Between Friday night and Sunday night, I finished both my book for last week, Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi, and this week's, Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman. Because I am just that awesome.
It was a compacted week, not because I didn't plan ahead, but because I'm not enjoying the book I was reading, Illusion by Paula Volksy, despite the ringing endorsement by Anne McCaffrey. It's a little too much of a political commentary buried under fantasy; I like some of that and think playing out possible scenarios in a fantasy world can be fascinating, but I feel like I'm being hit on the head with it. Plus I don't like any of the characters, and it's over 600 pages. I may or may not finish.
But Reading Lolita in Tehran... it was everything that I liked about being an English major. It had social commentary, literary analysis, the examination of power structures, all wrapped up in a beautifully written text. I remember having read an article on how liberal Iran had been. It's hard to imagine, both from the viewpoint of our current political climate, in which Iran is constantly posturing against the West and working toward gaining more power through developing a nuclear weapon, and from the humanistic standpoint of putting myself in the place of those who lived through the transition. How does one go from living in an atmosphere where you are free to think, to opine, to teach what you want, say want you want, write what you want, to one in which merely having been associated with the wrong person at any point in your life means that you can be arrested, or blacklisted, or killed?
One of Nafisi's points was that by fighting so hard to control women, the Iranian regime was in fact admitting that those women had the power to destroy the regime: "Does she realize how dangerous she can be when her every stray gesture is a disturbance to public safety? Does she think how vulnerable the Revolutionary Guards are who for over eighteen years have patrolled the streets of Tehran and have had to endure young women like herself and those of other generations, walking, talking, showing a strand of hair just to remind them that they have not converted?" (pg 27)
The fact that many of these battles, these fights for power, occur over control of the female body shows how powerful that body can be, something that despite having written my thesis on it, I still feel needs more exploration. Possibly because I don't quite understand it in this day and age. I mean, as far as ensuring the continuation of the species, having more women than men is important, since one man can. But we are no longer threatened. In fact there are too many of us. Why are women who can dress and think and act however they want so terrifying?
The women in Iran are defined by the state, a state that refuses to see them as individuals with hopes and dreams. Nafisi, in her discussion of Lolita, discusses how Humbert uses Lolita as a prop, a fantasy for him, but never seems to see her as an actual living, thinking human being. While Nafisi refuses to simplify the complicated power structure in Iran by strictly comparing the government to Humbert, she does point the reader to the similarities, as the women struggle to define themselves within a system that has taken away their voices.
But beyond that, the book shows the power of literature. The Iranian population is so tightly controlled; the government censors movies, book, art. But the people in this book escape that. They explore what it means to empathize, how to define morality, how to connect with those who seem to have nothing in common with you. Literature becomes the way that the characters can escape the strict confines of their current life. A weekly book discussion becomes far more than it may seem; it is in fact a rebellion.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Saturday, February 09, 2013
Writing, and Living, Bird by Bird
I've always wanted to be a writer. Well, that's not true. There was an odd period when we were in the Philippines when I was planning on being a dishwasher. (No, I don't remember what I liked about it, or why I fixated on dishwashing. But despite the fact that I now hate washing dishes, some days it still seems like a valid option.)
But then in second grade, my teacher not only gave me special projects (I spent several days once painting a diorama of Amelia Bedelia. It was awesome.), but gave us writing assignments and then, most importantly, told me I was good at it. I'm not surprised. I found my report cards from elementary school, and the military teachers? Kind of in love with me. Reading some of them, I felt like they were close to stealing me away and raising me as their own. Luckily, we were on a military base and that doesn't fly there.
I've always loved being good at stuff. So much so that I have to force myself to do things which I don't have a natural talent for (my foray into ultimate frisbee springs to mind). Being good at stuff is just about tied with being right in the list of things that I love. So my teacher told me I had a talent, which combined with my love of reading, and boom. The problem of what I want to be when I grow up was solved. You know. Until I actually became an adult and realized that writing is hard and making money at it is even harder. You have to be driven and motivated. And so I went into the non-writing world.
Despite that, I still think someday I'd like to write. And so, every once in a while, I read books on writing, despite the fact that I have done no real fiction writing since college. (I do write poetry. Don't judge.) Which leads to this week's book, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I've never actually read any other books by her, and I only have this one because I stole it from my mom. Who actually is the source of most of my "how to write" books.
My favorite parts of the books were less about writing, and more about being human. A. she's crazy. And the more stuff I read by people who are amusing, the more I realize that we are all crazy. And that makes me feel less alone. B. There was a part about how people use work or drugs or life to lull themselves to sleep. To live in a fog. Given how much and how hard I work, and how foggy that can make me feel... it hit a little close to home (ignoring how much my office drinks to deal with the stress).
Ironically, the human parts were also my least favorite; it's a book on writing, stop proselytizing at me. I know Anne's a Christian. Her new book is on faith, and got rave review from my pastor. But. That's not what I'm looking for in a book on writing. I loved Stephen King's On Writing. It equally dealt with humanity, but I didn't feel like I was being lectured to, or more accurately, like there was a subtle hint of "you should be Christian." I'm not sure why that bothers me. It's a non-fiction book and her faith is obviously an important part of her life. Why would she not include it in a book that talks about how she deals with the pressure of being a writer? But still. It annoyed me.
And yet we'll see. Maybe I'll actually start writing again. Maybe I'll just keep blogging (did you know, I apparently used to update it three times a week?). If that's all that it gets me to do, it was worth reading.
But then in second grade, my teacher not only gave me special projects (I spent several days once painting a diorama of Amelia Bedelia. It was awesome.), but gave us writing assignments and then, most importantly, told me I was good at it. I'm not surprised. I found my report cards from elementary school, and the military teachers? Kind of in love with me. Reading some of them, I felt like they were close to stealing me away and raising me as their own. Luckily, we were on a military base and that doesn't fly there.
I've always loved being good at stuff. So much so that I have to force myself to do things which I don't have a natural talent for (my foray into ultimate frisbee springs to mind). Being good at stuff is just about tied with being right in the list of things that I love. So my teacher told me I had a talent, which combined with my love of reading, and boom. The problem of what I want to be when I grow up was solved. You know. Until I actually became an adult and realized that writing is hard and making money at it is even harder. You have to be driven and motivated. And so I went into the non-writing world.
Despite that, I still think someday I'd like to write. And so, every once in a while, I read books on writing, despite the fact that I have done no real fiction writing since college. (I do write poetry. Don't judge.) Which leads to this week's book, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I've never actually read any other books by her, and I only have this one because I stole it from my mom. Who actually is the source of most of my "how to write" books.
My favorite parts of the books were less about writing, and more about being human. A. she's crazy. And the more stuff I read by people who are amusing, the more I realize that we are all crazy. And that makes me feel less alone. B. There was a part about how people use work or drugs or life to lull themselves to sleep. To live in a fog. Given how much and how hard I work, and how foggy that can make me feel... it hit a little close to home (ignoring how much my office drinks to deal with the stress).
