I won Most Beautiful Costume at my office Halloween party! I was a genie with sparkly jewelry, scarves, etc.
A lot of people have mentioned to me lately that Halloween is their favorite holiday. It seems to have pretty near-universal appeal - kids get to have candy and stay out late, adults get an excuse to wear sexy/silly outfits. I love the autumn flavor, plus it's got all the cool pagan connotations that annoy conservative religious groups. But there's a dark side to Halloween that I just don't like. I know, that's the point. It's edgy. But some people take it too far. I am always nervous, worrying about what awful pranks I'm going to hear about the next day, and always a little relieved when it's over.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
November Resolution
I spend way too much time sitting, and way too much time reading or doing other close-up work. So here's my resolution: I'm going to try going for a walk every day at lunchtime. Maybe it'll break up the day and help me focus better in the afternoon. The only hard part is going to be getting in and out of the building without getting trapped in conversation with the security guard. I will approach it like a spy mission. Maybe I can rappel down the outside of the building - or stage a diversion. Or sneak past him undercover in my mustache and wig.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Fish Out of Water
I went to one of those parties last week. The kind that you're supposed to enjoy, but I never really have. Loud music as soon as you get in the door, tons of people standing around with drinks in their hands, semi-dim lighting. I always feel outclassed and uncool the moment I walk in.
The goal of the evening is to mingle and have good conversations with people. Sometimes you can get into conversation over the snack table, saying, "Ooh, these are really good," (even though they're usually not - you have to pretend enthusiasm) and if you manage to catch anyone's eye you can say, "So how do you know [host]?" You have to lean over and shout in people's ears. Usually I'm hoarse after a few exchanges and everyone says "What?" to everything I say (which is torture if you have to repeat things that were failed attempts to be funny or else just non-sequitors that are going to make even less sense the second time around). After a while my smile feels frozen to my face. I'm in perpetual terror that someone is going to say that line I first heard at a junior high dance, and many times since, "So, are you having a good time?" (Variation: "How come you're not dancing?") It's impossible to answer because if you say eagerly, "Yes!" it's obvious that you're lying, because you were just standing there and how could you have been having a good time standing there by yourself? But if you shrug or say no, the person will think you're some kind of outcast, or say, "Why not?" Because cool people enjoy those parties.
There's nothing to do except drift from room to room, trying to look purposeful like you're trying to find someone in particular, or go back and forth between the snacks and the porch simply because motion is better than scared-rabbit stillness. If you're "circulating," people are less likely to accuse you of not having a good time. Sometimes you can hang out on the periphery of a conversation and try to chime in with a comment, but if they all ignore the comment then that's the signal to move on.
The kind of party I like is much smaller, like 6 people instead of 150, and it takes place in a single warm room with places for everyone to sit. There's a single conversation that roams over lots of different topics, and some kind of joint activity like a board game or a bunch of puppies in the middle of the floor, so you can fill in those moments when you have nothing to say with activity. The activity is vital, it gives purpose, and it gives you something to talk with other people about. The Victorians had the right idea with their parlor games. I wonder why it is that those kinds of parties are out of style now.
The goal of the evening is to mingle and have good conversations with people. Sometimes you can get into conversation over the snack table, saying, "Ooh, these are really good," (even though they're usually not - you have to pretend enthusiasm) and if you manage to catch anyone's eye you can say, "So how do you know [host]?" You have to lean over and shout in people's ears. Usually I'm hoarse after a few exchanges and everyone says "What?" to everything I say (which is torture if you have to repeat things that were failed attempts to be funny or else just non-sequitors that are going to make even less sense the second time around). After a while my smile feels frozen to my face. I'm in perpetual terror that someone is going to say that line I first heard at a junior high dance, and many times since, "So, are you having a good time?" (Variation: "How come you're not dancing?") It's impossible to answer because if you say eagerly, "Yes!" it's obvious that you're lying, because you were just standing there and how could you have been having a good time standing there by yourself? But if you shrug or say no, the person will think you're some kind of outcast, or say, "Why not?" Because cool people enjoy those parties.
There's nothing to do except drift from room to room, trying to look purposeful like you're trying to find someone in particular, or go back and forth between the snacks and the porch simply because motion is better than scared-rabbit stillness. If you're "circulating," people are less likely to accuse you of not having a good time. Sometimes you can hang out on the periphery of a conversation and try to chime in with a comment, but if they all ignore the comment then that's the signal to move on.
The kind of party I like is much smaller, like 6 people instead of 150, and it takes place in a single warm room with places for everyone to sit. There's a single conversation that roams over lots of different topics, and some kind of joint activity like a board game or a bunch of puppies in the middle of the floor, so you can fill in those moments when you have nothing to say with activity. The activity is vital, it gives purpose, and it gives you something to talk with other people about. The Victorians had the right idea with their parlor games. I wonder why it is that those kinds of parties are out of style now.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
A Drama in One Act
Setting: It is rush hour on a weekday morning, on a bus heading downtown. A new bus driver is driving the route while an experienced bus driver sits just behind him at the front of the bus.
Enter stage right: Three angry ladies.
Angry Lady #1: It's about time! We've been waiting, you know.
#2: Do you know why this bus is so late?
Experienced Bus Driver (shrugging, smiling): Ma'am, it's just traffic.
#3: Well I don't understand why the buses can't run on time. Why do we even have a schedule?
#2: Yeah, why?
Bus Driver: Are you serious?
