Today, a friend of mine posted an article about the future of books. In this article, Adam Penenburg says that in the future, books as we know it will live in museums, and in their place will be multi-media experiences. Authors will intertwine words with pictures, videos, sound clips, music, and so much more. The author will be "acting more like directors and production companies than straight wordsmiths." Penenburg claims that mere words will suddenly seem stagnant on the page.
Truly, I believe that the future is headed in that direction, and for non-fiction works, nothing could be better. Could you imagine reading a text book about Louis Armstrong and clicking on a link that immediately beings to play the song the author is discussing? Or watch a clip of the first steps on the moon while reading about how the astronauts got there? Cookbooks will now have videos that can demonstrate a cooking technique. Footnotes will no longer be at the bottom of the page or limited to a tiny amount of information, and students can interact with history and science like never before.
And then there's fiction. Artists have been tweaking, changing, toying with, experimenting with all mediums of art since the beginning of time. This could be another avenue. A poet could choose exactly what image is in your mind and what music plays in your ears while you read his poem. He can craft almost every aspect of your experience with his poem. A novelist could show you exactly what the town in the book looks like, or what every character looks like far beyond descriptions through words. A writer no longer has to just be a writer - he can, as Penenburg says, direct every detail of your reading experience. This, however, is where my fear lies.
Reading is an individual experience. An author is a wordsmith. He crafts a world using only words. But words are fluid. They are anything but stagnant. Words change meaning from generation to generation. They change from culture to culture. They even change from individual to individual. No two people will have the exact same experience from the same work, and I love that. I love that my own personal experience of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is mine and no one else's , and that it doesn't stop anybody else from having their own personal experiences as well. Thank you, Eliot, for not including pictures of what those mermaids look like.
For example. Take a room full of people. Hand them a descriptive paragraph from a novel, and ask them individually to sketch whatever it is the paragraph describes. Each person will bring his or her own individual view and experiences and imagination to that drawing. None of the sketches will be the same. Elements will be the same; for instance, if the paragraph says that the scruffy man wearing a blue coat walked down the dark sidewalk on a snowy Christmas eve, every person will draw a man (who will be some kind of scruffy) wearing a blue coat and in an upright position, a dark sidewalk with snow, and probably something indicating Christmas. But even within those limiters are worlds of possibilities.
When the author begins to litter his work with limiters through images and other added elements, the experience of reading a novel becomes a controlled experience - much like watching a movie. Yes, authors have for eons included images with their works. Cover art and artist inserts have been part of the publishing industry for quite some time. Outside of picture books, however, they don't paint the entire book for you. The first Harry Potter book had a picture of a boy with glasses and a scar on his forehead, so that was probably what you imagined when you read it [and thank god daniel radcliffe was born when he was because otherwise we'd have to find another kid who was the spitting image of the cover art]. But what about those other characters? Hermione? Or the settings? How about the school? Do you remember the reading experience you had before you saw the movies? What did Snape look like to you? What did his voice sound like? And then you watched the movies, which were so closely released with the books that after you watched the first movie, the rest of the books had specific images in your head that matched the movie. Daniel Radcliffe spoke when you read Harry's lines. You knew what Hermione looks like. And she looks exactly like what the person next to you thinks she looks like. But how about those characters who didn't make it to the movies? If we all sat down and sketched THOSE characters, would they be as similar if we all sat down to sketch out what Harry looks like?
When a director makes a movie out of a book, he is giving you his interpretation - his personal experience with the book (yes - other elements such as box office, budget, and audience appeal play a part, but it is based on his experience). He is not giving you THE book. His interpretation could be different from yours, and that is why no movie adaptation can ever really destroy a book for you. It can still be your world and your imagination as long as you actively choose to leave behind that director's experience. The director is not the author, and only the author can say, "yes. Willy Wonka looks like Gene Wilder and Veruca Salt looks like Julie Dawn Cole. They are exactly who I imagined when I wrote that novel."
What if Shakespeare had included a drawing of what Macbeth should look like? Or Hamlet? Thank god he didn't actually ever specifically describe Cleopatra. We can all individually decide what absolute beauty is, and then we can agree or disagree with a director's casting choice. But we wouldn't be able to argue with Shakespeare if he had included a picture of a specific blonde, tall, busty woman wearing a red toga because then that specific woman is what Cleopatra would have to look like.
Reading is already interactive - the best kind of interactive. You take the words the author has given you, toss them in your brain, mix them with images and your imagination, and then create images and movies and sounds and smells and music. You could decide that Huck Finn looks like your little brother or the old man in "The Old Man and the Sea" looks like your grandfather if you want. Sometimes you share those images with others, and they are allowed to say, "oh, well when I read that, I see this," or "I always imagined Titus Andronicus to be tiny, yet fierce instead of big and tall and built like an ox." Unless they have decided to interpret the author's use of the word "tall" to mean "short", they are not wrong, and that's the beauty of it.
Please do not think that I feel this form of media morphing is completely wrong or has no place in the world. In fact, sometimes it would be fun to have a 360 experience from an artist (think Hitchhiker's Guide). But this future medium should not completely replace books as we know them. An author should not always want to completely control their audience's experience with his words. If they do, they're in the wrong medium and should sign up to direct the next film Hollywood will give them.
Penenburg says, "And ask yourself: Which would you rather have, the hardcover book of today or this rich, multimedia treatment of the same title? Suddenly mere words on a page may feel a bit lifeless." I say, "Penenburg, my imagination works just fine and words have never seemed lifeless to me. Please hand me the hardcover book filled with endless possibilities and interpretations."
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Strangers Who Assume the Worst
I spent Thanksgiving in NYC with my boyfriend and his family this year. I love NYC, and we went into the city every day to do something fun. Saturday was no exception, and we headed into Manhattan for some shopping. We braved the crowds for a while, and managed to get three of the things on our list. One of those things was a Blackberry phone for my boyfriend. I'd never wanted one. I always thought it was silly, or only for business people. And then I held it. And now I want one.
I insisted we go to Little Italy for dinner. We found a cute little restaurant that I can't name now if my life depended on it, and the waiter sat us at a table two inches away from another table with a 40-somethings couple who were madly in love with each other. It was like really being in Italy again.
Dinner was delicious, but we were both tired, so conversation was short. I hadn't been feeling well at all, so I was useless other than to eat the food in front of me. Justin received the text message he was waiting for, which included the address of the apartment we were headed to for games and general hanging out after dinner. I headed to the bathroom.
When I got back, Justin was attempting to navigate his new toy to find some sort of map system so he could figure out where we were going. He was utterly confused, and it was taking a while, but that did not bother me. I sat quietly, content with the food in my belly and the chance to rest. Suddenly I realized that the couple next to us was talking about us. I heard the woman say, "I should help them." And then they were talking to us.
"Excuse me," said the woman, "but are you two on a date or just friends hanging out?" We looked at each other. How to answer that one? We were not necessarily on a date, but we are dating.
Justin answered, "Uh, kinda both?"
"Well I'm going to help you out. You," she said as she pointed to my boyfriend, "need to get off that phone." Justin and I both stared at her, blinking, unsure of what exactly what was going on.
A few moments later, we gathered our wits. Very smoothly, Justin responded, "no." The woman began to protest, but he cut her off. "If I don't figure out where we are going next, this date cannot continue."
"Well, I just see so many couples separated by their phones. They're sitting right there with each other, and they never look up from whatever's in their hands!" Now it was my turn to jump in.
"Oh, no. Thank you for the concern, but we've been dating for a while, and he never does that. This is a brand new phone, and we aren't sure how to use it, and we need to find directions to our next destination."
She sighed a breath of relief. "Oh good. I just didn't want to think you were sitting here on this date and he was ignoring you. Too many couples are like that. We've been seeing it happen all day! It's just so sad!" I politely agreed. She continued on for a bit longer, and then finally they rose to leave. We said our goodbyes, and turned back to finding the navigation program on the Blackberry.
Once we figured out where we were going, we left the restaurant to wander up and down Little Italy for a bit. I bought him a cannoli and myself a cupcake filled with marshmallow fluff. We walked arm in arm and had a lovely conversation, and then we continued our "date" by heading towards our destination.
I insisted we go to Little Italy for dinner. We found a cute little restaurant that I can't name now if my life depended on it, and the waiter sat us at a table two inches away from another table with a 40-somethings couple who were madly in love with each other. It was like really being in Italy again.
Dinner was delicious, but we were both tired, so conversation was short. I hadn't been feeling well at all, so I was useless other than to eat the food in front of me. Justin received the text message he was waiting for, which included the address of the apartment we were headed to for games and general hanging out after dinner. I headed to the bathroom.
When I got back, Justin was attempting to navigate his new toy to find some sort of map system so he could figure out where we were going. He was utterly confused, and it was taking a while, but that did not bother me. I sat quietly, content with the food in my belly and the chance to rest. Suddenly I realized that the couple next to us was talking about us. I heard the woman say, "I should help them." And then they were talking to us.
"Excuse me," said the woman, "but are you two on a date or just friends hanging out?" We looked at each other. How to answer that one? We were not necessarily on a date, but we are dating.
Justin answered, "Uh, kinda both?"
"Well I'm going to help you out. You," she said as she pointed to my boyfriend, "need to get off that phone." Justin and I both stared at her, blinking, unsure of what exactly what was going on.
A few moments later, we gathered our wits. Very smoothly, Justin responded, "no." The woman began to protest, but he cut her off. "If I don't figure out where we are going next, this date cannot continue."
"Well, I just see so many couples separated by their phones. They're sitting right there with each other, and they never look up from whatever's in their hands!" Now it was my turn to jump in.
"Oh, no. Thank you for the concern, but we've been dating for a while, and he never does that. This is a brand new phone, and we aren't sure how to use it, and we need to find directions to our next destination."
She sighed a breath of relief. "Oh good. I just didn't want to think you were sitting here on this date and he was ignoring you. Too many couples are like that. We've been seeing it happen all day! It's just so sad!" I politely agreed. She continued on for a bit longer, and then finally they rose to leave. We said our goodbyes, and turned back to finding the navigation program on the Blackberry.
Once we figured out where we were going, we left the restaurant to wander up and down Little Italy for a bit. I bought him a cannoli and myself a cupcake filled with marshmallow fluff. We walked arm in arm and had a lovely conversation, and then we continued our "date" by heading towards our destination.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Welcome to Aunthood
I mentioned this news briefly in the last entry, but I was being all whiney about being the misfit, so I barely glossed over it instead of truly embracing it.
Kaylee Marie was born at 5:15 pm on November 20th, 2009. She weighed in at a whopping 8lbs 15oz. I hear that this is big, but since my mother always complained about how big we were (me: 9lbs, my brother: 9 lbs. 5oz, my sister: 9lbs 14oz), Kaylee doesn't seem all that impressive. But she is chubby and not alien-like at all! Alien babies freak me out a little, I'm not gonna lie. So when
Kaylee came out all chubby and looked like she was a month overdue, I was excited. I don't know and have never cared about the length of any baby, so don't ask.My sister squeezed her out in an hour and fifteen minutes. Not too shabby for my sister's first go at childbirth.