Ironically, the human parts were also my least favorite; it's a book on writing, stop proselytizing at me. I know Anne's a Christian. Her new book is on faith, and got rave review from my pastor. But. That's not what I'm looking for in a book on writing. I loved Stephen King's On Writing. It equally dealt with humanity, but I didn't feel like I was being lectured to, or more accurately, like there was a subtle hint of "you should be Christian." I'm not sure why that bothers me. It's a non-fiction book and her faith is obviously an important part of her life. Why would she not include it in a book that talks about how she deals with the pressure of being a writer? But still. It annoyed me.
And yet we'll see. Maybe I'll actually start writing again. Maybe I'll just keep blogging (did you know, I apparently used to update it three times a week?). If that's all that it gets me to do, it was worth reading.
Wednesday, February 06, 2013
Dodging Reality
I finally finished last week's book, Dodger by Terry Pratchett. I love Pratchett so hard. Last year, I spent a few months reading all of Disc World (which I think got better as you go through the series. The first were good; the last were AWESOME).
Though I have to be honest. I enjoyed the book, but I'm not blown away. Maybe I'm looking for something more from the books for the next year, but the only one I've really felt like satisfied me was Pretty Birds. Dodger was good; it had Charles Dickens as a character, and an engaging main character. But shouldn't this be challenging? I mean, reading a lot has never been an insane challenge. Yes, I missed finishing a book for one week, but that just means I didn't have the like five hours finishing a book usually takes. (Yes, I'm bragging. No, I'm not actually exaggerating, although obviously it depends on the length and complexity of the book. And I was knitting a ridiculous pair of direwolf mittens for a coworker, and had very little free time. PS. Those are awesome.)
I want books with a social commentary, not just ones that I can check off a list. I tried with The Light Years. But it was just a narrative about the life of the upper classes before the start of WWI. Which had potential. I mean, I love Downton Abbey, which is essentially the same thing but more full of cheesy drama. But nothing ever happened. There was no real character growth, no change. No message.
So now I must decide. Is a new year's resolution worth spending time reading books that I'm not sure are worth it? Do I spend more time to try and find the best books of the ones I currently own? I kind of wish I'd thought through this earlier. Then I could have prepared a list: "Books you should read." Instead every time I finish a book, I haphazardly dig through my piles and try and find something interesting. Is it worth reading mediocre books for the sake of being able to give them away?
Though I have to be honest. I enjoyed the book, but I'm not blown away. Maybe I'm looking for something more from the books for the next year, but the only one I've really felt like satisfied me was Pretty Birds. Dodger was good; it had Charles Dickens as a character, and an engaging main character. But shouldn't this be challenging? I mean, reading a lot has never been an insane challenge. Yes, I missed finishing a book for one week, but that just means I didn't have the like five hours finishing a book usually takes. (Yes, I'm bragging. No, I'm not actually exaggerating, although obviously it depends on the length and complexity of the book. And I was knitting a ridiculous pair of direwolf mittens for a coworker, and had very little free time. PS. Those are awesome.)
I want books with a social commentary, not just ones that I can check off a list. I tried with The Light Years. But it was just a narrative about the life of the upper classes before the start of WWI. Which had potential. I mean, I love Downton Abbey, which is essentially the same thing but more full of cheesy drama. But nothing ever happened. There was no real character growth, no change. No message.
So now I must decide. Is a new year's resolution worth spending time reading books that I'm not sure are worth it? Do I spend more time to try and find the best books of the ones I currently own? I kind of wish I'd thought through this earlier. Then I could have prepared a list: "Books you should read." Instead every time I finish a book, I haphazardly dig through my piles and try and find something interesting. Is it worth reading mediocre books for the sake of being able to give them away?
Friday, January 18, 2013
Pretty Birds: 3 down, 49 to go
This year, for New Year's, I decided on a new resolution. Rather than make vague promises about what I would like my life to be in the next year, or changes that I would only be able to keep up for a day, a week at most, I decided that I had too many books. Too many that I had been carting around. There are books in my apartment that have been moved 6 times and never read. To change this, I'd read one new book per week, 52 books total.
Some of you may think this isn't a challenge for me. And in some ways, it's not. I love to read, and I do it quickly. I can start a book on Friday night and finish it by noon on Saturday. But I also use it as my escape. I tend to stay away from books that hit too close to the heart; I want to be moved, but not depressed. Satanic Verses, Skinny Legs and All. Even Virginia Woolf's novels. I can be challenged intellectually, but not emotionally.
But. Many of my books don't do that."Funny, but tragic. You'll laugh while you sob." And I have been a coward in avoiding them. My first two books did not challenge me. One was a fluffy romance, so horribly written it gives me hope of ever being published. The second was The Lost Gate by Orson Scott Card. And it was thoroughly enjoyable, but in my usual style.
This week's, though... Pretty Birds follows a young teenage girl in Sarajevo during the Bosnian War. The text shows her and her family learning to cope with the horror, to accept the death of loved ones, of innocents. Most of all to survive.
The thing that hit me hardest about this book (except for the ending, which truly was heart-breaking) is that I remember studying this. I was in elementary school when it was a humanitarian crisis. I remember learning about ethnic cleansing and the numbers of dead. And while I can't blame the 10 year old me for not understanding, not really caring, it makes me sad for both myself and the world. Because how many other atrocities go on today, when I can no longer hide behind innocence and youth? Look at Syria. How many innocents have died there, how many starve and plead? And they are not alone. People in countries around the world are suffering. And yet I still don't know what to do. Does anyone, though?
In the book, the people of Sarajevo mock the United States (although not as much as the UN), mourning the lack of interest. No one cares, no one stops the deaths of innocents.
While the book ends with some hopeful signs, I find myself wondering still. What can and should we be doing? Is it enough to donate money. To try and work in something that has meaning, betters the world? How can we change something that has been happening for centuries?
Some of you may think this isn't a challenge for me. And in some ways, it's not. I love to read, and I do it quickly. I can start a book on Friday night and finish it by noon on Saturday. But I also use it as my escape. I tend to stay away from books that hit too close to the heart; I want to be moved, but not depressed. Satanic Verses, Skinny Legs and All. Even Virginia Woolf's novels. I can be challenged intellectually, but not emotionally.
But. Many of my books don't do that."Funny, but tragic. You'll laugh while you sob." And I have been a coward in avoiding them. My first two books did not challenge me. One was a fluffy romance, so horribly written it gives me hope of ever being published. The second was The Lost Gate by Orson Scott Card. And it was thoroughly enjoyable, but in my usual style.
This week's, though... Pretty Birds follows a young teenage girl in Sarajevo during the Bosnian War. The text shows her and her family learning to cope with the horror, to accept the death of loved ones, of innocents. Most of all to survive.
The thing that hit me hardest about this book (except for the ending, which truly was heart-breaking) is that I remember studying this. I was in elementary school when it was a humanitarian crisis. I remember learning about ethnic cleansing and the numbers of dead. And while I can't blame the 10 year old me for not understanding, not really caring, it makes me sad for both myself and the world. Because how many other atrocities go on today, when I can no longer hide behind innocence and youth? Look at Syria. How many innocents have died there, how many starve and plead? And they are not alone. People in countries around the world are suffering. And yet I still don't know what to do. Does anyone, though?
