A new Guest Services Coordinator (GSC) has been hired here at the 'Gap, and today was her time to meet the housekeeping ladies. As I was in there with them, it was also my opportunity to hang out with her. The outgoing GSC brought in muffins and over the whir of dryers, said, "Ok, give us the three-minute version of your story."
[this is the part where I tell another story that doesn't seem to be connected, until I brilliantly bring it all back around to a dramatic A-ha! moment, and by A-ha I don't mean like the band of "Take On Me" fame, I mean epiphany-esque]
Lori Connor was on YL staff in VA, and made one particular skit so famous no other can even compare to her. The skit was called "Two-Minute Titanic" and in it she (dressed as Mary Katherine Gallegher) reenacted the entirety of James Cameron's epic movie in two minutes, hence the title of the skit. Well, it was hilarious. Like snorting, stuff flying out the nose, table pounding hilarious. As 99.9% of you know, Kate and Leo did not act in a comedy. It was far from a comedy, besides lines like "I'm king of the world!" and "I'll never let go..." I mean it ends in a Celine Dion song. No comedy should end with Celine. The reason the skit was funny was because only the highlights of the movie were mentioned, and by adding over-acting to the mix, the weight of the material was lost. Something tragic became something breezy and laughable.
[Now we cut back to the scene in the laundry, where I sit, Ingles blueberry muffin in hand]
I sat in the room with two women in their mid-60s, one in her late-40s, and two of us in our mid to late-20s. Our lives told in three minutes? How do you even begin? That breaks down to about 3 seconds a year for the older ladies; what do you say? What could come out in three minutes that isn't breezy and out of context or factual but implacable on a timeline?
Life is not that easy or neat; life is messy. It is not a three minute story, I don't care how boring you are. I understand the intended purpose of the activity; I just feel its a convenient way to feel like there is background on a person when what you know is what they told you in three minutes. We use it a lot in YL and all too often it breeds a false sense of intimacy. I'd much rather hear the 45 minute version, the hour version, the one told over days and weeks. I don't know why it ruffled me like it did; apropos I guess.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Water Works
First I must worn all readers: I am currently heavily medicated, so if my sentences stray or grammar slips, blame the pills. Only the second or third time since I've been at the 'Gap (place, not store) that I've had to drug up the nervous system on account of my back and today has been especially painful, laying into my hips and shoulders in addition to the normal back pain. I'm propped up on the pills. Just call me Garland.
So part of work today had me sitting by the creek for ten minutes, thinking. I do wish this was a job requirement for any and all gainful employment; much good could come from it.
Years ago I dated a fellow kayaker who made me a little boater out of leftover outfitting foam. He carved the little man into an exact replica of one of the hottest boats at the time, and gave him weight to help him paddle better. I instantly loved the new toy. Weeks later we took what was to be a great expedition to run Passage Creek, a steep class III-IV technical run. We loaded the boats, our camping gear, our paddling gear and headed out to Elizabeth Furnace, only to discover that Passage had already peaked and the flow was once again down to a steady crawl. There was no paddling to be had.
So what we did was pull out our little kayaking buddies and played in the creek with them the rest of the weekend. Standing shin deep, cheering and laughing at the toys as they ran what we couldn't. It was such simple fun. Vicarious paddling at 3 inches tall. Now whenever I see a little creek I think about that trip and that toy and how he'd run it and I smile.
Too many days make me wish I could do more than vicarious paddling, but sitting by that creek today I was thankful that I simply am. God has granted me a deep love for water and I must be restful in the fact that there is a purpose for that love; that it wasn't for a fleeting moment.
That little boater is wrapped gently in a small box next to my bed. He's moved with me everywhere I've gone. Sometimes I'll pull him out and play with him. I don't know if I'll ever be able to see him go.
---Wallowing is through, continue on---
So part of work today had me sitting by the creek for ten minutes, thinking. I do wish this was a job requirement for any and all gainful employment; much good could come from it.
