I went to the DMV today. I got my learner's permit. Again. Yeah. Three years of driving practice isn't quite enough for this depth-perception deprived girlie. A fourth round seems called for. I'm not sure I'll ever be comfortable with driving, but crying every time I arrive at a destination seems impractical. Gotta get that under control.
Mum and I got there at about 8:30 am. We left at 11:30. THREE HOURS. What kind of absurdity is this? Three hours?? There's something fishy going on here.
First, the system is incredibly slow. The people there seem to be working at half speed. They seem to wander around in between helping customers for no apparent reason.
Second, given the population of the surrounding area and the small number of things that have to be done in an actual DMV office (as opposed to the internet or over the phone), there should not be that many people in there. They're open 40 hours a week and there are always 100 people in there. How is this possible? We probably go to the DMV once every year and that's only because us kids are all permit/license age. Before that, we never went to the DMV. Maybe every five years. So how is there always a line that's hours and hours long? ALWAYS. They must hire people to just clog up the lines.
As I sat there, waiting for my number to get called, I had a thought. I leaned over and whispered in my Italian Mama's ear, "This must be what Hell is like." She stifled a laugh. It's true and she knows it. An inefficient system, zombie-like people who don't relate to the customers as human beings, lots of paperwork... time stretches like... salt-water taffy, for lack of a better metaphor.
By the time I actually took the test (2 hours after we got there), which only took me about 5 minutes to complete, people were leaving for lunch. So the same person was setting up tests and correcting them. There were 30 tests in the basket and no one correcting them. It took an hour for someone to look at my test and give me my fourth permit. Ridiculous. Dumb. Inane. What is the world coming to?
So now, all I have to do is learn how to drive. Ha! Or move to Europe where they have an excellent public transportation system. At this point, that seems like a more realistic course of action.
31 July 2012
30 July 2012
Mama's Musings
This morning I managed to poison myself by inhaling fumes from orange oil bug spray. What the heck? I'm still uncurling. My stomach muscles are so tight and painful. Anyway. I'm not dead, but why I'm even feeling sick is a mystery to me...
But that isn't the real point of this post. The real point is to tell you that my Italian Mama now has her own blog. We spent about an hour finding her a name and a layout that she liked. I'd give you the link... but she hasn't written anything yet. She's still hung up on that I'll-wait-until-I-have-something-important-to-say thing that new bloggers have. At least, that's what I like to think about that... thing. I certainly don't write about anything important, but I like to think what I write about is enjoyable to read. Maybe that's another... thing. You know... a syndrome-that-has-no-concise-title-so-you-connect-all-of-the-words-with-dashes thing. I'm sure she'll write soon. When she does, I'll share. Then all of you will stop reading mine and start reading hers because it's more interesting.
But that isn't the real point of this post. The real point is to tell you that my Italian Mama now has her own blog. We spent about an hour finding her a name and a layout that she liked. I'd give you the link... but she hasn't written anything yet. She's still hung up on that I'll-wait-until-I-have-something-important-to-say thing that new bloggers have. At least, that's what I like to think about that... thing. I certainly don't write about anything important, but I like to think what I write about is enjoyable to read. Maybe that's another... thing. You know... a syndrome-that-has-no-concise-title-so-you-connect-all-of-the-words-with-dashes thing. I'm sure she'll write soon. When she does, I'll share. Then all of you will stop reading mine and start reading hers because it's more interesting.
29 July 2012
Emotionally Excellent
Something they say about the Olympics: they aren't about emotions, they're about excellence.
Yeah. Right.
Human beings are emotional. Excellently emotional.
At least... I am. HA!
A large part of the fun of watching the Olympics is the emotional attachment that you develop with complete strangers just because they're from your country. National identity. 'MERICA!
When watching events, I scream. And I ain't no sissy screamer. High and loud. Our dog is going to go deaf.
The unfortunate reality of watching Olympics, is that you loooooove that Team USA, but there are too many of them. You have to pick favorites in each sport. And that is totally emotional. Ryan Lochte, for example. I fell in love with him watching him flip tires and then when he beat Phelps. But then, I developed more of a love for Phelps after the relay and I reminded myself of Lochte's green shoes and blingy grilles. Who knows tomorrow who I'll be in love with tomorrow? I don't know. Yay emotions.
Saddest story from today? Jordyn Wieber. Disqualified from the all-around women's gymnastics competition, not because she wasn't an excellent gymnast. She placed 4th overall, but 3rd of the Americans. And there can only be two. So devastatingly sad.
Like I said, emotions. Excellence is so emotional. Because we are emotional. Yay for being human.
Seriously.
Yeah. Right.
Human beings are emotional. Excellently emotional.
At least... I am. HA!
A large part of the fun of watching the Olympics is the emotional attachment that you develop with complete strangers just because they're from your country. National identity. 'MERICA!
When watching events, I scream. And I ain't no sissy screamer. High and loud. Our dog is going to go deaf.
The unfortunate reality of watching Olympics, is that you loooooove that Team USA, but there are too many of them. You have to pick favorites in each sport. And that is totally emotional. Ryan Lochte, for example. I fell in love with him watching him flip tires and then when he beat Phelps. But then, I developed more of a love for Phelps after the relay and I reminded myself of Lochte's green shoes and blingy grilles. Who knows tomorrow who I'll be in love with tomorrow? I don't know. Yay emotions.