Kaylee is all kinds of healthy and robust. She certainly doesn't look newborn, although that probably has to do with the almost 9lbs. thing.
So far I am in love with being an aunt. I will get to play with her, corrupt her by teaching her intelligent bad words, feed her candy, and then I get to give her back. Right now, though, she sleeps a lot. Last night I positioned her blankets so she looked like Yoda, and said "Look like Yoda, I do" several times. Then I positioned the blankets so she looked like Jabba the Hut. She never woke up. Katie (Kaylee's mother/my sister) may have thought it was funny, although she was probably just loopy on pain killers.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wedding Weekend Extravaganza
I realize now that I've never explained how I am the odd one out in my family. How I am the misfit. Most of what I'm about to tell you happened during the time when a. I was really busy, b. blogger.com wouldn't let me in, and c. I'd forgotten to be good about keeping up with my entries.
Very specifically, the most important part of this story happened in May. But first, I must back up.
I am the eldest of three children. I am 25, Michael is 23, and Katie is 21. I was always the educationally driven child, even growing up, so it is no surprise that I went to college and then continued on to grad school. My brother attempted some online courses, but quit because his English class was too hard (never mind that his older sister is an English major and writing center tutor). My sister tried a semester at a large university as a business major because people in this country have the false belief that you need a degree in business to open a business. Finally, she quit and started attending a local community college for Culinary Arts while living at home. She's going to be a great chef. The traditional 4-yr college experience is an oddity in my family. My father went to mechanics school to learn how to work on cars, and my mother quit college after a semester. They are both very successful, my father as one of the top auto fire investigators on the East Coast, and my mother as a successful photographer with her own studio on our property. But I'm the only one in my family to complete college, let alone head off to grad school. Plus, I focused on Shakespeare. My mother once thought that some guy named Macbeth wrote the play A Midsummer Night's Dream. So...I'm on my own here.
My brother dated the same girl for years. She wrapped him around her little pinky and never let go. So he proposed, and they set the date for May 2, 2009.
My sister dated the same guy for years. They argued a lot, but it was because they are both stubborn as oxes. He loved her, tho. It was easy to see. He moved into the barn with my sister. Halfway through her first semester as a culinary arts student, Katie found out she was pregnant. Adam immediately proposed. My family is difficult to gather in one place, so my parents suggested that Katie and Adam tie the knot the day after my brother's wedding. May 3rd, 2009.
I have failed miserably at the game of love. I was not going to get married any time soon.
I did have a boyfriend at the time, however. Originally I thought inviting him to the wedding weekend extravaganza was a bit like asking a guy to willingly jump in the trenches, so I didn't ask him. But then I realized that since I was graduating at the end of May, and because he was doing some traveling of his own later, that this week (because I had to stay home after the weddings and watch my parents' house, who were justifiably skipping town as soon as the weddings were over) was our last guaranteed time to spend alone before I moved.
So he bit the bullet and came along.
Imagine being the eldest, in your mid-twenties, bringing your boyfriend to your younger brother's and younger sister's wedding(s) within the same weekend. If one more relative asked me when I was going to get married, I was going to snap. Just...it's as bad as you would imagine.
To top it off, I was not in my brother's wedding, and I was only a bride's maid in my sister's wedding. Katie's best friend was her maid of honor even though I had offered to fill the role (also when my sister gave birth to my niece a few days ago I was not allowed in the delivery room, but her best friend was).
My mother is about babies and getting married. She got married when she was 20, and she popped me out 2 years later. I'm already 5 years behind schedule. When my mother tells people about her children, she goes on and on about the weddings and the baby, and can only think to say that I'm living at home right now. Nothing about my accomplishment of earning two masters in Shakespeare by the age of 24. Or that I'm working on a third Masters (in Education this time). Nope. Just..."and then there's Lauren. [read here: the one who can't seem to find a husband or who can't seem to muster the wants to have me another grandbaby]".
I am loved. Very very loved. My parents help me whenever and however they can, and currently they are providing me with a roof over my head and food in my belly. They are also quite proud of me. But they don't quite know what to do with me except look at me with sad eyes. I don't fit into society's norm, and I certainly don't fit into this family's norm.
In this family you get a job. You get married. You have babies.
I want to find a fulfilling career(s) while searching within myself to find out who I am. I want to marry eventually, but not right now. And I want to adopt a young child (between 3 and 5 years old) after I get married. And I want to live in a bustling city, not slower lower backwater hometown, USA. I want to do more than just exist.
Life is tough when your brother and your sister fulfill your societal role before you do.
Very specifically, the most important part of this story happened in May. But first, I must back up.
I am the eldest of three children. I am 25, Michael is 23, and Katie is 21. I was always the educationally driven child, even growing up, so it is no surprise that I went to college and then continued on to grad school. My brother attempted some online courses, but quit because his English class was too hard (never mind that his older sister is an English major and writing center tutor). My sister tried a semester at a large university as a business major because people in this country have the false belief that you need a degree in business to open a business. Finally, she quit and started attending a local community college for Culinary Arts while living at home. She's going to be a great chef. The traditional 4-yr college experience is an oddity in my family. My father went to mechanics school to learn how to work on cars, and my mother quit college after a semester. They are both very successful, my father as one of the top auto fire investigators on the East Coast, and my mother as a successful photographer with her own studio on our property. But I'm the only one in my family to complete college, let alone head off to grad school. Plus, I focused on Shakespeare. My mother once thought that some guy named Macbeth wrote the play A Midsummer Night's Dream. So...I'm on my own here.
My brother dated the same girl for years. She wrapped him around her little pinky and never let go. So he proposed, and they set the date for May 2, 2009.
My sister dated the same guy for years. They argued a lot, but it was because they are both stubborn as oxes. He loved her, tho. It was easy to see. He moved into the barn with my sister. Halfway through her first semester as a culinary arts student, Katie found out she was pregnant. Adam immediately proposed. My family is difficult to gather in one place, so my parents suggested that Katie and Adam tie the knot the day after my brother's wedding. May 3rd, 2009.
I have failed miserably at the game of love. I was not going to get married any time soon.
I did have a boyfriend at the time, however. Originally I thought inviting him to the wedding weekend extravaganza was a bit like asking a guy to willingly jump in the trenches, so I didn't ask him. But then I realized that since I was graduating at the end of May, and because he was doing some traveling of his own later, that this week (because I had to stay home after the weddings and watch my parents' house, who were justifiably skipping town as soon as the weddings were over) was our last guaranteed time to spend alone before I moved.
So he bit the bullet and came along.
Imagine being the eldest, in your mid-twenties, bringing your boyfriend to your younger brother's and younger sister's wedding(s) within the same weekend. If one more relative asked me when I was going to get married, I was going to snap. Just...it's as bad as you would imagine.
To top it off, I was not in my brother's wedding, and I was only a bride's maid in my sister's wedding. Katie's best friend was her maid of honor even though I had offered to fill the role (also when my sister gave birth to my niece a few days ago I was not allowed in the delivery room, but her best friend was).
My mother is about babies and getting married. She got married when she was 20, and she popped me out 2 years later. I'm already 5 years behind schedule. When my mother tells people about her children, she goes on and on about the weddings and the baby, and can only think to say that I'm living at home right now. Nothing about my accomplishment of earning two masters in Shakespeare by the age of 24. Or that I'm working on a third Masters (in Education this time). Nope. Just..."and then there's Lauren. [read here: the one who can't seem to find a husband or who can't seem to muster the wants to have me another grandbaby]".
I am loved. Very very loved. My parents help me whenever and however they can, and currently they are providing me with a roof over my head and food in my belly. They are also quite proud of me. But they don't quite know what to do with me except look at me with sad eyes. I don't fit into society's norm, and I certainly don't fit into this family's norm.
In this family you get a job. You get married. You have babies.
I want to find a fulfilling career(s) while searching within myself to find out who I am. I want to marry eventually, but not right now. And I want to adopt a young child (between 3 and 5 years old) after I get married. And I want to live in a bustling city, not slower lower backwater hometown, USA. I want to do more than just exist.
Life is tough when your brother and your sister fulfill your societal role before you do.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Clash of the generations...and levels of sanity
It has been a terribly long time since I've written. I blame partly that blogger.com would not accept my email and password even though I knew they were correct. So I let it be for a while. I've been busy living anyway.
Life has not slowed down. Poppop was in rare form the other day when I told him I was driving down to Virginia where my boyfriend lived.
"Oh, you two are dating again?" We had just ended a 4 month break and were back to being a brand new shiny couple, and as we were never a real "hey, we're a couple" couple before, we were covering new ground every day.
"Yep," I said.
"Well, long distance relationships don't work out anyway." I was floored. I should expect my grandfather to say the wrong thing at the wrong time by now, but it still floors me. Still. How does he pick the exact thing to not say to me? We had separated partly because we weren't sure we could make it after I moved back to Delaware, and just a couple of days after we decide to try it again, my grandfather's throwing that sentence in my face. But I am getting better at recovering from the kick to the gut fast enough to retort.
"So I should just give up, huh?" I never said my retorts were good ones. One step at a time.
"No, I'm saying that he should move here. Why is he still down there?"
'Because he is still in school." We met in the same program, and I was a year ahead of him, so he's just a few months away from graduation.
"He's still in school? Well, is he going to get a job after he graduates?"
"He's not sure yet. He'll either look for a job or apply to grad school for a PhD."
"And then he'll still be in school? Doesn't that take a long time? You can't get married when you're in school." When did this turn to marriage? And why does education automatically exclude marriage? Then he asked, "are you two going to get married?" I swear to you, if he wasn't an 86 year old man I would have punched him. I had sworn that I would punch the next person who asked me when I was getting married. I am the only child left in my immediate family not married. And I'm the eldest. Society dictates, then, that I am an anomaly. The eldest always gets married first. Or at the very least second. Not me. I'm the third to go, and I'm in no rush. For me, marriage is the step after I've settled into my career and I can support myself. But I'm still young. I have plenty of time. But I digress....
"Married? I don't know. That hasn't really been..."
"Well when marriage is concerned, the woman should go to where the man is!" What? Did anybody else just feel the time warp back to the 1950's? And that's when I knew there was no point in arguing. One minute he wants my boyfriend to move to Delaware, and the next he says I'll never marry him because he might continue his schooling, and then finally he declares that I should move to him when I marry him. There's nothing to argue, nothing to discuss; he's having a discussion with himself in front of me. And so, I nod, think about biting comments that involve me asking him if I could scrub his socks by hand, and then head back to my room where I can close the door and shut out the insanity.
Life has not slowed down. Poppop was in rare form the other day when I told him I was driving down to Virginia where my boyfriend lived.
"Oh, you two are dating again?" We had just ended a 4 month break and were back to being a brand new shiny couple, and as we were never a real "hey, we're a couple" couple before, we were covering new ground every day.
"Yep," I said.
"Well, long distance relationships don't work out anyway." I was floored. I should expect my grandfather to say the wrong thing at the wrong time by now, but it still floors me. Still. How does he pick the exact thing to not say to me? We had separated partly because we weren't sure we could make it after I moved back to Delaware, and just a couple of days after we decide to try it again, my grandfather's throwing that sentence in my face. But I am getting better at recovering from the kick to the gut fast enough to retort.
