to be looking for potential employers back in Washington for when I graduate in April. Right.
Suddenly, Jason was the one with all the reassuring confidences. And I suddenly realized how he had been feeling all those times when he would slip into a melencholy mood that I couldn't pull him out of. Even if you know in your head that yes, everything will be okay--after all, we're two intelligent people who can find our way out of a mess--it's a lot harder to believe it in that emotional part of me I call my heart.
So when Jason finally explained the details, and I finally believed that it was real, I realized that I had never really felt relief and gratitude before. Corny, but true.
Oh, and the speeding ticket thing turned out okay, too. According to my driving record, that was merely a bad dream. So it's been a week of good news and sighs of relief. Hurrah!
He texted me with the news on Monday, just before my eleven am class. I heard the little tinkle of notification and thought, "I'd better turn that off before my next class." And then I read the message: "I got a job." The brevity, I admit, annoyed me. This is the kind of news you want to shout about, but also be as specific about as possible. So I called him, which, if you know me well, you know is a big thing. I avoid talking on the phone at all costs.
"A real job?" I asked. He'd been working temp work off and on, whenever there was something for him to do at a construction site, which is how we had managed to scrape by for the past half year.
"Yep."
"Like, a real job? A permanent job?"
"Yep."
And that's when I let myself feel the relief and the joy. The worry had been getting worse and worse the last few weeks. When Jason first lost his job, I was confident that everything would work out, that he would find another job, that we would be able to pay our bills and save money to move back home in April. But the months passed, and we were saved by miracles every month at rent time. To be honest, I'd held on to my confidence until the past two weeks. I just kept hearing about how bad the economy was, and watching businesses and banks collapse, and I started thinking that if Jason couldn't find a job when the economy wasn't as bad, how was he supposed to find one now, when companies like Circuit City are going out of business?
The reversal of roles was sort of comical to me. When we were eating dinner on Saturday, I'd started to melt down. I like to think that I have a pretty high stress tolerance. I usually work best under pressure, and I'd held it together for almost six months. But suddenly, I couldn't take it. I was worried about how we were going to pay rent in two weeks, how we were going to pay back the short-term loan for my tuition this semester (which is currently the reason my parents don't know I have a blog. After all, there are some things you shouldn't tell my dad until after it's all over), how things were going to work out with the speeding ticket I got last year (long story), and how I was going to handle 5 English/editing classes in this, my last semester of college. Oh yeah. And I'm supposed to be looking for potential employers back in Washington for when I graduate in April. Right.
Suddenly, Jason was the one with all the reassuring confidences. And I suddenly realized how he had been feeling all those times when he would slip into a melencholy mood that I couldn't pull him out of. Even if you know in your head that yes, everything will be okay--after all, we're two intelligent people who can find our way out of a mess--it's a lot harder to believe it in that emotional part of me I call my heart.
So when Jason finally explained the details, and I finally believed that it was real, I realized that I had never really felt relief and gratitude before. Corny, but true.
Oh, and the speeding ticket thing turned out okay, too. According to my driving record, that was merely a bad dream. So it's been a week of good news and sighs of relief. Hurrah!
Monday, January 19, 2009
Seeing the World, One Wedding at a Time
This past weekend I was in North Carolina for my brother Jeff's wedding. I love to travel, even though I haven't done much of it, and I'm a big fan of my new sister-in-law, so I definitely didn't mind the trip. Plus, I absolutely loved NC. It's beautiful, not that I expected anything else. It reminded me a little bit of home (Seattle) because of the dense trees and abundance of water, but it definitely has a personality of its own. The people are super friendly, and super funny.
The first evening we were there (Friday), we had a dinner with both families at this Texas steakhouse (I'm not sure what a Texas-themed restaurant was doing in North Carolina, but whatever). In the middle of dinner, my mom got up to use the bathroom (I promise this is pertinent), and when she came back she said, "You have to go see the bathroom! Oh my gosh, I could even take you in there and show you, it's so cool." Now, my mom has her quirks, but she's really not obsessed with bathrooms--this was just a little joke at my grandma's expense. Grandma once dragged my mom off to see "the coolest thing" when my parents were visiting her. That "coolest thing" turned out to be the bathroom sinks in the airport. They were the semi-circle kind that had a bar you stepped on to make the water come out. I have to admit, when I first saw these sinks, I thought they were cool too--but I was in kindergarten.
Anyway, I eventually had to go to the bathroom, and so with a little more joking--"Are you sure you don't want to show me yourself? You might miss something cool!"--I went to the bathroom. True, the stalls were all painted like cow hide (the white with black spots kind), which is somewhat unique for bathrooms but not surprising, given the theme of the restaurant. However, my bathroom stall--the large handicapped stall (I promise I'm not a jerk. The other stalls were unusable)--had a little something extra. As I was taking care of business, I happened to look over my shoulder. Instead of more cow hide or just plain bathroom tile, I found a nice large poster of a half-naked male model holding a beer. Now, I don't know much about the south, but I feel that there are some unspoken, universal rules about bathroom decor. One of these is that, no matter the restaurant theme, you will not find a half-naked male in a women's bathroom stall. Something about a the presence of a person, even if just in print, in a bathroom stall with me makes me feel uncomfortable. So I started giggling, probably alarming the mother who was waiting outside the stalls for her little girl to finish going to the bathroom. In that moment, I knew I was going to love the South.