Saddest story from today? Jordyn Wieber. Disqualified from the all-around women's gymnastics competition, not because she wasn't an excellent gymnast. She placed 4th overall, but 3rd of the Americans. And there can only be two. So devastatingly sad.
Like I said, emotions. Excellence is so emotional. Because we are emotional. Yay for being human.
Seriously.
26 July 2012
Airing the Laundry
Yeah, I posted that nice (mostly) calm bit about my quilt earlier. Out of character? Yeah, I thought so too. Let me gripe a bit and then your faith in my insanity will be restored. Ok.
So, this quilt. It's big. And I mean HUGE. The first frustration that I encountered was that I did my math wrong. I calculated square inches of a king size bedspread and the square inches yielded from one and a half yards each of eight different fabrics. I allowed for quite a bit of extra since you loose some in the seams. I gave myself a little more than that, even. Somewhere along the line, though, my multiplication on the whiteboard went awry. I think I'll hit the right size exactly... if I'm lucky. There may be bigger borders than is conventionally accepted. It'll still be pretty.
The second frustration is with the construction of the quilt. It's an easy quilt. You cut long strips of fabric, sew the long strips together, and then slice them to the appropriate widths. You then carefully arrange and line up all of the little squares in each strip. That demands a bit of pulling and wiggling of the fabric to get it just right, which wouldn't normally be a problem. But it is. Why? Because in the slicing the strips step, you slice right through your seams, leaving vulnerable-to-separation seams in your wake. Any little bit of pulling and you pop a couple of stitches. This, again, wouldn't always be a problem, since in garment sewing, you typically leave a larger seam allowance. In quilting, the seam allowance is about the size of four stitches.
The third frustration was that through my own stupidity, I sewed two of the carefully pieced, delicately assembled strips together the wrong way. So then I had to seam rip eight feet of fabric apart, trying not to rip the strips to pieces in the process. Thirty minutes of frustration.
On a more positive note, it does look beautiful.
And to make you laugh:
A literal piece of laundry being aired. It's prominently displayed on the banister. This is what happens when you drop clothes on the stairs in our house.
So, this quilt. It's big. And I mean HUGE. The first frustration that I encountered was that I did my math wrong. I calculated square inches of a king size bedspread and the square inches yielded from one and a half yards each of eight different fabrics. I allowed for quite a bit of extra since you loose some in the seams. I gave myself a little more than that, even. Somewhere along the line, though, my multiplication on the whiteboard went awry. I think I'll hit the right size exactly... if I'm lucky. There may be bigger borders than is conventionally accepted. It'll still be pretty.
The second frustration is with the construction of the quilt. It's an easy quilt. You cut long strips of fabric, sew the long strips together, and then slice them to the appropriate widths. You then carefully arrange and line up all of the little squares in each strip. That demands a bit of pulling and wiggling of the fabric to get it just right, which wouldn't normally be a problem. But it is. Why? Because in the slicing the strips step, you slice right through your seams, leaving vulnerable-to-separation seams in your wake. Any little bit of pulling and you pop a couple of stitches. This, again, wouldn't always be a problem, since in garment sewing, you typically leave a larger seam allowance. In quilting, the seam allowance is about the size of four stitches.
The third frustration was that through my own stupidity, I sewed two of the carefully pieced, delicately assembled strips together the wrong way. So then I had to seam rip eight feet of fabric apart, trying not to rip the strips to pieces in the process. Thirty minutes of frustration.
On a more positive note, it does look beautiful.
And to make you laugh:
needle and thREAD
I've jumped on this bandwagon.
Elizabeth Foss frequently has these posts where she shares what she's sewing and what she's reading. Since I share absolutely nothing about my life (haha, right), I thought you might be interested in these details. Anyway, here's my current project.
A BIG QUILT!
I've made a couple of smaller quilts for my bed at school, but I've never tackled a king-size bedspread. I'm excited about the project, but a bit nervous. I start working full time in a week and half, so my quilt making time will be severely diminished. As usual, my anxiety is probably unwarranted: the quilt is a gift for a couple of good friends who are getting married three days after Christmas. I've got time
p.s. - I'm reading a P.G. Wodehouse collection on my kindle. Three bucks, seven thousand pages. Do it. It's worth it.
23 July 2012
Random happenings
Today didn't contain anything that I would write more than about 100 words about. It did have several things worth communicating, though. So here they are, all in short form:
1. I have a Michigan accent
I went in for a pseudo-interview today. I say pseudo because it was with a temp agency that places administrative assistant types. No job, but more possibilities. Anyway, the lady at the front desk asked me very seriously if I was originally from Michigan. Apparently, I have a "really strong" accent. I guess that's what I get after becoming good friends with many people from the hand state at school. The more I deny it, though, the more it happens. Unfortunate truth.
2. I clean up well
The man who interviewed me escorted me into a little room where I could be interrogated. I mean questioned. I mean... oh, you know what I mean. Interviewed. As I sat there, he half-listened, but mostly kept looking me up and down. About halfway through, he said that if he had known that I would look "this way" an hour ago, he would have had a position for me. Cue mystified feeling. Wrapping up the interview, he warned me that they don't place all of their candidates, but he thought I had a good chance because I "seemed smart, had a college degree, didn't expect to be paid a lot, and..." He paused and looked me up and down, clearly at a loss for the appropriate words. He finally settled on "clean up well."No, I wasn't offended. I was amused at the scene. A young man, who doesn't know me and is in a professional setting, trying to figure out how to compliment my appearance. Yes, I was amused.