"So I should just give up, huh?" I never said my retorts were good ones. One step at a time.
"No, I'm saying that he should move here. Why is he still down there?"
'Because he is still in school." We met in the same program, and I was a year ahead of him, so he's just a few months away from graduation.
"He's still in school? Well, is he going to get a job after he graduates?"
"He's not sure yet. He'll either look for a job or apply to grad school for a PhD."
"And then he'll still be in school? Doesn't that take a long time? You can't get married when you're in school." When did this turn to marriage? And why does education automatically exclude marriage? Then he asked, "are you two going to get married?" I swear to you, if he wasn't an 86 year old man I would have punched him. I had sworn that I would punch the next person who asked me when I was getting married. I am the only child left in my immediate family not married. And I'm the eldest. Society dictates, then, that I am an anomaly. The eldest always gets married first. Or at the very least second. Not me. I'm the third to go, and I'm in no rush. For me, marriage is the step after I've settled into my career and I can support myself. But I'm still young. I have plenty of time. But I digress....
"Married? I don't know. That hasn't really been..."
"Well when marriage is concerned, the woman should go to where the man is!" What? Did anybody else just feel the time warp back to the 1950's? And that's when I knew there was no point in arguing. One minute he wants my boyfriend to move to Delaware, and the next he says I'll never marry him because he might continue his schooling, and then finally he declares that I should move to him when I marry him. There's nothing to argue, nothing to discuss; he's having a discussion with himself in front of me. And so, I nod, think about biting comments that involve me asking him if I could scrub his socks by hand, and then head back to my room where I can close the door and shut out the insanity.
Monday, September 14, 2009
The little old lady in an Italian cemetery
Just a few days ago someone mentioned communication between parties who did not speak the same language. I don't remember the context, but it did make me remember one of my favorite moments on my trip to Italy.
We were in Venice. We'd only been in the country for a few days. We decided to check out the island where Ezra Pound is buried. You know, the island that is nothing but a cemetary? Anyway, I don't have a particularly strong need to see where famous people are buried but I didn't want to leave the group, so when we got there I found a nice quiet place to sit with my journal. Some seemingly magical moments happened while I sat on that little wall. I saw a little lizard, and watched people enter and exit the cemetary. Birds flew in, chirped a bit, and then flew out. It was all incredibly picturesque, as is most of Italy.
As I sat there, I heard the sound of a woman's heels clicking along accompanied by the sound of little wheels hitting small cracks in the pavement. Suddenly, as the sound grew closer, I heard the sound of the woman trip. I spun around to make sure she was okay. She was still standing and was taking a moment to regain her balance. She was a little old lady with grey hair, not much taller than the average Italian grandmother. She saw me, smiled, and then began rattling off to me in Italian. She paused for a moment, waiting for a response from me. I smiled and politely shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. She understood. I didn't speak Italian.
She could have just smiled and walked away. But instead she did something much more touching. She started the story over again, this time acting it all out while she talked (still in Italian). She took a few steps back, began to walk, tall this time with her shoulders back, and then, woops!, she trips. She mimes brushing off her knees and wiping off her forehead. Then she grabs the handle to her wheelie bag, smiles at me, and walks away.
That woman, whoever she was, will be with me forever, and we've never shared a single word.
We were in Venice. We'd only been in the country for a few days. We decided to check out the island where Ezra Pound is buried. You know, the island that is nothing but a cemetary? Anyway, I don't have a particularly strong need to see where famous people are buried but I didn't want to leave the group, so when we got there I found a nice quiet place to sit with my journal. Some seemingly magical moments happened while I sat on that little wall. I saw a little lizard, and watched people enter and exit the cemetary. Birds flew in, chirped a bit, and then flew out. It was all incredibly picturesque, as is most of Italy.
As I sat there, I heard the sound of a woman's heels clicking along accompanied by the sound of little wheels hitting small cracks in the pavement. Suddenly, as the sound grew closer, I heard the sound of the woman trip. I spun around to make sure she was okay. She was still standing and was taking a moment to regain her balance. She was a little old lady with grey hair, not much taller than the average Italian grandmother. She saw me, smiled, and then began rattling off to me in Italian. She paused for a moment, waiting for a response from me. I smiled and politely shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. She understood. I didn't speak Italian.
She could have just smiled and walked away. But instead she did something much more touching. She started the story over again, this time acting it all out while she talked (still in Italian). She took a few steps back, began to walk, tall this time with her shoulders back, and then, woops!, she trips. She mimes brushing off her knees and wiping off her forehead. Then she grabs the handle to her wheelie bag, smiles at me, and walks away.
That woman, whoever she was, will be with me forever, and we've never shared a single word.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Elevated Temperature
My normal body temperature is 96.5. I'm always cold. I have an impressive sweater collection, and I don't understand why people get excited when fall rears her ugly head. So when my body temperature rose to 98.3, and sometimes 99.1, and stayed there from Friday to Monday I got worried. I also suddenly understood why people liked air conditioning. And I suddenly had the strong urge to take an ice bath, which had always seemed like the most effective use of torture one could use on me. Was this what it felt like to have a normal body temperature?
My appointment happened on Tuesday, and of course, by the time I got there my temperature had already lowered to a 97.9. Still high for me, though. I explained to the nurse that my normal body temperature was much lower. She nodded and led me to my exam room.
When the doctor came in, we went over my symptoms again. We got to the temperature part, and I explained once again that my normal temperature is much lower. She looked at me and said, "yes, but you don't have a fever."
"Yes, but my temperature is elevated."
"But it's not a fever. Anything below 99 is not a fever, regardless of normal body temperature."
"Well, my body temperature is elevated, and it must be elevated for some reason, right? I mean, my body is reacting to something."
"Probably not." Now all I can think is there has to be something wrong with this. My body is exuding heat at an astronomical rate, and I still want to take an ice bath, but it's for no reason at all? But then she said the one thing that is certain to piss me off. "Is your period about to start? Because the woman's body elevates its temperature up to two weeks before the period begins."
Yes, doctor, in fact it is! You're a genius! In the past 12 years I've been a menstruating woman, I've never noticed the 5 day long heat wave before! How unobservant of me! I must be crazy. I'll stop wasting your time and go home now. And take a nice ice bath.
It is like the time I went to the women's center to talk to the nurse practitioner about the possibility of me having PMDD. Her response? "Here's a pamphlet on PMS." The end. No discussion, no probes into why I would feel that way. Just a pamphlet on the symptoms I should be experiencing once a month, and in theory have been feeling every month for the past 11 years at the time. Because at the age of 24I wouldn't have a clue as to what PMS is, or that I'm sure the symptoms are getting worse.
But I'm not that mean ever in person to say the cynical things I'm thinking, so I just nodded. The doctor diagnosed me with some mysterious virus, told me if I developed a skin rash to stay home from school, and asked me if I wanted a flu shot.
Overall, she was very nice, and awfully compassionate, and she even looked at the warts taking over my heel for me for free. But why do doctors think that women don't know how their bodies react to their cycles? Nothing in a woman's life is more personal and nothing is a woman more aware of than how her body and her uterus work together. Just, FYI.
My appointment happened on Tuesday, and of course, by the time I got there my temperature had already lowered to a 97.9. Still high for me, though. I explained to the nurse that my normal body temperature was much lower. She nodded and led me to my exam room.
When the doctor came in, we went over my symptoms again. We got to the temperature part, and I explained once again that my normal temperature is much lower. She looked at me and said, "yes, but you don't have a fever."
"Yes, but my temperature is elevated."
"But it's not a fever. Anything below 99 is not a fever, regardless of normal body temperature."
"Well, my body temperature is elevated, and it must be elevated for some reason, right? I mean, my body is reacting to something."
"Probably not." Now all I can think is there has to be something wrong with this. My body is exuding heat at an astronomical rate, and I still want to take an ice bath, but it's for no reason at all? But then she said the one thing that is certain to piss me off. "Is your period about to start? Because the woman's body elevates its temperature up to two weeks before the period begins."
Yes, doctor, in fact it is! You're a genius! In the past 12 years I've been a menstruating woman, I've never noticed the 5 day long heat wave before! How unobservant of me! I must be crazy. I'll stop wasting your time and go home now. And take a nice ice bath.
It is like the time I went to the women's center to talk to the nurse practitioner about the possibility of me having PMDD. Her response? "Here's a pamphlet on PMS." The end. No discussion, no probes into why I would feel that way. Just a pamphlet on the symptoms I should be experiencing once a month, and in theory have been feeling every month for the past 11 years at the time. Because at the age of 24I wouldn't have a clue as to what PMS is, or that I'm sure the symptoms are getting worse.
But I'm not that mean ever in person to say the cynical things I'm thinking, so I just nodded. The doctor diagnosed me with some mysterious virus, told me if I developed a skin rash to stay home from school, and asked me if I wanted a flu shot.
Overall, she was very nice, and awfully compassionate, and she even looked at the warts taking over my heel for me for free. But why do doctors think that women don't know how their bodies react to their cycles? Nothing in a woman's life is more personal and nothing is a woman more aware of than how her body and her uterus work together. Just, FYI.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Tolerating Intolerance
I feel it is time to introduce you to my grandfather.
There's no particular outline or timing I'm following. I felt it was better to tell you what he just did rather than get out of my be to go yell at him. My parents tell me I'm not allowed to do that. They tell me he's old, and so I need to be tolerant.
I have trouble being tolerant towards people who are not tolerant themselves. And my grandfather's intolerance has little to do with him being 86. Or rather, it's not that he's old, it's that he was born a long time ago. And that's why I don't tolerate his hate, because it's not a result of his old mind slipping. It's been there all along, and I don't think we should tolerate hate just because that's what they learned back then. Just because most people did it or believed it back then doesn't make it right. Old dogs need to learn new tricks.
Briefly, before we get started on today's story, I'd like to share with you some history between me and my grandfather. When I was in high school I had a black boyfriend. My grandfather disapproved, and harassed my parents about it continuously. My parents did make me end things with the boy, but not because of his skin color, like my grandfather thought. It was because the kid was into drugs. That's a fair reason to make your daughter stop seeing someone. But I'm certain to this day he thinks he won. I've never forgiven him for what he put my parents through.
So back to today. My grandfather has a tendency to talk out loud when he thinks no one is around. Usually, it's because he forgot that I was in the other room. Often he's bitching about how horrible my mother is as a house keeper. My mother is not a horrible house keeper. My mother is running her own business, working around the clock, so sometimes the dishes don't get done right away. My grandmother was a house keeper. She raised my father, cleaned the house, and cooked dinner. That is what she did. She was an excellent cook, and she kept her house spotless, but mostly because that was her job. And so my grandfather can't figure out why my mother can't do her job. Not as a photographer. As a house keeper.
Today, though, it was a different rant. He was on the phone with the newspaper people. Something about not getting his Friday or Sunday newspaper. He explains the situation, gives them the required information, and then has trouble hearing the last question. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you....What? I still didn't understand you...oh, no, that'll be all." He hangs up the phone and then says, "Can't they get people who speak English?". He mutters a few other things about being in America, and then falls silent, reading the newspaper he did get.