In the book, the people of Sarajevo mock the United States (although not as much as the UN), mourning the lack of interest. No one cares, no one stops the deaths of innocents.
While the book ends with some hopeful signs, I find myself wondering still. What can and should we be doing? Is it enough to donate money. To try and work in something that has meaning, betters the world? How can we change something that has been happening for centuries?
Monday, December 05, 2011
Magic and Wonder
This Sunday, I went to church. I know, SHOCKING. (On the one hand, I'm joking because, well, I'm Christian and I grew up going to church and I have not given up on these things. On the other, I've been absolutely AWFUL about going lately. I'm working on that.)
The sermon was on, not surprisingly, Christmas. It was interesting; I'd just read the thread on Ravelry about someone telling their stepchild that there was no Santa, and the sermon was on the question, "Have you been good?". In the Rav thread, some people talked about how Santa was awful, a way to force kids to be good by manipulation and an example of how parents lie to their kids. Which made me sad. I don't remember Santa ever being that to me. Santa was... pure magic. Something utterly wonderful that I couldn't and shouldn't understand. I don't remember threats of "If you're not good, Santa won't bring presents." Instead, I remember lying awake, listening as hard as I could for the sleigh bells my beloved babysitter had told me she'd heard (I may have passed this on to kids I babysat). Being so excited I couldn't sleep. Believing that *anything* could happen.
Anyways, so the sermon was on how it should be less about whether or not you'd been good (the children's sermon made the excellent point that everyone was a mix of good and bad), and more about who you follow. We all screw up. Every day I feel like Jiminy Cricket on "Once Upon a Time" (Amazing show, btw. Watch it. WATCH IT NOW.). I see so clearly the person I want to be; and I so often fail. (Dude at teh Christmas party. You were annoying, but I was mean. I'm sorry.) Does that mean Santa (or God) is going to take all my presents away (or smite me)? I hope not. A part of what I believe is forgiveness, and accepting we all fail and we all get back up and try again. And a religion should support that.
And at the bottom of Christmas is love and experiencing the unknowable. And to me, that's what matters about Christmas. It's not that I get presents; one of my favorite parts of Christmas is singing while candles are lit at the Christmas Eve service. It is so beautiful and mystical and beautiful. I tear up every freaking year. I love being with family. I love feeling that peace and calm and joy. I love feeling that magic that, even if I no longer hear sleigh bells, pervades the season.
The sermon was on, not surprisingly, Christmas. It was interesting; I'd just read the thread on Ravelry about someone telling their stepchild that there was no Santa, and the sermon was on the question, "Have you been good?". In the Rav thread, some people talked about how Santa was awful, a way to force kids to be good by manipulation and an example of how parents lie to their kids. Which made me sad. I don't remember Santa ever being that to me. Santa was... pure magic. Something utterly wonderful that I couldn't and shouldn't understand. I don't remember threats of "If you're not good, Santa won't bring presents." Instead, I remember lying awake, listening as hard as I could for the sleigh bells my beloved babysitter had told me she'd heard (I may have passed this on to kids I babysat). Being so excited I couldn't sleep. Believing that *anything* could happen.
Anyways, so the sermon was on how it should be less about whether or not you'd been good (the children's sermon made the excellent point that everyone was a mix of good and bad), and more about who you follow. We all screw up. Every day I feel like Jiminy Cricket on "Once Upon a Time" (Amazing show, btw. Watch it. WATCH IT NOW.). I see so clearly the person I want to be; and I so often fail. (Dude at teh Christmas party. You were annoying, but I was mean. I'm sorry.) Does that mean Santa (or God) is going to take all my presents away (or smite me)? I hope not. A part of what I believe is forgiveness, and accepting we all fail and we all get back up and try again. And a religion should support that.
And at the bottom of Christmas is love and experiencing the unknowable. And to me, that's what matters about Christmas. It's not that I get presents; one of my favorite parts of Christmas is singing while candles are lit at the Christmas Eve service. It is so beautiful and mystical and beautiful. I tear up every freaking year. I love being with family. I love feeling that peace and calm and joy. I love feeling that magic that, even if I no longer hear sleigh bells, pervades the season.
Friday, November 11, 2011
A Day for Corduroy and Dreams?
Let's face it, I'm mainly blogging today because of teh date. It's not the first time; I've been journaling on cool dates for YEARS. Who cares if I have nothing to say! What I was doing on 11/11/11 must be known! Though the whole corduroy thing is a bit ridiculous. "It looks like corduroy, so we're going to declare a day after it." What other fabric gets a day? Well, I know Congress has seersucker day, but that's just because of the freaking heat and humidity here. I want a plaid silk day. I have the perfect skirt, even.
I've become obsessed with Once Upon a Time. I mean, obviously a part of it appeals to my romantic nature, plus the natural desire to hate people. A part of it is figuring out what is going to happen. A part of it is... well, let's just say that I get the feeling of a happily ever after thwarted. And I am NOT implying that X was Charming. I didn't think that when we were dating. But I sometimes feel like everything is just out of reach. If only I were in teh right spot, joined the right group. But beyond that, I *want* to believe. Even if not for me. I'm obsessed with the thought of magic and fairy tales. And a place where things are black and white. I know they aren't. Not in real life. But wouldn't it be nice if bad were obviously evil, and good always won? Plus it's just a damn good show. And it's hard to beat horseback riding and sword fights. Man, I miss horseback riding...
I've become obsessed with Once Upon a Time. I mean, obviously a part of it appeals to my romantic nature, plus the natural desire to hate people. A part of it is figuring out what is going to happen. A part of it is... well, let's just say that I get the feeling of a happily ever after thwarted. And I am NOT implying that X was Charming. I didn't think that when we were dating. But I sometimes feel like everything is just out of reach. If only I were in teh right spot, joined the right group. But beyond that, I *want* to believe. Even if not for me. I'm obsessed with the thought of magic and fairy tales. And a place where things are black and white. I know they aren't. Not in real life. But wouldn't it be nice if bad were obviously evil, and good always won? Plus it's just a damn good show. And it's hard to beat horseback riding and sword fights. Man, I miss horseback riding...
Monday, November 07, 2011
The End of Things
This weekend... was exhausting. On the one hand, it was great. My parents flew up my grandparents and rented a house on the Eastern Shore for my immediate family, and my grandparents. Which was lovely. I love the Eastern Shore. It was so lovely, great weather. I finally won over my niece. Not as much as my dad, but still. It's nice to get smiles as opposed to funny faces and crying.
But on the other hand. Well, first of all, my room was creepy as hell. It was up this crazy staircase, and the first night I hardly slept. There was an antique mirror. It freaked me out. The house creaked and no one was on the same level and the house was built in 1790. I'm just saying. If there were going to be a haunted room, it was this one. By the time we left, I was fine with sleeping up there, but the stairs still made me nervous.