#1: Yes, we're serious. All cities have traffic, New York has traffic, and their buses run on time. Are you-all leaving on time?
Bus Driver (stiffens): Of course we are. We've already ran this route three times this morning, and there's traffic around Lee Circle, you'll see there's a big knot of traffic soon as we get past the intersection with Barder.
#2: Well I think you should do better. I think you need to speak to whoever's in charge and get this straightened out. This is just not acceptable. It is unacceptable.
Bus Driver: I'm sorry you feel that way ma'am.
(Five minutes pass. Some passengers get on, others get off. A man stands up from midway down the bus and walks forward to stand just behind where the women are sitting.)
Man: Excuse me. I hope you three ladies have had a few minutes now to think over what you said and to realize how very rude you were to this man. For you three privileged ladies, living in this city, to get on the bus and jump down his throat, was entirely inappropriate. So I think you should apologize.
#2: We're not going to apologize.
#3: We have a right to complain.
Man: It was rude. And that's not how we do things in this city.
#1: We can have you thrown off the bus, for harassing us!
Man: That's not how you treat people. We are nice to people.
(Goes back to his seat.)
#1: Driver! Driver! This man is harassing us! I want him thrown off.
Bus Driver (laughs): He's not harassing you. He's sitting down.
#2: He's harassing us!
Man: Frig* that! You don't need to be getting up in people's faces like that with that shaz* and you owe him an apology. And if anyone agrees with me, perhaps they could give a signal.
Girl: Um, I didn't see the fight, but that sounds reasonable to me.
Another Man: He's right. You don't need to take it out on him.
#2: I'm not taking it out on him, I'm -
Another Man: It was taken out on him.
(Five minutes pass. A few passengers get on or off. Man leaves by the back door, Bus Driver watches him keenly until he's out of sight. Angry Lady #1 leaves without looking at the driver. A few stops later, Angry Lady #3 gets up to leave.)
#3 (meekly): Thank you.
Bus Driver: You have a good day ma'am.
(Five minutes pass. Angry Lady #2 gets up to leave.)
#2: I'm not trying to make trouble, but I think you do need to speak to someone in charge and get this straightened out. You need to run by the schedule.
Bus Driver: All right ma'am, and you have a good day.
(More people leave. One passenger remains as the bus pulls up to the last stop on the route.)
Bus Driver: How you doing miss?
Erin: I'm good, thanks. I thought you handled that very well.
Bus Driver: Why thank you. Don't you ride the Q14 bus sometimes?
Erin: I do. You remember me?
Driver: Sure do. My name's Brian.
Erin: I'm Erin.
(They shake hands.)
Bus Driver: You know, we do the best we can, to stick to the schedule. We already ran this route three times, so anything that happens in the first route, as far as traffic, it just accumulates by this point.
Erin: I know.
Bus Driver: Plus in rush hour there's always stuff you can't plan for. But we don't like to run late. If we're 15 minutes late, that's coming out of our break time, our time that we had for lunch. So that's why I'm like, are you serious?
Erin: Some people are just in a bad mood in the morning.
Driver: Don't I know it. But you take care now, and I'll see you again real soon.
Erin: Thanks! You have a good day.
(to New Driver)
I thought you did really well.
New Driver: Well bless you. God bless.
(Erin exits stage right. Curtain.)
* Not actually what he said.
So that was my drama for the day. I thought it was pretty funny that the woman actually expected the driver to side with her and throw the guy off the bus, after what she had said to him. Also that she thought by yelling at him she would get him to speak to his supervisor. Even I know that's not how you get people to do things for you.
My theory: The first bus gets slowed down because there's people waiting at every stop. Even if there's no one waiting, on a full bus there's a higher chance someone will want to get off at that stop. The bus that comes after it can go faster, because there are a lot of empty stops it doesn't have to stop at, and it's carrying fewer people. So the first bus gets slowed down, the second gets sped up, and it's natural that they bunch together. The "slinky" effect where there are no buses for a while, then two or three bunched together, is unavoidable. I don't know how they overcome that, even in New York.
I really liked it that the guy stood up and said something. It might not come across in the printed dialogue, but the atmosphere in the bus was extremely tense for a few minutes, they were actually yelling at each other. I felt very uncomfortable and just looked out the window and pretended it wasn't happening until things calmed down. And that's how it often is when you stand up and call attention to something that's wrong. It's very hard to do and very uncomfortable. But it's so necessary. I wanted to applaud that guy for speaking up when no one else did.
Enter stage right: Three angry ladies.
Angry Lady #1: It's about time! We've been waiting, you know.
#2: Do you know why this bus is so late?
Experienced Bus Driver (shrugging, smiling): Ma'am, it's just traffic.
#3: Well I don't understand why the buses can't run on time. Why do we even have a schedule?
#2: Yeah, why?
Bus Driver: Are you serious?
#1: Yes, we're serious. All cities have traffic, New York has traffic, and their buses run on time. Are you-all leaving on time?
Bus Driver (stiffens): Of course we are. We've already ran this route three times this morning, and there's traffic around Lee Circle, you'll see there's a big knot of traffic soon as we get past the intersection with Barder.
#2: Well I think you should do better. I think you need to speak to whoever's in charge and get this straightened out. This is just not acceptable. It is unacceptable.
Bus Driver: I'm sorry you feel that way ma'am.
(Five minutes pass. Some passengers get on, others get off. A man stands up from midway down the bus and walks forward to stand just behind where the women are sitting.)
