So there I was, about ten years behind in the drinking department. Part of it was biblical sanctions against all-out drunkenness, and part of it was just a dislike for the taste of alcohol. On my last birthday, though, I thought I'd find out what kind of effect a drink or two would have on me. And who better to show me the ropes than my brother and his now-wife? They took me shopping on Newbury St., and to keep warm we had Dunkin Donuts hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps and Bailey's Irish Cream. (Those last two ingredients were not purchased at Dunkin Donuts. But who knows, maybe this winter Irish Hot Chocolate will replace those fruit smoothies they're selling now. "America Staggers on Dunkin.")
That night I felt like doing something brave, so a group of us went to a Chinese restaurant that had karaoke. Here I had my second drink of the day, a Mudslide I think, which turned off that annoying Voice in my head that's always asking if something is a good idea and ruining my fun. I would have done the karaoke anyway, but without Mr. Voice I was less nervous. So up I went. I know you're all dying to know what I sang. Because of my classical music background, I chose a cycle of Schubert lieder. My voice isn't trained, but I have an affinity for the German language that I think helped make up for that. OK, I made that up. I sang Mary Chapin Carpenter's "Shut Up and Kiss Me." Yeah I did, baby.
My next big lesson in the art of imbibing came several months later when I went to visit J & L -- my coaches -- in Texas. A bunch of us went tubing down the river in San Antonio. They give you an extra tube for your beverages (read: BEvERages). I don't like beer, so J & L made me my own drink, orange juice with coconut rum. It was in one of those big Tupperware-like drink containers, the kind you can hold with two hands, like a grown-up sippy cup. The thing is, I still don't get excited about liquids, so I can make even a glass of wine last for hours. Moving this slowly defeats the purpose of having a drink (unless your purpose is to give your hands something to do so they don't merely hang, awkward and limp, at your sides -- which, hey, is a legitimate purpose). J knows what a rule-follower I am, though, so he introduced me to a game and told me that it was very, very important that I follow the rules. It's quite a complicated game, but I'll try to summarize it for you here:
1. Someone will call a person by name -- let's say, just for example, Holly -- and tell them to drink. In this case, it would sound like, "Holly, drink!"
2. The person then says, "Okay," and takes a drink.
Follow that OK? Read it again if you have to.
J & L played this game with me all the way down the river. I picked it up pretty quickly, because I'm clever. By the end of the trip, I'd drunk almost all of it, though J & L did help me out a bit because they found the orange-coconut combo quite tasty. I was fine, though. Mellow, but fine.
[A little side note: This was a very dirty river. Hundreds of people on a body of water, for 4 hours at a time, drinking lots of alcohol, and not a restroom in sight. You can do the math. There's a reason why folks were in tubes and not kayaks.]
Oh, and I was quite the crispy critter later that afternoon. People who saw my pale New England self out in the Texas sun kept saying, "Oh, honey, you're gonna burn." They were right. Yow.
Epilogue: You've already read about the rehearsal dinner, so you've now got the whole story of me and my Indoctrination into Inebriation. I'm still quite tame, which is OK with me. At least now I know how to have a little fun and not be boring at a party. Now let's see: I learned how to dress at 30, how to drink at 31... maybe by next year I'll learn how to talk to boys without blushing and hiding behind my algebra textbook.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Holly, Drink! Teetotal: The Early Years
I was such a goody two-shoes in high school that I never drank except for communion in church. Then, in college -- can you believe this? -- I didn't drink because I didn't want to break the law. When I finally hit my twenty-first birthday, I was hanging out with Christians who didn't drink. I had a great day, but it was all about cake and pizza and goofy decorations -- not a hard-core vice in sight.
Of course, I was so obviously square and wholesome that some people wanted very much to see what would happen once I had a drink in me. And it wasn't frat boys looking to see if I would party. It was men who had more of a fatherly interest in getting me to loosen up. Uncles at weddings and such. And my trombone professor in grad school. That's a story. I was in England, where they have three terms in a school year instead of two semesters. One day in each term, the whole trombone department would go to a pub and have a "piss-up," which meant they would get there early and spend the entire day getting very, very drunk. My professor kindly offered to buy me drinks, with the understanding that if I didn't like them he would happily finish them off. The problem was that I don't like fizzy drinks and I don't like the taste of alcohol, so I always went back to pineapple juice (which should answer the question you've all been asking yourselves: yes, I've always been this cool). This would leave me the only person even close to sober. People get really philosophical when they're drunk, and I got plenty of opportunities to talk about God. Someone would say, "You're a good person. I'm not a good person," and I'd whip out the little Bible I kept in my pocket and show them a passage and say, "We're all sinners. There's hope." My little bits of evangelism didn't prevent the entire trombone department of the Royal Northern College of Music from being permanently banned from the Moon Under Water pub, though.
Anyone who's been to England knows that drinking culture is much different over there. There was a bar right in the college cafeteria. (And lots and lots of smoke, produced by brass players who figured that if the tuba player in the Chicago Symphony could play with one lung, so could they.) Christian culture is different, too. The first evangelistic meeting I went to in England was held in a pub.
...Which provides a nice little segue, because the one man who tried harder to get me to drink than anyone was the pastor I shadowed my second year in the UK. His house always smelled fermented. When we talk on the phone now, he'll often say, "Holly, guess where I am!" "In your garden with a pint?" "Yes, I am!" He would hand me various liquids, and I would try them, make a face, and say, "Cough syrup!" There was one I tried once which made me think of hot dogs. I was told the word to describe it was "smokey."
Thus I managed to make it to the age of 31 without any understanding of the appeal of alcohol.
But you know this gets more interesting, or I wouldn't be writing about it. Or at least, I wouldn't be writing about it under this title. So stick around.
Of course, I was so obviously square and wholesome that some people wanted very much to see what would happen once I had a drink in me. And it wasn't frat boys looking to see if I would party. It was men who had more of a fatherly interest in getting me to loosen up. Uncles at weddings and such. And my trombone professor in grad school. That's a story. I was in England, where they have three terms in a school year instead of two semesters. One day in each term, the whole trombone department would go to a pub and have a "piss-up," which meant they would get there early and spend the entire day getting very, very drunk. My professor kindly offered to buy me drinks, with the understanding that if I didn't like them he would happily finish them off. The problem was that I don't like fizzy drinks and I don't like the taste of alcohol, so I always went back to pineapple juice (which should answer the question you've all been asking yourselves: yes, I've always been this cool). This would leave me the only person even close to sober. People get really philosophical when they're drunk, and I got plenty of opportunities to talk about God. Someone would say, "You're a good person. I'm not a good person," and I'd whip out the little Bible I kept in my pocket and show them a passage and say, "We're all sinners. There's hope." My little bits of evangelism didn't prevent the entire trombone department of the Royal Northern College of Music from being permanently banned from the Moon Under Water pub, though.
Anyone who's been to England knows that drinking culture is much different over there. There was a bar right in the college cafeteria. (And lots and lots of smoke, produced by brass players who figured that if the tuba player in the Chicago Symphony could play with one lung, so could they.) Christian culture is different, too. The first evangelistic meeting I went to in England was held in a pub.
...Which provides a nice little segue, because the one man who tried harder to get me to drink than anyone was the pastor I shadowed my second year in the UK. His house always smelled fermented. When we talk on the phone now, he'll often say, "Holly, guess where I am!" "In your garden with a pint?" "Yes, I am!" He would hand me various liquids, and I would try them, make a face, and say, "Cough syrup!" There was one I tried once which made me think of hot dogs. I was told the word to describe it was "smokey."
Thus I managed to make it to the age of 31 without any understanding of the appeal of alcohol.
But you know this gets more interesting, or I wouldn't be writing about it. Or at least, I wouldn't be writing about it under this title. So stick around.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Eat, Drink, and Be Married!