But the saddest thing was realizing that my grandparents are aging. I'm not sure how much longer they are going to be around, especially my grandpa. My grandpa has Parkinsons, and last I saw him, he was doing okay. Better. He's always been a great storyteller, and every once in a while you see a glimpse of that. but... now. You still see glimpses, but he's having a hard time. I think help and maybe a dog would be good.
But I sat there, and I watched him and my grandmas with my niece and nephew, which was oh-so-sweet. And on the one hand, I'm so glad they got that. On the other, I can't help but wonder if I ever get married, if they will even meet my so, much less my kids (again, if I have them). I love my grandparents, and having someone be such a part of my life who doesn't know them... it just makes me a bit sad.
But on the other hand. Well, first of all, my room was creepy as hell. It was up this crazy staircase, and the first night I hardly slept. There was an antique mirror. It freaked me out. The house creaked and no one was on the same level and the house was built in 1790. I'm just saying. If there were going to be a haunted room, it was this one. By the time we left, I was fine with sleeping up there, but the stairs still made me nervous.
But the saddest thing was realizing that my grandparents are aging. I'm not sure how much longer they are going to be around, especially my grandpa. My grandpa has Parkinsons, and last I saw him, he was doing okay. Better. He's always been a great storyteller, and every once in a while you see a glimpse of that. but... now. You still see glimpses, but he's having a hard time. I think help and maybe a dog would be good.
But I sat there, and I watched him and my grandmas with my niece and nephew, which was oh-so-sweet. And on the one hand, I'm so glad they got that. On the other, I can't help but wonder if I ever get married, if they will even meet my so, much less my kids (again, if I have them). I love my grandparents, and having someone be such a part of my life who doesn't know them... it just makes me a bit sad.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
After
Some of my friends posted about their experiences being in New York on 9/11. I know many DC friends have similar memories. It almost feels strange to not have that experience. Despite living in DC for seven years, I can't imagine what I'd do, how I'd react. I can't picture the city shut down, people walking home. The smells, the sounds, the terror of not knowing what happened to people you know and care about. Seeing the gaping holes. People in NY mentioned being afraid of planes, always plotting their trajectory. I can't imagine those in DC. DCA is right outside the city and desperately close to the Pentagon; planes are constantly on the last approach over that area. How unnerving that must have been.
My story is no where near as dramatic. I was a sophomore in college, in the shower getting ready for class when the first plane hit. My mom called nearly immediately, "just to be sure, even though I know nothing happened to you." I had no idea. I hung up with her (they were stuck in Denver trying to get home for several days), and turned on the tv. I sat there, hugging a teddy bear, watching what was happening, seeing the second plane hit and then the towers collapsing. Being shocked and terrified and horrified. And then getting up and going to class, because I didn't know what else to do. We were supposed to have a review for an exam, and that's exactly what we did. Our professor wanted to keep things as normal as possible for us.
There was a strange atmosphere over the whole campus. No one knew how to cope; should things go on as normal, should we take time to grieve? My dorm had a kind of fluff "getting to know the dorm" class; in that one, we colored, which seemed strangely appropriate. I had a paper due the next day on Machiavelli and *The Prince*'s impact on politics. I wrote it that night, trying to ignore what had happened (I got a C+, one of two in my whole college career. The other was my first paper at Oxford, from my tutor who wanted me to be writing at a grad school level, and graded at that level). There were probably 30 vigils. I went to two or three, singing and holding hands with people I'd never seen before, and didn't see after. I lay in bed at night, feeling unsafe, thinking how easily we could be attacked. I remember CSF's banquet the next year, and the sister (a CSF alum) of Todd Beamer came and spoke about her brother.
After, several country singers wrote songs about it. Some are angry, like "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue" by Toby Keith, but my favorite is "Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?" It makes me tear up almost every time I hear it. Things changed for America that day, but I look at how people banded together, and *that* seems like a good thing.
I have other friends who have mentioned that they don't want to look back, they want to look forward. That all the media attention is too much, that the best way to pay tribute is by living. And I get that; every other year, I've done my best to ignore the anniversary. And today, I'm not watching the news, I'm not going to any vigil. I went to the local coffee shop, I went to the farmers market. Life continues.
But I'm a sucker for anniversaries anyways, and this was something that had a profound impact on not only me, but everyone I know.
My story is no where near as dramatic. I was a sophomore in college, in the shower getting ready for class when the first plane hit. My mom called nearly immediately, "just to be sure, even though I know nothing happened to you." I had no idea. I hung up with her (they were stuck in Denver trying to get home for several days), and turned on the tv. I sat there, hugging a teddy bear, watching what was happening, seeing the second plane hit and then the towers collapsing. Being shocked and terrified and horrified. And then getting up and going to class, because I didn't know what else to do. We were supposed to have a review for an exam, and that's exactly what we did. Our professor wanted to keep things as normal as possible for us.
There was a strange atmosphere over the whole campus. No one knew how to cope; should things go on as normal, should we take time to grieve? My dorm had a kind of fluff "getting to know the dorm" class; in that one, we colored, which seemed strangely appropriate. I had a paper due the next day on Machiavelli and *The Prince*'s impact on politics. I wrote it that night, trying to ignore what had happened (I got a C+, one of two in my whole college career. The other was my first paper at Oxford, from my tutor who wanted me to be writing at a grad school level, and graded at that level). There were probably 30 vigils. I went to two or three, singing and holding hands with people I'd never seen before, and didn't see after. I lay in bed at night, feeling unsafe, thinking how easily we could be attacked. I remember CSF's banquet the next year, and the sister (a CSF alum) of Todd Beamer came and spoke about her brother.
After, several country singers wrote songs about it. Some are angry, like "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue" by Toby Keith, but my favorite is "Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?" It makes me tear up almost every time I hear it. Things changed for America that day, but I look at how people banded together, and *that* seems like a good thing.
I have other friends who have mentioned that they don't want to look back, they want to look forward. That all the media attention is too much, that the best way to pay tribute is by living. And I get that; every other year, I've done my best to ignore the anniversary. And today, I'm not watching the news, I'm not going to any vigil. I went to the local coffee shop, I went to the farmers market. Life continues.
But I'm a sucker for anniversaries anyways, and this was something that had a profound impact on not only me, but everyone I know.
Monday, August 08, 2011
The Seinfeld of Blogposts
Welcome back to my blog. I know you have missed it dearly. It changed appearances a bit while you were gone; I'm going to change the background pic to one I took in Wales, but I'd have to bend over to plug in my media drive and it's too hot. Also, I'm feeling random, so I am declaring this to be the post of random snippets I thought about blogging on but didn't.
I love Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day. I don't know why. I find it so soothing. It's like the perfect combination of romance and calm and Britishness. It's like Chicago, but without all the killing.
I was going to go into drama here. Then I was going to go into some stuff about my own two-year-old drama (It's a toddler!) that I recently found out and was hurt by. But really. It's exhausting and I'm tired and really who the hell cares. Especially after three days of nothing but talk about it.
So lately. I started a new job. I am overly paranoid about everything involved, mainly because of my old job. Bought too much yarn. Went to my friend's wedding. She had a plan that nearly worked, but I am giving up hope on it now.