Years ago I dated a fellow kayaker who made me a little boater out of leftover outfitting foam. He carved the little man into an exact replica of one of the hottest boats at the time, and gave him weight to help him paddle better. I instantly loved the new toy. Weeks later we took what was to be a great expedition to run Passage Creek, a steep class III-IV technical run. We loaded the boats, our camping gear, our paddling gear and headed out to Elizabeth Furnace, only to discover that Passage had already peaked and the flow was once again down to a steady crawl. There was no paddling to be had.
So what we did was pull out our little kayaking buddies and played in the creek with them the rest of the weekend. Standing shin deep, cheering and laughing at the toys as they ran what we couldn't. It was such simple fun. Vicarious paddling at 3 inches tall. Now whenever I see a little creek I think about that trip and that toy and how he'd run it and I smile.
Too many days make me wish I could do more than vicarious paddling, but sitting by that creek today I was thankful that I simply am. God has granted me a deep love for water and I must be restful in the fact that there is a purpose for that love; that it wasn't for a fleeting moment.
That little boater is wrapped gently in a small box next to my bed. He's moved with me everywhere I've gone. Sometimes I'll pull him out and play with him. I don't know if I'll ever be able to see him go.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
And All But Cry With Colour!
It's nearly 1AM and I am done with work for the day. Whew. Once again the stars are clear and bright here in the cove, and my headlamp did little to even whisper in the ear of the great spectrum. The more I think on it, the more I realize that fall really is my favorite season. I like the feeling of settling in for the long winter, the snuggling of sweaters and wool hats, the ability of mittens to turn the stern into children. Crispness of air and breath, leaf and twig. Pumpkins. Football. Bonfires. The first frost. How the horses get gruff and wintered and feel like comfort.
As I am prone to quote trusty Edna as often as possible, I present my favorite autumnal (not 'autumnly', or 'autumn-ish', JULIE) poem:
As I am prone to quote trusty Edna as often as possible, I present my favorite autumnal (not 'autumnly', or 'autumn-ish', JULIE) poem:
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, world I cannot hold thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart--Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, world I cannot hold thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart--Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
-Edna St.V.Millay 1917
iPod playing an inordinate amount of Elliott Smith tonight.
Earlier it was Ella Fitzgerald--stuck on the E's apparently.
(Liz: I totally stole the idea from you.)
iPod playing an inordinate amount of Elliott Smith tonight.
Earlier it was Ella Fitzgerald--stuck on the E's apparently.
(Liz: I totally stole the idea from you.)
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Pretty in Pink
Ok, I have a confession:
I haven't had much to say lately. This fact is probably evident in that yesterday I posted a video montage about the Pink and Green Power Rangers to the tune of Bjork's "Oh So Quiet."
Clearly, not a whole lot going on up in cha.
Or something.
But with the new lappy I made a commitment to write more (or at least look like I'm writing more), ergo another post. Buck up, kiddies. I write for meself.
This week they started the ground-breaking for the new assigned staff housing, which is going to be located RIGHT outside my bedroom window. Like if my window could open, I could punch the backhoe.
With this construction comes a lack of flowing water during the day, disconnection of regular phone service, no more parking spots, loud equipment, loud construction men, etc.
But it's been a hoot to watch.
Groundbreaking was on Monday; we had spray-painted gold shovels to pose with. It was a cold, grey, windy day, but we had our shovels, so pose we did. I'm sure we look really happy in the photos. With all the construction, the conversations over the camp radio system have been lively, like, "Umm...Pete? I think we hit the sewer line." etc. At one point I looked out the window and saw the guys driving the big shovel (technical term: an "excavator") around the horse pasture, in what I can only assume was an exorcise in shits and giggles. It's like boys and Tonka trucks, only these are a little bigger. And then one of the women in the office was in charge of buying the hard helmets for the project, and in the mail on Tuesday, four pretty pink hard hats were delivered. The white YL stickers were added to the front of them later. The women in the office were just wearing them around, giggling. I don't think the construction guys will go for the pink hard hats, but we'll see. They do have a turquoise mini-shovel, so maybe they'll be open.