From the time we started processing to the time we marched out, I'm guessing 15, maybe 20 minutes passed. The party that followed? A good 8 or 9 hours. The bus that took people from the wedding site and into town left at 11:30, and I know the bride later ended up in a pizza parlor in her wedding dress.
The reception was a lot of fun. Lots of dancing barefoot in the grass; I don't think I'd done that since I was a kid. Plenty of live music, very little public speaking. There were 3 speeches, though: The maid of honor joked about how she probably knew more about what was going on in the relationship than the groom. The best man -- who really, really, really didn't want to talk, and spent the first half of the night hoping everyone would forget he was supposed to -- was sweet and said my brother was the best friend anyone could have. Then I skipped up and grabbed the mic. J & L didn't know I had plans to embarrass them, but I did, ha ha. Picture me being clever and gorgeous. (I'm not saying I was, I'm just saying you should picture me that way.) I made the following points:
In the porta-potty pictures, J was the blonde one.
When he was little, he smelled like cheese.
L is not the first girl he proposed to; a few years after the porta-potty shot was taken, he asked me to marry him.
It was totally a rebound thing, because Mom had just turned him down.
We're all glad he eventually decided to look outside the family for a bride.
"L, you're not outside the family anymore. Cheers."
If you're going to tell jokes, I highly recommend you find an audience of happy wedding-attendees. They're very friendly.
The band leader was gracious enough to let my brother borrow his guitar. J taught himself to play in college, and he freely admits that his goal was to attract girls. So it's appropriate that he should serenade his permanent girl on the day of their marriage. He started with her favorite song, which was romantic and sweet, and better than the original version in my opinion. Then he launched into You Don't Even Call Me by My Name, a country song which I recommend you all listen to. You gotta listen all the way to the end, though. Man, I had that stuck in my head for days afterward. Which meant that I was singing it out loud, because that's what I do. I sing every darn song that gets stuck in my head. Just a warning if we ever hang out.
I was surprised to see J & L show up the next day for brunch yummies. Not only did they come to hang out, they stayed well into the evening because their friend made his famous pizza (even the dough is from scratch). I suppose the idea was that they'll be married forever, but who know when they'll get Pizza Night again? Makes sense to me.
People were saying it was the best wedding ever. I know this is what J & L had wanted -- to have a good time, and for all their guests to have a good time. This bridesmaid certainly had fun.
The reception was a lot of fun. Lots of dancing barefoot in the grass; I don't think I'd done that since I was a kid. Plenty of live music, very little public speaking. There were 3 speeches, though: The maid of honor joked about how she probably knew more about what was going on in the relationship than the groom. The best man -- who really, really, really didn't want to talk, and spent the first half of the night hoping everyone would forget he was supposed to -- was sweet and said my brother was the best friend anyone could have. Then I skipped up and grabbed the mic. J & L didn't know I had plans to embarrass them, but I did, ha ha. Picture me being clever and gorgeous. (I'm not saying I was, I'm just saying you should picture me that way.) I made the following points:
In the porta-potty pictures, J was the blonde one.
When he was little, he smelled like cheese.
L is not the first girl he proposed to; a few years after the porta-potty shot was taken, he asked me to marry him.
It was totally a rebound thing, because Mom had just turned him down.
We're all glad he eventually decided to look outside the family for a bride.
"L, you're not outside the family anymore. Cheers."
If you're going to tell jokes, I highly recommend you find an audience of happy wedding-attendees. They're very friendly.
The band leader was gracious enough to let my brother borrow his guitar. J taught himself to play in college, and he freely admits that his goal was to attract girls. So it's appropriate that he should serenade his permanent girl on the day of their marriage. He started with her favorite song, which was romantic and sweet, and better than the original version in my opinion. Then he launched into You Don't Even Call Me by My Name, a country song which I recommend you all listen to. You gotta listen all the way to the end, though. Man, I had that stuck in my head for days afterward. Which meant that I was singing it out loud, because that's what I do. I sing every darn song that gets stuck in my head. Just a warning if we ever hang out.
I was surprised to see J & L show up the next day for brunch yummies. Not only did they come to hang out, they stayed well into the evening because their friend made his famous pizza (even the dough is from scratch). I suppose the idea was that they'll be married forever, but who know when they'll get Pizza Night again? Makes sense to me.
People were saying it was the best wedding ever. I know this is what J & L had wanted -- to have a good time, and for all their guests to have a good time. This bridesmaid certainly had fun.
Monday, September 25, 2006
I'll just put this out there
I just finished watching Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle. And I liked it.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
The Rehearsal Dinner
This took place on Friday night. It was a very "Mainah" meal with lobster, corn on the cob, and blueberry cake for dessert. Mmmmm, cake. Oh, and lots of that alcohol that had to be transported by pickup truck.
We had extended family and friends there of course, including one couple we call "Aunt and Uncle" even though they're not related by blood, because they've known my parents since before I was born. I know they had a good time, because I sat at the table with them. I just got Aunt Cindy's permission to talk about how drunk she was, with the stipulation that I use words like youthful, swingin', bright and witty, plus some of my own. OK. Let's see what I can do.
My hot, blonde Aunt Cindy was bright, witty, charming and fun at the rehearsal dinner. Also, she was drunk. There are a few stories that come up whenever I'm with her and Uncle Sugar Bear (who gets his nickname from the fact that he resembles the cartoon Sugar Bear mascot for the cereal formerly known as Sugar Puffs; I think they're Corn Puffs now, but I hope the Sugar Bear has kept his name because "Corn Bear" is dumb). The best stories get better with each telling, especially when alcohol has liberated the teller from the constraints of accuracy. One of these stories is about the time when I was only a few days old, which would make it right around Christmas. Sugar Bear was holding me against his shoulder (all together now: "Awwww") and I pooped right into his shirt pocket (all together now: "Ewwwww"). The part added to this rendering of the story by Aunt Cindy -- who is so youthful she still gets carded when she orders a drink -- was that the shirt was red and the poop was green, prompting my parents to change my name from Gertrude to Holly.
The other story they always tell is about the night they and my parents went out for a really fancy schmancy dinner -- $200-$400, and this is 30 years ago -- and got a bit sloshed. (Notice a pattern here?) I was with them, and I was only about 2, but I remember. At some point in the evening, either they decided it would be fun to put me in the water fountain, or I just climbed in and they thought it was too funny to stop me. However I got in there, the incident messed me up for years, because the idea lodged itself in my young brain that fountains were for swimming. (Note to readers over the age of two: They're not.)
Another feature of the night was Cindy's charitable effort to steer me in the direction of eligible young men. She'd point to one, ask me, "Is he single?" and if I answered yes, she'd start to push me toward him. Not at all awkward. We didn't get very far, though, partly because I resisted, and partly because -- in spite of her vast education, impeccable fashion sense and valiant efforts to end world hunger while rescuing homeless puppies -- she got guys mixed up when they were wearing similar shirts.
One aspect of the evening was years in the making. When Cindy and Sugar Bear's daughter was married in 2001, "My Girl" was one of the songs played, and my brother, J, started singing along. Mom and I were sitting near him at the table, so we joined in on the background vocals. Ever since then, Mom and I had the notion that J should sing that song to his bride when he got married, and we could back him up. When J got engaged, we started plotting in earnest. The wonder that is the home karaoke machine makes such things possible. Mom realized, though, that it would be hard to get enough mics for all three of us, so she came up with choreography instead. J sang his heart out and Mom and I did a hoedown, the Charleston, and Egyptian walks behind him. And that thing where you make Vs with your fingers and move them across your eyes -- we did that. J joined us on the bird flaps and the hula, and when the notes got too high he made a joke about needing tighter underwear. His bride, L, said she couldn't stop laughing, so I consider that a successful performance. Alas, our camcorder battery was dead, so our brilliance shall be lost forever in the mists of time and legend. You'll just have to use your imaginations (and you know you want to.)