Man: Excuse me. I hope you three ladies have had a few minutes now to think over what you said and to realize how very rude you were to this man. For you three privileged ladies, living in this city, to get on the bus and jump down his throat, was entirely inappropriate. So I think you should apologize.
#2: We're not going to apologize.
#3: We have a right to complain.
Man: It was rude. And that's not how we do things in this city.
#1: We can have you thrown off the bus, for harassing us!
Man: That's not how you treat people. We are nice to people.
(Goes back to his seat.)
#1: Driver! Driver! This man is harassing us! I want him thrown off.
Bus Driver (laughs): He's not harassing you. He's sitting down.
#2: He's harassing us!
Man: Frig* that! You don't need to be getting up in people's faces like that with that shaz* and you owe him an apology. And if anyone agrees with me, perhaps they could give a signal.
Girl: Um, I didn't see the fight, but that sounds reasonable to me.
Another Man: He's right. You don't need to take it out on him.
#2: I'm not taking it out on him, I'm -
Another Man: It was taken out on him.
(Five minutes pass. A few passengers get on or off. Man leaves by the back door, Bus Driver watches him keenly until he's out of sight. Angry Lady #1 leaves without looking at the driver. A few stops later, Angry Lady #3 gets up to leave.)
#3 (meekly): Thank you.
Bus Driver: You have a good day ma'am.
(Five minutes pass. Angry Lady #2 gets up to leave.)
#2: I'm not trying to make trouble, but I think you do need to speak to someone in charge and get this straightened out. You need to run by the schedule.
Bus Driver: All right ma'am, and you have a good day.
(More people leave. One passenger remains as the bus pulls up to the last stop on the route.)
Bus Driver: How you doing miss?
Erin: I'm good, thanks. I thought you handled that very well.
Bus Driver: Why thank you. Don't you ride the Q14 bus sometimes?
Erin: I do. You remember me?
Driver: Sure do. My name's Brian.
Erin: I'm Erin.
(They shake hands.)
Bus Driver: You know, we do the best we can, to stick to the schedule. We already ran this route three times, so anything that happens in the first route, as far as traffic, it just accumulates by this point.
Erin: I know.
Bus Driver: Plus in rush hour there's always stuff you can't plan for. But we don't like to run late. If we're 15 minutes late, that's coming out of our break time, our time that we had for lunch. So that's why I'm like, are you serious?
Erin: Some people are just in a bad mood in the morning.
Driver: Don't I know it. But you take care now, and I'll see you again real soon.
Erin: Thanks! You have a good day.
(to New Driver)
I thought you did really well.
New Driver: Well bless you. God bless.
(Erin exits stage right. Curtain.)
* Not actually what he said.
So that was my drama for the day. I thought it was pretty funny that the woman actually expected the driver to side with her and throw the guy off the bus, after what she had said to him. Also that she thought by yelling at him she would get him to speak to his supervisor. Even I know that's not how you get people to do things for you.
My theory: The first bus gets slowed down because there's people waiting at every stop. Even if there's no one waiting, on a full bus there's a higher chance someone will want to get off at that stop. The bus that comes after it can go faster, because there are a lot of empty stops it doesn't have to stop at, and it's carrying fewer people. So the first bus gets slowed down, the second gets sped up, and it's natural that they bunch together. The "slinky" effect where there are no buses for a while, then two or three bunched together, is unavoidable. I don't know how they overcome that, even in New York.
I really liked it that the guy stood up and said something. It might not come across in the printed dialogue, but the atmosphere in the bus was extremely tense for a few minutes, they were actually yelling at each other. I felt very uncomfortable and just looked out the window and pretended it wasn't happening until things calmed down. And that's how it often is when you stand up and call attention to something that's wrong. It's very hard to do and very uncomfortable. But it's so necessary. I wanted to applaud that guy for speaking up when no one else did.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Thumbs Up
It's my boy's birthday today! I'm glad I get to share it with him. I gave him a treasure hunt that, judging from perplexed emails throughout the day, has succeeded in at least somewhat stumping him. Now I need to race home because not all the clues are actually in place yet. :)
Last night on my way home from work I bought him some roses. I had stopped by the flower seller earlier in the afternoon and asked him how late he'd be there (he was selling flowers out of a van). He said till 7 and I said, "Wow, that's late. You work hard." He smiled at that. When I went back later, he sold me some roses for a suspiciously low price, then came running after me and gave me a half dozen more. As I was thanking him I mentioned that the flowers were for someone's birthday. He said, pointing at the half-dozen, "No, these are for you." People are so nice sometimes. I went home feeling all warm and glowy about it.
Last night on my way home from work I bought him some roses. I had stopped by the flower seller earlier in the afternoon and asked him how late he'd be there (he was selling flowers out of a van). He said till 7 and I said, "Wow, that's late. You work hard." He smiled at that. When I went back later, he sold me some roses for a suspiciously low price, then came running after me and gave me a half dozen more. As I was thanking him I mentioned that the flowers were for someone's birthday. He said, pointing at the half-dozen, "No, these are for you." People are so nice sometimes. I went home feeling all warm and glowy about it.
Monday, October 24, 2005
29 Years and 363 Days Old
Yesterday was a lovely day. Components included:
Good friends.
Fresh air.
Cliffs rising sheer from a churning river.
Leaves just starting to be tinged with color.
One green heron, flapping upstream.
A bowl of excellent tomato-basil soup.
Yokes, buckets, and other rustic implements hanging from the rafters.