3. My Italian Mama is brave
Or stupid. I haven't decided which yet. We had some errands to run after my pseudo-interview. (GROSSNESS WARNING) She stopped off at a restroom and lo-and-behold, there was a large wad of paper towels in the toilet. Not wanting to make a mess, she scooped up the paper towels (eeeewwww) before using the toilet herself. The hoped-for result was that the toilet would flush without the obstruction. Then she could put the paper towels back. Unfortunately, her theory didn't hold water. But the toilet did. No flusheo. So she had to restore the paper towels to their former residence. (eeeeewwwww). I would have waited til I got home. Just saying.
1. I have a Michigan accent
I went in for a pseudo-interview today. I say pseudo because it was with a temp agency that places administrative assistant types. No job, but more possibilities. Anyway, the lady at the front desk asked me very seriously if I was originally from Michigan. Apparently, I have a "really strong" accent. I guess that's what I get after becoming good friends with many people from the hand state at school. The more I deny it, though, the more it happens. Unfortunate truth.
2. I clean up well
The man who interviewed me escorted me into a little room where I could be interrogated. I mean questioned. I mean... oh, you know what I mean. Interviewed. As I sat there, he half-listened, but mostly kept looking me up and down. About halfway through, he said that if he had known that I would look "this way" an hour ago, he would have had a position for me. Cue mystified feeling. Wrapping up the interview, he warned me that they don't place all of their candidates, but he thought I had a good chance because I "seemed smart, had a college degree, didn't expect to be paid a lot, and..." He paused and looked me up and down, clearly at a loss for the appropriate words. He finally settled on "clean up well."No, I wasn't offended. I was amused at the scene. A young man, who doesn't know me and is in a professional setting, trying to figure out how to compliment my appearance. Yes, I was amused.
3. My Italian Mama is brave
Or stupid. I haven't decided which yet. We had some errands to run after my pseudo-interview. (GROSSNESS WARNING) She stopped off at a restroom and lo-and-behold, there was a large wad of paper towels in the toilet. Not wanting to make a mess, she scooped up the paper towels (eeeewwww) before using the toilet herself. The hoped-for result was that the toilet would flush without the obstruction. Then she could put the paper towels back. Unfortunately, her theory didn't hold water. But the toilet did. No flusheo. So she had to restore the paper towels to their former residence. (eeeeewwwww). I would have waited til I got home. Just saying.
22 July 2012
The Down Side
So the only appeal that I can see in that uber-popular song "Call Me Maybe" are the hysterical covers that come out once in a while. Little kids singing and dancing, Cookie Monster's word change to "Share It Maybe," and finally, the rendition done by Armed Forces personnel. A well done parody or lip syncing video can make my morning.
The down side is that the song gets stuck in my head for days. And days. Dumb song. I want to shoot myself. I should start watching them with my volume muted.
The down side is that the song gets stuck in my head for days. And days. Dumb song. I want to shoot myself. I should start watching them with my volume muted.
20 July 2012
A Sad Day, A Hopeful Day
What a sorrowful Friday.
I woke this morning to news of the Aurora, CO shooting. So many lives lost or injured. I can't even imagine the horror of being in that situation.
Later in the morning, I sat on the floor, playing with two small children. I was enjoying sharing in their joy and simple happiness. As I sat there, I felt the phone in my pocket vibrate. I pulled it out and stared at the screen for a second. It was from someone I wasn't expecting to hear from for a while. It was with some trepidation that I opened it, but nothing could have prepared me for what I read.
I don't remember the exact wording, but the message was this: a student from my alma mater was struck and killed by a car early this morning. (story here)
Cue stomach drop. I stared blankly at my sister, who was across the room. She asked what was wrong and I told her the news.
It still hasn't sunk in. I can't believe it. They say little kids don't find death tragic because they don't understand what it means for someone to be gone forever. I find death tragic... but I can't claim to grasp what that really means either. Somehow you always expect they'll come back.
That's a great thing about being Catholic: we believe that, by the grace of God, we'll see those people again.
There's something to hope for.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and may the perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.
I woke this morning to news of the Aurora, CO shooting. So many lives lost or injured. I can't even imagine the horror of being in that situation.
Later in the morning, I sat on the floor, playing with two small children. I was enjoying sharing in their joy and simple happiness. As I sat there, I felt the phone in my pocket vibrate. I pulled it out and stared at the screen for a second. It was from someone I wasn't expecting to hear from for a while. It was with some trepidation that I opened it, but nothing could have prepared me for what I read.
I don't remember the exact wording, but the message was this: a student from my alma mater was struck and killed by a car early this morning. (story here)
Cue stomach drop. I stared blankly at my sister, who was across the room. She asked what was wrong and I told her the news.
It still hasn't sunk in. I can't believe it. They say little kids don't find death tragic because they don't understand what it means for someone to be gone forever. I find death tragic... but I can't claim to grasp what that really means either. Somehow you always expect they'll come back.
That's a great thing about being Catholic: we believe that, by the grace of God, we'll see those people again.
There's something to hope for.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and may the perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.
19 July 2012
The Eyes Have It
What that "it" is, I'll explain in a moment. Or, rather, show you in a moment. But first, I must warn you that this post is not for squeamish sissy wimps sensitive souls who cringe at the sight of don't like to see pictures of peoples' insides.