No evening is complete unless you go from the party to a bar and then to another bar, so I went with the other twenty-and thirty-somethings into town after dinner. I think I may have a surprising ability to hold my liquor. Up till that point, I'd never had more than a couple of drinks in a day. But this night I had... let me count... 5 1/2 drinks, plus one Jello shot. They were all mostly juice, though, and they were really spread out over time and diluted with food and lots and lots of water. I don't think I was ever drunk, though I certainly loosened up a bit. I remember everything, I didn't do anything I wouldn't want to do sober, and I was fine in the morning (OK, I only had 4 hours sleep, so I was very tired, but nothing hangover-y). One of J's friends says that I have to drink hard every weekend for five years straight before I start getting hangovers. I don't know much about drinking, but I kinda think he might be lying to me.
My favorite part of this second half of the night was when J's college roommate launched into an extended demonstration of What Not to Do on a Dance Floor. He'd say, "Don't do this," and do something preposterous, then he'd say, "And never do this," and do something even more preposterous. It reminded me of the scene in Hitch where Kevin James is showing off his moves ("You use the Q-Tip, then you throw it away"). I wish I laughed so hard more often.
Those of us who were staying at the lodge got back late, maybe 1am, and raided the fridge. The others went to bed fairly quickly after that, but my brother and I went out on the deck and stayed up talking for a while. I couldn't seem to stop myself from being big-sister-y and giving advice about things I know nothing about, but it was still nice to hang out. I felt privileged to be the last one to talk to him before he went to bed on the night before his wedding. I was shivering from the cold, but I would have stayed up all night if he'd wanted to.
We had extended family and friends there of course, including one couple we call "Aunt and Uncle" even though they're not related by blood, because they've known my parents since before I was born. I know they had a good time, because I sat at the table with them. I just got Aunt Cindy's permission to talk about how drunk she was, with the stipulation that I use words like youthful, swingin', bright and witty, plus some of my own. OK. Let's see what I can do.
My hot, blonde Aunt Cindy was bright, witty, charming and fun at the rehearsal dinner. Also, she was drunk. There are a few stories that come up whenever I'm with her and Uncle Sugar Bear (who gets his nickname from the fact that he resembles the cartoon Sugar Bear mascot for the cereal formerly known as Sugar Puffs; I think they're Corn Puffs now, but I hope the Sugar Bear has kept his name because "Corn Bear" is dumb). The best stories get better with each telling, especially when alcohol has liberated the teller from the constraints of accuracy. One of these stories is about the time when I was only a few days old, which would make it right around Christmas. Sugar Bear was holding me against his shoulder (all together now: "Awwww") and I pooped right into his shirt pocket (all together now: "Ewwwww"). The part added to this rendering of the story by Aunt Cindy -- who is so youthful she still gets carded when she orders a drink -- was that the shirt was red and the poop was green, prompting my parents to change my name from Gertrude to Holly.
The other story they always tell is about the night they and my parents went out for a really fancy schmancy dinner -- $200-$400, and this is 30 years ago -- and got a bit sloshed. (Notice a pattern here?) I was with them, and I was only about 2, but I remember. At some point in the evening, either they decided it would be fun to put me in the water fountain, or I just climbed in and they thought it was too funny to stop me. However I got in there, the incident messed me up for years, because the idea lodged itself in my young brain that fountains were for swimming. (Note to readers over the age of two: They're not.)
Another feature of the night was Cindy's charitable effort to steer me in the direction of eligible young men. She'd point to one, ask me, "Is he single?" and if I answered yes, she'd start to push me toward him. Not at all awkward. We didn't get very far, though, partly because I resisted, and partly because -- in spite of her vast education, impeccable fashion sense and valiant efforts to end world hunger while rescuing homeless puppies -- she got guys mixed up when they were wearing similar shirts.
One aspect of the evening was years in the making. When Cindy and Sugar Bear's daughter was married in 2001, "My Girl" was one of the songs played, and my brother, J, started singing along. Mom and I were sitting near him at the table, so we joined in on the background vocals. Ever since then, Mom and I had the notion that J should sing that song to his bride when he got married, and we could back him up. When J got engaged, we started plotting in earnest. The wonder that is the home karaoke machine makes such things possible. Mom realized, though, that it would be hard to get enough mics for all three of us, so she came up with choreography instead. J sang his heart out and Mom and I did a hoedown, the Charleston, and Egyptian walks behind him. And that thing where you make Vs with your fingers and move them across your eyes -- we did that. J joined us on the bird flaps and the hula, and when the notes got too high he made a joke about needing tighter underwear. His bride, L, said she couldn't stop laughing, so I consider that a successful performance. Alas, our camcorder battery was dead, so our brilliance shall be lost forever in the mists of time and legend. You'll just have to use your imaginations (and you know you want to.)
No evening is complete unless you go from the party to a bar and then to another bar, so I went with the other twenty-and thirty-somethings into town after dinner. I think I may have a surprising ability to hold my liquor. Up till that point, I'd never had more than a couple of drinks in a day. But this night I had... let me count... 5 1/2 drinks, plus one Jello shot. They were all mostly juice, though, and they were really spread out over time and diluted with food and lots and lots of water. I don't think I was ever drunk, though I certainly loosened up a bit. I remember everything, I didn't do anything I wouldn't want to do sober, and I was fine in the morning (OK, I only had 4 hours sleep, so I was very tired, but nothing hangover-y). One of J's friends says that I have to drink hard every weekend for five years straight before I start getting hangovers. I don't know much about drinking, but I kinda think he might be lying to me.
My favorite part of this second half of the night was when J's college roommate launched into an extended demonstration of What Not to Do on a Dance Floor. He'd say, "Don't do this," and do something preposterous, then he'd say, "And never do this," and do something even more preposterous. It reminded me of the scene in Hitch where Kevin James is showing off his moves ("You use the Q-Tip, then you throw it away"). I wish I laughed so hard more often.
Those of us who were staying at the lodge got back late, maybe 1am, and raided the fridge. The others went to bed fairly quickly after that, but my brother and I went out on the deck and stayed up talking for a while. I couldn't seem to stop myself from being big-sister-y and giving advice about things I know nothing about, but it was still nice to hang out. I felt privileged to be the last one to talk to him before he went to bed on the night before his wedding. I was shivering from the cold, but I would have stayed up all night if he'd wanted to.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Latrine Detail
On Friday I was Queen of the Porta-Potties. Had my picture taken in front of them and everything. The bride was doing so much work herself (including sewing all the dinner napkins), that she had to delegate some jobs, and this was mine. The first crisis was that the johns were bright blue, not the green and brown she'd ordered, which meant they were highly visible outdoors -- great when you're in need of one, but not so great when they're in your wedding pictures. You could read the slogan on the side from the ceremony site ("Royal Flush -- We pick up where you leave off"). So Mom and I did some camouflage (sp?). We spent about an hour cutting branches and stacking them beside the visible unit. It didn't hide it completely, but it helped.
The other half of my assignment was to decorate the insides -- a little eye candy while guests are taking care of their business. I was given a stack of 8x10 baby pictures of the bride and groom. The bride, who is a natural blonde, was born with dark hair. In the pictures it's short, fuzzy, and sticking up, kind of a Pat Benetar look. In his picture, the groom had long, curly blonde locks, a suntan, and no shirt. His finger was up ot his mouth in a coquettish pose, and there was an ID bracelet on his wrist looking deceptively like jewelry. (Did anyone else out there have ID bracelets? They were these things with your name, address & phone number. If you were a little kid who got lost and were unable to verbally give your own information, the police could just check your wrist and ship you home via two-day mail.)