Glow-in-the-dark bowling pins.
Exceptional bowling ability (not mine), as evidenced by a score of 206.
Homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Love, love, love.
I wish every weekend could be as nice.
Good friends.
Fresh air.
Cliffs rising sheer from a churning river.
Leaves just starting to be tinged with color.
One green heron, flapping upstream.
A bowl of excellent tomato-basil soup.
Yokes, buckets, and other rustic implements hanging from the rafters.
Glow-in-the-dark bowling pins.
Exceptional bowling ability (not mine), as evidenced by a score of 206.
Homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Love, love, love.
I wish every weekend could be as nice.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Fresh Beets Are Tasty
Yesterday there was a fiasco in the kitchen involving beets, tupperware, and guinea pigs. In short, the simple task I had set for myself was to prepare a dinner consisting of heated-up pasta/sauce leftovers, veggie burgers, and steamed vegetables. However, the excited squeaking of the guinea pigs in response to hearing the vegetable drawer opened, which rose to an even shriller pitch when they heard tupperware being opened (I keep veggie scraps for them in a tupperware container) caused me to become so distracted that the knife I was using to slice up the beets skidded, and beet juice went flying everywhere. By the time I got the beets into the pot, I had sprayed the wall, countertop, and stovetop with beet juice. Also myself - fortunately I had planned ahead and was wearing my beet-colored top. It looked like I had slaughtered a chicken in the kitchen. Tragically, I then proceeded to burn the beets by adding too little water, turning the gas up to high, and going to talk on the phone. I had to cut the burned edges off each piece of beet. They were still good!
Thursday, October 20, 2005
At a Loss for Words
The conversation with the homeless guy the other night reminded me that I'm really not good at conversations. I didn't know what to say most of the time, so mostly I said, "Mmm," or "Oh," and let him carry the conversation, which he did fairly skillfully. This is also what I do on purpose when trapped into chats with bus drivers, the security guard, etc., hoping that they will find me so boring to talk to that they'll let me go. Sometimes it works.
Conversations are like a tennis match - your job as a participant is to return each comment with enough of a reply to get it over the net at a minimum, maybe with some topspin to keep things interesting. If you just say, "Mmm," that's the equivalent of missing the ball or hitting it into the net, and the other person has to serve again.
Sometimes when I'm watching a well-scripted conversation on TV I think, "There's nothing to say to that, this conversation is going to die," but then the character comes up with something witty and extremely clever and unanswerable, to which the other character then thinks of a reply, and so on. Each time I'm impressed by the "save." It's like watching a tennis match between real pros. I wish I had a script-writer for my life.
Conversations are like a tennis match - your job as a participant is to return each comment with enough of a reply to get it over the net at a minimum, maybe with some topspin to keep things interesting. If you just say, "Mmm," that's the equivalent of missing the ball or hitting it into the net, and the other person has to serve again.
Sometimes when I'm watching a well-scripted conversation on TV I think, "There's nothing to say to that, this conversation is going to die," but then the character comes up with something witty and extremely clever and unanswerable, to which the other character then thinks of a reply, and so on. Each time I'm impressed by the "save." It's like watching a tennis match between real pros. I wish I had a script-writer for my life.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Strangers on a Train
I had an interesting conversation with a guy on the train the other night. He started chatting to me, asking if I was a student, where I was headed, etc. He was homeless and had a cart with him with all his things on it. Most of the homeless guys I've talked to have been unbalanced mentally and a little unsettling to be around. This guy was very with it though, very articulate and intelligent. He told me about the computer class he's taking at the library, and the car accident that shattered his hip (after which he lost his job and could no longer keep up with his rent payments). He told me he got robbed at three separate homeless shelters, so now he prefers to sleep on the street - even through the winter. He had some donuts with him that he was going to give to the two guys who sleep on benches near him - he said they are both mentally ill and can't take care of themselves, so he tries to look out for them and make sure they have some food each night. I felt, as I always do around someone less fortunate than I am, embarrassed by the differences in our circumstances. He didn't ask for money or even sympathy, just talked to me to pass the time on the train, and at his stop wished me goodnight and said "God bless you." I felt afterwards that I should have given him something. $20 is probably worth a lot more to someone who sleeps on a bench than it's worth to me.
Reminds me of Tracy Chapman's song "Why" - you know the one. "Why do the babies starve?/There's enough food to feed the world..." It's a distribution problem, of course. But it's more than that. At the heart of it I think is a human tendency, no matter how rich or successful we are (and thus able to give), to think in the back of our minds that other people need to earn things. Even essentials like food and clothing. Even when circumstances made it impossible for someone to "earn" the same way we did. Even when, given a slight twist of fate, we could be the ones asking. It's humbling to think about.
Reminds me of Tracy Chapman's song "Why" - you know the one. "Why do the babies starve?/There's enough food to feed the world..." It's a distribution problem, of course. But it's more than that. At the heart of it I think is a human tendency, no matter how rich or successful we are (and thus able to give), to think in the back of our minds that other people need to earn things. Even essentials like food and clothing. Even when circumstances made it impossible for someone to "earn" the same way we did. Even when, given a slight twist of fate, we could be the ones asking. It's humbling to think about.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Birthday Cake
It's funny how loving people can sometimes make you so sad.
Yesterday was my brother's birthday, so I went over after work and spent the evening with my folks. We had a nice dinner together and my brother opened his presents. He seemed in good spirits.