On numerous occasions, I have mentioned that I am not... erm... normal. My anatomy is sort of a anomaly. This fact first manifested itself when I was a baby through an extreme case of crossed eyes. For the most part, my eyes look normal from the outside now. That is, until you catch me when I'm tired or stressed and my right eye is pointing at some location up and away from where my left eye is looking.
Anyway, we were recently given photographic proof of my weirdness.
Below is Exhibit A: An image of the inside of Dad's nearly perfect eyeballs, prominently featuring an the optic nerves (those bright spots). Notice the symmetry.
This final image is the three of these images hung in a row: mine, Dad's, and my sister's.
And yes, they're on the fridge. We have eclectic decorating tastes. :)
On numerous occasions, I have mentioned that I am not... erm... normal. My anatomy is sort of a anomaly. This fact first manifested itself when I was a baby through an extreme case of crossed eyes. For the most part, my eyes look normal from the outside now. That is, until you catch me when I'm tired or stressed and my right eye is pointing at some location up and away from where my left eye is looking.
Anyway, we were recently given photographic proof of my weirdness.
Below is Exhibit A: An image of the inside of Dad's nearly perfect eyeballs, prominently featuring an the optic nerves (those bright spots). Notice the symmetry.
Exhibit B: An image of my sister's not quite perfect, but close enough for government work, eyeballs. The optic nerves are slightly off from each other, but nothing too drastic.
Exhibit C: An image of my dramatically off-kilter, but still incredibly healthy, eyeballs. My optic nerves are apparently rather relaxed about being symmetrical. This explains many, many things.
This final image is the three of these images hung in a row: mine, Dad's, and my sister's.
And yes, they're on the fridge. We have eclectic decorating tastes. :)
18 July 2012
The Girl Code: (not quite) 100% Good Advice
Diane Farr wrote a book in 2001, several years before she met and married the Giant Korean (see her book Kissing Outside the Lines for that story), which was her effort to write down the secrets of female society in one place. Everything from common terms to etiquette guidelines.
(yes, the book has the s-e-x word on it. don't freak out.)
My Italian Mama purchased this book after reading Diane Farr's other work mentioned above. We had laughed so hard at the first one that she figured we couldn't go wrong with another book by the same author.
This book is in an entirely different style. While funny, it's almost like a dictionary. A term is in bold at the top of a page, followed by it's definition. Following this are the terms, conditions, and qualifiers under which this is applicable or appropriate. Finally, it's used in an example sentence to show it's uses: as an excuse, a noun, a cry for attention, etc. I know, I know, this is a terrible description that doesn't really explain anything. You should just read it yourself. At least if you're a girl. Boys... you don't want to know. More importantly, though, is that we don't want you to know. Ignorance is bliss for you and advantageous for us.
The reason I can recommend this book is not because I thought it was perfect. She has a very different set of morals that I do. I am not going to encourage (read: strongly discourage) several of the practices mentioned in her book. The reason I can recommend this book is that it is mostly good advice.
She and I don't see eye to eye. I would dissuade a young woman from a one-night stand on moral grounds. She discourages it on different grounds. "You know the guilt that accompanies excessive drinking?," she writes, "Multiply it times ten, and now you know what to expect the day after a one-night stand. P.S. This hangover doesn't go away as fast as the drinking kind." In laying ground rules for this kind of encounter, a recurrent theme is: it's not worth it. You won't get a meaningful relationship out of it. It isn't going to fulfill you. If you were friends, well, honey, you can kiss that goodbye. If he's just around for the sex, why would you want him around anyway?
Premarital sex is a non-issue for her. Of course you'll sleep with people. Funny to think that so much of what she says about a one-nighter could be applied to a six-monther. Or any sort of not-for-the-rest-of-your-lifer. Why buy the cow if he's getting the milk for free?
Explicitly sexual issues aside, her book is solid. It covers everything from how to decide if a guy is a keeper (The Tests: Waitress Test, Car Door Test, Family Test) to how to let go of one who's not (He's Out of The Car, On the Curb, you have Raw Cookie Dough Time). She covers the rules of a girls' night out (Never Leave Your Wingman) and the importance of being loyal to your girlfriends above all else (Don't Shop In Other People's Closets).
I'll leave you with this final bit of wisdom: "Men are like buses... you sit at the stop long enough and another one comes along - but girlfriends are like Maseratis: few and far between."
(yes, the book has the s-e-x word on it. don't freak out.)
My Italian Mama purchased this book after reading Diane Farr's other work mentioned above. We had laughed so hard at the first one that she figured we couldn't go wrong with another book by the same author.
This book is in an entirely different style. While funny, it's almost like a dictionary. A term is in bold at the top of a page, followed by it's definition. Following this are the terms, conditions, and qualifiers under which this is applicable or appropriate. Finally, it's used in an example sentence to show it's uses: as an excuse, a noun, a cry for attention, etc. I know, I know, this is a terrible description that doesn't really explain anything. You should just read it yourself. At least if you're a girl. Boys... you don't want to know. More importantly, though, is that we don't want you to know. Ignorance is bliss for you and advantageous for us.
The reason I can recommend this book is not because I thought it was perfect. She has a very different set of morals that I do. I am not going to encourage (read: strongly discourage) several of the practices mentioned in her book. The reason I can recommend this book is that it is mostly good advice.