When Jason and I were waiting for our plane to board on the return trip, we were joined by a family of four in the Raleigh airport. Both children were girls, one about twelve and the other about five. The first thing the five-year-old said when she sat down in the seats at the gate was, "Is this the plane?" but her little southern accent dragged out the last vowel, making it sound like, "Is this the playeen?" The combination of the seemingly-silly question with that cute accent made both Jason and me laugh. We turned and grinned at each other, trying to hold in our mirth. But she wasn't done yet.
"Are we on the playeen?" she asked again.
"No sweetie," her mom said.
"Why arn't we ohn the playeen? I wanna get ohn the playeen!"
It was adorable and hilarious to us, but probably less so to her parents. Her dad reacted by burying his head in a camera operating manual. Her mother stood in front of her, helping her out of her jacket and trying to explain to the little girl why they hadn't boarded the playeen yet. Her older sister gave us this look, like this was the most mortifying moment of her life, and she couldn't believe that we had been so rude as to witness it, and then picked up a fashion magazine and moved about five seats away from her sister.
All in all, it was a very good trip.
The first evening we were there (Friday), we had a dinner with both families at this Texas steakhouse (I'm not sure what a Texas-themed restaurant was doing in North Carolina, but whatever). In the middle of dinner, my mom got up to use the bathroom (I promise this is pertinent), and when she came back she said, "You have to go see the bathroom! Oh my gosh, I could even take you in there and show you, it's so cool." Now, my mom has her quirks, but she's really not obsessed with bathrooms--this was just a little joke at my grandma's expense. Grandma once dragged my mom off to see "the coolest thing" when my parents were visiting her. That "coolest thing" turned out to be the bathroom sinks in the airport. They were the semi-circle kind that had a bar you stepped on to make the water come out. I have to admit, when I first saw these sinks, I thought they were cool too--but I was in kindergarten.
Anyway, I eventually had to go to the bathroom, and so with a little more joking--"Are you sure you don't want to show me yourself? You might miss something cool!"--I went to the bathroom. True, the stalls were all painted like cow hide (the white with black spots kind), which is somewhat unique for bathrooms but not surprising, given the theme of the restaurant. However, my bathroom stall--the large handicapped stall (I promise I'm not a jerk. The other stalls were unusable)--had a little something extra. As I was taking care of business, I happened to look over my shoulder. Instead of more cow hide or just plain bathroom tile, I found a nice large poster of a half-naked male model holding a beer. Now, I don't know much about the south, but I feel that there are some unspoken, universal rules about bathroom decor. One of these is that, no matter the restaurant theme, you will not find a half-naked male in a women's bathroom stall. Something about a the presence of a person, even if just in print, in a bathroom stall with me makes me feel uncomfortable. So I started giggling, probably alarming the mother who was waiting outside the stalls for her little girl to finish going to the bathroom. In that moment, I knew I was going to love the South.
When Jason and I were waiting for our plane to board on the return trip, we were joined by a family of four in the Raleigh airport. Both children were girls, one about twelve and the other about five. The first thing the five-year-old said when she sat down in the seats at the gate was, "Is this the plane?" but her little southern accent dragged out the last vowel, making it sound like, "Is this the playeen?" The combination of the seemingly-silly question with that cute accent made both Jason and me laugh. We turned and grinned at each other, trying to hold in our mirth. But she wasn't done yet.
"Are we on the playeen?" she asked again.
"No sweetie," her mom said.
"Why arn't we ohn the playeen? I wanna get ohn the playeen!"
It was adorable and hilarious to us, but probably less so to her parents. Her dad reacted by burying his head in a camera operating manual. Her mother stood in front of her, helping her out of her jacket and trying to explain to the little girl why they hadn't boarded the playeen yet. Her older sister gave us this look, like this was the most mortifying moment of her life, and she couldn't believe that we had been so rude as to witness it, and then picked up a fashion magazine and moved about five seats away from her sister.
All in all, it was a very good trip.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Ongoing War Against Ennui
So, in a continued effort to keep an interesting blog, I'm keeping my eye out for interesting material. For instance, as the only English major in a writing class of 24 exercise science/engineering/pre-med/pre-dental students, I often find my classmates' approach to writing, and the class in general, funny. Part of it is the earnestness with which all pre-med students take any question or assignment. In my experience (granted, limited experience) they are always the people who answer those awkward everyone-knows-the-answer questions, usually right after the question is asked. Their efforts in class, whether sincere or otherwise, always seem like sucking up. For instance, our teacher gives us a few minutes everyday to get to know someone around us. Of course, being something of a bookish loner, I hide in the back and only make token efforts. But there was one kid who, the day after our teacher started this, started asking everyone for his or her name, etc., before class, in the presence of the teacher.