The long and short of it is, this picture makes him look like a girl. The bride has her own framed copy, courtesy of my parents, and when people see it they say, "L, you were such a pretty baby!" Her response: "Why yes, I was, but that's not me. That's J." It's also worth noting here that although we came from the same gene pool, J is now literally twice my size, possibly more. There's nothing girlish about him. The contrast between his baby picture and his grown-up self is quite entertaining.
These are the pictures guests were greeted with when they stepped inside. My brother's face was on the lid of the seat. I was good, though, and didn't put anything inside the urinal. We're only quasi-tasteless here.
The other half of my assignment was to decorate the insides -- a little eye candy while guests are taking care of their business. I was given a stack of 8x10 baby pictures of the bride and groom. The bride, who is a natural blonde, was born with dark hair. In the pictures it's short, fuzzy, and sticking up, kind of a Pat Benetar look. In his picture, the groom had long, curly blonde locks, a suntan, and no shirt. His finger was up ot his mouth in a coquettish pose, and there was an ID bracelet on his wrist looking deceptively like jewelry. (Did anyone else out there have ID bracelets? They were these things with your name, address & phone number. If you were a little kid who got lost and were unable to verbally give your own information, the police could just check your wrist and ship you home via two-day mail.)
The long and short of it is, this picture makes him look like a girl. The bride has her own framed copy, courtesy of my parents, and when people see it they say, "L, you were such a pretty baby!" Her response: "Why yes, I was, but that's not me. That's J." It's also worth noting here that although we came from the same gene pool, J is now literally twice my size, possibly more. There's nothing girlish about him. The contrast between his baby picture and his grown-up self is quite entertaining.
These are the pictures guests were greeted with when they stepped inside. My brother's face was on the lid of the seat. I was good, though, and didn't put anything inside the urinal. We're only quasi-tasteless here.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Setting the Stage
In the mood for a little wedding narrative? I haven't had a chance to record much of what went down in Maine yet, on this blog or elsewhere, and I want to do it before it all becomes fuzzy memory. I'll try not to just recite a list of activities ("and then we folded programs, and then we ate, and then we folded more programs...")
So, hmmm. My parents drove up from Connecticut with my Granna and our dog, Annabelle, who is 7 months old. She was very good in the car (Annie, not Granna. OK, Granna was pretty good, too.) They picked me up on their way through Massachusetts. The wedding was being held outdoors, next to a log cabin which is rented out by the week, so we had a week to hang out in a cool lodge with a fireplace. Yummy. Also there were the bride's parents, the bride and groom, and the maid of honor and her boyfriend. Granna and I, the single chicks, shared a room.
Annie got to meet an older dog named Friday. Friday is nine and normally quite timid, but she sure put Annie in her place, and we all cheered her for it. In the 4 1/2 days we were there, Annie managed to unlearn almost all her training. She was cute, but she was a bad girl. She was the only one who almost went down the cliff. She almost got the menfolk in trouble, because that little incident happened on their watch while we girls were out working very hard on our manicures and pedicures. (The opinions of that experience ranged from "Best feeling in the world!" to "Someone's touching my feet?")
Apart from Annie troubles, though, the boys were well behaved that day. Mostly. They started on many manual tasks, like putting up posts and tape to create a parking area. They also moved this huge, dirty buoy that had been hanging from a tree in quite a prominent position, to another tree in a much more prominent position. Ha, ha. Fortunately, the bride had not lost her sense of humor. (I can't know the inner workings of male bonding, but I suspect much of it begins with the phrase, "Hey, wouldn't it be funny if...?") The buoy was later taken down and moved out of sight, but not before they had a competition to see who could swing it around and throw it the farthest.
The two dads spent much of their time taking the Suburban and the pickup truck to the liquor store to stock up for the rehearsal dinner and the wedding reception. They didn't seem to mind this too much.
OK, and just as a side note, can I just say that all of the things above are reasons why, if I ever have kids, I want boys? Even as adults, they totally crack me up.
I'm leaving out some of the boring stuff. You're welcome.
More later.
So, hmmm. My parents drove up from Connecticut with my Granna and our dog, Annabelle, who is 7 months old. She was very good in the car (Annie, not Granna. OK, Granna was pretty good, too.) They picked me up on their way through Massachusetts. The wedding was being held outdoors, next to a log cabin which is rented out by the week, so we had a week to hang out in a cool lodge with a fireplace. Yummy. Also there were the bride's parents, the bride and groom, and the maid of honor and her boyfriend. Granna and I, the single chicks, shared a room.
Annie got to meet an older dog named Friday. Friday is nine and normally quite timid, but she sure put Annie in her place, and we all cheered her for it. In the 4 1/2 days we were there, Annie managed to unlearn almost all her training. She was cute, but she was a bad girl. She was the only one who almost went down the cliff. She almost got the menfolk in trouble, because that little incident happened on their watch while we girls were out working very hard on our manicures and pedicures. (The opinions of that experience ranged from "Best feeling in the world!" to "Someone's touching my feet?")
Apart from Annie troubles, though, the boys were well behaved that day. Mostly. They started on many manual tasks, like putting up posts and tape to create a parking area. They also moved this huge, dirty buoy that had been hanging from a tree in quite a prominent position, to another tree in a much more prominent position. Ha, ha. Fortunately, the bride had not lost her sense of humor. (I can't know the inner workings of male bonding, but I suspect much of it begins with the phrase, "Hey, wouldn't it be funny if...?") The buoy was later taken down and moved out of sight, but not before they had a competition to see who could swing it around and throw it the farthest.
The two dads spent much of their time taking the Suburban and the pickup truck to the liquor store to stock up for the rehearsal dinner and the wedding reception. They didn't seem to mind this too much.
OK, and just as a side note, can I just say that all of the things above are reasons why, if I ever have kids, I want boys? Even as adults, they totally crack me up.
I'm leaving out some of the boring stuff. You're welcome.
More later.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Roadrunner
I own a car. He's fast, blue and beepy, so I named him Roadrunner. He's a Jetta and he's very cool. But I can't keep him and he needs a good home.
I've been trying to sell him because I can no longer afford the insurance. Part of this is Boston being expensive, and part of it is the fact that I totalled my last car and the rates went up recently. The problem is, no one wants to pay for a car -- or at least, they don't want to pay for a car that's genuinely worth five digits. I've had signs in the windows, put up flyers all around town, and advertised online for 2-3 months, and no one ever followed through on an appointment to come see it. (This may also be related to my lack of success as an Oriental rug salesperson. I'm just not pushy enough.)
So my parents took my car to Connecticut with them on their way back from the wedding. They're going to try to sell it for me there. I had wanted to be all grown-up and responsible about this and handle it all myself -- dealing with prospective buyers, taking it to dealerships, doing all the paperwork. But the things I did do didn't produce any real fruit, and sometimes part of being a grown-up is realizing you could do with some help. So if Daddums and Mumsy want to solve my problems for me because the big mean Bostonians won't buy Princess's car, then that's just fine. Screw emotional and functional independence -- I want my check.
I've been trying to sell him because I can no longer afford the insurance. Part of this is Boston being expensive, and part of it is the fact that I totalled my last car and the rates went up recently. The problem is, no one wants to pay for a car -- or at least, they don't want to pay for a car that's genuinely worth five digits. I've had signs in the windows, put up flyers all around town, and advertised online for 2-3 months, and no one ever followed through on an appointment to come see it. (This may also be related to my lack of success as an Oriental rug salesperson. I'm just not pushy enough.)
So my parents took my car to Connecticut with them on their way back from the wedding. They're going to try to sell it for me there. I had wanted to be all grown-up and responsible about this and handle it all myself -- dealing with prospective buyers, taking it to dealerships, doing all the paperwork. But the things I did do didn't produce any real fruit, and sometimes part of being a grown-up is realizing you could do with some help. So if Daddums and Mumsy want to solve my problems for me because the big mean Bostonians won't buy Princess's car, then that's just fine. Screw emotional and functional independence -- I want my check.