Certainly it is frustrating when someone on the phone has a thick accent. And certainly immigration into this country is a touchy subject, especially with the fact that many immigrants have not gone through the proper channels. I get that. But here is what made me mad: my grandfather's parents didn't speak English.
My great grandparents are straight from Italy. "Off the boat," as they say. I've found them on Ellis Island's passenger logbook. I have heard countless stories about my dad being able to communicate with his grandmother even though she knew no English and he knew no Italian. My great-grandfather had to learn English, but he certainly never mastered it, and I'm sure his accent never went away. So why is my grandfather so intolerant of people who have not mastered English? The person on the phone certainly knew enough English that he was able to understand them up until the very final question. So why, oh why am I required to be tolerant of his intolerance?
There's no particular outline or timing I'm following. I felt it was better to tell you what he just did rather than get out of my be to go yell at him. My parents tell me I'm not allowed to do that. They tell me he's old, and so I need to be tolerant.
I have trouble being tolerant towards people who are not tolerant themselves. And my grandfather's intolerance has little to do with him being 86. Or rather, it's not that he's old, it's that he was born a long time ago. And that's why I don't tolerate his hate, because it's not a result of his old mind slipping. It's been there all along, and I don't think we should tolerate hate just because that's what they learned back then. Just because most people did it or believed it back then doesn't make it right. Old dogs need to learn new tricks.
Briefly, before we get started on today's story, I'd like to share with you some history between me and my grandfather. When I was in high school I had a black boyfriend. My grandfather disapproved, and harassed my parents about it continuously. My parents did make me end things with the boy, but not because of his skin color, like my grandfather thought. It was because the kid was into drugs. That's a fair reason to make your daughter stop seeing someone. But I'm certain to this day he thinks he won. I've never forgiven him for what he put my parents through.
So back to today. My grandfather has a tendency to talk out loud when he thinks no one is around. Usually, it's because he forgot that I was in the other room. Often he's bitching about how horrible my mother is as a house keeper. My mother is not a horrible house keeper. My mother is running her own business, working around the clock, so sometimes the dishes don't get done right away. My grandmother was a house keeper. She raised my father, cleaned the house, and cooked dinner. That is what she did. She was an excellent cook, and she kept her house spotless, but mostly because that was her job. And so my grandfather can't figure out why my mother can't do her job. Not as a photographer. As a house keeper.
Today, though, it was a different rant. He was on the phone with the newspaper people. Something about not getting his Friday or Sunday newspaper. He explains the situation, gives them the required information, and then has trouble hearing the last question. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you....What? I still didn't understand you...oh, no, that'll be all." He hangs up the phone and then says, "Can't they get people who speak English?". He mutters a few other things about being in America, and then falls silent, reading the newspaper he did get.
Certainly it is frustrating when someone on the phone has a thick accent. And certainly immigration into this country is a touchy subject, especially with the fact that many immigrants have not gone through the proper channels. I get that. But here is what made me mad: my grandfather's parents didn't speak English.
My great grandparents are straight from Italy. "Off the boat," as they say. I've found them on Ellis Island's passenger logbook. I have heard countless stories about my dad being able to communicate with his grandmother even though she knew no English and he knew no Italian. My great-grandfather had to learn English, but he certainly never mastered it, and I'm sure his accent never went away. So why is my grandfather so intolerant of people who have not mastered English? The person on the phone certainly knew enough English that he was able to understand them up until the very final question. So why, oh why am I required to be tolerant of his intolerance?
Friday, September 4, 2009
Ignorance Breeds Ignorance
My happy image of the strong, intelligent America is slowly being shattered. Shattering is an interesting verb to slow down. Imagine, one big piece of glass slowly crack, and then slowly, one by one, pieces crawl towards the ground.
It began when I spent the first half of 2005 in England. Nothing helps you see your country better than leaving it. Now, I certainly do not agree with much in relation to W. Bush. But then there was this incident. There was a picture of Bush holding hands with a man from Saudi Arabia (I think?). The man had come from his country to Bush's ranch for a meeting or visit. To show respect to this man, Bush held his hand. Holding hands between men shows trust and respect in some countries. What did the American people do when this picture hit the papers? They made fun of Bush. Some called him gay. Others simply laughed at him. Why, someone please tell me why would we all laugh at Bush for holding a man's hand when we had done nothing but ridicule him for his inability to show respect towards other cultures. Bush has done a lot that deserves ridicule; his ability to speak in public alone has offered years of fodder. But this time he was stepping out of his comfort zone, taking a step in the right direction towards international diplomacy, and we, like a bunch of 5th graders, laughed at him and called him names. We were the laughing stock of the world. Not Bush. I was horrified and ashamed for all of my fellow Americans. And I was suddenly embarrassed to be out in public in a foreign country.
Recently, the health care reform issues boiled my blood. People sported signs reading, "leave my health care alone!". How selfish are the people in this nation? So because it is working for you we should let all the millions whom it's not working for suffer? They aren't even willing to look at possible options. They don't care what kind of reform it is, or what the reform entails. They just don't want anything to be different. And the lies. The length people went to to get their way. Death panels? Really? And because one draft of said reform isn't perfect, we should just give up and go home? We're Americans. We're supposed to fight. Fight for each other. Fight for what is right. Not cower behind our set ways. There is a solution, and I may not know what it is, but I do know that "leave my health care alone!" is not it.
But I think the thing that boils my blood the most right now is the petty, ignorant behavior I've seen in people who do not like President Obama. This is most evident in the recent uproar over Obama's scheduled speech to the youth of America on the 8th. Parents are refusing to let their children go to school. Schools are prohibiting their teachers from showing the speech in their classes. The reason is they feel that Obama wants to brainwash and indoctrinate the children of America. Many presidents have addressed the students in the past, telling them to work hard and stay in school. Obama will probably say the same. He will probably also tell them that they have the power to change their world, which is not a lie. But the parents are so blinded by their hate for Obama, they cannot bring themselves to let their children hear what will probably be a positive and encouraging message from the President. Instead of stepping up to the plate and telling their children how to formulate their own opinion, how to constructively disagree, these parents are teaching them to simply not accept other views. Never has there been such an uproar about a presidential speech aimed at the youth of America. Ironically, this is because now more than ever parents are trying to shield their children from the real world.
Did you know that America is one of the leading nations when it comes to banned/censored books? Thought that only happened in dictatorships, didn't you? But no, it happens right here in our schools all the time. We are not talking about censored for age appropriateness. What are we talking about? Here is an example. "Fox" is a picture book written by Australian author Margaret Wild. It is geared towards adolescent readers, not small school children. It is a story about two friends, Magpie and Dog (who are a magpie and a dog, respectively). The two have a mutually beneficial relationship because Dog cannot see well and Magpie cannot fly. Magpie rides on Dog's back directing him as Dog runs. One day Fox shows up. He tries to get Magpie to leave Dog and ride on Fox's back instead, saying that Fox can run faster and can show her what it's really like to fly. Magpie says that she will never leave Dog, for she is his eyes and he is her wings. On the third time Fox tempts Magpie, she gives in. After running very fast and very far, Fox drops Magpie in the middle of the desert. He laughs at her and as he runs away, says, "now you and Dog will know what it is like to be really alone". Magpie realizes what she's done to Dog and wants to give up, but she gets up anyway and begins the long journey home to Dog. Why is this book banned? Because of the allusion to an adulterous affair? Maybe the mild thoughts of suicide at the beginning of the book I didn't mention? No. It's because it doesn't have a happy ending. This book is banned from high schools because it doesn't end with a happily ever after.
Parents are sheltering their children. What is wrong with this? What could be so bad about a kid who has never read a book that didn't end happily? Or what about a child who has never seen the President of the United States speak? A lot. A hell of a lot is wrong with that. Sheltered children turn into closed-minded adults who cannot function in the face of different opinions or real turmoil. They cannot think for themselves. They accept whatever is handed to them as fact. They are, ironically, brainwashed. This is the reason racism has lasted for as long as it has in this country. What eleven year old boy can hate another child just because his skin is a different color? Children are not born with hate. It is handed to them by the ones they love and trust the most. Visit that child's house and I guarantee you the parental figure in that house feels the same way. It a scary proposition to ask a parent to let go of the control over their child. But by letting go of that control, we are doing what we should be doing as parents in the first place: teaching the children how to live in the real world, and how to make their world a better place.
We cannot program our children to be robots. We need to expose them to the world little by little as age allows, guiding them through the reality, teaching them how to cope, helping them sift through the noise to find their own voice. They cannot choose their life, their beliefs, their opinions if they do not know the options. Give them all of the options, and then guide them. Show them how to navigate this world instead of hiding from it. They, and this country, will be better for it.
It began when I spent the first half of 2005 in England. Nothing helps you see your country better than leaving it. Now, I certainly do not agree with much in relation to W. Bush. But then there was this incident. There was a picture of Bush holding hands with a man from Saudi Arabia (I think?). The man had come from his country to Bush's ranch for a meeting or visit. To show respect to this man, Bush held his hand. Holding hands between men shows trust and respect in some countries. What did the American people do when this picture hit the papers? They made fun of Bush. Some called him gay. Others simply laughed at him. Why, someone please tell me why would we all laugh at Bush for holding a man's hand when we had done nothing but ridicule him for his inability to show respect towards other cultures. Bush has done a lot that deserves ridicule; his ability to speak in public alone has offered years of fodder. But this time he was stepping out of his comfort zone, taking a step in the right direction towards international diplomacy, and we, like a bunch of 5th graders, laughed at him and called him names. We were the laughing stock of the world. Not Bush. I was horrified and ashamed for all of my fellow Americans. And I was suddenly embarrassed to be out in public in a foreign country.
Recently, the health care reform issues boiled my blood. People sported signs reading, "leave my health care alone!". How selfish are the people in this nation? So because it is working for you we should let all the millions whom it's not working for suffer? They aren't even willing to look at possible options. They don't care what kind of reform it is, or what the reform entails. They just don't want anything to be different. And the lies. The length people went to to get their way. Death panels? Really? And because one draft of said reform isn't perfect, we should just give up and go home? We're Americans. We're supposed to fight. Fight for each other. Fight for what is right. Not cower behind our set ways. There is a solution, and I may not know what it is, but I do know that "leave my health care alone!" is not it.
But I think the thing that boils my blood the most right now is the petty, ignorant behavior I've seen in people who do not like President Obama. This is most evident in the recent uproar over Obama's scheduled speech to the youth of America on the 8th. Parents are refusing to let their children go to school. Schools are prohibiting their teachers from showing the speech in their classes. The reason is they feel that Obama wants to brainwash and indoctrinate the children of America. Many presidents have addressed the students in the past, telling them to work hard and stay in school. Obama will probably say the same. He will probably also tell them that they have the power to change their world, which is not a lie. But the parents are so blinded by their hate for Obama, they cannot bring themselves to let their children hear what will probably be a positive and encouraging message from the President. Instead of stepping up to the plate and telling their children how to formulate their own opinion, how to constructively disagree, these parents are teaching them to simply not accept other views. Never has there been such an uproar about a presidential speech aimed at the youth of America. Ironically, this is because now more than ever parents are trying to shield their children from the real world.