This post is officially dedicated to Caroline McGlade, who is now a loyal reader. She's totally seen the pretty pink helmets, if you have any questions you should just ask her.
I haven't had much to say lately. This fact is probably evident in that yesterday I posted a video montage about the Pink and Green Power Rangers to the tune of Bjork's "Oh So Quiet."
Clearly, not a whole lot going on up in cha.
Or something.
But with the new lappy I made a commitment to write more (or at least look like I'm writing more), ergo another post. Buck up, kiddies. I write for meself.
This week they started the ground-breaking for the new assigned staff housing, which is going to be located RIGHT outside my bedroom window. Like if my window could open, I could punch the backhoe.
With this construction comes a lack of flowing water during the day, disconnection of regular phone service, no more parking spots, loud equipment, loud construction men, etc.
But it's been a hoot to watch.
Groundbreaking was on Monday; we had spray-painted gold shovels to pose with. It was a cold, grey, windy day, but we had our shovels, so pose we did. I'm sure we look really happy in the photos. With all the construction, the conversations over the camp radio system have been lively, like, "Umm...Pete? I think we hit the sewer line." etc. At one point I looked out the window and saw the guys driving the big shovel (technical term: an "excavator") around the horse pasture, in what I can only assume was an exorcise in shits and giggles. It's like boys and Tonka trucks, only these are a little bigger. And then one of the women in the office was in charge of buying the hard helmets for the project, and in the mail on Tuesday, four pretty pink hard hats were delivered. The white YL stickers were added to the front of them later. The women in the office were just wearing them around, giggling. I don't think the construction guys will go for the pink hard hats, but we'll see. They do have a turquoise mini-shovel, so maybe they'll be open.
This post is officially dedicated to Caroline McGlade, who is now a loyal reader. She's totally seen the pretty pink helmets, if you have any questions you should just ask her.
Pink + Green 4 Eva
Ok anyone who can combine The original Mighty Morphin Power Rangers and Bjork (or Ani DiFranco) into a video montage deserves credit.
Or heavy medication.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Temporal Lobe
The word secular comes from the Late Latin word saecularis, meaning temporal, or now.
I find it confounding, then, how in our use the word secular is so often seen only as the opposite of sacred and has little or nothing to do with time. We, as a culture, use the word secular as an almost derogatory term, as if it implies Satan worship, or at the very least, voting Democrat (sorry, necessary jab at the GOP's "Us vs. Them" rhetoric). Secular music vs. Christian Music (picture Ice T's "Cop Killa" vs. Michael W. Smith's "Friends are Friends Forever"), Secular Reading vs. Christian Reading (picture Das Kapital vs. any Max Lucado). Really?
Secular is essentially the same idea that Jonathan Larson presented in "Rent": No Day But Today. But the word usually doesn't sing quite so many songs.
I'd like to believe that the distinction isn't between secular and Christian, but rather between the temporary and the long-lasting. That what happens today is so important, because it is fed on yesterday and feeds tomorrow. So the secular is not "unGodly", it is simply a narrower focus. Taken alone, either way of thinking is damaging. Giving no thought for today, or giving no thought for tomorrow, regardless of spiritual belief. It is in the balance of the sacred and the secular, the temporal and the eternal where living must lie.
(Another thought: How much more powerful that definition of secular makes the thought of sacred!)
Sidebar: I'm currently reading Rob Bell's Velvet Elvis (blah), Jared Diamond's Why is Sex Fun? and doing Beth Moore's "Jesus: the One and Only" bible study, and listening to a seminar on marriage by Dr. Tim Keller from Redeemer Presbyterian in NYC. Let me tell you, its been quite the mix. So in a day I'll learn about pop culture and religion, why women have evolved to have concealed ovulation (instead of getting bright red asses like baboons), John the Baptists' mom and how its easy to fall out of like with someone you are in love with. Whew.
