Friday, August 29, 2008
Oh deer....
I was singing along to Leona Lewis this morning, driving down a back road near my Dad's house when the blue truck in front of me slammed on his brakes. His windshield exploded. Glass mixed with raindrops and showered to the ground. He was too late. His truck had already hit the deer and run over it. I stopped just short. I shut off my engine, opened my door and started to walk over to the man in the blue truck. The rain fell hard and sideways.The air smelled like burning rubber and blood. The deer convulsed on the ground and I felt tears spring to my eyes. Cars stacked up in a curving line on the two lane road, horns blaring. They couldn't see what I saw, what we saw.
A large, male deer, dying. A man climbing gingerly out of a blue truck face covered in shards of glass. Blood everywhere. And the shock that follows an accident.
Two guys pulled up in a black, suv and whisked me back to my car.
You don't need to see this.
Tears streamed down my face as I climbed back into my car, watching them go into action. An arm went around the man in the blue truck. The police were called. Traffic weaved through the narrow road, and as I drove away I was once again stunned by the kindess of strangers just doing the right thing.
A large, male deer, dying. A man climbing gingerly out of a blue truck face covered in shards of glass. Blood everywhere. And the shock that follows an accident.
Two guys pulled up in a black, suv and whisked me back to my car.
You don't need to see this.
Tears streamed down my face as I climbed back into my car, watching them go into action. An arm went around the man in the blue truck. The police were called. Traffic weaved through the narrow road, and as I drove away I was once again stunned by the kindess of strangers just doing the right thing.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
When in Russia
Walking in, the three Russians conjured up dusky images in my mind...
Cut to a dimly lit room. Frosted windowpanes, the faint hum of a space heater trying desperately to love the cold warm. Fierce wind sidles along the outer walls, rippling paint, blowing snow. Over an ancient table, three men huddle counting stacks of sticky money. Lacy smoke curls to the ceiling, settles there. They speak quickly, in short bursts. Slight confusion over terms. It's settled, slaps on the back. The tall man pours a round. Laughter slithers through the cracks in the wall out into the big Russian night...
And back to reality. Three Russians walk into the car dealership. It's going to be a cash transaction. Normally when we say cash, we get a certified check. They mean business though. They have brought thick envelopes full of acrid smelling money.
The car needs to be shipped to Russia on Friday.Can we rush it?
Yes. For $15,000 in cash, I will dance a jig and eat a live toad.
Outside now we go over the car in fine detail. Each tiny scratch is analyzed, the engine is revved. Heat shimmers up from the pavement. Their language swirls around me, a maze of words I can't hope to understand.
Finally, the nod. "Yes." In stilted English the translator and I exchange information. They confer rapidly. Quickfire. I hear my name. Then they stare.
"Is there anything else I can do for you today?"
And they stare. Hot bolts of lightning run up my spine as they offer me money in exchange for my services.
"That isn't how I do things."
"This is how it's done in our country."
"Well now you've met me, and that's not how I do things. I think our business is done here."
Russian. It's all I can hear. I'm surrounded as they all speak at once, gesturing wildly with their hands.
They confer, nod, reach out to shake my hand and head inside. Dumbfounded, I follow. Once inside we finish the transaction quickly. Money is counted, papers signed, another round of handshakes, and they're gone.
My boss asks me how much they offered me to go with them.
" Three thousand dollars, " I say.
"Is THAT ALL? They offered me four."
Cut to a dimly lit room. Frosted windowpanes, the faint hum of a space heater trying desperately to love the cold warm. Fierce wind sidles along the outer walls, rippling paint, blowing snow. Over an ancient table, three men huddle counting stacks of sticky money. Lacy smoke curls to the ceiling, settles there. They speak quickly, in short bursts. Slight confusion over terms. It's settled, slaps on the back. The tall man pours a round. Laughter slithers through the cracks in the wall out into the big Russian night...
And back to reality. Three Russians walk into the car dealership. It's going to be a cash transaction. Normally when we say cash, we get a certified check. They mean business though. They have brought thick envelopes full of acrid smelling money.
The car needs to be shipped to Russia on Friday.Can we rush it?
Yes. For $15,000 in cash, I will dance a jig and eat a live toad.
Outside now we go over the car in fine detail. Each tiny scratch is analyzed, the engine is revved. Heat shimmers up from the pavement. Their language swirls around me, a maze of words I can't hope to understand.