Back to life, back to reality
Hey Everybody. I had a great time at the wedding and during the surrounding days. Am posting this after-hours at work because Verizon has pooped out for the umpteenth time. We are now going to look into alternative providers because, well, honestly.
A lot happened, so I'll probably do a series of posts. In the meantime, I'm readjusting to the life I had when I left Boston a week ago. You know that feeling you have when you come back from a trip -- "Oh, these are the things I thought and felt in my normal life." It's good to have that perspective; sometimes it's the impetus you need to change, because you're more discontent than before. There a a few situations that are fine, but only if they're temporary.
A lot happened, so I'll probably do a series of posts. In the meantime, I'm readjusting to the life I had when I left Boston a week ago. You know that feeling you have when you come back from a trip -- "Oh, these are the things I thought and felt in my normal life." It's good to have that perspective; sometimes it's the impetus you need to change, because you're more discontent than before. There a a few situations that are fine, but only if they're temporary.
Monday, September 11, 2006
If It Won't Shut Up, You May as Well Give It a Microphone
A friend asked me today how I like documenting my life in a blog. The answer is, I'm loving it. And a couple hours later, as I was waiting for the train to take me home, I realized why: I have a narrative constantly running through my head -- commenting on things, analyzing, making cute quips and sarcastic remarks, summing things up and breaking them down. I've thought many times in the past that I'd like to get these thoughts out of my head and into the world, but they run by so fast and then they're gone, and it's hard to capture them when I finally sit down with a piece of paper. I think this blog, though, gives me that opportunity. If I think a similar series of thoughts over and over, then I can remember it and put it on the blog. The stories I tell my family and friends about stuff the happens to me often fall into a pattern and crystalize enough for me to write them down in a concise and entertaining (I hope) manner. So what you guys are getting are the ramblings of my brain, happy to have their freedom, running around on this blog like naughty Munchkins on a sugar high.
Welcome to Munchkin Land.
Welcome to Munchkin Land.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Pardon me, Ma'am, but are you aware that you smell like fish?
You know how people who have bad breath never seem to know that they have bad breath? You know how that seems to be as true of many people with obnoxious personality traits? Do you ever wonder if you're that person and nobody is saying anything?
I wonder that a lot. Any time someone leaves me thinking, wow, interacting with them is unpleasant, my next thought is, shoot, am I that way? and I take great pains NOT to be that way. Such great pains, in fact, that I often end up doing, well, nothing, because I don't want to be annoying when I do it.
That may all sound extreme, and I'll admit that it's agonizing, but I bet you can think of someone right now who you wish were that willing to take a hint or learn from other people's mistakes. I was once in close proximity to someone who was thoroughly oblivious to what it was like to interact with her. It hurt people, it even cost her jobs (yes, plural), and she never saw the pattern, nor did she take it well when those left in her wake spoke up. I never, ever want to be that way, and the thought that we might be in any way alike scared the heck out of me.
I've spent a lot of time wondering why I don't have what I want, and why things aren't the way I want them to be. Are all the things lacking in my life a result of inadequacies in me? I have to stop asking those sorts of questions because they drive me crazy; I become like some kind of bobble-head, my brain all disproportionate from over-thinking, except the head is made of lead, weighing me down, and I keep crashing. But the question remains, How do you know? How do you know if you've messed up your own life, or if that's just how things go? And if you can't fix yourself, should you expect anything new to happen?
For me, God comes into this. It often doesn't mean I have answers; it just means I direct my questions at Him. Other Christians may have different experiences, about how they hear from God, how they feel loved by Him. I do sometimes hear from Him, but I'm one of those Christians who spends most of her time struggling as much with her relationship with God as she does with the world around her. This is how I'm able to be miserable in the most benign situations, like some Romantic poet who wanders around feeling misunderstood, looking for a beautiful cliff so he can fling himself off of it.
I believe God changes us, and I've seen Him change me, but everything is so slow it's maddening. Over the last several years I've lost optimism, lost my sense of destiny -- the conviction that God has a plan for me. In their place I've developed a sense of poverty, feeling like I never have enough, and like it doesn't matter that I don't have enough. I feel like God wants me to suck it up, or like He's waiting for me to cool off and come back when you have a better attitude, young lady. Intellectually, I know these things aren't true of God, but my heart thinks they are, and it's been waiting for Him to prove it wrong.
I've been asking God a question. Usually it's rhetorical, but lately I've been brave enough to ask it in earnest: Lord, what are you waiting for?
I wonder that a lot. Any time someone leaves me thinking, wow, interacting with them is unpleasant, my next thought is, shoot, am I that way? and I take great pains NOT to be that way. Such great pains, in fact, that I often end up doing, well, nothing, because I don't want to be annoying when I do it.
That may all sound extreme, and I'll admit that it's agonizing, but I bet you can think of someone right now who you wish were that willing to take a hint or learn from other people's mistakes. I was once in close proximity to someone who was thoroughly oblivious to what it was like to interact with her. It hurt people, it even cost her jobs (yes, plural), and she never saw the pattern, nor did she take it well when those left in her wake spoke up. I never, ever want to be that way, and the thought that we might be in any way alike scared the heck out of me.
I've spent a lot of time wondering why I don't have what I want, and why things aren't the way I want them to be. Are all the things lacking in my life a result of inadequacies in me? I have to stop asking those sorts of questions because they drive me crazy; I become like some kind of bobble-head, my brain all disproportionate from over-thinking, except the head is made of lead, weighing me down, and I keep crashing. But the question remains, How do you know? How do you know if you've messed up your own life, or if that's just how things go? And if you can't fix yourself, should you expect anything new to happen?
For me, God comes into this. It often doesn't mean I have answers; it just means I direct my questions at Him. Other Christians may have different experiences, about how they hear from God, how they feel loved by Him. I do sometimes hear from Him, but I'm one of those Christians who spends most of her time struggling as much with her relationship with God as she does with the world around her. This is how I'm able to be miserable in the most benign situations, like some Romantic poet who wanders around feeling misunderstood, looking for a beautiful cliff so he can fling himself off of it.
I believe God changes us, and I've seen Him change me, but everything is so slow it's maddening. Over the last several years I've lost optimism, lost my sense of destiny -- the conviction that God has a plan for me. In their place I've developed a sense of poverty, feeling like I never have enough, and like it doesn't matter that I don't have enough. I feel like God wants me to suck it up, or like He's waiting for me to cool off and come back when you have a better attitude, young lady. Intellectually, I know these things aren't true of God, but my heart thinks they are, and it's been waiting for Him to prove it wrong.
I've been asking God a question. Usually it's rhetorical, but lately I've been brave enough to ask it in earnest: Lord, what are you waiting for?
Me, me, me
When I started this blog, I thought I'd do more creative writing, less chronicling of my daily life. Who cares what I had for lunch yesterday? Even I am bored with my circumstances half the time. And it seemed kind of vain to think people would want to read about me every day.
Well, it turns out I don't have much fiction in me at the moment. And if I ever do end up writing anything bigger, even book-sized, I'll still have to write about what I know -- and let's face it, what I know will be me, cuz I ain't gonna research squat. So you may be getting more Real Stuff, and less Stuff I Make Up. I'll still try to keep it non-boring. Feel free to lob tomatoes if I fail.
Well, it turns out I don't have much fiction in me at the moment. And if I ever do end up writing anything bigger, even book-sized, I'll still have to write about what I know -- and let's face it, what I know will be me, cuz I ain't gonna research squat. So you may be getting more Real Stuff, and less Stuff I Make Up. I'll still try to keep it non-boring. Feel free to lob tomatoes if I fail.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
"Oh, and the way the Jello shots matched the bridesmaids' dresses was truly moving..."