I find it confounding, then, how in our use the word secular is so often seen only as the opposite of sacred and has little or nothing to do with time. We, as a culture, use the word secular as an almost derogatory term, as if it implies Satan worship, or at the very least, voting Democrat (sorry, necessary jab at the GOP's "Us vs. Them" rhetoric). Secular music vs. Christian Music (picture Ice T's "Cop Killa" vs. Michael W. Smith's "Friends are Friends Forever"), Secular Reading vs. Christian Reading (picture Das Kapital vs. any Max Lucado). Really?
Secular is essentially the same idea that Jonathan Larson presented in "Rent": No Day But Today. But the word usually doesn't sing quite so many songs.
I'd like to believe that the distinction isn't between secular and Christian, but rather between the temporary and the long-lasting. That what happens today is so important, because it is fed on yesterday and feeds tomorrow. So the secular is not "unGodly", it is simply a narrower focus. Taken alone, either way of thinking is damaging. Giving no thought for today, or giving no thought for tomorrow, regardless of spiritual belief. It is in the balance of the sacred and the secular, the temporal and the eternal where living must lie.
(Another thought: How much more powerful that definition of secular makes the thought of sacred!)
Sidebar: I'm currently reading Rob Bell's Velvet Elvis (blah), Jared Diamond's Why is Sex Fun? and doing Beth Moore's "Jesus: the One and Only" bible study, and listening to a seminar on marriage by Dr. Tim Keller from Redeemer Presbyterian in NYC. Let me tell you, its been quite the mix. So in a day I'll learn about pop culture and religion, why women have evolved to have concealed ovulation (instead of getting bright red asses like baboons), John the Baptists' mom and how its easy to fall out of like with someone you are in love with. Whew.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Taking the Plunge
Had to work this morning, came home and read for a bit. I looked outside at about 3 and said, "What the heck am I doing inside!?" so I changed and headed out to see the elusive Pioneer Plunge, a primitive camp owned by Windy Gap and located up the valley by about a mile and a half. As requested, I'm posting more photos. Enough with all this "words" crap.
.
A slide on Flat Creek, along the trail to Pioneer Plunge. This is at the site for trail breakfast; in the summer, select cabins take an early morning horseback ride to the site, where summer staff makes them breakfast.
The Plunge lodge, looking at the camper cabins. It was my first trip to up to Plunge and definately won't be my last. Wow.
Playing with the camera on the trail back down. What a perfect day for a hike.
.A slide on Flat Creek, along the trail to Pioneer Plunge. This is at the site for trail breakfast; in the summer, select cabins take an early morning horseback ride to the site, where summer staff makes them breakfast.
The Plunge lodge, looking at the camper cabins. It was my first trip to up to Plunge and definately won't be my last. Wow.
Playing with the camera on the trail back down. What a perfect day for a hike.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
The Profundity of Absurdity
There is a great point to pointlessness, no?
Guilty pleasures, costumes, stupid human tricks, the infamous "unromantic dictionary"--all are totally worthless in the great weight that tends to be living, but without them I am certain that thoughts alone would crush me. I need silliness. I need people to be goofy.
Today my coworker, Hampton, grabbed a York peppermint patty out of one of our numerous candy jars and then leapt up onto the arm of our couch and reenacted an old commercial. It was unplanned. It was unexpected. It was not gentlemanly.
What it was, though, was friggin' hilarious.
In the now-classic Monty Python movie, "And Now For Something Completely Different" there is an Army General who continually interrupts skits to tell them, "Stop that! It's silly!" All too often, his is the voice I hear in my head while I am busy wearing something on my head (as most know I am prone to do. There is something Freudian about this, I can assure you) or singing too loudly, or whatever it is that I'm doing. But I can't help it; I need to be silly.