Every once in a while, I get emails from OKCupid with the title, "someone chose you!" I find them insulting. It's like they're surprised. "NO, we can't believe it EITHER." You know what, OKCupid? Screw you.
I was also going to blog about a piece on NPR on size issues (It was really good). I was then going to tie it into an article on Rosario Dawson and how she was deeply disturbed by getting comments about how good she looked when she was losing weight so she could play Mimi, a crack addict dying of AIDS, in Rent.
Or I could blog about the sad state of the world right now. (Seriously. SO glad I'm not planning on retiring. You know, ever. Alternate plan, marry rich.) It's not like I can even pretend like it's not happening, what with being surrounded by it at work. We occasionally meet to just shake our heads in shock.
I love Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day. I don't know why. I find it so soothing. It's like the perfect combination of romance and calm and Britishness. It's like Chicago, but without all the killing.
I was going to go into drama here. Then I was going to go into some stuff about my own two-year-old drama (It's a toddler!) that I recently found out and was hurt by. But really. It's exhausting and I'm tired and really who the hell cares. Especially after three days of nothing but talk about it.
So lately. I started a new job. I am overly paranoid about everything involved, mainly because of my old job. Bought too much yarn. Went to my friend's wedding. She had a plan that nearly worked, but I am giving up hope on it now.
Every once in a while, I get emails from OKCupid with the title, "someone chose you!" I find them insulting. It's like they're surprised. "NO, we can't believe it EITHER." You know what, OKCupid? Screw you.
I was also going to blog about a piece on NPR on size issues (It was really good). I was then going to tie it into an article on Rosario Dawson and how she was deeply disturbed by getting comments about how good she looked when she was losing weight so she could play Mimi, a crack addict dying of AIDS, in Rent.
Or I could blog about the sad state of the world right now. (Seriously. SO glad I'm not planning on retiring. You know, ever. Alternate plan, marry rich.) It's not like I can even pretend like it's not happening, what with being surrounded by it at work. We occasionally meet to just shake our heads in shock.
Friday, April 22, 2011
A Mourning.
Between watching the episode where Angel breaks up with Buffy and the time of year, I'm feeling a bit maudlin. See, while the X and I didn't break up until August, we had a close call before. I now think of this as the beginning of the end. It was the Wednesday before Maundy Thursday, and X tried to break up with me. While this time, he didn't tell me that he couldn't see a future with me, he did go through the motions. And I went along, for 24 hours. That day was one of the worst of my life. I don't know that I have ever hurt so much. I walked to work and thought of throwing myself in front of buses. Then I went to church that night. I walked in and felt... calm. Peaceful. Like I was supposed to be with X, and that it would all work out. So after the service, I called and went over to his place and fought to stay with him.
I wonder if he expected the same thing when we actually broke up, that I would fight. But see, after the Maundy Thursday event, I spent so much energy. I worked HARD to keep us together, fought with everything I had. Whereas he... He did nothing. he shut me out, pushed me away. I think he wanted me to fight for him, but wasn't willing to put forth any effort of his own. I'm not saying I was the perfect girlfriend; I have my own baggage, I have my own childish needs that I try to push forward. I hadn't treated him well before the first close-call. I took out the fact that I hated my job on him for a while. But after? After I did everything I could think of, only to be continually shut down.
So this Good Friday I mourn. Not for our relationship; I'm over that. If I never see him again, I'll be happy. But I mourn for all the torment I put myself through. I mourn the scars that I might have avoided if I'd just let him go then. I mourn the issues that he made worse, the extreme self-doubt that I have. And I blame him.
I wonder if he expected the same thing when we actually broke up, that I would fight. But see, after the Maundy Thursday event, I spent so much energy. I worked HARD to keep us together, fought with everything I had. Whereas he... He did nothing. he shut me out, pushed me away. I think he wanted me to fight for him, but wasn't willing to put forth any effort of his own. I'm not saying I was the perfect girlfriend; I have my own baggage, I have my own childish needs that I try to push forward. I hadn't treated him well before the first close-call. I took out the fact that I hated my job on him for a while. But after? After I did everything I could think of, only to be continually shut down.
So this Good Friday I mourn. Not for our relationship; I'm over that. If I never see him again, I'll be happy. But I mourn for all the torment I put myself through. I mourn the scars that I might have avoided if I'd just let him go then. I mourn the issues that he made worse, the extreme self-doubt that I have. And I blame him.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Family et al.
I was looking at some drafts of blog posts, and one was written the day before my niece and nephew were born. BIG SIGH. Which, of course, was after the last time I wrote. So for those of you not on Facebook (and let me tell you, you're missing out. I'm hilarious over there.), I became an aunt in mid-October. I love being an aunt. I love being a local aunt even more, though I have got to time my visits more so I'm not there at dinner. The babies are adorable, and I heart them muchly. I can't wait to see what they become. Right now, my niece smiles every time you catch her eye, which is so freaking cute. That is, of course, when she's not screaming. My nephew sits there and makes funny faces at everyone. I swear, he's got the whole doomed chipmunk look down pat.
Anyways, I have been driven back to blogging by my friend Mandy, who blogs here nearly daily and makes me feel ashamed of myself and my total lack of blogging. She writes heart-wrenching, bared-soul truths. I wish I had that courage; I don't.
Though in all honesty, I have never known the trauma she's had to go through. The more people I know, the more of an anomaly I realize my family is. Loving and supportive and nice. Not perfect. Not perfect at all. But I see some of my friends and how their parents and other family members tear them down or wear them down, and I think of my own family, my own parents who unfailingly support me? And I know that's a support that many of my friends lack.
Not that I haven't needed that support lately. It's ridiculous how little able I am to cope with stress, but I can't. And there have been a couple of things in my life that I am not cool with. I'm working on changing them, but it's hard. And once I've hit a point where I know a situation is not healthy, I have a really hard time dealing with it until I can easily leave.
Anyways, I have been driven back to blogging by my friend Mandy, who blogs here nearly daily and makes me feel ashamed of myself and my total lack of blogging. She writes heart-wrenching, bared-soul truths. I wish I had that courage; I don't.
Though in all honesty, I have never known the trauma she's had to go through. The more people I know, the more of an anomaly I realize my family is. Loving and supportive and nice. Not perfect. Not perfect at all. But I see some of my friends and how their parents and other family members tear them down or wear them down, and I think of my own family, my own parents who unfailingly support me? And I know that's a support that many of my friends lack.
Not that I haven't needed that support lately. It's ridiculous how little able I am to cope with stress, but I can't. And there have been a couple of things in my life that I am not cool with. I'm working on changing them, but it's hard. And once I've hit a point where I know a situation is not healthy, I have a really hard time dealing with it until I can easily leave.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Frustration, or Why I Hate People
I've been really frustrated lately, somewhat unfairly at people. I'm under stress at work, my roommate is never ever going to move out, leaving me with the options of allowing Stephie to do something horrible, to sell her and her unborn baby into white slavery, or (what I'm actually doing) keeping my mouth shut and trying to deal until she moves out in January. I know, I know. I said she wasn't ever moving out, but she was supposed to be out at the beginning of this month. Then it was November. Now it's January. And she's passive-aggressive about everything, refuses to acknowledge that this is any kind of inconvenience, and hasn't bought toilet paper since January. She's also using my salt. I realize these may be small and petty things, but they add up to me not liking her (along with some other stuff), and living with people I don't like, even if they are only in town a few days a week, stresses me the hell out.