Did you know that America is one of the leading nations when it comes to banned/censored books? Thought that only happened in dictatorships, didn't you? But no, it happens right here in our schools all the time. We are not talking about censored for age appropriateness. What are we talking about? Here is an example. "Fox" is a picture book written by Australian author Margaret Wild. It is geared towards adolescent readers, not small school children. It is a story about two friends, Magpie and Dog (who are a magpie and a dog, respectively). The two have a mutually beneficial relationship because Dog cannot see well and Magpie cannot fly. Magpie rides on Dog's back directing him as Dog runs. One day Fox shows up. He tries to get Magpie to leave Dog and ride on Fox's back instead, saying that Fox can run faster and can show her what it's really like to fly. Magpie says that she will never leave Dog, for she is his eyes and he is her wings. On the third time Fox tempts Magpie, she gives in. After running very fast and very far, Fox drops Magpie in the middle of the desert. He laughs at her and as he runs away, says, "now you and Dog will know what it is like to be really alone". Magpie realizes what she's done to Dog and wants to give up, but she gets up anyway and begins the long journey home to Dog. Why is this book banned? Because of the allusion to an adulterous affair? Maybe the mild thoughts of suicide at the beginning of the book I didn't mention? No. It's because it doesn't have a happy ending. This book is banned from high schools because it doesn't end with a happily ever after.
Parents are sheltering their children. What is wrong with this? What could be so bad about a kid who has never read a book that didn't end happily? Or what about a child who has never seen the President of the United States speak? A lot. A hell of a lot is wrong with that. Sheltered children turn into closed-minded adults who cannot function in the face of different opinions or real turmoil. They cannot think for themselves. They accept whatever is handed to them as fact. They are, ironically, brainwashed. This is the reason racism has lasted for as long as it has in this country. What eleven year old boy can hate another child just because his skin is a different color? Children are not born with hate. It is handed to them by the ones they love and trust the most. Visit that child's house and I guarantee you the parental figure in that house feels the same way. It a scary proposition to ask a parent to let go of the control over their child. But by letting go of that control, we are doing what we should be doing as parents in the first place: teaching the children how to live in the real world, and how to make their world a better place.
We cannot program our children to be robots. We need to expose them to the world little by little as age allows, guiding them through the reality, teaching them how to cope, helping them sift through the noise to find their own voice. They cannot choose their life, their beliefs, their opinions if they do not know the options. Give them all of the options, and then guide them. Show them how to navigate this world instead of hiding from it. They, and this country, will be better for it.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Student Teaching Abroad (or 3 words that can make my mother cry)
To finish my Master's in Education (M.A.T.) I must complete student teaching hours. Generally speaking, that means they'll assign me to some local high school. There's certainly nothing wrong with that. Or rather, for the average person there's nothing wrong with that.
But I'm not and never will be the average person. I debunk the system all the time. I hate rules. I hate red tape. I hate program models and requirements. I want to do it my own way. Someone once said rules are meant to be broken. I believe that you cannot break a rule until you understand that rule. Then you know and understand when it is okay to break that rule. Rules exist for a reason. They exist for the people who need them, for the people who do not know how to safely cross the street. I know how to safely cross the street, so I'm not going to use the crosswalk or wait for the little green/white man to tell me to cross. So, I do things my own way.
So, student teaching. How are we going to make this a different and unusual experience? I know! I know! Teach abroad!
There are several perks to teaching abroad. First of all, it's an excuse/reason to live in a foreign country. Now, I have done a semester in England, traveled around Italy for 3 weeks, and visited all the smaller parts of the UK. I love traveling. I love living in different countries. And I love any excuse that lets me do so. Secondly, it gets me out of my hometown at least 4 months ahead of schedule. This alone is reason to go.
But that is also the reason that broke my mother's heart.
I got the idea in the first meeting of my second ED grad class. The professor of that class is in charge of a global program. She travels all over the world. Shortly after class began, she offhandedly stated that if anyone was interested in doing their student teaching abroad they should let her know. I lit up like a Christmas tree. It was brilliant. It was hope. So I let her know.
I knew this idea would upset my mother. She loves that I live at home, even if I'm rarely there. She likes to buy food for me and talk to me in person about my day and her day, and she likes to know that I'm in the house. So I knew this would not make her happy. I had said all along I was guaranteed to be home for at least a year and a half, and now I was attempting to cut it short.
She was making dinner when I came home. Dad was also in the kitchen, so that made it easy. One swift blow. "So I have a great idea! I'm really excited about it!" Often if I make it about how excited I am, they take my unsettling ideas easier. "But you're not going to like it," I added, trying not to catch them off guard. They mumbled back prompting questions about the idea. And then I spilled it. And then there was silence.
Suddenly the coarsely chopped onions became minced as my mother asked, "and where will you go?"
"Not sure. I have 34 countries to choose from. I'd like to go somewhere where the native language is English so I can concentrate on teaching literature."
"Somewhere safe?" My mother has this inherent fear of anywhere not in the US. She has this inane belief that the rest of the world is utterly unsafe. It's a little embarrassing at this point, especially since I'm such a world traveler and, knock on wood, have yet to experience anything truly unsafe or horrible.
"Yes, somewhere safe. Plus, this professor says she has had great success. Several of the students got jobs in the US immediately after finishing their student teaching. One student was offered a life-long position at the school abroad."
"So she never came back? That's what I'm afraid of. You'll never come back."
I tried to explain to her that this was only an idea, and that I had almost a year to think about it. The onions weren't getting any smaller. So I tackled it head on. "I love you, mom. I love being near you. But I hate being here. In this small town."
She brushed the onion pulp into the pot. "So where do I need to move to?" she asked. I think there were tears in her eyes. Sadly, I know for a fact that chopping onions has never made my mother tear up. Ever.
"I don't know, mommy. But as soon as I do, I'll let you know."
But I'm not and never will be the average person. I debunk the system all the time. I hate rules. I hate red tape. I hate program models and requirements. I want to do it my own way. Someone once said rules are meant to be broken. I believe that you cannot break a rule until you understand that rule. Then you know and understand when it is okay to break that rule. Rules exist for a reason. They exist for the people who need them, for the people who do not know how to safely cross the street. I know how to safely cross the street, so I'm not going to use the crosswalk or wait for the little green/white man to tell me to cross. So, I do things my own way.
So, student teaching. How are we going to make this a different and unusual experience? I know! I know! Teach abroad!
There are several perks to teaching abroad. First of all, it's an excuse/reason to live in a foreign country. Now, I have done a semester in England, traveled around Italy for 3 weeks, and visited all the smaller parts of the UK. I love traveling. I love living in different countries. And I love any excuse that lets me do so. Secondly, it gets me out of my hometown at least 4 months ahead of schedule. This alone is reason to go.
But that is also the reason that broke my mother's heart.
I got the idea in the first meeting of my second ED grad class. The professor of that class is in charge of a global program. She travels all over the world. Shortly after class began, she offhandedly stated that if anyone was interested in doing their student teaching abroad they should let her know. I lit up like a Christmas tree. It was brilliant. It was hope. So I let her know.
I knew this idea would upset my mother. She loves that I live at home, even if I'm rarely there. She likes to buy food for me and talk to me in person about my day and her day, and she likes to know that I'm in the house. So I knew this would not make her happy. I had said all along I was guaranteed to be home for at least a year and a half, and now I was attempting to cut it short.
She was making dinner when I came home. Dad was also in the kitchen, so that made it easy. One swift blow. "So I have a great idea! I'm really excited about it!" Often if I make it about how excited I am, they take my unsettling ideas easier. "But you're not going to like it," I added, trying not to catch them off guard. They mumbled back prompting questions about the idea. And then I spilled it. And then there was silence.
Suddenly the coarsely chopped onions became minced as my mother asked, "and where will you go?"
"Not sure. I have 34 countries to choose from. I'd like to go somewhere where the native language is English so I can concentrate on teaching literature."
"Somewhere safe?" My mother has this inherent fear of anywhere not in the US. She has this inane belief that the rest of the world is utterly unsafe. It's a little embarrassing at this point, especially since I'm such a world traveler and, knock on wood, have yet to experience anything truly unsafe or horrible.
"Yes, somewhere safe. Plus, this professor says she has had great success. Several of the students got jobs in the US immediately after finishing their student teaching. One student was offered a life-long position at the school abroad."
"So she never came back? That's what I'm afraid of. You'll never come back."
I tried to explain to her that this was only an idea, and that I had almost a year to think about it. The onions weren't getting any smaller. So I tackled it head on. "I love you, mom. I love being near you. But I hate being here. In this small town."
She brushed the onion pulp into the pot. "So where do I need to move to?" she asked. I think there were tears in her eyes. Sadly, I know for a fact that chopping onions has never made my mother tear up. Ever.
"I don't know, mommy. But as soon as I do, I'll let you know."
Wondering about this thing called Love
So, love. Some get to experience it. Most get to, anyway. I never thought of myself as being one who never experienced love. And then I fell in love. And now I'm painfully aware of how many people I did not love in the past.
But I've fallen into the unrequited category. It should be outlawed. The universe should not let your first love experience be unrequited. How can I feel so strongly about someone who claims he does not feel the same? Or doesn't know what he feels. How can you not know what you feel? Are you trying to be nice? Trying to protect me from the truth? And if that's so, then why do you hug me like you never want to let go? Or come up with clever ways to put your arm around me, touch your thigh against mine? Why do you send me conflicting messages?
I understand why women stay in abusive relationships. It is wrong. It is very very wrong, but I get it. I understand loving someone so much you'll forgive them for anything. When it comes down to it, it's your responsibility to take care of yourself. Respect yourself. If you don't respect yourself and stick to how you feel people should treat you, then other people will have the opportunity to disrespect you. So why is it so hard to stick to those rules?
My rule is that you love me and you show me that you love me. This is easy. It involves holding my hand, hugging me close, and being totally committed to me. So why am I able to let him go about his life as he peruses the market and sends me mixed signals and still love him? Or still be ready in an instant to let him back in if he wants to after finding no one else he likes?
As of right now I am not a fan of Love, and until further notice he and I will have a tumultuous relationship that will involve me pretending that he doesn't exist and him grabbing hold of my heart and squeezing for all he is worth. Grrrr.
But I've fallen into the unrequited category. It should be outlawed. The universe should not let your first love experience be unrequited. How can I feel so strongly about someone who claims he does not feel the same? Or doesn't know what he feels. How can you not know what you feel? Are you trying to be nice? Trying to protect me from the truth? And if that's so, then why do you hug me like you never want to let go? Or come up with clever ways to put your arm around me, touch your thigh against mine? Why do you send me conflicting messages?
I understand why women stay in abusive relationships. It is wrong. It is very very wrong, but I get it. I understand loving someone so much you'll forgive them for anything. When it comes down to it, it's your responsibility to take care of yourself. Respect yourself. If you don't respect yourself and stick to how you feel people should treat you, then other people will have the opportunity to disrespect you. So why is it so hard to stick to those rules?