My brother is getting married next weekend. Ever since the engagement on New Year's Eve, he and his bride have been making the same anticipatory comment about the wedding: "It's gonna be a good time." Not, "It will be beautiful," or "It will be meaningful," but "It's gonna be a good time." And I think that's fantastic. I'm sure that committing their lives to each other will be both beautiful and meaningful, but I also have a not-so-sneaking suspicion that the ceremony is largely a church service they'll have to stay awake through in order to get to the party afterwards. Personally, I expect to be a teary mess during the ceremony, and I plan on having a ball for hours into the night at the reception.
In addition to the open bar (in a wedding full of Italians and Navy men, open bars are mandated by law), my brother and his future father-in-law thought it would be the best thing ever for each table to have its own styrofoam cooler full of Busch beer. As unquestionably classy as that is, I wondered what the bride would think. I asked her if she gave her stamp of approval to the cooler decision and she said, "Oh, no! I've always wanted my wedding to be a kegger." So there you go, my brother has found the perfect woman.
Children aren't invited to the wedding, largely for safety issues -- it's all taking place outdoors, near a small cliff overlooking the ocean, and we don't want any young 'uns going over the edge. It's especially hazardous as there are shrubs at the edge, and when it gets dark you may not know the ground stops. I don't know what we're going to do about inebriated groomsmen trying to pee on the shrubs and taking a tumble. We may have to do headcounts every hour or so. Or at least a sweep of the shoreline the following morning.
This is also a big week-long family gathering, so I don't know how much I'll be able to post over the next week. I'll try to live some good stories, though, so it will be worth the wait when I come back.
In addition to the open bar (in a wedding full of Italians and Navy men, open bars are mandated by law), my brother and his future father-in-law thought it would be the best thing ever for each table to have its own styrofoam cooler full of Busch beer. As unquestionably classy as that is, I wondered what the bride would think. I asked her if she gave her stamp of approval to the cooler decision and she said, "Oh, no! I've always wanted my wedding to be a kegger." So there you go, my brother has found the perfect woman.
Children aren't invited to the wedding, largely for safety issues -- it's all taking place outdoors, near a small cliff overlooking the ocean, and we don't want any young 'uns going over the edge. It's especially hazardous as there are shrubs at the edge, and when it gets dark you may not know the ground stops. I don't know what we're going to do about inebriated groomsmen trying to pee on the shrubs and taking a tumble. We may have to do headcounts every hour or so. Or at least a sweep of the shoreline the following morning.
This is also a big week-long family gathering, so I don't know how much I'll be able to post over the next week. I'll try to live some good stories, though, so it will be worth the wait when I come back.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Bad Smart Girl, Bad
I always did well in school, but I was also the one in my AP English class who made everybody else feel really good about where they were in the reading assignments. No matter how far behind they were, I was even further. Same in college -- I never even opened half the books before we discussed them in class. I got A's and B's on my papers, but if the teachers had paid more attention they would have noticed that I never included quotes beyond page 42 in any given book.
I like to read, honest, but I'm soooooo slow. I read silently at about the same pace at which I'd read aloud, and I have to imagine all the action playing out like a movie in my head. If I can't imagine it, or I don't understand something, have to reread it until I do. That takes forever. It's not a matter of self-discipline, I'm just anal retentive that way.
I bring this up because I'm in a book club at work, and we meet tomorrow. Unless I can get through 85 pages tonight -- and I can't -- I'll be behind. Adulthood hasn't cured me. *Sigh.*
I like to read, honest, but I'm soooooo slow. I read silently at about the same pace at which I'd read aloud, and I have to imagine all the action playing out like a movie in my head. If I can't imagine it, or I don't understand something, have to reread it until I do. That takes forever. It's not a matter of self-discipline, I'm just anal retentive that way.
I bring this up because I'm in a book club at work, and we meet tomorrow. Unless I can get through 85 pages tonight -- and I can't -- I'll be behind. Adulthood hasn't cured me. *Sigh.*
Anti-Frump
A guy gave up his seat for me on the commuter rail this morning. There were other seats available, and I didn't even ask; he just saw me coming and stood up, and he remained standing all the way to the next stop, about 15 minutes away. Yay for being a girl and for being noticed! And thanks to that guy. I love it when fellas get all chivalrous on me.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Babe Undercover
My mom says I should rethink that post I did a couple weeks ago about how frumpy I can be. It makes me sound unattractive. So, for the record, I submit the following:
1. I've looked very cute in much of the clothing I've worn lately. Cute enough to receive genuine compliments from both men & women.
2. I am an uber-hottie who has no business dwelling on earth with mere mortals, who inevitably look wilted and pathetic when stood next to the heat stroke-inducing light of my otherworldly pulchritude.
Now that I've cleared that up, I can tell you about last week's incident.
Around 10:45, my roommate, A, calls and tells me she's at a bus stop 5 minutes from our house and is waiting for the next bus to bring her the rest of the way home. Knowing she doesn't like hanging out in that neighborhood at night, and it could be a half-hour till the next bus comes, I ask if she wants me to pick her up, because I'm cool like that. She says she's OK.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
"Uh, do you mind?"
So I go pick her up, which is no big deal. Except I'm almost in bed. I have on mismatched pajamas, a huge robe, slip-on sneakers, my hair pulled back with this huge head-band thing, and -- the crowning touch -- a bright-green avacado mud masque all over my face. I'm all Mission:Impossible getting to my car, making sure no traffic is going by and no neighbors are out before I dart across the street to where I'm parked.
I make it just fine. My roommate laughs out loud at me when she gets in the car, declaring that I'm now promoted from Friend to Mom.
We get back and I park the car. I'm not so lucky this time, as a car or two drives by while I'm standing there, a Vision in Comfortable Clothing. A gets a better look at me and begins breaking down the faux pas (does this have a plural form?). "Oh, that hair thing. And the shoes! I won't be seen in public with you in those shoes."
"Yeah, A, the shoes are the worst part of this ensemble."
All this is going on while some poor guy from the neighborhood walks by. I must have looked like a slumber party reject.
Later, when another roommate came home, she said, "I always get dressed before I drive in case I'm in an accident." Oh, I hadn't even thought of that. Now I'm imagining having to stand around some accident scene, surrounded by police, with green goop on my face. I'd be beet red beneath the goop.
I didn't dwell on that thought too long. Instead I'm posting it here, where it can last forever. Sorry, Mom. But you can take comfort in the fact that stuff wouldn't be half as funny if I didn't clean up so darn well ;-).
1. I've looked very cute in much of the clothing I've worn lately. Cute enough to receive genuine compliments from both men & women.
2. I am an uber-hottie who has no business dwelling on earth with mere mortals, who inevitably look wilted and pathetic when stood next to the heat stroke-inducing light of my otherworldly pulchritude.
Now that I've cleared that up, I can tell you about last week's incident.
Around 10:45, my roommate, A, calls and tells me she's at a bus stop 5 minutes from our house and is waiting for the next bus to bring her the rest of the way home. Knowing she doesn't like hanging out in that neighborhood at night, and it could be a half-hour till the next bus comes, I ask if she wants me to pick her up, because I'm cool like that. She says she's OK.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
"Uh, do you mind?"
So I go pick her up, which is no big deal. Except I'm almost in bed. I have on mismatched pajamas, a huge robe, slip-on sneakers, my hair pulled back with this huge head-band thing, and -- the crowning touch -- a bright-green avacado mud masque all over my face. I'm all Mission:Impossible getting to my car, making sure no traffic is going by and no neighbors are out before I dart across the street to where I'm parked.