As a generation, we've had so many more outlets for absurd humor and I think it's helped us. Just take a look at Youtube.com or myspace pages, The Daily Show, Conan O'Brian or Dave Sedaris. We have the means to boldly show the creative ways we entertain, and our methodology has evolved in turn. Pain, disappointment, frustration, doubt, insecurities--all can be expressed safely in humor, in placing them in public and having the audience identify and laugh with you.
I have no neat conclusion, I have nothing but thoughts on this. Well, I have some rather silly hats too.
Guilty pleasures, costumes, stupid human tricks, the infamous "unromantic dictionary"--all are totally worthless in the great weight that tends to be living, but without them I am certain that thoughts alone would crush me. I need silliness. I need people to be goofy.
Today my coworker, Hampton, grabbed a York peppermint patty out of one of our numerous candy jars and then leapt up onto the arm of our couch and reenacted an old commercial. It was unplanned. It was unexpected. It was not gentlemanly.
What it was, though, was friggin' hilarious.
In the now-classic Monty Python movie, "And Now For Something Completely Different" there is an Army General who continually interrupts skits to tell them, "Stop that! It's silly!" All too often, his is the voice I hear in my head while I am busy wearing something on my head (as most know I am prone to do. There is something Freudian about this, I can assure you) or singing too loudly, or whatever it is that I'm doing. But I can't help it; I need to be silly.
As a generation, we've had so many more outlets for absurd humor and I think it's helped us. Just take a look at Youtube.com or myspace pages, The Daily Show, Conan O'Brian or Dave Sedaris. We have the means to boldly show the creative ways we entertain, and our methodology has evolved in turn. Pain, disappointment, frustration, doubt, insecurities--all can be expressed safely in humor, in placing them in public and having the audience identify and laugh with you.
I have no neat conclusion, I have nothing but thoughts on this. Well, I have some rather silly hats too.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Buggy
I noticed I go through phases: sometimes all I can say is what is happening, others all I can see is what I'm thinking. I can't seem to balance out the two.
Indian summer visited today--I don't know if that's kosher, like I should call it "Native American Summer" or something like "Faux summer" to be non-ethnic specific--but f it, that's all ridiculous. Anyway, whatever it is called, it came to visit today. It came cloudless, bright, almost 80, with peak weekend only three days away. I couldn't imagine the cove more beautiful.
But for some strange reason the whole camp was INVADED by what I can only assume is the first plague of the Weaverville apocalypse: ladybugs.
And I don't mean just ladybugs, I mean them and their manbugs, and grandmabugs and all of 'em. Thousands upon thousands of ladybugs, flying pell mell into walls, windows, faces, clothing, golf carts. Everywhere I looked the sky was just flowing and flying. I figure if ever there was a bug to stage an invasion, my vote would be on ladybugs. I was standing upstairs in one of the cabins looking out the window, watching the swarms coat the glass with their ruddy shells, wondering what caused the swarm. It then dawned on me that for once I liked not knowing; I liked the mystery and seeming randomness of their actions. For all I know it was magic and just for tonight I'll accept that answer.
Indian summer visited today--I don't know if that's kosher, like I should call it "Native American Summer" or something like "Faux summer" to be non-ethnic specific--but f it, that's all ridiculous. Anyway, whatever it is called, it came to visit today. It came cloudless, bright, almost 80, with peak weekend only three days away. I couldn't imagine the cove more beautiful.
But for some strange reason the whole camp was INVADED by what I can only assume is the first plague of the Weaverville apocalypse: ladybugs.