It wasn't as big a deal as my birthday was a few months ago, though. For my birthday, my dad planned a big party and invited all my friends over, but he didn't do anything special for my brother. Partly because my parents just got home after being out of town for three weeks. Partly because my dad knows a lot of my friends and has hung out with them and had their contact info, but he doesn't know my brother's friends. Partly I think my dad just doesn't connect as well with my brother as he does with me. I feel weird and guilty about this. I hate favoritism.
My mom picked up the slack a little bit, cooked him a special dinner and had the dining room decorated, and like I said he seemed cheerful. The disparity still made me wince. I would have been happy with a small family party like the one last night, I didn't need a fancy one. I love my brother dearly, and I don't ever want him to feel like he is less important than I am. My dad loves him dearly too. I wanted to tell him these things, but they're not easily put in words. I hope he just knows.
Yesterday was my brother's birthday, so I went over after work and spent the evening with my folks. We had a nice dinner together and my brother opened his presents. He seemed in good spirits.
It wasn't as big a deal as my birthday was a few months ago, though. For my birthday, my dad planned a big party and invited all my friends over, but he didn't do anything special for my brother. Partly because my parents just got home after being out of town for three weeks. Partly because my dad knows a lot of my friends and has hung out with them and had their contact info, but he doesn't know my brother's friends. Partly I think my dad just doesn't connect as well with my brother as he does with me. I feel weird and guilty about this. I hate favoritism.
My mom picked up the slack a little bit, cooked him a special dinner and had the dining room decorated, and like I said he seemed cheerful. The disparity still made me wince. I would have been happy with a small family party like the one last night, I didn't need a fancy one. I love my brother dearly, and I don't ever want him to feel like he is less important than I am. My dad loves him dearly too. I wanted to tell him these things, but they're not easily put in words. I hope he just knows.
Friday, October 14, 2005
The Rescue Effort
http://www.hsus2.org/slideshow-katrina/
made me cry. It's a slideshow of pictures from the animal rescue effort in New Orleans. When I saw the picture of the starving dog on the leash, the tears just spontaneously welled up and spilled over.
Sometimes I think I should work for the Humane Society because animal welfare is a cause I'm truly passionate about. But I'm not sure I have the emotional strength to handle, on a daily basis, cases of animal abuse and neglect. I would go nuts wanting to hunt down and kill whoever was responsible every time an abuse case came in, and wanting to nurture and heal animals who sometimes have suffered so much they can't be healed. It kills me to know about that kind of pain. I think I have to work at something I'm less passionate about, just to keep my head. Is that a cop-out?
made me cry. It's a slideshow of pictures from the animal rescue effort in New Orleans. When I saw the picture of the starving dog on the leash, the tears just spontaneously welled up and spilled over.
Sometimes I think I should work for the Humane Society because animal welfare is a cause I'm truly passionate about. But I'm not sure I have the emotional strength to handle, on a daily basis, cases of animal abuse and neglect. I would go nuts wanting to hunt down and kill whoever was responsible every time an abuse case came in, and wanting to nurture and heal animals who sometimes have suffered so much they can't be healed. It kills me to know about that kind of pain. I think I have to work at something I'm less passionate about, just to keep my head. Is that a cop-out?
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Return of the Rents
Yay! My parents are back from their trip to China. I worried about them while they were gone because it was such a long time, and they were planning to call and email periodically but we didn't hear from them at all. But they're back now and fine, and had a wonderful time.
I always worry when people I love are away on trips. It feels like being hungry - it's an awareness of emptiness. There's something of the ordeal about it too ("just three more days...just two more..."). I feel like if I was with them, I could protect them from whatever fate has in store - the speeding car, the stranger with influenza who is going to cough at the wrong time. Not being there means I'm totally helpless and I just have to trust that they will come home safe.
My mother sounded older on the phone, hoarser than usual. Someday my parents won't be around any more. Thinking about that makes me feel panicky because I can't imagine being OK with that.
I always worry when people I love are away on trips. It feels like being hungry - it's an awareness of emptiness. There's something of the ordeal about it too ("just three more days...just two more..."). I feel like if I was with them, I could protect them from whatever fate has in store - the speeding car, the stranger with influenza who is going to cough at the wrong time. Not being there means I'm totally helpless and I just have to trust that they will come home safe.
My mother sounded older on the phone, hoarser than usual. Someday my parents won't be around any more. Thinking about that makes me feel panicky because I can't imagine being OK with that.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Toe Woes
I wonder what's wrong with my feet. I spent one day last month doing a lot of walking on hard floors in hard-soled shoes that pinch, and that night they ached so badly I could hardly put weight on them. They felt physically broken. That was a while ago and they've gotten better, then worse, then better again. It's mostly my right foot. Sometimes it really hurts across the ball of my foot to have it pressing against anything (like the sole of my shoe), even when I'm just sitting down, so I have to take my shoe off. I was in my socks, incidentally, when I met Bill Nye. I thought for a while I might have broken a bone. But surely someone with a broken foot would not be getting out her seat to jump around. Could bruised metatarsals really take three weeks to heal?
I do know that I excessively pronate, particularly my right foot, and I have the beginnings of a bunion. Which I thought was something only old people got. Maybe I could be in Guinness as the Youngest Bunion Ever.