I make it just fine. My roommate laughs out loud at me when she gets in the car, declaring that I'm now promoted from Friend to Mom.
We get back and I park the car. I'm not so lucky this time, as a car or two drives by while I'm standing there, a Vision in Comfortable Clothing. A gets a better look at me and begins breaking down the faux pas (does this have a plural form?). "Oh, that hair thing. And the shoes! I won't be seen in public with you in those shoes."
"Yeah, A, the shoes are the worst part of this ensemble."
All this is going on while some poor guy from the neighborhood walks by. I must have looked like a slumber party reject.
Later, when another roommate came home, she said, "I always get dressed before I drive in case I'm in an accident." Oh, I hadn't even thought of that. Now I'm imagining having to stand around some accident scene, surrounded by police, with green goop on my face. I'd be beet red beneath the goop.
I didn't dwell on that thought too long. Instead I'm posting it here, where it can last forever. Sorry, Mom. But you can take comfort in the fact that stuff wouldn't be half as funny if I didn't clean up so darn well ;-).
I Was at the Bookstore Sunday
...and saw that Captain Underpants has been having new adventures. Among the more recent additions to the cast of characters: The Bionic Booger Boy, in a story involving Nasty Nostril Nuggets.
I don't care who y' are, dat's funny right dere.
I don't care who y' are, dat's funny right dere.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
The Sadder But Wiser Girl
I haven't written much in the way of serious stuff in this blog. I've touched on things a little, but apart from from Verizon rants, I've avoided drama. There are several reasons for this:
-- I find it hard to write about serious things without falling into cliches. There's a big difference between deep thoughts and thoughts felt deeply. Someone may truly mean the words, "I love you/ I will be true," but that doesn't mean they have to put it out there for the world to see, and it certainly doesn't guarantee that anyone will want to read it. I also find it harder to tell whether something is written well when I'm not trying to be funny. If I make myself laugh, then I figure it will make other people laugh, too. But if I'm crying when I write it, it may just be because I'm going through something, and not because I've written something meaningful, or written it with skill.
-- Who wants to hear somebody whining all the time? Even if they write great poems about their pain, or make classic cinema, don't you ever just want to tell some people to shut up already? I don't want anyone to look at my blog or anything else I've written and roll their eyes and say, "Get over yourself and move on!"
-- It's just scary to put yourself out there without any kind of buffer. Humor is a buffer. Being on stage performing someone else's work is a buffer. Even having different kinds of conversations with different groups of people in your life is a buffer. That doesn't mean these things aren't genuine, but they enable you to be selective with what you share and how. I don't know how many people read this blog (2-3?), but I've invited a very wide spectrum to view it -- not just wide in tastes and opinions, but wide in relationship to me. Getting serious would mean letting people see parts of myself that I haven't necessarily revealed to them in person, which could be just as awkward for them, if not more so, than it would be for me. I don't want to scare anybody.
On the other hand, I've often thought that if, after I die, someone stumbles across my many, many journals and is nosy enough to read them, they could be really encouraged -- not because I have any wisdom to offer, but because I'm a mess. I find little inspiration and much annoyance in works that are meant to be inspirational, because it's always about people overcoming and doing nice things and love conquering and blah, blah, blah. I read that stuff and think, Great, that's all fine for them, but what if I don't have that kind of will power, or determination, or love for people, or confidence in myself, or any kind of conviction whatsoever? What if I've lost whatever expectations I may have once had about things turning out OK? What if I don't know what I want anymore? Where's the Chicken Soup for the Soul That Doesn't Like Chicken Soup? That would be my journal. No answers. Just a lot of questions, some tear stains, words scribbled out, and the occassional reminder that God doesn't want me to be as afraid of Him as I usually am. And if I ever end up accomplishing anything, then people can say, Hey! If God can make something out of her, then I bet He can turn me into a freakin' Nobel Prize winner.
So, I might start tossing some sad stuff in there. I ask for your patience as I bushwhack my way through the cliches and try to reach something real, meaningful, and worthwhile.
-- I find it hard to write about serious things without falling into cliches. There's a big difference between deep thoughts and thoughts felt deeply. Someone may truly mean the words, "I love you/ I will be true," but that doesn't mean they have to put it out there for the world to see, and it certainly doesn't guarantee that anyone will want to read it. I also find it harder to tell whether something is written well when I'm not trying to be funny. If I make myself laugh, then I figure it will make other people laugh, too. But if I'm crying when I write it, it may just be because I'm going through something, and not because I've written something meaningful, or written it with skill.
-- Who wants to hear somebody whining all the time? Even if they write great poems about their pain, or make classic cinema, don't you ever just want to tell some people to shut up already? I don't want anyone to look at my blog or anything else I've written and roll their eyes and say, "Get over yourself and move on!"
-- It's just scary to put yourself out there without any kind of buffer. Humor is a buffer. Being on stage performing someone else's work is a buffer. Even having different kinds of conversations with different groups of people in your life is a buffer. That doesn't mean these things aren't genuine, but they enable you to be selective with what you share and how. I don't know how many people read this blog (2-3?), but I've invited a very wide spectrum to view it -- not just wide in tastes and opinions, but wide in relationship to me. Getting serious would mean letting people see parts of myself that I haven't necessarily revealed to them in person, which could be just as awkward for them, if not more so, than it would be for me. I don't want to scare anybody.
On the other hand, I've often thought that if, after I die, someone stumbles across my many, many journals and is nosy enough to read them, they could be really encouraged -- not because I have any wisdom to offer, but because I'm a mess. I find little inspiration and much annoyance in works that are meant to be inspirational, because it's always about people overcoming and doing nice things and love conquering and blah, blah, blah. I read that stuff and think, Great, that's all fine for them, but what if I don't have that kind of will power, or determination, or love for people, or confidence in myself, or any kind of conviction whatsoever? What if I've lost whatever expectations I may have once had about things turning out OK? What if I don't know what I want anymore? Where's the Chicken Soup for the Soul That Doesn't Like Chicken Soup? That would be my journal. No answers. Just a lot of questions, some tear stains, words scribbled out, and the occassional reminder that God doesn't want me to be as afraid of Him as I usually am. And if I ever end up accomplishing anything, then people can say, Hey! If God can make something out of her, then I bet He can turn me into a freakin' Nobel Prize winner.
So, I might start tossing some sad stuff in there. I ask for your patience as I bushwhack my way through the cliches and try to reach something real, meaningful, and worthwhile.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Billy Joe
I wrote this a few years ago. It's an intro to a story I never got back to. I don't know if I think it's good or not. Y'all are welcome to weigh in with constructive criticism if you've got any!
Billy Joe Bob Ray Franklin Bob, or “BJBRFB,” as people would have called him if they could remember that many letters, which they couldn’t, so they didn’t, was outside. The air had a strong hint of manure. Actually, the smell of manure was so pervasive that Billy Joe didn’t want to open his mouth for fear that he’d taste it, and eeeww, yuck. He was “all man” in plenty of ways, but he squirmed like a little girl when it came to poop. That’s why he wasn’t a cowboy, a farmer, a veterinarian, or even a rodeo clown – he was an HVAC man, and he was on a mission on this hot, humid, manure-filled day.
Mrs. Cutter’s AC system was down. The old bat was in a tizzy. Actually, she was in an insane, heat-, sweat-, and manure-smell-induced rage that involved throwing things – things which BJ all-manfully dodged as he made his way to the pooped-out (poop again, ha ha!) system. With a bandana over his nose and mouth, he set to work, sometimes allowing a projectile launched by Mrs. Cutter to hit the machine. It was a trade secret that strategic – and sometimes random – kicking and banging do make things work, so he took full advantage of Mrs. C’s powerful pitching arm. Pretty soon Billy took to placing his head directly in front of the area he wanted whacked, so that when Mrs. C aimed at him, he could dodge right before he was beamed and – WHAM! – she’d hit the desired spot. He was highly amused at the whole situation, not to mention his own cleverness. He couldn’t laugh, though, because that would mean breathing deeply of the poopy air.