And I don't mean just ladybugs, I mean them and their manbugs, and grandmabugs and all of 'em. Thousands upon thousands of ladybugs, flying pell mell into walls, windows, faces, clothing, golf carts. Everywhere I looked the sky was just flowing and flying. I figure if ever there was a bug to stage an invasion, my vote would be on ladybugs. I was standing upstairs in one of the cabins looking out the window, watching the swarms coat the glass with their ruddy shells, wondering what caused the swarm. It then dawned on me that for once I liked not knowing; I liked the mystery and seeming randomness of their actions. For all I know it was magic and just for tonight I'll accept that answer.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Four Acts
(1) I have spent most of my life trying to separate myself from my family; making up ways that I was different from them. Now I catch myself explaining who I am based on my family. I am a nerd, "you should meet my parents." I'm skinny, "you should see my brother," I read a lot. "My parents raised me that way." I use the very people I tried so hard to be distinct from to validate or explain the best and worst qualities of me. Finally realizing the truth: I come from imperfect people. I am one.
(2) I spend most of my day alone and I'm realizing more and more that being by myself is like smoking by the gas pump--something is bound to blow up sooner or later. It is not a good thing. I am dangerous with silence. That's why God invented the iPod. (Stuck on the following songs: "The Crane Wife 3" by Decemberists, "Wrecking Ball" by Gillian Welch, "Jolene" by The Weepies, "Pretty Dress" by Rosie Thomas--lots of slower, thinking songs. Does not bode well.)
(3) Also realized that I like to sing. A lot. First noticed this when I lived with Beth in the DDH, now confirmed here in the 'Grove. I like to just fill the space with song. It's my perpetual battle with silence.
(4) All day I felt the great need to sob. No idea why, or about what, or even when, but the tears were there, simmering in a stew of thoughts, memories, sins and missteps. I never cried. Couldn't do it. I can't tell if the need is still there.
(2) I spend most of my day alone and I'm realizing more and more that being by myself is like smoking by the gas pump--something is bound to blow up sooner or later. It is not a good thing. I am dangerous with silence. That's why God invented the iPod. (Stuck on the following songs: "The Crane Wife 3" by Decemberists, "Wrecking Ball" by Gillian Welch, "Jolene" by The Weepies, "Pretty Dress" by Rosie Thomas--lots of slower, thinking songs. Does not bode well.)
(3) Also realized that I like to sing. A lot. First noticed this when I lived with Beth in the DDH, now confirmed here in the 'Grove. I like to just fill the space with song. It's my perpetual battle with silence.
(4) All day I felt the great need to sob. No idea why, or about what, or even when, but the tears were there, simmering in a stew of thoughts, memories, sins and missteps. I never cried. Couldn't do it. I can't tell if the need is still there.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
I Could Go Crazy on a Night Like Tonight
Tonight walking from my car to my house I looked up at the moonless night sky.
The milky way was clear and bright, stretching beyond the sides of the cove as if this space were merely a pause.
Over to the east, Orion was rising.
I smiled to see him return.
Fall is here.
The milky way was clear and bright, stretching beyond the sides of the cove as if this space were merely a pause.
Over to the east, Orion was rising.
I smiled to see him return.
Fall is here.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Fair Fight
I really love the metaphor of wrestling with a problem.
Problems are not neat, they are not confined by a set start or stop, by boundaries, by rules of fair play. They no no Queensbury Rules. Problems are a bar fight and everything in arms reach can and will be used as a weapon. A struggle is a struggle because it grabs you around the waist and tries to drag you down with it. A struggle will punch you in the gut when you're thinking you have it confined in a head lock.
I like that image of grappling with the less than glamorous sides of life; that the best and worst of us hardly coexist peacefully.
I'm learning to realize that the wrestling matches in my life don't follow my timeline.
Nor do they define me.
Problems are not neat, they are not confined by a set start or stop, by boundaries, by rules of fair play. They no no Queensbury Rules. Problems are a bar fight and everything in arms reach can and will be used as a weapon. A struggle is a struggle because it grabs you around the waist and tries to drag you down with it. A struggle will punch you in the gut when you're thinking you have it confined in a head lock.
I like that image of grappling with the less than glamorous sides of life; that the best and worst of us hardly coexist peacefully.
I'm learning to realize that the wrestling matches in my life don't follow my timeline.
Nor do they define me.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Quarter? Hoarse.