Anyway, so far I have spent $40 on two pairs of insoles and on a bunion regulator that may be a scam, that I'm supposed to wear at night like a retainer (no, on my foot, silly). It's frustrating not to know what's wrong, and not to see any steady improvement. Sometimes I am glad that my body just goes about its business quietly healing without any direction on my part - I forget to check a cut or scrape for a few days, then look at it and wow! it's all healed up. Other times I wish I had a bit more control over the process - I'd like to just switch to WYSIWYG and see what's wrong and fix it myself.
I do know that I excessively pronate, particularly my right foot, and I have the beginnings of a bunion. Which I thought was something only old people got. Maybe I could be in Guinness as the Youngest Bunion Ever.
Anyway, so far I have spent $40 on two pairs of insoles and on a bunion regulator that may be a scam, that I'm supposed to wear at night like a retainer (no, on my foot, silly). It's frustrating not to know what's wrong, and not to see any steady improvement. Sometimes I am glad that my body just goes about its business quietly healing without any direction on my part - I forget to check a cut or scrape for a few days, then look at it and wow! it's all healed up. Other times I wish I had a bit more control over the process - I'd like to just switch to WYSIWYG and see what's wrong and fix it myself.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Snapshots
Yesterday I felt really happy and in love all day. We met for lunch and when I saw him waiting outside the restaurant, I started running toward him. He was laughing, reaching out his arms to catch me, and he looked so handsome. It was a wonderful moment. I can't imagine growing out of stuff like running to meet him, or holding hands, or tickle fights. It seems like most grown-ups do, but maybe we won't.
Dancing at my friend's wedding was a good moment too. If I ever make a movie, I want the first scene to be a high school-age couple sitting on a wall with lots of other people watching fireworks burst over a lake. The subtitle will be something like July 1972, in italics that fade away after a few seconds, very nostalgic, like they're remembering the ecstatic beginnings of their relationship. The movie could chronicle what's happened to them since. Or, it doesn't have to. Mainly I just want to shoot that first scene. Anyway, so if I make a second movie, I want the opening scene to be slow-motion dancing to "Jump Around". It should be zoomed in and blurry and so slowed-down at first that it's not clear what it is - and no sound to start with. Gradually the colors compose themselves into the shapes of people, and you realize they're jumping in place, and the music fades in, slowed-down and unrecognizable. All the time, the names of the principal actors are appearing over the scene. As the camera reels (a little drunkenly) over the people, who are lit up from behind, it should pause for a few quick in-focus shots of people's faces, hair flying up, laughing. Mainly the face of one guy who is going to be the central character (or at least central to the girl who is the narrator, who is dancing with him and is besotted with him). His hair flies up and he smiles at the camera, and you realize you are looking through her eyes, and in the same moment the visuals speed up to normal speed, and the music comes in loud and normal speed - "So get out your seats and jump around! Jump around!" Similar theme to the first movie, I guess. Still, lots of film-makers make essentially the same movie over and over. John Irving writes the same book over and over. It's what they want to say, their contribution to the world. So that would be mine - the incredible beauty and sort of tearjerky happiness that exists in a relationship snapshot.
Dancing at my friend's wedding was a good moment too. If I ever make a movie, I want the first scene to be a high school-age couple sitting on a wall with lots of other people watching fireworks burst over a lake. The subtitle will be something like July 1972, in italics that fade away after a few seconds, very nostalgic, like they're remembering the ecstatic beginnings of their relationship. The movie could chronicle what's happened to them since. Or, it doesn't have to. Mainly I just want to shoot that first scene. Anyway, so if I make a second movie, I want the opening scene to be slow-motion dancing to "Jump Around". It should be zoomed in and blurry and so slowed-down at first that it's not clear what it is - and no sound to start with. Gradually the colors compose themselves into the shapes of people, and you realize they're jumping in place, and the music fades in, slowed-down and unrecognizable. All the time, the names of the principal actors are appearing over the scene. As the camera reels (a little drunkenly) over the people, who are lit up from behind, it should pause for a few quick in-focus shots of people's faces, hair flying up, laughing. Mainly the face of one guy who is going to be the central character (or at least central to the girl who is the narrator, who is dancing with him and is besotted with him). His hair flies up and he smiles at the camera, and you realize you are looking through her eyes, and in the same moment the visuals speed up to normal speed, and the music comes in loud and normal speed - "So get out your seats and jump around! Jump around!" Similar theme to the first movie, I guess. Still, lots of film-makers make essentially the same movie over and over. John Irving writes the same book over and over. It's what they want to say, their contribution to the world. So that would be mine - the incredible beauty and sort of tearjerky happiness that exists in a relationship snapshot.
Friday, October 07, 2005
The Old Positive Spin Trick
It really is all a matter of perspective. My boss, whose schedule is usually pretty hectic, is facing a hellish week involving a three-day conference with a press meeting sandwiched in Tuesday afternoon, a trip straight from that conference to a board meeting the following day, and an overnight flight to a second conference on Friday, with no turn-around time. She basically has to be "on", poised, together, and ready to speak with coherence and eloquence, for five days straight. I think that kind of stress would kill me. She just laughs and says, "What a nutty week."
And I still remember something my friend said to me last winter, when we were discussing the fact that there is no good way to get to the coffeeshop with the Tuesday poetry night; it was a fifteen-minute walk from the nearest subway station through dark, icy streets. "I enjoy the walk, actually," she said. Hearing her say that turned it from a slog where I constantly questioned how worthwhile the evening would be, into something fresh-air-and-exercisey that I began to enjoy also.
Vesto Slipher is a great name. It is a real name, belonging to an astronomer.