She and I don't see eye to eye. I would dissuade a young woman from a one-night stand on moral grounds. She discourages it on different grounds. "You know the guilt that accompanies excessive drinking?," she writes, "Multiply it times ten, and now you know what to expect the day after a one-night stand. P.S. This hangover doesn't go away as fast as the drinking kind." In laying ground rules for this kind of encounter, a recurrent theme is: it's not worth it. You won't get a meaningful relationship out of it. It isn't going to fulfill you. If you were friends, well, honey, you can kiss that goodbye. If he's just around for the sex, why would you want him around anyway?
Premarital sex is a non-issue for her. Of course you'll sleep with people. Funny to think that so much of what she says about a one-nighter could be applied to a six-monther. Or any sort of not-for-the-rest-of-your-lifer. Why buy the cow if he's getting the milk for free?
Explicitly sexual issues aside, her book is solid. It covers everything from how to decide if a guy is a keeper (The Tests: Waitress Test, Car Door Test, Family Test) to how to let go of one who's not (He's Out of The Car, On the Curb, you have Raw Cookie Dough Time). She covers the rules of a girls' night out (Never Leave Your Wingman) and the importance of being loyal to your girlfriends above all else (Don't Shop In Other People's Closets).
I'll leave you with this final bit of wisdom: "Men are like buses... you sit at the stop long enough and another one comes along - but girlfriends are like Maseratis: few and far between."
17 July 2012
Reality vs. Imagination
I totally get carried away in the imagination department. I always have. It usually leans toward the "panic because there's an impending disaster" kind of imagining. My recent experience was no exception.
Here are the factual events:
Sunday, 11 a.m. - I sent a text to my "big brother" in Michigan, letting him know that I'd mailed him a chocolate cake.
Sunday, 8 p.m. - Something happened that made me really, really, really want to have some big brother time, but 1) it was late in MI and 2) he hadn't ever texted me back, so he obviously wasn't around.
Monday, 9 a.m. - I got a text from him, telling me that he was just headed back from vacation so he hoped it hadn't gone bad. I told him to put ice cream on it if it was dry and then proceeded to vent at him about the other thing via text for the next seven hours. (hey, I'm a girl. These things are necessary.)
Here's what happened in my head:
Sunday, 11 a.m. - I really hope that cake didn't get lost. It really should've been there by now. I'll send a text and see if maybe he just hadn't mentioned that it had arrived.
Sunday, 12 p.m. - hm... it's been an hour. Maybe MI fell off the face of the earth.
Sunday, 3 p.m. - Ok, this is really unusual, even for him. Maybe something bad happened to him...
Sunday, 5 p.m. - OH MY GOSH, HE HAS CANCER AGAIN. I saw that facebook thing about a CT scan a while ago and never heard that he was ok so maybe he relapsed or whatever they call it when cancer comes back. Come to think of it, I haven't seen anything from him OR his dad on facebook or twitter for at least a week. OH MY GOSH, HE'S DYING. CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP panic panic panic panic PAAANIIIIIC!!!!!!!!!
Sunday, 8 p.m. - Wow, that email totally turned my world upside down (totally different story that won't be shared... at least for like 30 years. It's going to take that long to look back on it and laugh). I I really want to talk to him about this... BUT if I'm right in my panic-stricken imaginings, my relationship problems are going to seem so trite and pathetic and unimportant and dumb and he'll hate me for bringing them up. That text would be so humiliating to receive: I'm sorry you're having this problem, but I have cancer. Keep your problems to yourself, honey. At least until you find out for sure if he's dying.
Several times throughout night - Wake up panic-stricken and pray he doesn't have cancer. I said so many Hail Mary's during those 8 hours when I should have been sleeping.
Monday, 9 a.m. - My big brother texts me letting me know that they're coming back from a 9 day vacation. Cue relief and a feeling of idiocy. Oh. He was on vacation. Ok. I can tell him about my trite, pathetic, unimportant, and dumb relationship problems now with a clean conscience.
Like I mentioned before, we texted sporadically back and forth for seven hours (with a break for my dentist visit and interview downtown). I cannot tell you how helpful it was. My Italian Mama tweeted him later to thank him for being the bringer of "sanity, perspective, and the epically placed cuss word."
Big brothers are so much better than superheros.
And I need to learn how to control my imagination.
Here are the factual events:
Sunday, 11 a.m. - I sent a text to my "big brother" in Michigan, letting him know that I'd mailed him a chocolate cake.
Sunday, 8 p.m. - Something happened that made me really, really, really want to have some big brother time, but 1) it was late in MI and 2) he hadn't ever texted me back, so he obviously wasn't around.
Monday, 9 a.m. - I got a text from him, telling me that he was just headed back from vacation so he hoped it hadn't gone bad. I told him to put ice cream on it if it was dry and then proceeded to vent at him about the other thing via text for the next seven hours. (hey, I'm a girl. These things are necessary.)
Here's what happened in my head:
Sunday, 11 a.m. - I really hope that cake didn't get lost. It really should've been there by now. I'll send a text and see if maybe he just hadn't mentioned that it had arrived.
Sunday, 12 p.m. - hm... it's been an hour. Maybe MI fell off the face of the earth.
Sunday, 3 p.m. - Ok, this is really unusual, even for him. Maybe something bad happened to him...
Sunday, 5 p.m. - OH MY GOSH, HE HAS CANCER AGAIN. I saw that facebook thing about a CT scan a while ago and never heard that he was ok so maybe he relapsed or whatever they call it when cancer comes back. Come to think of it, I haven't seen anything from him OR his dad on facebook or twitter for at least a week. OH MY GOSH, HE'S DYING. CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP panic panic panic panic PAAANIIIIIC!!!!!!!!!