Finally, the nod. "Yes." In stilted English the translator and I exchange information. They confer rapidly. Quickfire. I hear my name. Then they stare.
"Is there anything else I can do for you today?"
And they stare. Hot bolts of lightning run up my spine as they offer me money in exchange for my services.
"That isn't how I do things."
"This is how it's done in our country."
"Well now you've met me, and that's not how I do things. I think our business is done here."
Russian. It's all I can hear. I'm surrounded as they all speak at once, gesturing wildly with their hands.
They confer, nod, reach out to shake my hand and head inside. Dumbfounded, I follow. Once inside we finish the transaction quickly. Money is counted, papers signed, another round of handshakes, and they're gone.
My boss asks me how much they offered me to go with them.
" Three thousand dollars, " I say.
"Is THAT ALL? They offered me four."
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
What's in a name?
Tiffany: the name is of Greek and/or Latin origin. In Greek it means manifestation of God. In Latin it is a representation of the trinity. It is a traditional name used by Catholic parents.
Jennifer: the name is of Cornish origin, meaning white, fair, or smooth.
My first name is Tiffany. My middle name is Jennifer.
For the past few years, people who do not know me have been calling me Jennifer. They have no idea it's my middle name. Do I look like a Jennifer? I don't know. What does a Jennifer look like? And why do they pick that name to call me? Out of the hundreds they could choose incorrectly, they choose my middle name. It happens about twice a week at work. The only thing I can think of is that I was supposed to be named Jennifer. My parents screwed it up and the great Cosmic is sending me messages. Be Jennifer or else.
But I don't wanna.
Jennifer: the name is of Cornish origin, meaning white, fair, or smooth.
My first name is Tiffany. My middle name is Jennifer.
For the past few years, people who do not know me have been calling me Jennifer. They have no idea it's my middle name. Do I look like a Jennifer? I don't know. What does a Jennifer look like? And why do they pick that name to call me? Out of the hundreds they could choose incorrectly, they choose my middle name. It happens about twice a week at work. The only thing I can think of is that I was supposed to be named Jennifer. My parents screwed it up and the great Cosmic is sending me messages. Be Jennifer or else.
But I don't wanna.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The dilemma
Last week Sunshine walked into my room, a strange look on her face.
"I have a big problem. Can you come with me?"
I went into Mom mode immediately. Ok, she's sick. Some guy did her wrong. She quit her job.
"Sure. Ok."
I follow her the four steps from my room to hers. We pause in the doorway.Her room is awash in green. The comforter is green with white polka dots. There are green seahorse hooks on her shelves. A green blanket. Green clothes. St. Patricks day threw up in her room, and it works. It's cluttered, chaotic and perfect. Sunshine is my hippie. She's chunky necklaces and paint splattered hands. Sweatpants with retro t's. I love it.
"See, I have this problem."
Ok here it comes, I think.
"Well, everytime I sleep with a guy, and I know that I'm not going to sleep with him again, I have to rearrange my furniture."
Immediately I see the problem.
The way her room is layed out, there's only one way her furniture can be arranged.
Damn.
"I guess that means the next guy you sleep with, you're going to have to marry."
"Well, that or I'll have to move again."
"I have a big problem. Can you come with me?"
I went into Mom mode immediately. Ok, she's sick. Some guy did her wrong. She quit her job.
"Sure. Ok."
I follow her the four steps from my room to hers. We pause in the doorway.Her room is awash in green. The comforter is green with white polka dots. There are green seahorse hooks on her shelves. A green blanket. Green clothes. St. Patricks day threw up in her room, and it works. It's cluttered, chaotic and perfect. Sunshine is my hippie. She's chunky necklaces and paint splattered hands. Sweatpants with retro t's. I love it.
"See, I have this problem."
Ok here it comes, I think.
"Well, everytime I sleep with a guy, and I know that I'm not going to sleep with him again, I have to rearrange my furniture."
Immediately I see the problem.
The way her room is layed out, there's only one way her furniture can be arranged.
Damn.
"I guess that means the next guy you sleep with, you're going to have to marry."
"Well, that or I'll have to move again."
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Once upon an airport
(Editor's note: This happened almost a year ago in November of 2007. I have waited until now to post because I wanted to write about it when the time was right and the words came to me. I realize now that no words will ever do justice to that moment. But the story should be told)
*******************************************************
The flight was delayed, twice. I sat in the Saint Louis airport watching the world go by. Fragments of lives in motion. Glass reflecting the arrivals and departures. Rolling suitcases clicked along the floor, high heels and tennis shoes, flip flops all merging together. Was that oregano I smelled? I leaned back and crossed my legs, pushed up the volume of my ipod. I was connected to it all and yet separate.