My rule is that you love me and you show me that you love me. This is easy. It involves holding my hand, hugging me close, and being totally committed to me. So why am I able to let him go about his life as he peruses the market and sends me mixed signals and still love him? Or still be ready in an instant to let him back in if he wants to after finding no one else he likes?
As of right now I am not a fan of Love, and until further notice he and I will have a tumultuous relationship that will involve me pretending that he doesn't exist and him grabbing hold of my heart and squeezing for all he is worth. Grrrr.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Strange Happenings
Every time I leave my house something strange happens. The problem with this is not that something strange has happened, but that no one is awake to explain to me what exactly is going on when I get home. Generally speaking, I am a night owl. Add to this that I work about 4 nights a week, and don’t get home from said job until after midnight. All around, I see my family for a few hours in the middle of the day after I emerge from my room in the afternoon and before I set out for the night. They also all seem to not know how to use their phones to communicate. So I’m left in the dark when I get home at 12:06 am.
Two nights ago I had no idea anything was wrong. I left in the early afternoon to go to a ball game with some friends, and didn’t return until close to 1 am. Nothing seemed out of sorts. Both cars were at my sister’s barn, so I assumed that she and her husband were home. All of the cars at the main house were there, and the porch light was on, as it is when I’m out late. Nothing seemed out of sorts. My mother always hears me come in, as her bedroom is right next to the front door. I sneak in as quietly as I might, but she always hears me come in. Or at least that’s what she claims. I stayed up until 3 am goofing around on the computer, and then turned over for sleep that I figured would last until at least noon.
9:30 am my parents come in to my room with the phone. Both of them. They tell me PNC Bank is on the phone with some questions about some suspicious activity on my account. I take the phone and listen to the woman list off 3 transactions that happen the same day, and I verify that all of those were, in fact, of my own doing. I appreciate their alert attention on my account, but is it really that far fetched that I would buy candy at the beach in the morning, pay ETS for the PRAXIS I test in the afternoon, and buy gas in a town an hour away from the beach much later that night? I guess most of their customers are nowhere near as mobile as I am.
Once I’ve verified my ability to be in more than one place within a 24 hour period, I hang up and hand the phone back to my mother. My mother then sits on my bed and says, “honey, we didn’t want you to find out on facebook, so we wanted to tell you now.” I am one of those lucky 20-somethings who is friends with her parents on facebook. I find out things through my mother’s status updates. One night, while I was on my computer in my room, which is just off of the living room, I received a wall post from my mother, who was in the office, which is just off of the kitchen, which is right next to the living room. The post said, “Hey Lauren! Dinner is ready and we’re having barbaque (sic) spareribs, homemade mashed potatoes and cheezy (sic) mixed veggies and we’re sitting on the couch to eat!” I’m not making that up. So my mother’s concern that I would find something out on facebook is, in fact, a valid one.
“Your sister was admitted to the hospital last night around 8:30.” My sister, by the way, is 6 months pregnant.
“What?” I was still half asleep, and now I was also confused. I was confused about my sister being in the hospital, but more importantly, how no one decided to call and tell me. Certainly there was nothing I could do, but now I felt guilty for hanging out with my friends and then so peacefully sleeping when my sister and my unborn niece were in the hospital. How could I be so selfish? How could I not tell something was wrong? Where is my ability to subconsciously sense when something was amiss with someone in my family? What is wrong with me?
“It was a severe urinary tract infection. She’s okay. So is the baby. As soon as she can keep down food she can come home. I’m going to go sit with her right now.” Should I go with her? I felt guilty that I wasted all that time when I didn’t know she was in the hospital not caring that she was in the hospital. Maybe if I sacrificed sleep and sat at the hospital with her until she stopped puking I’d redeem myself for being so ignorant of such a medium level family emergency.
“Okay. I’ll be here,” I said. I’d remembered that it was my parents’ decision to not tell me that my sister was in the ER, not my decision to not worry about her, and thus felt it would be okay if I kept sleeping. Plus, I really like sleep much more than I like watching my sister puke. When I woke up later my dad told me that my sister had been released and was on her way home. She was doing so well, in fact, that she went to the state fair later that afternoon.
I wish I could tell you that that isn’t a running theme in my family, that my family told me things, or contacted me to give me a heads up about things. But they don’t.
Last night I got home from work just after midnight. I head through the living room when I notice a semi-tall cage next to the bathroom door. The only thing in the cage is a small pile of blankets in the bottom left corner. Now, my household is mostly comprised of furry, two- and four-legged creatures. Cats, dogs, goats, chickens, ducks, ferrets, a rabbit. We have a lot of pets. My mother is Dr. Doolittle. For reals. The problem, though, is that I seem to have developed an allergy to the ferrets. Plus they stink. And I’ve been trying to convince her to find them a new home for several months. Now I come home to find a new cage with a mystery animal. Because we need more animals.
At first I ignored the cage. If I pretended it wasn’t there then it wasn’t there. But I had to go to the bathroom. So I went to the bathroom. Before I got to the bathroom, though, I was met with a horrific sound. I can’t even describe it other than to say it sounded like something small and mean that could bite me and give me rabies. I jumped back, muttered some profanities, and then found myself stuck. I had to go to the bathroom, but every time I moved, something from under the blankets in the cage told me to stop moving. And it didn’t matter that that thing was behind bars. I was still scared.
Eventually I was able to take a wide enough path around the cage to appease the mystery creature. I noticed a box of stuff on the dining room table, and moved closer to inspect it. It was food. And the bag was labeled “Sugar Glider Feed”. A clue. I went back to my room and got onto my computer. My mother’s facebook status said, “sugar bear!!!!” Another clue. Now, lucky for me I’ve seen enough police procedurals. I googled “sugar bear” so I could see what this little hissing thing looked like. Damnit. They’re cute. I heard noise out in the living room, and snuck out to see what was going on. The sugar bear had come out of hiding. Again, damnit. It was cute. And it was curious about me. So we stared at each other through the bars for a while, him deciding whether or not I was safe, and me deciding whether or not I’d accept his existence.
I told my parents this story when I got up, and they laughed. My mom said she even thought about contacting me and letting me know. Those bastards think its funny. They know how to use their phones, they just know the amusement they’ll get out of the results when they don’t contact me.
Two nights ago I had no idea anything was wrong. I left in the early afternoon to go to a ball game with some friends, and didn’t return until close to 1 am. Nothing seemed out of sorts. Both cars were at my sister’s barn, so I assumed that she and her husband were home. All of the cars at the main house were there, and the porch light was on, as it is when I’m out late. Nothing seemed out of sorts. My mother always hears me come in, as her bedroom is right next to the front door. I sneak in as quietly as I might, but she always hears me come in. Or at least that’s what she claims. I stayed up until 3 am goofing around on the computer, and then turned over for sleep that I figured would last until at least noon.
9:30 am my parents come in to my room with the phone. Both of them. They tell me PNC Bank is on the phone with some questions about some suspicious activity on my account. I take the phone and listen to the woman list off 3 transactions that happen the same day, and I verify that all of those were, in fact, of my own doing. I appreciate their alert attention on my account, but is it really that far fetched that I would buy candy at the beach in the morning, pay ETS for the PRAXIS I test in the afternoon, and buy gas in a town an hour away from the beach much later that night? I guess most of their customers are nowhere near as mobile as I am.
Once I’ve verified my ability to be in more than one place within a 24 hour period, I hang up and hand the phone back to my mother. My mother then sits on my bed and says, “honey, we didn’t want you to find out on facebook, so we wanted to tell you now.” I am one of those lucky 20-somethings who is friends with her parents on facebook. I find out things through my mother’s status updates. One night, while I was on my computer in my room, which is just off of the living room, I received a wall post from my mother, who was in the office, which is just off of the kitchen, which is right next to the living room. The post said, “Hey Lauren! Dinner is ready and we’re having barbaque (sic) spareribs, homemade mashed potatoes and cheezy (sic) mixed veggies and we’re sitting on the couch to eat!” I’m not making that up. So my mother’s concern that I would find something out on facebook is, in fact, a valid one.
“Your sister was admitted to the hospital last night around 8:30.” My sister, by the way, is 6 months pregnant.
“What?” I was still half asleep, and now I was also confused. I was confused about my sister being in the hospital, but more importantly, how no one decided to call and tell me. Certainly there was nothing I could do, but now I felt guilty for hanging out with my friends and then so peacefully sleeping when my sister and my unborn niece were in the hospital. How could I be so selfish? How could I not tell something was wrong? Where is my ability to subconsciously sense when something was amiss with someone in my family? What is wrong with me?
“It was a severe urinary tract infection. She’s okay. So is the baby. As soon as she can keep down food she can come home. I’m going to go sit with her right now.” Should I go with her? I felt guilty that I wasted all that time when I didn’t know she was in the hospital not caring that she was in the hospital. Maybe if I sacrificed sleep and sat at the hospital with her until she stopped puking I’d redeem myself for being so ignorant of such a medium level family emergency.
“Okay. I’ll be here,” I said. I’d remembered that it was my parents’ decision to not tell me that my sister was in the ER, not my decision to not worry about her, and thus felt it would be okay if I kept sleeping. Plus, I really like sleep much more than I like watching my sister puke. When I woke up later my dad told me that my sister had been released and was on her way home. She was doing so well, in fact, that she went to the state fair later that afternoon.
I wish I could tell you that that isn’t a running theme in my family, that my family told me things, or contacted me to give me a heads up about things. But they don’t.
Last night I got home from work just after midnight. I head through the living room when I notice a semi-tall cage next to the bathroom door. The only thing in the cage is a small pile of blankets in the bottom left corner. Now, my household is mostly comprised of furry, two- and four-legged creatures. Cats, dogs, goats, chickens, ducks, ferrets, a rabbit. We have a lot of pets. My mother is Dr. Doolittle. For reals. The problem, though, is that I seem to have developed an allergy to the ferrets. Plus they stink. And I’ve been trying to convince her to find them a new home for several months. Now I come home to find a new cage with a mystery animal. Because we need more animals.
At first I ignored the cage. If I pretended it wasn’t there then it wasn’t there. But I had to go to the bathroom. So I went to the bathroom. Before I got to the bathroom, though, I was met with a horrific sound. I can’t even describe it other than to say it sounded like something small and mean that could bite me and give me rabies. I jumped back, muttered some profanities, and then found myself stuck. I had to go to the bathroom, but every time I moved, something from under the blankets in the cage told me to stop moving. And it didn’t matter that that thing was behind bars. I was still scared.
Eventually I was able to take a wide enough path around the cage to appease the mystery creature. I noticed a box of stuff on the dining room table, and moved closer to inspect it. It was food. And the bag was labeled “Sugar Glider Feed”. A clue. I went back to my room and got onto my computer. My mother’s facebook status said, “sugar bear!!!!” Another clue. Now, lucky for me I’ve seen enough police procedurals. I googled “sugar bear” so I could see what this little hissing thing looked like. Damnit. They’re cute. I heard noise out in the living room, and snuck out to see what was going on. The sugar bear had come out of hiding. Again, damnit. It was cute. And it was curious about me. So we stared at each other through the bars for a while, him deciding whether or not I was safe, and me deciding whether or not I’d accept his existence.