Sunday, 8 p.m. - Wow, that email totally turned my world upside down (totally different story that won't be shared... at least for like 30 years. It's going to take that long to look back on it and laugh). I I really want to talk to him about this... BUT if I'm right in my panic-stricken imaginings, my relationship problems are going to seem so trite and pathetic and unimportant and dumb and he'll hate me for bringing them up. That text would be so humiliating to receive: I'm sorry you're having this problem, but I have cancer. Keep your problems to yourself, honey. At least until you find out for sure if he's dying.
Several times throughout night - Wake up panic-stricken and pray he doesn't have cancer. I said so many Hail Mary's during those 8 hours when I should have been sleeping.
Monday, 9 a.m. - My big brother texts me letting me know that they're coming back from a 9 day vacation. Cue relief and a feeling of idiocy. Oh. He was on vacation. Ok. I can tell him about my trite, pathetic, unimportant, and dumb relationship problems now with a clean conscience.
Like I mentioned before, we texted sporadically back and forth for seven hours (with a break for my dentist visit and interview downtown). I cannot tell you how helpful it was. My Italian Mama tweeted him later to thank him for being the bringer of "sanity, perspective, and the epically placed cuss word."
Big brothers are so much better than superheros.
And I need to learn how to control my imagination.
13 July 2012
Too Poor for the Floor
I don't really think of my family as poor. We aren't. Dad has a good job... and he always has. We aren't excessive in our spending. We can't buy whatever we want, but we've always been able to afford what we needed. I've never felt poor.
Compared to the people surrounding us yesterday though, Mum and I felt poor.
We went to the mall near the airport. We've gone to almost every mall in the county, but never this one. Ok, that isn't strictly true. I've been there twice. Once when I was about 14, I went out for lunch and a movie with a couple of friends. The second time was more recently, but I went in to buy a gift certificate for someone at a store located year the entrance to the mall. On neither occasion did I peruse the shops or even really look around. Yesterday was different.
Yesterday, we entered the mall near the Bloomingdale's. Never been to Bloomingdale's before. We didn't go in, since we were search of food first. We looked at the little map thing and decided to go to the Nordstrom Cafe. It was clear on the other side of the mall, but we didn't mind the walk and (more importantly) I'd eaten there before without having an allergic reaction. So off we tromped.
Looking from side to side at the various shops we passed, we noticed two things: first, they were all designer stores (GUCCI & LOUIS VUITTON!!!) and everyone was wearing designer products (EXPENSIVE & FANCY!!!). Both of these findings were disconcerting: we were definitely in the wrong income bracket to be in this mall. We were definitely under-dressed.
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
I told Mum, as we strolled through in our shorts and t-shirts, "Just exude confidence." She responded with, "Yes, just pretend you dressed this way on purpose to make a statement." Right. Ok. Into Nordstrom we went (passing a TIFFANY & CO. and NEIMEN MARCUS on the way!!!) and headed to the third level. There were pretty lights everywhere. Mirrors on all the walls. The floor was shiny as all get out. (Seriously, the white and black marble was polished to mirror standards.) Up the escalator we went.
First stop: thesuper fancy, chic lounge bathroom. It was the size of a small home. Everyone in it looked like they were going out for a nice night on the town. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where you realize you're up in front of a bunch of people completely naked. I wasn't naked, but the glares I received from the snobby rich ladies seemed to indicate that I might as well have been.
Second stop: lunch. I made a complete fool of myself, not knowing how one is supposed to order at the Nordstrom Cafe. It's a weird combo of buffet/order first/sit down meal restaurant. I was so confused. And under-dressed. Couldn't really get the under-dressed part out of my mind. We ate, while a nice man (Gustav?) waited on our table. Needless to say, we didn't much feel like lingering.
As we were trying to exit the store, Mum was having difficulty walking. Her shoes kept catching on the super shiny floor. "Look, Mum," I said, "we're too poor to even walk on the floor." We giggled to ourselves as we left, inciting annoyed stares from the snobby rich ladies.
We definitely didn't fit in around there. But we were definitely alright with that.
Compared to the people surrounding us yesterday though, Mum and I felt poor.
We went to the mall near the airport. We've gone to almost every mall in the county, but never this one. Ok, that isn't strictly true. I've been there twice. Once when I was about 14, I went out for lunch and a movie with a couple of friends. The second time was more recently, but I went in to buy a gift certificate for someone at a store located year the entrance to the mall. On neither occasion did I peruse the shops or even really look around. Yesterday was different.
Yesterday, we entered the mall near the Bloomingdale's. Never been to Bloomingdale's before. We didn't go in, since we were search of food first. We looked at the little map thing and decided to go to the Nordstrom Cafe. It was clear on the other side of the mall, but we didn't mind the walk and (more importantly) I'd eaten there before without having an allergic reaction. So off we tromped.
Looking from side to side at the various shops we passed, we noticed two things: first, they were all designer stores (GUCCI & LOUIS VUITTON!!!) and everyone was wearing designer products (EXPENSIVE & FANCY!!!). Both of these findings were disconcerting: we were definitely in the wrong income bracket to be in this mall. We were definitely under-dressed.