Gladys Knight sang about leaving on that midnight train, as he started to walk down the long, carpeted hallway toward the terminals. Boots shined and laced, grimacing, carrying only a small camouflage bag and what looked like the weight of a million lives on his shoulders. The bald man saluted, awkwardly but respectfully. The woman knelt down by her child and pointed. A hero in person. He sat two seats down, dropped his bag. Thud. And leaned forward. Elbows on knees, head in hands. I turned the volume down. Coldplay whispers now, as time goes by suddenly, "oh why?"another blink of the eye...
He looks up, turns his head to me. Smiling with my eyes, my mouth follows. I think I question him in my head and he answers.
It's been rough.
I'm sorry, I say.
I take the ipod off, and introduce myself. He shakes my hand firmly and there is something in his eyes. Like shattered glass. I see him in shards as he begins to talk. The family he just left at home. An impending divorce. The tiny hands of his daughter on his broad shoulders as he pulled her away from him. I love you baby. I'll be back soon. I promise.
It's the weight of that promise I feel. He moves over one chair. I tuck my legs underneath me, pull my sweater around my shoulders against the chill of his words.
I'm on my second tour. I have a unit of men counting on me. I have to be strong. When I got my first kill I had blood on my hands. Another man's blood. On the same hands that love my wife, and hold my daughter.
I reach out and touch his shoulder.
I feel responsible for the lives I'm supposed to take, and the lives I am sworn to protect. How do I choose whose life is more valuable?
It is a question I have no answer for. I look in his eyes. A man in a business suit walks up. He's sorry to interrupt and shifts his briefcase to his left hand. He tells my soldier that he's proud of him. That he's an American hero. Wishes him a safe and speedy return. And walks away.
That always happens.
My soldier looks deflated, fragile, and still ready for war, his uniform neatly pressed, his legs never stop moving.
People come up to me all the time. They want pictures. They tell me how proud they are of me. I'm their hero. I smile, because I have to. I'm no one's hero. I left my wife alone too long. I lost her. I missed my daughter's first steps and first words. I can't talk to my friends anymore. They never threw a live grenade and watched it destroy everything in it's wake.
The night is deep outside the windows. Almost purple. It's quieter now. We lean close and whisper.
Where are you headed? I ask him. My soldier.
Fallujah.
I have to admit, I don't know exactly where that is. I blush immediately. My American ignorance must frustrate him.
But it doesn't. He pulls from his bag a small, neatly folded map of Iraq, points out the important cities, where he's been, where he is going.
How long will you be gone?
I don't know this time. Maybe 15 months. What do I have to come back to?
The storm kicks up outside. Wind throws rain against the window. He goes for coffee. Brings me a chocolate bar. How did he know? My favorite kind.
Speaking for the first time about what he's told me, I hesitate, then continue..
I heard once that courage is being afraid, but doing it anyway. I think it's more than that. I think courage is being totally aware of what you are doing. It's that realization that this is going to hurt. And then absorbing the pain deep into yourself.
We talk deep into the evening. The lights of planes blink in the distance, far beyond the steam of his coffee cup, the dull ring of my cell phone that I shut off. There will be time for that later. Now? Now I'm with my soldier.
When they announce that my plane is boarding I unfold my legs, embrace him, feeling the strength of his back. I hand him my card.
Call me, or write. I say.
I will. I promise. Listen... I want to thank you.
I hold up my hand.
You don't have to. Just know, when you're over there, I'll be over here thinking of you and praying for your safety.
I leave, making my way to the terminal. As I hand my boarding pass to the flight attendant I turn to see him one more time. He's standing at the window, his back to me, arms crossed watching the planes come in. I say a prayer and board the plane.
I never heard from my soldier again.
*******************************************************
The flight was delayed, twice. I sat in the Saint Louis airport watching the world go by. Fragments of lives in motion. Glass reflecting the arrivals and departures. Rolling suitcases clicked along the floor, high heels and tennis shoes, flip flops all merging together. Was that oregano I smelled? I leaned back and crossed my legs, pushed up the volume of my ipod. I was connected to it all and yet separate.