But she's not the only one I'm frustrated at. I see so many people who say "I want x," but they act like they want y. And this drives me a little insane. It's mainly in relationship stuff, and it's not that I want to be in a relationship with these people, it's the incongruity. The attitude of, "If I can't find the right one, well, I might as well date/hook-up with whomever." It's not that I can't understand that thought. It's one that has crossed my mind. But it is fundamentally not who I am, and one that just seems wrong. If you want to be in a real relationship, why waste time with other people? Why hang out with someone just because you want to have someone to hang out with? Why risk the possibility of meeting someone special, but not noticing because you were too busy trying to hook up with someone else? The whole thing makes me sad, in part because I can see so clearly what I want. And it's not to date, it's not to hang out, it's not to find someone I can stand. I am so ready, and these other people are driving me nuts.
Besides that, I keep seeing people act like 14-year-olds. Is it me? Am I expecting too much of people? I'm not going to say I act like I should; I see lots of areas for improvement. I will avoid things. I will be horrible at communication. But if you are my friend and you need me, I will be there. If I invite you out to celebrate something, we shall celebrate. Your happiness may make me feel a twinge of longing for what I don't have, but I will wholeheartedly be happy for you, and I will damn well keep that twinge to myself. If friends come to visit, visiting shall be had. They shall be the theme and centerpiece of the visit.
All this is not to suggest that there are not people in my life who don't act like that. I have some truly lovely friends, people who help me and are there for me and who I hope know that I would do anything for. These are the people who help to show me what I want to be, and give me hope that maybe I can be better.
The rest of you? Well. Be glad that I am non-confrontational.
But she's not the only one I'm frustrated at. I see so many people who say "I want x," but they act like they want y. And this drives me a little insane. It's mainly in relationship stuff, and it's not that I want to be in a relationship with these people, it's the incongruity. The attitude of, "If I can't find the right one, well, I might as well date/hook-up with whomever." It's not that I can't understand that thought. It's one that has crossed my mind. But it is fundamentally not who I am, and one that just seems wrong. If you want to be in a real relationship, why waste time with other people? Why hang out with someone just because you want to have someone to hang out with? Why risk the possibility of meeting someone special, but not noticing because you were too busy trying to hook up with someone else? The whole thing makes me sad, in part because I can see so clearly what I want. And it's not to date, it's not to hang out, it's not to find someone I can stand. I am so ready, and these other people are driving me nuts.
Besides that, I keep seeing people act like 14-year-olds. Is it me? Am I expecting too much of people? I'm not going to say I act like I should; I see lots of areas for improvement. I will avoid things. I will be horrible at communication. But if you are my friend and you need me, I will be there. If I invite you out to celebrate something, we shall celebrate. Your happiness may make me feel a twinge of longing for what I don't have, but I will wholeheartedly be happy for you, and I will damn well keep that twinge to myself. If friends come to visit, visiting shall be had. They shall be the theme and centerpiece of the visit.
All this is not to suggest that there are not people in my life who don't act like that. I have some truly lovely friends, people who help me and are there for me and who I hope know that I would do anything for. These are the people who help to show me what I want to be, and give me hope that maybe I can be better.
The rest of you? Well. Be glad that I am non-confrontational.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Socially Awkward
Every once in a while, I have moments that make me feel 14 again. And not in the good way. In the "omg, wtf did I do THAT?" way. The way that makes you feel thisbig. And it always happens when I'm tired and stressed and feeling vulnerable. Which means I'm very sensitive. Which means I do something that makes me feel even more tired and stressed and vulnerable. And then I feel like a moron. Which I REALLY hate.
Not that most people like feeling like morons. but my own particular aversion to being wrong is well-known. I've always been like that, or at least for as long as I can remember. I would do ANYTHING to avoid feeling like that. Especially when there is nothing I can do. I have screwed up at work. And there is a sinking feeling you get when you realize that you made a mistake. But that stresses me out in one way. Social awkwardness stresses me out immensely more, mainly because there is no fix. There is only continuing through the awkwardness...
In other news, I was interviewed about my blog. I feel so special! I mean, not as special as when I was in the Express. But you, you DOZENS of readers. Have led me to this.
Not that most people like feeling like morons. but my own particular aversion to being wrong is well-known. I've always been like that, or at least for as long as I can remember. I would do ANYTHING to avoid feeling like that. Especially when there is nothing I can do. I have screwed up at work. And there is a sinking feeling you get when you realize that you made a mistake. But that stresses me out in one way. Social awkwardness stresses me out immensely more, mainly because there is no fix. There is only continuing through the awkwardness...
In other news, I was interviewed about my blog. I feel so special! I mean, not as special as when I was in the Express. But you, you DOZENS of readers. Have led me to this.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
STFU with the singing on the metro
This apparently is "refer to old posts" week. Every once in a while, I'm hit by the fact that things have changed since I've moved here. I know, that seems obvious. A very "no shit, Sherlock" moment. Sometimes I'm impressed by how I've grown. Sometimes, I'm a little sad that things have changed.
For example, YEARS ago (the fact that I can say that makes me feel old), I wrote a post about a guy singing on the train. I thought it was awesome. How unreserved, unpretentious. Just a guy riding along, doing what he wanted. An attitude I still like. But lately? I've seen a few girls, singing along on the train. And it ANNOYS THE CRAP OUT OF ME. Listen, I have my OWN ipod. I am quite happy in my own little world. You singing a few lines off-pitch shakes me out of my own world. That makes me unhappy. Why do you think I want to be shaken out of my world? I DO NOT. LEAVE ME ALONE.
I've noticed that I'm getting crankier with tourists and people in general. Starting to understand one of my former coworkers who rode his bike to work primarily because he couldn't stand the people on the metro. Only days he didn't were when the trails were too icy. While I haven't reached that level YET (though metro? you are so on my list. Raising prices when service SUCKS? NOT COOL), I'm not that far from it.
Though I say all this and then the other day? I saw a guy doing tai chi on the metro. And I didn't get annoyed. I thought it was freaking awesome. Kind of gave me chills...
For example, YEARS ago (the fact that I can say that makes me feel old), I wrote a post about a guy singing on the train. I thought it was awesome. How unreserved, unpretentious. Just a guy riding along, doing what he wanted. An attitude I still like. But lately? I've seen a few girls, singing along on the train. And it ANNOYS THE CRAP OUT OF ME. Listen, I have my OWN ipod. I am quite happy in my own little world. You singing a few lines off-pitch shakes me out of my own world. That makes me unhappy. Why do you think I want to be shaken out of my world? I DO NOT. LEAVE ME ALONE.