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
I told Mum, as we strolled through in our shorts and t-shirts, "Just exude confidence." She responded with, "Yes, just pretend you dressed this way on purpose to make a statement." Right. Ok. Into Nordstrom we went (passing a TIFFANY & CO. and NEIMEN MARCUS on the way!!!) and headed to the third level. There were pretty lights everywhere. Mirrors on all the walls. The floor was shiny as all get out. (Seriously, the white and black marble was polished to mirror standards.) Up the escalator we went.
First stop: the
Second stop: lunch. I made a complete fool of myself, not knowing how one is supposed to order at the Nordstrom Cafe. It's a weird combo of buffet/order first/sit down meal restaurant. I was so confused. And under-dressed. Couldn't really get the under-dressed part out of my mind. We ate, while a nice man (Gustav?) waited on our table. Needless to say, we didn't much feel like lingering.
As we were trying to exit the store, Mum was having difficulty walking. Her shoes kept catching on the super shiny floor. "Look, Mum," I said, "we're too poor to even walk on the floor." We giggled to ourselves as we left, inciting annoyed stares from the snobby rich ladies.
We definitely didn't fit in around there. But we were definitely alright with that.
11 July 2012
Gone Girl: A Review of the Disappointment
I was recently inspired to read a novel. It was praised as "one of the best books I've read in a LONG time." Gone Girl: A Novel by Gillian Flynn. I can agree to a point: Stephanie's choice of the verb "devoured" is absolutely fitting to the way in which I read that book. It's a page turner (or, since I got it on kindle, a button pusher). I read it in about three days, which is pretty typical for me. The last day I read over half of it. I could not put it down. So yes, I agree on that. It's a book to be devoured.
My opinion diverges after that. Yes, it was well written. It was gripping. It kept you guessing. It was a bona fide "thriller." But no, it was not one of the best books I've read in a LONG time. Not even without the capital letters. Here's why.
First (and this is arguably a non-point), there are about ten f-words per page. Seriously. Used literally and as a cuss word. The other oft-appearing word rhymes with "witch." I'm worried I'm going to randomly say something really naughty. How embarrassing.
Second, the ending is disappointing. (spoilers here) The bad guy wins. In order to not give away everything, I have to not give away anything more than that. (yes, the plot is that complex). But that just about sums it up. The bad guy wins.
Ugh.
Excuse me while I go bang my head against the wall.
...
Ok, I'm back. This bothers me. It does. Really. The bad guy ought not to win. (weird sentence there...) This raises another question: does the end ruin the whole thing? No. The book is riveting throughout. All the way to the last sentence of the last page. You wait and wait and wait and then... there's no happy ending. There's a kind of heroic sacrifice involved... I think. These characters are so complex.
It's a book that leaves you wishing things were different. Wishing for a different ending. Wanting the sociopath, psychotic, messed up people to go away. To be punished. And it doesn't happen, darn it. Instead of being led to things true, good, and beautiful, you are left running from things false, bad, and ugly. Which, I suppose, could be argued to have a value. You end up in the same place... maybe. You run, not because you love the beautiful, but because you're so freaking scared of the ugly. Sketchy, at best.
My solution? I picked up Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery this morning. A happy book. Happy endings. Good people. Not crazy loonies getting twisted "happy endings" that make you want to puke.
My opinion diverges after that. Yes, it was well written. It was gripping. It kept you guessing. It was a bona fide "thriller." But no, it was not one of the best books I've read in a LONG time. Not even without the capital letters. Here's why.
First (and this is arguably a non-point), there are about ten f-words per page. Seriously. Used literally and as a cuss word. The other oft-appearing word rhymes with "witch." I'm worried I'm going to randomly say something really naughty. How embarrassing.
Second, the ending is disappointing. (spoilers here) The bad guy wins. In order to not give away everything, I have to not give away anything more than that. (yes, the plot is that complex). But that just about sums it up. The bad guy wins.
Ugh.
Excuse me while I go bang my head against the wall.
...
Ok, I'm back. This bothers me. It does. Really. The bad guy ought not to win. (weird sentence there...) This raises another question: does the end ruin the whole thing? No. The book is riveting throughout. All the way to the last sentence of the last page. You wait and wait and wait and then... there's no happy ending. There's a kind of heroic sacrifice involved... I think. These characters are so complex.
It's a book that leaves you wishing things were different. Wishing for a different ending. Wanting the sociopath, psychotic, messed up people to go away. To be punished. And it doesn't happen, darn it. Instead of being led to things true, good, and beautiful, you are left running from things false, bad, and ugly. Which, I suppose, could be argued to have a value. You end up in the same place... maybe. You run, not because you love the beautiful, but because you're so freaking scared of the ugly. Sketchy, at best.
My solution? I picked up Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery this morning. A happy book. Happy endings. Good people. Not crazy loonies getting twisted "happy endings" that make you want to puke.
09 July 2012
Warning! Semi-Political Statements to Follow!
The political realm is something that I generally try to stay out of, but not because I don't have opinions. Any TAC educated, Italian, and female human being has opinions... and stubbornly holds on to some of them.
Recently, my entire Facebook newsfeed was filled to the gills with political memes, statuses, and articles coming from both sides (I have a great deal of diversity in my Facebook friend pool). I agreed with some of them. Ones like this
even made me giggle a little evil giggle. I'm a big enough person to admit that. I was in for a shock though, when something like this popped up.