Gladys Knight sang about leaving on that midnight train, as he started to walk down the long, carpeted hallway toward the terminals. Boots shined and laced, grimacing, carrying only a small camouflage bag and what looked like the weight of a million lives on his shoulders. The bald man saluted, awkwardly but respectfully. The woman knelt down by her child and pointed. A hero in person. He sat two seats down, dropped his bag. Thud. And leaned forward. Elbows on knees, head in hands. I turned the volume down. Coldplay whispers now, as time goes by suddenly, "oh why?"another blink of the eye...
He looks up, turns his head to me. Smiling with my eyes, my mouth follows. I think I question him in my head and he answers.
It's been rough.
I'm sorry, I say.
I take the ipod off, and introduce myself. He shakes my hand firmly and there is something in his eyes. Like shattered glass. I see him in shards as he begins to talk. The family he just left at home. An impending divorce. The tiny hands of his daughter on his broad shoulders as he pulled her away from him. I love you baby. I'll be back soon. I promise.
It's the weight of that promise I feel. He moves over one chair. I tuck my legs underneath me, pull my sweater around my shoulders against the chill of his words.
I'm on my second tour. I have a unit of men counting on me. I have to be strong. When I got my first kill I had blood on my hands. Another man's blood. On the same hands that love my wife, and hold my daughter.
I reach out and touch his shoulder.
I feel responsible for the lives I'm supposed to take, and the lives I am sworn to protect. How do I choose whose life is more valuable?
It is a question I have no answer for. I look in his eyes. A man in a business suit walks up. He's sorry to interrupt and shifts his briefcase to his left hand. He tells my soldier that he's proud of him. That he's an American hero. Wishes him a safe and speedy return. And walks away.
That always happens.
My soldier looks deflated, fragile, and still ready for war, his uniform neatly pressed, his legs never stop moving.
People come up to me all the time. They want pictures. They tell me how proud they are of me. I'm their hero. I smile, because I have to. I'm no one's hero. I left my wife alone too long. I lost her. I missed my daughter's first steps and first words. I can't talk to my friends anymore. They never threw a live grenade and watched it destroy everything in it's wake.
The night is deep outside the windows. Almost purple. It's quieter now. We lean close and whisper.
Where are you headed? I ask him. My soldier.
Fallujah.
I have to admit, I don't know exactly where that is. I blush immediately. My American ignorance must frustrate him.
But it doesn't. He pulls from his bag a small, neatly folded map of Iraq, points out the important cities, where he's been, where he is going.
How long will you be gone?
I don't know this time. Maybe 15 months. What do I have to come back to?
The storm kicks up outside. Wind throws rain against the window. He goes for coffee. Brings me a chocolate bar. How did he know? My favorite kind.
Speaking for the first time about what he's told me, I hesitate, then continue..
I heard once that courage is being afraid, but doing it anyway. I think it's more than that. I think courage is being totally aware of what you are doing. It's that realization that this is going to hurt. And then absorbing the pain deep into yourself.
We talk deep into the evening. The lights of planes blink in the distance, far beyond the steam of his coffee cup, the dull ring of my cell phone that I shut off. There will be time for that later. Now? Now I'm with my soldier.
When they announce that my plane is boarding I unfold my legs, embrace him, feeling the strength of his back. I hand him my card.
Call me, or write. I say.
I will. I promise. Listen... I want to thank you.
I hold up my hand.
You don't have to. Just know, when you're over there, I'll be over here thinking of you and praying for your safety.
I leave, making my way to the terminal. As I hand my boarding pass to the flight attendant I turn to see him one more time. He's standing at the window, his back to me, arms crossed watching the planes come in. I say a prayer and board the plane.
I never heard from my soldier again.
The book of "If"
There exists in this world something called "The Big Book of If" by Evelyn McFarlane and James Saywell. Personally I think everyone should have a copy and they should create multiple versions. This particular one (linked here) http://www.amazon.com/The-Big-Book-of-If/dp/1400060486 is definitely the adult version (so don't let your kids take it to a sleepover!)
Last night the roommates (Houdini & Sunshine) and I decided to break out the book for a couple of the questions.
"If you could be on the cover of any magazine, which one would it be and what would the headline read?"
I said: Ebony. "What the hell is she doing here?"
Sunshine said: Sports Illustrated. "This is the best bikini model we've ever had!"
Houdini said: Glamour. "She has no style"
"If you could have one power over all other people what would it be?"