I've noticed that I'm getting crankier with tourists and people in general. Starting to understand one of my former coworkers who rode his bike to work primarily because he couldn't stand the people on the metro. Only days he didn't were when the trails were too icy. While I haven't reached that level YET (though metro? you are so on my list. Raising prices when service SUCKS? NOT COOL), I'm not that far from it.
Though I say all this and then the other day? I saw a guy doing tai chi on the metro. And I didn't get annoyed. I thought it was freaking awesome. Kind of gave me chills...
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Bad Finishers!
Every once in a while, I get a crazy person commenting on my blog. For the most part, I actually kind of enjoy it, mainly because they are so out of left field and contain misspellings and grammatical errors. Because, really? If you are going to call me a moron but can't even use the correct form of "you're," I'm not going to take the critique too seriously, and in fact will mock you to my friends. Because I am THAT kind of girl.
So it is now that time of year when a young girl's heart turns to football/soccer (for some reason, my 10 weeks in England converted me to calling it football. Pretentious, yes. I accept it). I say that, but let's face facts. I watch the games when it's convenient or involved with a social activity. Last World Cup, my then-coworker and I watched a couple of games in the local pub, which led to the infamous blog entry on what not to tell your boyfriend. This time, I spent the USA/England game in a bar that was approximately a billion degrees, yelling obscenities and reveling in the fact that Lampard again could not finish. I was rather upset since I'd just gotten my hair done, and the temperature in teh bar immediately made my hair frizz up so I went from having smooth, hot wavy hair to having a bizarre Bozofro. It was not attractive, I'm not going to lie. And I still haven't decided if I like the cut or not. I then was forced to drink to forget the crazy hair (Note to self: Just because you CAN shoot whiskey does not mean you SHOULD). I also ran into a girl I knew through X, which was rather surreal. Can't quite decide how I feel about it. I like her, I always thought she and her roommate were lots of fun. But seeing her dredges up feelings ONCE AGAIN that I thought I was over with.
Saturday was also the beginning of knit in public day. I know, you're saying "It's a day. It should just LAST a day." I agree, and unless I wasn't paying attention, it was last year. But instead, somehow KIPD has turned into a week. So tomorrow I'm celebrating by knitting on a brand new scarf (path of flowers). Luckily I haven't gotten far into it (and by not far, I mean I'm ALMOST done casting on), so I should be able to knit and make small talk. Which is good because my other project (I'm also mid-casting on) is easier, but I broke the needles and am waiting on my replacement from KnitPicks. I'm gradually getting more and more yarn and one day, I'll be on "Hoarders" sobbing as they try to get me to give up my Wollmeise.
So it is now that time of year when a young girl's heart turns to football/soccer (for some reason, my 10 weeks in England converted me to calling it football. Pretentious, yes. I accept it). I say that, but let's face facts. I watch the games when it's convenient or involved with a social activity. Last World Cup, my then-coworker and I watched a couple of games in the local pub, which led to the infamous blog entry on what not to tell your boyfriend. This time, I spent the USA/England game in a bar that was approximately a billion degrees, yelling obscenities and reveling in the fact that Lampard again could not finish. I was rather upset since I'd just gotten my hair done, and the temperature in teh bar immediately made my hair frizz up so I went from having smooth, hot wavy hair to having a bizarre Bozofro. It was not attractive, I'm not going to lie. And I still haven't decided if I like the cut or not. I then was forced to drink to forget the crazy hair (Note to self: Just because you CAN shoot whiskey does not mean you SHOULD). I also ran into a girl I knew through X, which was rather surreal. Can't quite decide how I feel about it. I like her, I always thought she and her roommate were lots of fun. But seeing her dredges up feelings ONCE AGAIN that I thought I was over with.
Saturday was also the beginning of knit in public day. I know, you're saying "It's a day. It should just LAST a day." I agree, and unless I wasn't paying attention, it was last year. But instead, somehow KIPD has turned into a week. So tomorrow I'm celebrating by knitting on a brand new scarf (path of flowers). Luckily I haven't gotten far into it (and by not far, I mean I'm ALMOST done casting on), so I should be able to knit and make small talk. Which is good because my other project (I'm also mid-casting on) is easier, but I broke the needles and am waiting on my replacement from KnitPicks. I'm gradually getting more and more yarn and one day, I'll be on "Hoarders" sobbing as they try to get me to give up my Wollmeise.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Writer for Hire
I love my neighborhood. I mean, like really love it. Every day, I walk by a crazy kangaroo statue, a bunch of purple houses, various hippies. But one of my favorite things I walk by is a simple sign. but here's the thing. The sign is an office sign, hanging out like an advertisement. Not that unusual, but this one? Is for a writer. That's right, the sign says, "Someone's Name, Writer." And every time I see this sign, it makes me wonder. (Well, not every time. Sometimes I'm thinking about breakfast or coffee or that I'm going to be late or that I like my shoes or wondering about why soft cheese is soft.) But a good portion of the time, I look at it and think, "Why does a writer need a sign?" Are there people out there going, "I need a writer... LOOK. A sign! I'll hire him!" What kind of writer is he? Is he a technical writer, fiction, non-fiction, political biographer? It is so confusing. I feel like I should go talk to this guy and ask him these questions. But then I wouldn't have anything to think about when I walk by (except for the previously mentioned meanderings of my mind).
And it's nice to have these distractions, as some things have happened lately that have made me once again very angry at X. I mean, furious. I did see him a couple of weeks ago. We ignored each other (he even ducked. I mean, HE DUCKED. Dumbass. Did he really think that I wasn't going to recognize him). I did and do judge him harshly for the ducking, but given my resurgence of righteous anger, perhaps he was wise. I wouldn't mind beating the shit out of him, and then siccing Stephie on him. He should and hopefully does know that he deserves it. The only good thing is that I didn't expect anything more from him, and I don't have to be disappointed by his behavior.
And it's nice to have these distractions, as some things have happened lately that have made me once again very angry at X. I mean, furious. I did see him a couple of weeks ago. We ignored each other (he even ducked. I mean, HE DUCKED. Dumbass. Did he really think that I wasn't going to recognize him). I did and do judge him harshly for the ducking, but given my resurgence of righteous anger, perhaps he was wise. I wouldn't mind beating the shit out of him, and then siccing Stephie on him. He should and hopefully does know that he deserves it. The only good thing is that I didn't expect anything more from him, and I don't have to be disappointed by his behavior.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Inane Friendship ramblings
I've had like a billion things to post. First adult trip to the ER, FTW! I sliced my finger open, drove myself, got four stitches, later took out my own stitches (not my number one choice, but had to be done). I felt very independent. Like, look. I could have support and a boyfriend or something to help by at least driving me to the ER (probably the one supportive thing X would have done. Boy could not deal with difficult things AT ALL. Apparently still can't, after the whole October debacle). But I didn't need that. I stayed calm, I did try to call cabs (note to self: get local cab numbers to put on fridge), I didn't do anything dumb, I remembered to take the cookies out that I was baking so I didn't burn the whole place down.