I told my parents this story when I got up, and they laughed. My mom said she even thought about contacting me and letting me know. Those bastards think its funny. They know how to use their phones, they just know the amusement they’ll get out of the results when they don’t contact me.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Car Trouble
So for several weeks the check engine light in my 2005 black VW Golf kept popping on and off. Finally, around the beginning of July I took my car to the VW/Subaru/Audi dealer a half an hour from my house - where I bought my Golf that I love so very very much. If you don't know, I am a V-Dubber for life. No need to argue with me about it. I’m also a Mac owner, and happy to be so. Apparently, I instinctively gravitate towards the artsy brands in life.
Anyway, the service guy called to tell me that all of my problems would cost me $1700 to fix. This included two broken bits and new tires. I said I’d be right in to talk about it, and called my father. My father is two things: a very protective father and a retired auto mechanic who now investigates car fires. He has experience, friends, and a badge, and tends to get angry when he thinks someone is messing with his daughter. So he advised me not to get the tires (something he could easily replace on his own much cheaper) and asked why the broken bits weren’t under warranty. He also wanted a printout of exactly everything the computer diagnosed on my car so he could call his friend who works for VW in some manner higher up on the food chain than a mechanic at a dealer. When I get to the dealership I explained all this to the man who had been working with my paperwork. I asked him why it wasn’t covered under warranty, and his exact words were “Oh, I hadn’t even checked to see. Look at that! You are just under your mileage so it should be all covered!” Other than the tires, of course. So I told him if it was under warranty he could do as he pleased. He said he would call me in a few days when they came in.
I heard nothing for weeks. Finally, on Thursday or Friday of last week I called and inquired about my parts. The mechanic’s exact words after checking to see if the parts I needed were backordered: “That’s weird. The parts are here. I don’t know why we never called you.” So I made an appointment for Wednesday morning at 9 am for a repair that should take 2 to 3 hours.
I dragged myself to the dealership to drop off my car at what I consider the ass-crack of dawn, and the man who checked in my car told me that because of a recall on my car the procedure would take 4 to 5 hours. Luckily, my mom was on her way to pick me up, and we opted to go back to our house instead of staying in town. While I was waiting for my mother a salesman asked me what car I had in the shop. I told him, and he asked me if I’d be interested in trading it in. I laughed and said no. He continued to pressure nicely, as salesmen often do. Then I said, “I would love to, please don’t get me wrong, but I just graduated with two masters and didn’t get a job.” He stopped, looked at me, and said, “oh, uh, okay, uh, yeah, wow” as he took a half a step back. We chatted some more about how my car was doing well for a 2005, and then he asked me what my degrees were in. When I said Shakespeare and Performance he said, “well, good luck! You won’t find anything around here. You’ll have to go to NY for that!” Thanks for the encouragement, sir.
Around 1pm a mechanic called to tell me that while repairing something that had to do with some sort of coolant (I apologize for not knowing more terms. My dad tried to teach me, but I just never caught on. The same happened when he tried to teach me how to bowl – he almost went pro; I almost break 75) they broke another piece in my engine, and my car was currently inoperable. They would have to overnight a part and fix it the next day. Frustrating as this was, it did get me out of work since I had no mode of transportation, so I let this silver lining get me through my mild annoyance.
That brings us to today, when I should have had my car back. But I do not, in fact, have my car back. I called around 1 pm because I needed my car before 3:30 if I was to make it to work on time. The guy put me on hold while he checked on the status of my car. When he got back on the phone he told me that they’d ordered the wrong part, and I wouldn’t be getting my car until tomorrow. But I had to work tonight, I told the man on the phone. I couldn’t call out twice. I mean, I could. But I really really shouldn’t. He offered me a car to borrow until they fixed my car – it was the least they could do, let me drive a shiny VW while they fix my beloved baby. I said yes, and headed to town to get said borrowed car.
Now, all of the above should be what makes me angry. And it does grate on my patience and understanding personality just a smidge. But I never ever get worked up over real problems. Better to deal with it head on than get upset. No, what I got upset about was when the guy handed me the key to my borrowed car it had a bunch of little stars on it instead of a V on top of a W. Bastards gave me a Subaru. A Forester. A fricking Subaru Forester. It didn’t even have a sunroof. Honestly, any key to any car that wasn’t a VW would have made me angry. I’m not even willing to rule out some fancy sports car or awesome muscle car. For all its glory and awesome car-ness, the Mustang is not a VW. So it’s nothing personal against Subarus. It’s something personal against any car that isn’t a VW.
I drove off the lot in the new, not quite awesome for flaws found in the company that made it car and headed home. I pouted all the way while I listened to the radio – what is up with the radio, anyway? When did every musician ever become emo? Why are all the songs on the radio sad, depressing break up songs? Where are all the angry, yet happy about it punk rock bands from the 90’s? Why am I the only person who wants to be upbeat about my depression/depressing lyrics anymore? I want some flagpole sitta and some no rain and some losing my religion. Pair those depressing lyrics with a rockin’ tune, please and thank you. It balances it out for perfect harmony – like sweet and sour. Sorry, I’ll get back to the story about the car.
While I was at work just before 7pm I received a call from the dealership. I missed it because I was, ya know…working. As soon as I could get away I called them back. I wanted to make sure everything was okay with my baby. “Could you transfer me to service? I think they just tried to call me,” I explained.
“Service has been closed since 5,” he said.
“Look, you have my car, it’s in service. Someone from this dealership called me, so I’m assuming it has to do with my car.”
Then he said, “Oh, yes, one of the salesmen likes to go back into the service area where he doesn’t belong to find customers he can call to try to get you to upgrade.”
“That’s nice. I can’t upgrade.”
“Yes, he didn’t belong back there. We’ll leave it at that. Have a good night.” Have a good night indeed as I drive home in my NOT VW.
Anyway, the service guy called to tell me that all of my problems would cost me $1700 to fix. This included two broken bits and new tires. I said I’d be right in to talk about it, and called my father. My father is two things: a very protective father and a retired auto mechanic who now investigates car fires. He has experience, friends, and a badge, and tends to get angry when he thinks someone is messing with his daughter. So he advised me not to get the tires (something he could easily replace on his own much cheaper) and asked why the broken bits weren’t under warranty. He also wanted a printout of exactly everything the computer diagnosed on my car so he could call his friend who works for VW in some manner higher up on the food chain than a mechanic at a dealer. When I get to the dealership I explained all this to the man who had been working with my paperwork. I asked him why it wasn’t covered under warranty, and his exact words were “Oh, I hadn’t even checked to see. Look at that! You are just under your mileage so it should be all covered!” Other than the tires, of course. So I told him if it was under warranty he could do as he pleased. He said he would call me in a few days when they came in.
I heard nothing for weeks. Finally, on Thursday or Friday of last week I called and inquired about my parts. The mechanic’s exact words after checking to see if the parts I needed were backordered: “That’s weird. The parts are here. I don’t know why we never called you.” So I made an appointment for Wednesday morning at 9 am for a repair that should take 2 to 3 hours.
I dragged myself to the dealership to drop off my car at what I consider the ass-crack of dawn, and the man who checked in my car told me that because of a recall on my car the procedure would take 4 to 5 hours. Luckily, my mom was on her way to pick me up, and we opted to go back to our house instead of staying in town. While I was waiting for my mother a salesman asked me what car I had in the shop. I told him, and he asked me if I’d be interested in trading it in. I laughed and said no. He continued to pressure nicely, as salesmen often do. Then I said, “I would love to, please don’t get me wrong, but I just graduated with two masters and didn’t get a job.” He stopped, looked at me, and said, “oh, uh, okay, uh, yeah, wow” as he took a half a step back. We chatted some more about how my car was doing well for a 2005, and then he asked me what my degrees were in. When I said Shakespeare and Performance he said, “well, good luck! You won’t find anything around here. You’ll have to go to NY for that!” Thanks for the encouragement, sir.
Around 1pm a mechanic called to tell me that while repairing something that had to do with some sort of coolant (I apologize for not knowing more terms. My dad tried to teach me, but I just never caught on. The same happened when he tried to teach me how to bowl – he almost went pro; I almost break 75) they broke another piece in my engine, and my car was currently inoperable. They would have to overnight a part and fix it the next day. Frustrating as this was, it did get me out of work since I had no mode of transportation, so I let this silver lining get me through my mild annoyance.
That brings us to today, when I should have had my car back. But I do not, in fact, have my car back. I called around 1 pm because I needed my car before 3:30 if I was to make it to work on time. The guy put me on hold while he checked on the status of my car. When he got back on the phone he told me that they’d ordered the wrong part, and I wouldn’t be getting my car until tomorrow. But I had to work tonight, I told the man on the phone. I couldn’t call out twice. I mean, I could. But I really really shouldn’t. He offered me a car to borrow until they fixed my car – it was the least they could do, let me drive a shiny VW while they fix my beloved baby. I said yes, and headed to town to get said borrowed car.
Now, all of the above should be what makes me angry. And it does grate on my patience and understanding personality just a smidge. But I never ever get worked up over real problems. Better to deal with it head on than get upset. No, what I got upset about was when the guy handed me the key to my borrowed car it had a bunch of little stars on it instead of a V on top of a W. Bastards gave me a Subaru. A Forester. A fricking Subaru Forester. It didn’t even have a sunroof. Honestly, any key to any car that wasn’t a VW would have made me angry. I’m not even willing to rule out some fancy sports car or awesome muscle car. For all its glory and awesome car-ness, the Mustang is not a VW. So it’s nothing personal against Subarus. It’s something personal against any car that isn’t a VW.
I drove off the lot in the new, not quite awesome for flaws found in the company that made it car and headed home. I pouted all the way while I listened to the radio – what is up with the radio, anyway? When did every musician ever become emo? Why are all the songs on the radio sad, depressing break up songs? Where are all the angry, yet happy about it punk rock bands from the 90’s? Why am I the only person who wants to be upbeat about my depression/depressing lyrics anymore? I want some flagpole sitta and some no rain and some losing my religion. Pair those depressing lyrics with a rockin’ tune, please and thank you. It balances it out for perfect harmony – like sweet and sour. Sorry, I’ll get back to the story about the car.
While I was at work just before 7pm I received a call from the dealership. I missed it because I was, ya know…working. As soon as I could get away I called them back. I wanted to make sure everything was okay with my baby. “Could you transfer me to service? I think they just tried to call me,” I explained.
“Service has been closed since 5,” he said.
“Look, you have my car, it’s in service. Someone from this dealership called me, so I’m assuming it has to do with my car.”
Then he said, “Oh, yes, one of the salesmen likes to go back into the service area where he doesn’t belong to find customers he can call to try to get you to upgrade.”
“That’s nice. I can’t upgrade.”
“Yes, he didn’t belong back there. We’ll leave it at that. Have a good night.” Have a good night indeed as I drive home in my NOT VW.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Sell my car or learn circus skills...?
I haven't written in a while. I feel silly every time I think about posting. The job hunt is sparse. I've found an internship or two, and have been contemplating the validity of an internship after 3 years of graduate school. I think probably the internship that I'm most looking at is better than most jobs I'd find and would give me great contacts, and I think I have a good shot at it, so I should probably try for it. The internship involves a large city, some big theatre names, and lots of Shakespeare. Oh and a stipend and housing.