We agreed unanimously on mind reading at will. Like, I don't want to know what you are thinking all of the time because I really don't need to know that you have a thing for Asians or steal the toilet paper from work. But ya know, let me into your mind and let me poke around for a bit. I promise I'll be gentle.
Last night the roommates (Houdini & Sunshine) and I decided to break out the book for a couple of the questions.
"If you could be on the cover of any magazine, which one would it be and what would the headline read?"
I said: Ebony. "What the hell is she doing here?"
Sunshine said: Sports Illustrated. "This is the best bikini model we've ever had!"
Houdini said: Glamour. "She has no style"
"If you could have one power over all other people what would it be?"
We agreed unanimously on mind reading at will. Like, I don't want to know what you are thinking all of the time because I really don't need to know that you have a thing for Asians or steal the toilet paper from work. But ya know, let me into your mind and let me poke around for a bit. I promise I'll be gentle.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Car Ownership for Dummies
**Ring Ring**
"Thank you for calling ****, this is Tiffany how may I help you?"
"Hey Tiffany, this is Ms. *** and my windshield wipers don't work!"
"Hmm, that's strange. They were working when you left."
"Well now they a'int."
"Did you turn the knob towards you?"
"Turn it?? Why would I do that?"
"....because that's how they work..."
"Oh sure enough, there they go."
"Thank you for calling ****, this is Tiffany how may I help you?"
"Hey Tiffany, this is Ms. *** and my windshield wipers don't work!"
"Hmm, that's strange. They were working when you left."
"Well now they a'int."
"Did you turn the knob towards you?"
"Turn it?? Why would I do that?"
"....because that's how they work..."
"Oh sure enough, there they go."
Today I'll be playing the part of...
I often re-read books. I like the familiarity of the story. I like discovering things I forgot on the first read. I also just like the stories that I choose to read time and again. A few of my favorites are:
The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks
The Thief of Always by Clive Cussler
While I was Gone by Sue Miller
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
As I was packing up my books for the move I skimmed through a lot of them (they don't all fit in my new place,I have that many) so I had to pick and choose which to bring and which to leave behind. It was quite like choosing which happy memory to keep and which to discard. I found myself remembering where I was when I read each book for the first time. I looked back over my life so far, the years coming in fragments. Each time I was lying in a bed or on a couch, booked propped up the story taking me away from a problem or to a different place. And so I began to think about life and what books really mean to me.
I think it's a chance to explore different aspects of my personality. I love a mystery for the suspense, and the darkness. A romance for the passion. A classic for the history and the meaning. And I guess each day is like that too. I have my hands in so many things and I am a different person for different people. But yet always the same.
The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks
The Thief of Always by Clive Cussler
While I was Gone by Sue Miller
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
As I was packing up my books for the move I skimmed through a lot of them (they don't all fit in my new place,I have that many) so I had to pick and choose which to bring and which to leave behind. It was quite like choosing which happy memory to keep and which to discard. I found myself remembering where I was when I read each book for the first time. I looked back over my life so far, the years coming in fragments. Each time I was lying in a bed or on a couch, booked propped up the story taking me away from a problem or to a different place. And so I began to think about life and what books really mean to me.
I think it's a chance to explore different aspects of my personality. I love a mystery for the suspense, and the darkness. A romance for the passion. A classic for the history and the meaning. And I guess each day is like that too. I have my hands in so many things and I am a different person for different people. But yet always the same.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
If evolution really works, how come mothers only have two hands? ~Milton Berle
Today is my Mom's birthday: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!!
In honor of her special day I thought I would dedicate this post to her.
My mom is the type of mom who always let us make the Christmas cookies. Flour would be everywhere; the cookies mis-shapen and decorated with hundreds of sprinkles, but she would tell us they were beautiful.
My mom is the type of mom who expected us to get good grades. There was no reward for academic performance. And because of that I became someone who expects to do well and carry myself with dignity and a sense of responsibility at work.
My mom is the type of mom who would play Monopoly tournaments with us for days on end, leaving the board in the middle of the living room floor until we could get back to it. She taught us how to win and lose gracefully so that we'd be prepared for the ups and downs of life.
My mom is the type of mom who made water guns out of spray bottles on hot summer days, and threw water balloons at us in a mad dash around the backyard.
My mom showed me what it is to laugh so hard you can't catch your breath, and gave me my uncontrollable giggles.
My mom is the type of mom who gave of herself so much that sometimes she forgot to give to herself.