And I still remember something my friend said to me last winter, when we were discussing the fact that there is no good way to get to the coffeeshop with the Tuesday poetry night; it was a fifteen-minute walk from the nearest subway station through dark, icy streets. "I enjoy the walk, actually," she said. Hearing her say that turned it from a slog where I constantly questioned how worthwhile the evening would be, into something fresh-air-and-exercisey that I began to enjoy also.
Vesto Slipher is a great name. It is a real name, belonging to an astronomer.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
A Confession
I don't really like cooking. I'd rather scrub the floor, wash dishes, sweep, reorganize the tupperware cabinet, even clean the guinea pig cage, than cook a meal. On occasion I have come home and cleaned the entire apartment as a procrastination technique, when I was supposed to be making dinner.
I know that lots of other people enjoy cooking, and on the surface there is lots to enjoy about it: the tastes, the textures, the smells, the feeling of crisp clean competence as you slice green pepper on a cutting board. If you're following a recipe, it can be like putting a kit together - mix this, stir that, follow the directions till you reach the magical synergy of ingredients. Then, bonus! You get to eat it!
My theory is that I'm intimidated by the unknown factors in cooking. It's like writing - you never know quite how it will come out, and it takes some creative energy to look at the ingredients in the fridge and figure out a tasty way to combine them. It's a lot easier just to be the editor, washing up afterwards in a predetermined routine.
My alternate theory is that I'm just not sensual enough to appreciate cooking as a pleasure in and of itself. To me, meals are nourishing and necessary, but I'm not really into the subtleties of flavors. All those little greenish-brown spices in the cupboard are the same as far as I'm concerned. So maybe I miss out on the true chef's delight at savoring the cilantro (not dill! heavens, no!) in a particular dish.
My friend, who like me isn't into cooking, and who like me has a boy who is an excellent cook, just lets him do all the cooking. She does all the cleaning up. I wish I could take this route. To me, cooking is twice the chore that cleaning up is, so I think it wouldn't be fair. Besides, it's good to switch around who does what, to build in appreciation of the other person's duties. Besides, if I don't practice I'll never get better.
Last night I made a mushroom and cheese polenta that wasn't bad. This weekend, I will take a stab at dumplings and a coffeecake.
I know that lots of other people enjoy cooking, and on the surface there is lots to enjoy about it: the tastes, the textures, the smells, the feeling of crisp clean competence as you slice green pepper on a cutting board. If you're following a recipe, it can be like putting a kit together - mix this, stir that, follow the directions till you reach the magical synergy of ingredients. Then, bonus! You get to eat it!
My theory is that I'm intimidated by the unknown factors in cooking. It's like writing - you never know quite how it will come out, and it takes some creative energy to look at the ingredients in the fridge and figure out a tasty way to combine them. It's a lot easier just to be the editor, washing up afterwards in a predetermined routine.
My alternate theory is that I'm just not sensual enough to appreciate cooking as a pleasure in and of itself. To me, meals are nourishing and necessary, but I'm not really into the subtleties of flavors. All those little greenish-brown spices in the cupboard are the same as far as I'm concerned. So maybe I miss out on the true chef's delight at savoring the cilantro (not dill! heavens, no!) in a particular dish.
My friend, who like me isn't into cooking, and who like me has a boy who is an excellent cook, just lets him do all the cooking. She does all the cleaning up. I wish I could take this route. To me, cooking is twice the chore that cleaning up is, so I think it wouldn't be fair. Besides, it's good to switch around who does what, to build in appreciation of the other person's duties. Besides, if I don't practice I'll never get better.
Last night I made a mushroom and cheese polenta that wasn't bad. This weekend, I will take a stab at dumplings and a coffeecake.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
My Career Aspirations
Some jobs that I am completely ill-suited for but nevertheless would secretly like to have:
Bike courier. I love the way they know their way around the whole city. They're so slick, weaving in and out of traffic, steering with one hand as they talk into their walkie-talkies. I have a terrible sense of direction and none of the chutzpah required to ride a bike in traffic, so this one is a no-go for me.
Pro hockey player. They're like big playful polar bears, cuffing each other and pawing each other's heads to celebrate a goal. I am totally amazed by their speed and agility on skates. Ever since I was about ten, I had crushes on hockey skaters, even just the guards at the rink.
Backup dancer for Beck. His shows usually involve somebody doing something cool just behind him, like whirling a glowing orange thing on a string in slow circles around their head, or doing jumping-jack/semaphore dancing. Plus, then I'd get to be around Beck, who looks like he is still in high school but is apparently in his thirties. Maybe I could convince him not to be a Scientologist.
Autumn leaf photographer for nature calendars. Think how great it would be if your whole job was to go for walks in beautiful forests. And playing with the different lenses to get the red leaves to look even redder must be fun.
"Calm down" rider - those people who ride calm, relaxed looking horses alongside racehorses after the race, to get them to stop freaking out. The racehorses are jogging along wild-eyed, foaming, trying to chew on the other horses' manes, and the calm horses just ignore them and present a model of togetherness. Any job that makes me look like I'm in control while someone else is flipping out, sounds kind of nice.
Bike courier. I love the way they know their way around the whole city. They're so slick, weaving in and out of traffic, steering with one hand as they talk into their walkie-talkies. I have a terrible sense of direction and none of the chutzpah required to ride a bike in traffic, so this one is a no-go for me.