For some reason lately I've been thinking about the phrase "acting your age" because I feel like I don't. But then of course, I have no idea what that even means. I'm 25; how should I act?
I want to be eager to laugh, but I don't want to be that annoying giggly girl.
I want to know what I'll take and what I won't tolerate, while still being open and relaxed.
My sense of humor is slightly dirty and full of sarcasm and puns; I know this and I think it's fine. Yes I still giggle at the word "pianist" but come on, it's funny.
Is there something else I'm supposed to be doing besides paying my bills on time and sending cards for family birthdays? My mom and both my sisters were married at my age (we can scratch that off the list of things to do today) and two of them already had kids (plural).
Next summer the three of us year-long interns are supposed to move in with the summer interns and I have to say I'm less than thrilled, since most of them are going to be college sophomores or around there. That's when I feel my age, when I'm around current college students and I can no longer relate to them; I feel like a chaperone rather than a peer. Ever notice that everything is so exciting and AMAZING and THE GREATEST to some of them? Bugs the crap out of me. It's like living with Smiley Smurf.
For today I wish there was a hot/cold gage to tell me if I'm going on the right track--if my idea of what 25 should look like is way off base, or if I'm just expressing myself within the boundaries of growing up.
(also: decided new dog name for a cute puppy with big eyes and long floppy ears and long fur is Jordan Catalano. Or Danny Zuko. Either would be funny. Not Burt Reynolds funny, but still funny.)
I want to be eager to laugh, but I don't want to be that annoying giggly girl.
I want to know what I'll take and what I won't tolerate, while still being open and relaxed.
My sense of humor is slightly dirty and full of sarcasm and puns; I know this and I think it's fine. Yes I still giggle at the word "pianist" but come on, it's funny.
Is there something else I'm supposed to be doing besides paying my bills on time and sending cards for family birthdays? My mom and both my sisters were married at my age (we can scratch that off the list of things to do today) and two of them already had kids (plural).
Next summer the three of us year-long interns are supposed to move in with the summer interns and I have to say I'm less than thrilled, since most of them are going to be college sophomores or around there. That's when I feel my age, when I'm around current college students and I can no longer relate to them; I feel like a chaperone rather than a peer. Ever notice that everything is so exciting and AMAZING and THE GREATEST to some of them? Bugs the crap out of me. It's like living with Smiley Smurf.
For today I wish there was a hot/cold gage to tell me if I'm going on the right track--if my idea of what 25 should look like is way off base, or if I'm just expressing myself within the boundaries of growing up.
(also: decided new dog name for a cute puppy with big eyes and long floppy ears and long fur is Jordan Catalano. Or Danny Zuko. Either would be funny. Not Burt Reynolds funny, but still funny.)
Monday, October 9, 2006
Hug it Out, Bitch
I took a class in college called "Speech Communications in Organizations" which had little to do with what we actually talked about. I think. Since we weren't allowed to take any notes in the class, I really can't remember what we learned.
One of the only things ever handed out to us was an article about how human babies will essentially whither and die if they are not touched and held. If I remember correctly, there was actually a king in Europe who tested this around the 15th century with infants taken from slaves. The nurses who cared for the children were not allowed to hold them except to feed them, and every child died within two weeks. What a horrible way to test our innate need for touch.
I read an article recently on the topic of health and human touch. We humans need four hugs (or touches) a day for survival, eight hugs a day for maintance and 12 hugs a day for growth.
How much we take touch for granted! Being in a new place with unfamiliar people, I've become acutely aware of this need, and I'm not typically an overly touchy person.
I'm now in a place where I'm not shaking hands with people on a regular basis, getting pats on the back, hugs from friends. I can physically feel the difference.
How strange it is that our personal health is so dependent on the affectionate touches of those around us.
One of the only things ever handed out to us was an article about how human babies will essentially whither and die if they are not touched and held. If I remember correctly, there was actually a king in Europe who tested this around the 15th century with infants taken from slaves. The nurses who cared for the children were not allowed to hold them except to feed them, and every child died within two weeks. What a horrible way to test our innate need for touch.