My mom is the person that I call with a funny story, a random question, a problem, or just because.
And when I grow up, I hope my kids feel the same way about me as I do about her.
In honor of her special day I thought I would dedicate this post to her.
My mom is the type of mom who always let us make the Christmas cookies. Flour would be everywhere; the cookies mis-shapen and decorated with hundreds of sprinkles, but she would tell us they were beautiful.
My mom is the type of mom who expected us to get good grades. There was no reward for academic performance. And because of that I became someone who expects to do well and carry myself with dignity and a sense of responsibility at work.
My mom is the type of mom who would play Monopoly tournaments with us for days on end, leaving the board in the middle of the living room floor until we could get back to it. She taught us how to win and lose gracefully so that we'd be prepared for the ups and downs of life.
My mom is the type of mom who made water guns out of spray bottles on hot summer days, and threw water balloons at us in a mad dash around the backyard.
My mom showed me what it is to laugh so hard you can't catch your breath, and gave me my uncontrollable giggles.
My mom is the type of mom who gave of herself so much that sometimes she forgot to give to herself.
My mom is the person that I call with a funny story, a random question, a problem, or just because.
And when I grow up, I hope my kids feel the same way about me as I do about her.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Um...
"I think there comes a point when you have enough weapons and you should be able to trade them for things."
-My co-worker
-My co-worker
Friday, August 15, 2008
Do you want the good news or the bad news first?
The good news is, I get to go home early.
The bad news is, I was the victim of an exploding diaper while holding a 4 month old.
UPDATE: In repsonse to the emails I've received. This was actually posted at 1:43pm, but Blogger has it as 8:52am. I did not leave work before I actually got here. I can't time travel yet.
The bad news is, I was the victim of an exploding diaper while holding a 4 month old.
UPDATE: In repsonse to the emails I've received. This was actually posted at 1:43pm, but Blogger has it as 8:52am. I did not leave work before I actually got here. I can't time travel yet.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Is Shirley Johnson in the house?
Last night was Greek food, red wine and karaoke with the roommates. At one point an older gentleman got up to sing a song I'd never heard before. He began by asking the crowd, "Is Shirley Johnson in the house??"
And of course I raised my hand.
After the song he came over to our table. Leaning in close he asked, "Do you know what sex looks like from the inside?" At this point the three of us looked at one another and burst out laughing. "No." And he proceeded to demonstrate.
I have decided to have my birthday party there.
And of course I raised my hand.
After the song he came over to our table. Leaning in close he asked, "Do you know what sex looks like from the inside?" At this point the three of us looked at one another and burst out laughing. "No." And he proceeded to demonstrate.
I have decided to have my birthday party there.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
How to lose limbs
Touch. My. Freaking. Ankles.
(I don't know what to call it. I just can't stand anyone touching my ankles. Especially when someone tries to wrap their hands around my ankle i.e. the small child that was playing at my feet. I didn't hurt him. Don't worry. But I will hurt you if you try it)
(I don't know what to call it. I just can't stand anyone touching my ankles. Especially when someone tries to wrap their hands around my ankle i.e. the small child that was playing at my feet. I didn't hurt him. Don't worry. But I will hurt you if you try it)
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Movin' on up!
The past two days have a been a flurry of activity. Moving is always exciting and somewhat debilitating. I couldn't find my toothbrush yesterday. I have no idea where I put my socks and I have the sinking sensation that I threw away the custom house keys I got to surprise my roommate. But all in all, it's a success so far.
In order to save money and be kind to the environment, I decided to take two pieces of old furniture and re-finish them. I don't "do" home improvement projects however and I have no idea what possessed me to think I could take this on. But alas, I bought varnish, a paintbrush, and rubber gloves and set out to make some magic.
Three hours later I was covered head to toe in Dark Walnut varnish and had run through my repertoire of curse words twice. The color of the pieces came out perfectly, but they won't dry. They are still tacky to the touch and I have this terrible fear that they will never dry and I will be unable to move them from the kitchen floor, and we will spend the rest of our time in the townhouse walking around the furniture and spitting on it.
Last night as I was having dinner with my roommates, all three of us curled up on the sofas, I glanced at them over the top of my wine mug (because we're not quite sure where the wine glasses are) and I was immensly happy. Seeing their faces lit up with laughter as we reminisced about our high school days it struck me how so much can change, and yet always stay the same. They are like keys to my memories. Things I'd long forgotten, they remember for me. Bringing stories alive and lighting the way back to a place I used live and a person I used to be.