Wow, long tangent. What I meant to lead to was that in an effort to keep things interesting, I'm going to republish here some of the silly things I've written and posted on Facebook. It might take a while because I want to re-edit them and maybe do some more revising before I post them. Not that anyone who is reading this at this point knows if they should look forward to this or not. In that same effort, I'm going to be watching for things to write about again, and they usually have everything to do with my (often) weird and funny interactions with others. Maybe you can judge: do strange things really happen to me or am I just socially awkward enough to bring them on myself? Let the trial begin!
Wow, long tangent. What I meant to lead to was that in an effort to keep things interesting, I'm going to republish here some of the silly things I've written and posted on Facebook. It might take a while because I want to re-edit them and maybe do some more revising before I post them. Not that anyone who is reading this at this point knows if they should look forward to this or not. In that same effort, I'm going to be watching for things to write about again, and they usually have everything to do with my (often) weird and funny interactions with others. Maybe you can judge: do strange things really happen to me or am I just socially awkward enough to bring them on myself? Let the trial begin!
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
My Internet Birth
I never really wanted a blog. To be frank, I think that there are too many bloggers out there that have nothing to say but still say too much, and I didn't want to be one of them. So I've been waiting patiently for there to come a time in my life when I had something to contribute.
This is not that time.
I also didn't want to be totally cliche and create a blog just after I got married so everyone I know and many people I don't know could come and peek through the windows of my marriage to see what is going on. Thanks for the offer, but this is a one woman and one man show. We are not performing monkeys, and our marriage is not a circus (despite the regular juggling performances and presence of bearded women). We need no audience.
Also, I feel like writing a blog about that is assuming that the whole world, the whole universe, cares what Jason and I ate for dinner last night, and why we ate it, and how it affected our bowel movements. And I don't believe anyone does. (Do you care? Really? Why?) So I won't subject you to that.
I probably just offended a lot of my good friends with that idea, and I didn't mean to. Sorry, my good friends. (If you're my mediocre friends or bad friends--meh. No apology to you.) I didn't meant that all blogs like that are silly or useless. In fact, I'll tell you a secret: I do like to read other people's blogs, even married people's blogs. A lot of them actually have something to say. A lot of them are entertaining and therefore worth reading, regardless of the content. (Yes, if you make it funny enough, I will read about what you ate for dinner and the after effects of that.) But it is not for me. Maybe it's just that I feel that other people have more to say about their lives. Or maybe it's just that my heart is a frozen, shriveled prune, too cold to let anyone in that easily. Or maybe I just don't care to clean the windows of and open the curtains to my marriage. Or maybe there is no good reason.
But, as you see, I gave in. Why? you might ask. (Or maybe you don't care. In which case, what in the H are you doing still reading this?) I gave in and got a blog for a lot of reasons. I enjoy writing and I think that (maybe) if I have a place to write, where people will actually see my writing, I might write more. And work on my writing. There was a little bit of peer pressure involved. Aaaaand there might have been mention of the increased chances of future employment based on my ability to blog.
So here I am, 23 and being born again, this time to the internet. Welcome to the internet, baby girl!
This is not that time.
I also didn't want to be totally cliche and create a blog just after I got married so everyone I know and many people I don't know could come and peek through the windows of my marriage to see what is going on. Thanks for the offer, but this is a one woman and one man show. We are not performing monkeys, and our marriage is not a circus (despite the regular juggling performances and presence of bearded women). We need no audience.
Also, I feel like writing a blog about that is assuming that the whole world, the whole universe, cares what Jason and I ate for dinner last night, and why we ate it, and how it affected our bowel movements. And I don't believe anyone does. (Do you care? Really? Why?) So I won't subject you to that.
I probably just offended a lot of my good friends with that idea, and I didn't mean to. Sorry, my good friends. (If you're my mediocre friends or bad friends--meh. No apology to you.) I didn't meant that all blogs like that are silly or useless. In fact, I'll tell you a secret: I do like to read other people's blogs, even married people's blogs. A lot of them actually have something to say. A lot of them are entertaining and therefore worth reading, regardless of the content. (Yes, if you make it funny enough, I will read about what you ate for dinner and the after effects of that.) But it is not for me. Maybe it's just that I feel that other people have more to say about their lives. Or maybe it's just that my heart is a frozen, shriveled prune, too cold to let anyone in that easily. Or maybe I just don't care to clean the windows of and open the curtains to my marriage. Or maybe there is no good reason.
But, as you see, I gave in. Why? you might ask. (Or maybe you don't care. In which case, what in the H are you doing still reading this?) I gave in and got a blog for a lot of reasons. I enjoy writing and I think that (maybe) if I have a place to write, where people will actually see my writing, I might write more. And work on my writing. There was a little bit of peer pressure involved. Aaaaand there might have been mention of the increased chances of future employment based on my ability to blog.
So here I am, 23 and being born again, this time to the internet. Welcome to the internet, baby girl!
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