After about 20 minutes of tinkering and whamming, the air conditioner was beaten into submission and began chugging, and then whirring. The effect was like that of a snake charmer’s flute on Mrs. Cutter. She became quiet. Then, with the look of someone who could hear musical voices no one else could hear, she hoarsely whispered, “Air conditioning!” and ran inside. Billy Joe chose not to follow her in; he stuck the bill inside the screen door. Though she’d been driven crazy by the poop-heat, in her lucid moments Mrs. Cutter was good at paying her bills. She’d often throw in a pie or some biscuits or something else highly edible. BJ was willing to brave the manure smell for the promise of good food (although the two together would have made him vomit, and violently).
Billy Joe Bob Ray Franklin Bob, or “BJBRFB,” as people would have called him if they could remember that many letters, which they couldn’t, so they didn’t, was outside. The air had a strong hint of manure. Actually, the smell of manure was so pervasive that Billy Joe didn’t want to open his mouth for fear that he’d taste it, and eeeww, yuck. He was “all man” in plenty of ways, but he squirmed like a little girl when it came to poop. That’s why he wasn’t a cowboy, a farmer, a veterinarian, or even a rodeo clown – he was an HVAC man, and he was on a mission on this hot, humid, manure-filled day.
Mrs. Cutter’s AC system was down. The old bat was in a tizzy. Actually, she was in an insane, heat-, sweat-, and manure-smell-induced rage that involved throwing things – things which BJ all-manfully dodged as he made his way to the pooped-out (poop again, ha ha!) system. With a bandana over his nose and mouth, he set to work, sometimes allowing a projectile launched by Mrs. Cutter to hit the machine. It was a trade secret that strategic – and sometimes random – kicking and banging do make things work, so he took full advantage of Mrs. C’s powerful pitching arm. Pretty soon Billy took to placing his head directly in front of the area he wanted whacked, so that when Mrs. C aimed at him, he could dodge right before he was beamed and – WHAM! – she’d hit the desired spot. He was highly amused at the whole situation, not to mention his own cleverness. He couldn’t laugh, though, because that would mean breathing deeply of the poopy air.
After about 20 minutes of tinkering and whamming, the air conditioner was beaten into submission and began chugging, and then whirring. The effect was like that of a snake charmer’s flute on Mrs. Cutter. She became quiet. Then, with the look of someone who could hear musical voices no one else could hear, she hoarsely whispered, “Air conditioning!” and ran inside. Billy Joe chose not to follow her in; he stuck the bill inside the screen door. Though she’d been driven crazy by the poop-heat, in her lucid moments Mrs. Cutter was good at paying her bills. She’d often throw in a pie or some biscuits or something else highly edible. BJ was willing to brave the manure smell for the promise of good food (although the two together would have made him vomit, and violently).
Book Meme
This is a little survey that's been going around. I confess that for someone who claims to enjoy reading, I have not read very much. Watching TV is just so much easier. But I like these questions, so I'll answer them as well as I can. And can anyone tell me what meme means?
1. One Book That Changed Your Life
The Hiding Place, by Corrie ten Boom. I read it as I was becoming a Christian, so I soaked it up like a fetus absorbs what its mother eats and drinks, and it will be a part of my make-up forever. I'm still discovering ways in which this has determined my thinking, on everything from being single to whether lying is OK.
2. One book you have read more than once
Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Plunges into History. For the record, I don't read in the bathroom. But I love these short-attention-span articles, and I love history. My favorite arcticle is a one-pager about how Immanuel Kant studied the nature of humor, and then tried to give a few jokes to illustrate his points, at one point commenting, "At this we laugh, and it gives us hearty pleasure." I certainly laughed.
3. One book you would want on a desert island
An empty journal and an endless supply of pens. We'll see how many deep thoughts I get when I have nothing to do but crack coconuts and spear fish with pointy sticks.
4. One book that made you cry
A Day No Pigs Would Die. I hid myself in the laundry room when I got to that scene (I won't give it away for those who haven't read it).
5. One book that made you laugh
America, The Book. I was that crazy person you don't want to sit next to when I read this book on the subway, because I kept doubling over in silent laughter.
6. One book you wish had been written
I'm going to piggy-back on blogger Kate Krupnik's idea. Her answer to this question was the story of her own life. I'm not necessarily thinking about straight autobiography, but for a long time I'd assumed I didn't have a book in me, and lately I've been rethinking that. So my wish is that if I do have a book in me somewhere, then it will make its way out.
7. One book you wish had never been written
I don't know about this one. May I come back to it later if I think of something?
8. One book you are currently reading
The Dante Club, by Matthew Pearl. I'm reading this for a book club at work. Am about 1/3 through it and haven't decided what I think yet. Almost didn't make it this far, though, because the first 40 pages annoyed me intensely. I thought some of the sentences and structures didn't make sense, and there were lots and lots of maggots. Yuck. As I read on, though, there's more sense and fewer maggots.
9. One book you have been meaning to read
Travelling Mercies, by Anne Lamott (did I spell her name right?). I already know I disagree with some of her politics, but from what I've heard this book isn't very political; it's just real. This is my big deal now: dealing with God in a real way, in real life, and not making it all pretty when it comes time to talk to people about it.
10. Tag five new people
Anyone who wants to is welcome to take this and run with it!
1. One Book That Changed Your Life
The Hiding Place, by Corrie ten Boom. I read it as I was becoming a Christian, so I soaked it up like a fetus absorbs what its mother eats and drinks, and it will be a part of my make-up forever. I'm still discovering ways in which this has determined my thinking, on everything from being single to whether lying is OK.
2. One book you have read more than once
Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Plunges into History. For the record, I don't read in the bathroom. But I love these short-attention-span articles, and I love history. My favorite arcticle is a one-pager about how Immanuel Kant studied the nature of humor, and then tried to give a few jokes to illustrate his points, at one point commenting, "At this we laugh, and it gives us hearty pleasure." I certainly laughed.
3. One book you would want on a desert island
An empty journal and an endless supply of pens. We'll see how many deep thoughts I get when I have nothing to do but crack coconuts and spear fish with pointy sticks.
4. One book that made you cry
A Day No Pigs Would Die. I hid myself in the laundry room when I got to that scene (I won't give it away for those who haven't read it).
5. One book that made you laugh
America, The Book. I was that crazy person you don't want to sit next to when I read this book on the subway, because I kept doubling over in silent laughter.
6. One book you wish had been written
I'm going to piggy-back on blogger Kate Krupnik's idea. Her answer to this question was the story of her own life. I'm not necessarily thinking about straight autobiography, but for a long time I'd assumed I didn't have a book in me, and lately I've been rethinking that. So my wish is that if I do have a book in me somewhere, then it will make its way out.
7. One book you wish had never been written
I don't know about this one. May I come back to it later if I think of something?
8. One book you are currently reading
The Dante Club, by Matthew Pearl. I'm reading this for a book club at work. Am about 1/3 through it and haven't decided what I think yet. Almost didn't make it this far, though, because the first 40 pages annoyed me intensely. I thought some of the sentences and structures didn't make sense, and there were lots and lots of maggots. Yuck. As I read on, though, there's more sense and fewer maggots.
9. One book you have been meaning to read
Travelling Mercies, by Anne Lamott (did I spell her name right?). I already know I disagree with some of her politics, but from what I've heard this book isn't very political; it's just real. This is my big deal now: dealing with God in a real way, in real life, and not making it all pretty when it comes time to talk to people about it.
10. Tag five new people
Anyone who wants to is welcome to take this and run with it!
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