Pro hockey player. They're like big playful polar bears, cuffing each other and pawing each other's heads to celebrate a goal. I am totally amazed by their speed and agility on skates. Ever since I was about ten, I had crushes on hockey skaters, even just the guards at the rink.
Backup dancer for Beck. His shows usually involve somebody doing something cool just behind him, like whirling a glowing orange thing on a string in slow circles around their head, or doing jumping-jack/semaphore dancing. Plus, then I'd get to be around Beck, who looks like he is still in high school but is apparently in his thirties. Maybe I could convince him not to be a Scientologist.
Autumn leaf photographer for nature calendars. Think how great it would be if your whole job was to go for walks in beautiful forests. And playing with the different lenses to get the red leaves to look even redder must be fun.
"Calm down" rider - those people who ride calm, relaxed looking horses alongside racehorses after the race, to get them to stop freaking out. The racehorses are jogging along wild-eyed, foaming, trying to chew on the other horses' manes, and the calm horses just ignore them and present a model of togetherness. Any job that makes me look like I'm in control while someone else is flipping out, sounds kind of nice.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Roach Wars
I'm at war with the cockroaches in my apartment. They're probably the only beings (except Republicans, ha ha) that I feel willing to kill. Even ants and fruitflies, I don't kill - I just think, what if I was that ant, wouldn't I want a large mammal who has no vested interest in my death to be merciful and leave me alone? I still feel that way about the cockroaches, actually. Especially when I start chasing one, and I can see how hard it's running, trying to get away. It's so sad, killing something that wants so much to live. I wish I could communicate with them and put up a big sign in cockroachese, "Please go away. If I find you here, I'm going to have to kill you. Please just live somewhere else. And don't reproduce so much."
(I guess that's also what a lot of other species on earth would like to say to humanity.)
The only sure way to do it, I've found, is to use your bare hands. If you start casting around for an implement or taking your shoe off, that little thing is going to get away. You have to just pound em the minute you see them. Sometimes with the bigger ones, this is a bit daunting. You can feel the crunchy splatter as your fingers crush through the exoskeleton. There's a fine line between striking as soon as you see one, before you lose your nerve, and going into jungle-cat hunter mode, unblinking, maneuvering to get the right angle and cut off escape routes. I am getting good at it.
But in the end, they will win the war, because they always do. In fact, by killing every roach I see, I'm probably just selecting for a super-powerful roach that will actually be invisible.
(I guess that's also what a lot of other species on earth would like to say to humanity.)
The only sure way to do it, I've found, is to use your bare hands. If you start casting around for an implement or taking your shoe off, that little thing is going to get away. You have to just pound em the minute you see them. Sometimes with the bigger ones, this is a bit daunting. You can feel the crunchy splatter as your fingers crush through the exoskeleton. There's a fine line between striking as soon as you see one, before you lose your nerve, and going into jungle-cat hunter mode, unblinking, maneuvering to get the right angle and cut off escape routes. I am getting good at it.
But in the end, they will win the war, because they always do. In fact, by killing every roach I see, I'm probably just selecting for a super-powerful roach that will actually be invisible.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Yappy Yap
For some reason I keep getting drawn into long conversations with people I know incidentally. I know, for example, all about the problems that the security guard in my building has had teaching his daughter Yvonne to drive, and about the 60th birthday party his wife threw him, and about his volunteer work at the local homeless shelter. I know about the house recently purchased by the janitor, who is also teaching me Spanish, a few words at a time. I know about my bus driver's new kitten, the yoga classes the clerk at the post office is thinking about taking, and my building super's plans for his anniversary with his wife. I know the receptionist is taking the LSAT in two weeks.
I'm not sure how these conversations happen. It's not like this is a small town. It's not like, in most cases, I even try to get into conversations with people. I'm usually hurrying, trying to get somewhere, and get drawn unwillingly into discussion, and am then unable to extricate myself. Mostly with the security guard. I used to feel bad that he has such a boring job, so I introduced myself to him and would always inquire about his weekend or make other small talk if I could. Now he waylays me every time I go in and out of the building, and wants to tell me all about his life! I've been late to meetings, twice, because I couldn't get away - he would just keep talking right over me as I feebly protested, "I have to go!" edging towards the elevators. Now I walk past him as fast as I can so I won't get stuck - twice I've ducked into the elevator calling, "Have a nice day!" over my shoulder, and I can hear that he's talking to me but I keep going anyway. I feel awful about this. I hate being rude to people. Why do I get yapped to so much? It's probably because my social skills are so poor. If I was more skilled, I would know how to gracefully end conversations and get away.
I'm not sure how these conversations happen. It's not like this is a small town. It's not like, in most cases, I even try to get into conversations with people. I'm usually hurrying, trying to get somewhere, and get drawn unwillingly into discussion, and am then unable to extricate myself. Mostly with the security guard. I used to feel bad that he has such a boring job, so I introduced myself to him and would always inquire about his weekend or make other small talk if I could. Now he waylays me every time I go in and out of the building, and wants to tell me all about his life! I've been late to meetings, twice, because I couldn't get away - he would just keep talking right over me as I feebly protested, "I have to go!" edging towards the elevators. Now I walk past him as fast as I can so I won't get stuck - twice I've ducked into the elevator calling, "Have a nice day!" over my shoulder, and I can hear that he's talking to me but I keep going anyway. I feel awful about this. I hate being rude to people. Why do I get yapped to so much? It's probably because my social skills are so poor. If I was more skilled, I would know how to gracefully end conversations and get away.
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