And of course my parents have a problem with it. "How will you pay for your car with only $150 a week?" asked my mom. "I will get rid of my car," I replied, feeling like I had made a grown-up decision. "You can't get rid of your car!" my mom gasped. "Why not? It's a big city. There's public transportation, and I'll be housed 4 blocks from the theatre." But that wasn't good enough. "I don't know. You just can't get rid of your car. We'll talk about it." I knew why she didn't want me to talk about getting rid of my car. I'd be 2 hours away from her and wouldn't be able to get to her because I didn't have a car. And she can't stand the thought of that.
The conversation with my dad was no better, but was on the exact opposite scale. "You'll have to get a part time job," he reasoned. "I can't, dad. Internships are full time." Sometimes I forget how far out of touch he really is. "You won't be able to afford your car. You'll have to get rid of it." I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place, apparently. And my parents are still together. You'd think they'd talk once and a while. So then I had to explain to dad that mom told me specifically NOT to get rid of my car. He moved on from that topic. "Well, you need to find out where you're living. Parts of that city aren't safe to live in, you know." Argh.
My careers advisor sent me a job description for a teaching/directing position at a private middle school in NY. Seemed pretty awesome until I got to the part where they want you to have a specific theatrical skill, like stage combat or circus skills. Yes. Circus Skills. They listed a preference for people who posess circus skills. Or mime. Mime was another option. The closest I come to any of those was a stage combat class (rapier and dagger) I took once. I failed the certification portion of the class. Just sayin'.
And of course my parents have a problem with it. "How will you pay for your car with only $150 a week?" asked my mom. "I will get rid of my car," I replied, feeling like I had made a grown-up decision. "You can't get rid of your car!" my mom gasped. "Why not? It's a big city. There's public transportation, and I'll be housed 4 blocks from the theatre." But that wasn't good enough. "I don't know. You just can't get rid of your car. We'll talk about it." I knew why she didn't want me to talk about getting rid of my car. I'd be 2 hours away from her and wouldn't be able to get to her because I didn't have a car. And she can't stand the thought of that.
The conversation with my dad was no better, but was on the exact opposite scale. "You'll have to get a part time job," he reasoned. "I can't, dad. Internships are full time." Sometimes I forget how far out of touch he really is. "You won't be able to afford your car. You'll have to get rid of it." I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place, apparently. And my parents are still together. You'd think they'd talk once and a while. So then I had to explain to dad that mom told me specifically NOT to get rid of my car. He moved on from that topic. "Well, you need to find out where you're living. Parts of that city aren't safe to live in, you know." Argh.
My careers advisor sent me a job description for a teaching/directing position at a private middle school in NY. Seemed pretty awesome until I got to the part where they want you to have a specific theatrical skill, like stage combat or circus skills. Yes. Circus Skills. They listed a preference for people who posess circus skills. Or mime. Mime was another option. The closest I come to any of those was a stage combat class (rapier and dagger) I took once. I failed the certification portion of the class. Just sayin'.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Living in a pole barn
I have these strong moments where I realize, or remember, that I can't go home. I realized this, really really realized it when I was home for Christmas this year. My grandfather, who lives with my parents, went off about gay marriage and how it's wrong according to the Bible, and how we need to do everything the Bible says (he ignores the tassels on coats law and loves shrimp, by the way), and "those people are corrupting the sanctity of marriage." He's 85. I'm told I have to love him even if his beliefs are different from mine, especially because he's old and Catholic, but that doesn't mean I should live with him.
Despite all this my parents still want me to come home. For real come home. Find a teaching job in my small home town, come home. I love my parents, even like them, a lot. I call home every day. But I can't live there, and I have trouble admitting that to them as well. My parents have resorted to bribing, however, and I'm not sure how to deal with that.
My younger sister lives in one of the barns on our property. She's not a cow; they turned the barn into an apartment. We have 5 acres, and on that 5 acres we have 2 barns, a garage, a car port, a farm house that is now a photography studio, and a prefab home. Oh, and an outhouse. It's a bit of a commune, in a good way. Back before I realized living at home was the worst idea ever, my parents talked about putting a pole barn out back and sectioning off a corner of it for an apartment for me. yay. Excuse the lowercase y; I lack the excitement and energy needed to hold down the shift key. I told my parents that I'd never forgive myself if they put in an apartment and then I got a job somewhere else, so they shouldn't do it. My dad said something about understanding.
Yesterday I made my daily call home and told my dad that another possible job fell through because the job no longer existed. A theatre company I really love and have connections with got smart and eliminated their tour manager position by making one of the touring actors also act as the manager. My dad was appropriately sympathetic. And then I said, "Dad, it's so warm today, it's making me homesick." My hometown is approximately 30 minutes from a beach and boardwalk, the first beach and boardwalk of many. So when it gets strangely warm in January and February, I'm usually in my car on my way to the boardwalk. All day yesterday I could smell the salt air, itching to see the ocean. My dad jumped on this like a piranha. "Well, you know, you could move home in May, get a teaching job to pay the bills, work on finding a good theatre job for the future while you pay off your student loans, and then that way you can go to the beach whenever you want!" I muttered something negative about living in a pole barn, and he said "hey, that apartment would be better than what your sister's got!"
I have got to find a good job.
Despite all this my parents still want me to come home. For real come home. Find a teaching job in my small home town, come home. I love my parents, even like them, a lot. I call home every day. But I can't live there, and I have trouble admitting that to them as well. My parents have resorted to bribing, however, and I'm not sure how to deal with that.
My younger sister lives in one of the barns on our property. She's not a cow; they turned the barn into an apartment. We have 5 acres, and on that 5 acres we have 2 barns, a garage, a car port, a farm house that is now a photography studio, and a prefab home. Oh, and an outhouse. It's a bit of a commune, in a good way. Back before I realized living at home was the worst idea ever, my parents talked about putting a pole barn out back and sectioning off a corner of it for an apartment for me. yay. Excuse the lowercase y; I lack the excitement and energy needed to hold down the shift key. I told my parents that I'd never forgive myself if they put in an apartment and then I got a job somewhere else, so they shouldn't do it. My dad said something about understanding.
Yesterday I made my daily call home and told my dad that another possible job fell through because the job no longer existed. A theatre company I really love and have connections with got smart and eliminated their tour manager position by making one of the touring actors also act as the manager. My dad was appropriately sympathetic. And then I said, "Dad, it's so warm today, it's making me homesick." My hometown is approximately 30 minutes from a beach and boardwalk, the first beach and boardwalk of many. So when it gets strangely warm in January and February, I'm usually in my car on my way to the boardwalk. All day yesterday I could smell the salt air, itching to see the ocean. My dad jumped on this like a piranha. "Well, you know, you could move home in May, get a teaching job to pay the bills, work on finding a good theatre job for the future while you pay off your student loans, and then that way you can go to the beach whenever you want!" I muttered something negative about living in a pole barn, and he said "hey, that apartment would be better than what your sister's got!"
I have got to find a good job.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Panic Sets In
When I developed a love for theatre early in high school, I had this notion that I was going to grow up to be an actress. I boldly told my parents that I would be looking at theatre programs in colleges. My parents, who rarely limited me ever, boldly said, "no you're not." They politely used the phrase "starving artist", and encouraged me to look into English. Being an obedient child, I accepted their decision, and attended a small private college where I was a big fish in a small pond, but learned quickly that acting was not my strong suit.
My passion for theatre, however, did not die with my actress goals. Instead, I learned what my strong suits were when it came to theatre: teaching, especially children, stage managing, directing, managing in general, crisis management. When it was time to graduate college, I found a very unique graduate program nestled in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia that combined scholarship, which I am good at, and theatre, which I love. I thought, "ha! This is the way to stick it to my parents," and I applied. I am currently four months from graduation and the real world, with goals that will certainly lead me to what my parents fear most: a starving artist.
A year ago, I would have been fine. I would have had plenty of theatre jobs to choose from. Luckily, my strong suits in theatre make me an excellent candidate: I love making schedules, working under crisis, know how to research and write, can multitask like it's nobody's business, am not afraid of hammers and nails, can direct and/or stage manage, am highly motivated in the area of education, and am all around intelligent and easy to work with. I'm a bargain.
And then the economy went down the shitter, as they say. And now everyone is sizing down. And no one is hiring, especially not in the arts. So there goes my great plan to show my parents that I'm not just a starving artist. I will graduate in May, and, after having earned a B.A. in English, summa cum laude, and both a Master of Letters AND a Master of Fine Arts in Shakespeare in Performance, I will move home and work at McDonalds.
So today, as I sat in my Careers class learning how to properly behave in an interview should I be so lucky as to find myself in one, I began to panic. My chest closed in a little as I realized that I have nowhere to go. No inkling of guidance. Nothing. All I know is that I don't want to stay here, I don't want to go home, and I want to pay back my student loans. Oh, and if it's not too picky, I'd like to work in theatre and with kids.
So if you are reading this, I thank you. I'm merely looking for an outlet for my anxiety and fears before they build up and suffocate me. I don't do well when I have nothing. Give me twenty options, or thirty parameters and limiters, and I'll make it work. Give me nothing, and I sink. Now, where did I put those floaties.....
My passion for theatre, however, did not die with my actress goals. Instead, I learned what my strong suits were when it came to theatre: teaching, especially children, stage managing, directing, managing in general, crisis management. When it was time to graduate college, I found a very unique graduate program nestled in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia that combined scholarship, which I am good at, and theatre, which I love. I thought, "ha! This is the way to stick it to my parents," and I applied. I am currently four months from graduation and the real world, with goals that will certainly lead me to what my parents fear most: a starving artist.
A year ago, I would have been fine. I would have had plenty of theatre jobs to choose from. Luckily, my strong suits in theatre make me an excellent candidate: I love making schedules, working under crisis, know how to research and write, can multitask like it's nobody's business, am not afraid of hammers and nails, can direct and/or stage manage, am highly motivated in the area of education, and am all around intelligent and easy to work with. I'm a bargain.
And then the economy went down the shitter, as they say. And now everyone is sizing down. And no one is hiring, especially not in the arts. So there goes my great plan to show my parents that I'm not just a starving artist. I will graduate in May, and, after having earned a B.A. in English, summa cum laude, and both a Master of Letters AND a Master of Fine Arts in Shakespeare in Performance, I will move home and work at McDonalds.
So today, as I sat in my Careers class learning how to properly behave in an interview should I be so lucky as to find myself in one, I began to panic. My chest closed in a little as I realized that I have nowhere to go. No inkling of guidance. Nothing. All I know is that I don't want to stay here, I don't want to go home, and I want to pay back my student loans. Oh, and if it's not too picky, I'd like to work in theatre and with kids.
So if you are reading this, I thank you. I'm merely looking for an outlet for my anxiety and fears before they build up and suffocate me. I don't do well when I have nothing. Give me twenty options, or thirty parameters and limiters, and I'll make it work. Give me nothing, and I sink. Now, where did I put those floaties.....
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