I sat there, with these two lovely women, these memory keepers that have loved me through thick and thin and felt a rush of gratitude for their presence in my life. Because no pair of shoes, no check in the mail has ever made me laugh the way they do. And no matter what happens I cannot lose the love I have from them or for them. And that's a type of security that can't be bought.
In order to save money and be kind to the environment, I decided to take two pieces of old furniture and re-finish them. I don't "do" home improvement projects however and I have no idea what possessed me to think I could take this on. But alas, I bought varnish, a paintbrush, and rubber gloves and set out to make some magic.
Three hours later I was covered head to toe in Dark Walnut varnish and had run through my repertoire of curse words twice. The color of the pieces came out perfectly, but they won't dry. They are still tacky to the touch and I have this terrible fear that they will never dry and I will be unable to move them from the kitchen floor, and we will spend the rest of our time in the townhouse walking around the furniture and spitting on it.
Last night as I was having dinner with my roommates, all three of us curled up on the sofas, I glanced at them over the top of my wine mug (because we're not quite sure where the wine glasses are) and I was immensly happy. Seeing their faces lit up with laughter as we reminisced about our high school days it struck me how so much can change, and yet always stay the same. They are like keys to my memories. Things I'd long forgotten, they remember for me. Bringing stories alive and lighting the way back to a place I used live and a person I used to be.
I sat there, with these two lovely women, these memory keepers that have loved me through thick and thin and felt a rush of gratitude for their presence in my life. Because no pair of shoes, no check in the mail has ever made me laugh the way they do. And no matter what happens I cannot lose the love I have from them or for them. And that's a type of security that can't be bought.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Home sweet, what the F***?
We met the other night to do the final walk through of the house. As soon as I pulled up, I smelled trouble. (it smells like tulips planted in estrogen). Two of the girls were separated from the pack, in the way that only girls can do. Off to the side, whispering, clearly not interested in what was about to happen. We all went inside, and suddenly, it was over. We're not getting the house together. And it's really for the best. Though I don't know the two girls who backed out very well, I can tell you that I have no interest in living with snobby females who cause trouble for no reason at all.
That being said, I am a true believer in the idea that everything happens for a reason. And so, I now get to move in with two of my oldest, dearest, and most laid back friends. And I can't wait. As Natalie put it, "I can't wait to drink some wine and play Wii bowling!!" I couldn't have said it better myself.
This will be my last post until Wednesday probably. In the meantime I will be covered in dust, sweat, and miscellaneous moving particles. Sickly, I enjoy moving. It's good exercise and a good chance to clean things, and get rid of stuff I don't need anymore. I will post pictures of the new house when we are settled and have moved the beer bottles and porn out of the way.
That being said, I am a true believer in the idea that everything happens for a reason. And so, I now get to move in with two of my oldest, dearest, and most laid back friends. And I can't wait. As Natalie put it, "I can't wait to drink some wine and play Wii bowling!!" I couldn't have said it better myself.
This will be my last post until Wednesday probably. In the meantime I will be covered in dust, sweat, and miscellaneous moving particles. Sickly, I enjoy moving. It's good exercise and a good chance to clean things, and get rid of stuff I don't need anymore. I will post pictures of the new house when we are settled and have moved the beer bottles and porn out of the way.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
How to lose a limb
Scream at your child and spank him for no reason in public. (or in private for that matter)
Win points or lose limbs
I'm starting this feature today. I think it's self explanatory.
How to win points with me
Tell me that my hips aren't getting bigger, that my waist is just getting smaller.
How to win points with me
Tell me that my hips aren't getting bigger, that my waist is just getting smaller.
English 102
As I was packing some of my stuff for the big move, I came across a disk of some writing I did in college. I graduated from Towson with a B.S. in English Literature and Writing. That means that I can effectively bullshit my way through just about anything, and I have a degree to prove it.
(All kidding aside, Towson is an amazing school and I feel lucky that I was able to attend such a wonderful institution. They deliver beer right to you door!!)
The exercise below is from one of my classes. We were to write a poem, mocking the style of a famous poem, about anything. I originally chose Skittles but decided against it in the end as nothing rhymes with orange.
Untitled
I skip the second stair
It groans in protest at the fall of my foot
Bound up
Hair a mess
Tangled and push it away from my face
Sticky hot
Pages stick together, Unwavering puddle
what could that mean?