I read an article recently on the topic of health and human touch. We humans need four hugs (or touches) a day for survival, eight hugs a day for maintance and 12 hugs a day for growth.
How much we take touch for granted! Being in a new place with unfamiliar people, I've become acutely aware of this need, and I'm not typically an overly touchy person.
I'm now in a place where I'm not shaking hands with people on a regular basis, getting pats on the back, hugs from friends. I can physically feel the difference.
How strange it is that our personal health is so dependent on the affectionate touches of those around us.
Thursday, October 5, 2006
Fires and Fists
First thought:
The most interesting thing I saw from the tragedy at the Amish schoolhouse was the general reaction about their lack of anger. I read an article in the London Times (God love the internet) that was befuddled by their desire to not live in their anger. The article seemed to want wrath, wanted there to be vengeful fire and thunder bursting from the lips and fists of the victims' families. What the Amish offered was forgiveness and grief.
Why is that harder to accept than righteous retribution?
Second thought:
This is a truly beautiful country.
The most interesting thing I saw from the tragedy at the Amish schoolhouse was the general reaction about their lack of anger. I read an article in the London Times (God love the internet) that was befuddled by their desire to not live in their anger. The article seemed to want wrath, wanted there to be vengeful fire and thunder bursting from the lips and fists of the victims' families. What the Amish offered was forgiveness and grief.
Why is that harder to accept than righteous retribution?
Second thought:
This is a truly beautiful country.
Sunday, October 1, 2006
My Little Instruction Book on Food
Hey, if you have to smell the milk before you pour it, just throw it out.
Reheated rice is disgusting, so even though it comes in those cute little cardboard cartons, it's for the best if you just leave it.
Honey, he's not in the fridge so stop looking.
Pre-sert: Every good cookie deserves another. Preferably before the meal begins. It's a freedom of adulthood.
Did you buy potatoes? Go check on them, cause when they rot, you just have to burn your house down to get rid of that smell.
Do you really need that many coffee mugs? Who is coming to visit, the VonTrapp family?
Don't buy another cookbook until you've at least tried a recipe out of the ones you already own. They aren't Clash records, they don't make you look cool or cultured. Well, some do.
Slim Jims? Really?
When it comes to buying cheap freezer bags or brand name freezer bags, always go brand name. Your chicken will thank you.
Half-caff coffee is a joke. It's the El Camino of the coffee world.
How come they don't make a 20-something cereal? Like one that doesn't have kid games on the back, but also one that doesn't sell itself as promoting regular bowel movements? A slightly sugar cereal that is sort of good for you, that promotes “Eases hangovers!” or “Good for three meals a day!” “Can be made with water if the milk smells funny!” It has to be tasty enough to compete with Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but look grown up enough to eat dry out of a baggie while riding on the metro. The back can have horoscopes, gossip news, a sudoku puzzle, conversation starters for the person who stayed over last night and you aren't sure why, or serious topics like what exactly is a 401 (k) and what one should look for in a good dental plan.
Buy your honey in the little plastic bears. Good karma.
If your country-themed kitchen decorations were purchased at Pottery Barn, they aren't country. They aren't even original. No one should pay $80 for a worn-looking wooden rooster. Not even you.
Your intentions with those leftovers were probably good, but we both know you won't ever eat it.
Don't buy another kitchen utensil until you can identify what all the ones you already own are supposed to do. Can't do it, can you?
Buy a microwave you elitist jerk.
Things to not buy in bulk: Cottage cheese, mayonnaise. That's it.
Cheap garlic power: death.
Do you really eat enough sushi to justify that whole sushi eating set?
If you need a measurement device to tell you how much a pinch is, you're an idiot.
Have you ever had the dire need to julienne something? Do you even know what that means, cause I sure don't.
1% milk: it's God's way of telling you to make up your damn mind.
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