Basically right now I'm happy being single, but not satisfied, if that makes sense. I have some lovely friends, some of whom I mainly interact with online but whom I still love. I do kind of wish I lived out in Loudoun. because I swear, some of those girls are my soulmates. I'd like ot have a local best friend, but you know? Having some good local friends and some good long-distance friends is working okay.
It is kind of funny to realize that I had better taste in friends as a kid then I do now. I mean, I have met some amazing people as an adult. But I've also met some people that I trusted wrongly. Some people I thought liked me for me. And then I've been wrong, and then I get hurt. And then I tell my high school friends about the whole thing, and they are still amazing. They still reassure me about who I am, and that I am a good and likeable and loveable person. I love that about my old friends. I love that about some of my new friends, too.
As a side note, tourists? I HATE YOU. I might not actually whack you with a bag or anything, but do not doubt that I am thinking about it. Guy whose bag kept hitting me today? I'm looking at you especially hard.
Basically right now I'm happy being single, but not satisfied, if that makes sense. I have some lovely friends, some of whom I mainly interact with online but whom I still love. I do kind of wish I lived out in Loudoun. because I swear, some of those girls are my soulmates. I'd like ot have a local best friend, but you know? Having some good local friends and some good long-distance friends is working okay.
It is kind of funny to realize that I had better taste in friends as a kid then I do now. I mean, I have met some amazing people as an adult. But I've also met some people that I trusted wrongly. Some people I thought liked me for me. And then I've been wrong, and then I get hurt. And then I tell my high school friends about the whole thing, and they are still amazing. They still reassure me about who I am, and that I am a good and likeable and loveable person. I love that about my old friends. I love that about some of my new friends, too.
As a side note, tourists? I HATE YOU. I might not actually whack you with a bag or anything, but do not doubt that I am thinking about it. Guy whose bag kept hitting me today? I'm looking at you especially hard.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
RAAAAAWWWWRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!
This lovely drawing was done by my friend/doppelganger Becky. Sadly, there was no drinking (at least on my part) when we came up with the idea for Ursa Imgonnaeatyou (real name has not been decided, though Bear Gunn has been discussed). picture this, if you will. A seal doing the skeleton race, followed by a land shark, followed by this bear.
yes, we may have lost our minds. I'm okay with that.
yes, we may have lost our minds. I'm okay with that.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Pardon me, have you seen my sanity?
I have lost my freaking mind. Cabin fever? people asked, and I scoffed. I LIKE being inside. I have books and knitting and spinning. I'll be FINE. Ah, the words of the braggart. The naive young girl that I was a week ago. When my biggest worry was getting snowed in with my roommate and her husband for three days. (I wasn't.) I thought this will be fun. I like snow. It's pretty.
And I am going insane. I hate my apartment, my cat is driving me nuts (except for when she's being adorable), I can't do anything fun because I'm supposed to be working. I can feel my muscles losing strength. Pretty soon, I won't be ABLE to leave my apartment. Outside will become a rumor, something covered by glass and kept away as far as possible.
Crazy, you say? Given that I started with me losing my mind, I wouldn't disagree. After all, it is only snow. Snow that must eventually melt. The metro will run, I will go into work and the city. I will see other people, make small talk.
But I have spent twenty minutes chatting with friends and saying only "sweatpants." They had a perfectly lovely conversation about differing standards of formality. I said sweatpants. All I can say is, "DON'T JUDGE ME!" It's the white stuff... I SWEAR.
And I am going insane. I hate my apartment, my cat is driving me nuts (except for when she's being adorable), I can't do anything fun because I'm supposed to be working. I can feel my muscles losing strength. Pretty soon, I won't be ABLE to leave my apartment. Outside will become a rumor, something covered by glass and kept away as far as possible.
Crazy, you say? Given that I started with me losing my mind, I wouldn't disagree. After all, it is only snow. Snow that must eventually melt. The metro will run, I will go into work and the city. I will see other people, make small talk.
But I have spent twenty minutes chatting with friends and saying only "sweatpants." They had a perfectly lovely conversation about differing standards of formality. I said sweatpants. All I can say is, "DON'T JUDGE ME!" It's the white stuff... I SWEAR.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
A New Obsession
I HAVE DISCOVERED A NEW BLOG.
Yes I realize that it makes more sense to write about Snopocoplyse II (or SnoWTF or SnOMG), as I like to call it. but really. It snowed. Lots. It's still snowing. I'm inside with power. My car is literally buried under the snow, meaning I shall not be able to dig it out for days. Luckily I commute using public transit which is also buried, but which I don't have to dig out. The end.
While I have been stuck inside, though, watching my neighbors molest the poor tree outside my window (seriously. They were sitting on it. Poor tree is going to be traumatized. I wanted to take a picture, but then I'd be the crazy girl taking pictures of them through the window. Which I'd be more okay with if I weren't still in pajamas with gross hair.), I've been reading Hyperbole and a Half. My friend Stephie mentioned it last night in order to distract me from the fact that I still don't have the yarn she promised to send me like a whole TWO DAYS AGO. (Kitten, I still heart you. In fact, you might be one of my favorite imaginary people I only know on the internet.)
But yes. So I've been reading through the archives, and Allie is awesome. I've been laughing ridiculous amounts reading it, and I never actually laugh out loud when I'm reading something funny. Last night, I started to do that thing where you're laughing at stuff, and then you keep reading and you're not even reading anything that funny anymore, but you still keep laughing and you're trying to stop and you make that awkward "I can't stop laughing" noise that's something between a laugh and a donkey bray. I mean, no one is here so no one could hear me, but still. It's the principle of the thing.
So basically the point of this post is to tell you to go read her. But only while you're alone in the house or around people who won't judge.
Yes I realize that it makes more sense to write about Snopocoplyse II (or SnoWTF or SnOMG), as I like to call it. but really. It snowed. Lots. It's still snowing. I'm inside with power. My car is literally buried under the snow, meaning I shall not be able to dig it out for days. Luckily I commute using public transit which is also buried, but which I don't have to dig out. The end.
While I have been stuck inside, though, watching my neighbors molest the poor tree outside my window (seriously. They were sitting on it. Poor tree is going to be traumatized. I wanted to take a picture, but then I'd be the crazy girl taking pictures of them through the window. Which I'd be more okay with if I weren't still in pajamas with gross hair.), I've been reading Hyperbole and a Half. My friend Stephie mentioned it last night in order to distract me from the fact that I still don't have the yarn she promised to send me like a whole TWO DAYS AGO. (Kitten, I still heart you. In fact, you might be one of my favorite imaginary people I only know on the internet.)
But yes. So I've been reading through the archives, and Allie is awesome. I've been laughing ridiculous amounts reading it, and I never actually laugh out loud when I'm reading something funny. Last night, I started to do that thing where you're laughing at stuff, and then you keep reading and you're not even reading anything that funny anymore, but you still keep laughing and you're trying to stop and you make that awkward "I can't stop laughing" noise that's something between a laugh and a donkey bray. I mean, no one is here so no one could hear me, but still. It's the principle of the thing.
So basically the point of this post is to tell you to go read her. But only while you're alone in the house or around people who won't judge.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)