I try to study but a butterfly's wings
too loud
outside my window heat shimmers
and my toes are fire roasted red peppers
Will I look back, years from now
remembering when
and wishing that
I could be where I am right now?
(All kidding aside, Towson is an amazing school and I feel lucky that I was able to attend such a wonderful institution. They deliver beer right to you door!!)
The exercise below is from one of my classes. We were to write a poem, mocking the style of a famous poem, about anything. I originally chose Skittles but decided against it in the end as nothing rhymes with orange.
Untitled
I skip the second stair
It groans in protest at the fall of my foot
Bound up
Hair a mess
Tangled and push it away from my face
Sticky hot
Pages stick together, Unwavering puddle
what could that mean?
I try to study but a butterfly's wings
too loud
outside my window heat shimmers
and my toes are fire roasted red peppers
Will I look back, years from now
remembering when
and wishing that
I could be where I am right now?
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
He's with me
"Toll Ahead"
I wonder if he has any money
"LAST EXIT BEFORE TOLL"
I bet he doesn't
"Cash Only"
I zip ahead of him in my car, seeing him raise his hands in question. Trust me.
"$2.00 per axle"
I could really go for a red gummy bear
I pull up to the toll booth, hand the woman a $5 bill.
"Hey, listen, see that car behind me?"
"Yeah"
"Well he's with me."
"Ok..."
"Yeah, I'm his sugarmomma"
"Really?"
"Yeah, I take care of all his needs, monetarily speaking of course."
"Dammmnnn. Must be some guy to do all that."
"Oh you have NO idea. Check him out. He likes to be called Tiger."
Back at the office, my co-worker jumps out of his car and jogs over to me.
"Hey what did you tell the lady at the toll?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well when I went up there, she winked at me and said 'Hey Tiger'"
"Nothin', just told her we worked together so I was paying for you."
"Huh....weird."
"Yeah, crazy."
I wonder if he has any money
"LAST EXIT BEFORE TOLL"
I bet he doesn't
"Cash Only"
I zip ahead of him in my car, seeing him raise his hands in question. Trust me.
"$2.00 per axle"
I could really go for a red gummy bear
I pull up to the toll booth, hand the woman a $5 bill.
"Hey, listen, see that car behind me?"
"Yeah"
"Well he's with me."
"Ok..."
"Yeah, I'm his sugarmomma"
"Really?"
"Yeah, I take care of all his needs, monetarily speaking of course."
"Dammmnnn. Must be some guy to do all that."
"Oh you have NO idea. Check him out. He likes to be called Tiger."
Back at the office, my co-worker jumps out of his car and jogs over to me.
"Hey what did you tell the lady at the toll?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well when I went up there, she winked at me and said 'Hey Tiger'"
"Nothin', just told her we worked together so I was paying for you."
"Huh....weird."
"Yeah, crazy."
Monday, August 4, 2008
The Importance of Failure
J.K. Rowling gave a speech in June to the 2008 graduating class of Harvard. In it, she discuss the value of failing and the importance of imagination. Below are some of the most memorable quotes:
"So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realized...and so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life."
"It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default."
"One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality. That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people's lives simply by existing."
"We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better."
I was all prepared to blog about what I did this weekend, and I will later, but when I read her speech it absolutely astonished me. Her writing is clear, concise and valid. I don't know that anyone could say what she said any better. I guess I'm just going to absorb it, and let you absorb it for now.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Song of the day
Life perfect Ain't perfect
If you don't know what the struggles' for
Falling down Ain't falling down
If you don't cry when you hit the floor
It's called the past cause I'm getting past
And I ain't nothing like I was before
You ought to see me now
-Alicia Keys: Lessons Learned
If you don't know what the struggles' for
Falling down Ain't falling down
If you don't cry when you hit the floor
It's called the past cause I'm getting past
And I ain't nothing like I was before
You ought to see me now
-Alicia Keys: Lessons Learned
Friday, August 1, 2008
Motivation? No thanks. I'm all full up of lazy.
Commission based jobs are thrilling, and exhausting.
Yesterday was the last day of the month, and so today I am much like a beached whale. Covered in my own filth, lounging about, waiting for food to be brought to me.
More tomorrow.
Yesterday was the last day of the month, and so today I am much like a beached whale. Covered in my own filth, lounging about, waiting for food to be brought to me.
More tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)