(To be fair, it wasn't exactly this one. I looked for it for the purposes of this post and could not find it... and who knows what sort of targeted ads will start popping up after some of the google searches I did)
The point is, I've found that I have a double standard. While I found the first one funny, I found the second one immature, sophistical, and downright... mean. Honestly examining the dichotomy of my feelings, I realized that from "the other side", the first one is equally distasteful to others as the second is to me.
To be clear (and to stay out of trouble), this isn't a real political statement. I'm NOT saying that truth is relative. I'm NOT saying that both sides are right (because something cannot be true and false at the same time in the same respect. First axiom of all philosophy and human thought).
I AM saying that some of us have missed the boat. Y'know, the one with "Charity" emblazoned on the side.
Distasteful or offensive humor is nothing new. We all experienced it to some extent in school or in other social settings. One clique of people band together against some other group of people and they all peck at each other in a mean spirited manner. They obviously don't understand where the others are coming from and, what is more hurtful, they obviously haven't tried to understand, or care to understand. Instead, they resort to saying "funny" things to each other about the others... and what is funny to them is a jab in the eye to the others.
This is not how to win the world for Christ. How can it be? Imagine a person of a more liberal political bent, scrolling through his newsfeed. When he sees that first image, what will his reaction be? In all likelihood, one of two things: he will dismiss it as "those crazy conservatives" mouthing off again or take offense and be angry. In any case, I can guarantee that the message will not cause him to change his mind. He will not change his political views, but he will think less of those who think differently than him. It reinforces the wall between us. Positive influence? I think not.
So, in conclusion to this long and unusually serious post, I'd like to ask you all to think twice before you post those funny pictures. Think about who will see them. Think about what it will do. It will not bring anyone closer to truth and it may just make them hold it off at arm's length or kick it over the fence completely.
Reading Between the Lines
Mum asked me awhile ago to write a "philosophical" post about the television show "Southland" on TNT. She watched the entirety of it while I was at school, but was so enthralled by it that she asked me to watch all of the episodes again with her. She was right: it is enthralling. It's about LAPD officers, working some of the toughest cases in the worst parts of that city. But it certainly isn't the gritty violence that brings me back to watch yet another episode. It's the morality written in to almost every character's story arc.
As with most cop shows, there are about fifty main characters. Fine, I exaggerate, but not by much. Each person has his or her own personal story arc. The most notable and interesting to me are Sammy, who has a boat load of personal life problems, struggling to cope with the death of his previous partner on the job, trying desperately to save his new partner Ben from doing stupid things, and Ben, who seems to be desperately and actively trying to ruin his own life by ignoring Sammy and doing those stupid things.
Now, I'm hesitant to make assertions here, in part because I'm sure there are many diverse opinions on what screenwriters in Hollywood are really doing with their stories. Some believe that they are actively promoting sex, alcohol, and drugs to corrupt the world's youth into a relativistic, loose, indulgent society. Watching Southland, though, that doesn't seem to ring true.
Take Ben. We first see him at the beginning of Season One, fresh out of the academy, first day in the patrol car. He's young, he's eager, and he seems pretty... nice. His story arc promises to be the typical "growth" story arc. Y'know, young guy, grows up under the watchful care of his senior partner, does good for the city of Los Angeles. Maybe has some hard knocks, loses a few battles, makes mistakes, but overall, he succeeds in becoming a stellar police officer.
Not so much.
His story arc doesn't really do the growth thing. It does the growth, but in a kinda lopsided way. He gets more confident, he wants to do good... but things get dark. Ben gets angry. There's an interesting parallel developed in the seasons, though, and this is where I'm reading between the lines (whether accurately or not is for you to decide). The more angry Ben gets, the more of a "skirt chaser" he becomes. At the beginning of Season Four, you see Ben in bed with not one, but two women. Wooooaaaah there, fella'. Ben McKenzie, the actor who plays Ben Sherman, said of his character in an interview, "He turns into a bit of a slut."
No kidding.
Now, if Officer Ben Sherman seemed happier the more "conquests" he racked up, I'd be more willing to hop on the wagon of people saying that the writers are promoting this lifestyle. But that isn't what happens. He gets angry. He gets stubborn. He almost gets his partner (Sammy) killed. Sammy sees Ben's increasing anger and tries to calm him down. Tries to get him back on the... less angry side of life.
Why is Ben angry, you ask? In Ben is the struggle of compassion and nobility vs. anger at the injustice he sees. He became a cop to right wrongs and bring the bad guys to justice. What he sees is a situation that he can only hope to contain, but never eradicate. He sees people in pain who don't want to help themselves. His compassion leads him to try and try and try to help people on a personal level. To do this, he has to get personally involved. When he gets personally involved, he cannot help but feel angry at the situation.
What can a man do with all of these emotions? Ben's solution is to party hard and sleep around on his days off. But it's obviously not a real solution. Sammy knows this. Ben probably does too. Sammy tries to reach out and help. Ben ignores him and shuts the (figurative) door in his partner's face.
Who knows what Season Five will do to Officer Ben Sherman. Will he continue on his downward bend of his growth arc, or will he finally start climbing up? To be oh-so-geeky and cliche, will he conquer the forces of evil or succumb to the dark side?
Too bad we won't find out until February...
As with most cop shows, there are about fifty main characters. Fine, I exaggerate, but not by much. Each person has his or her own personal story arc. The most notable and interesting to me are Sammy, who has a boat load of personal life problems, struggling to cope with the death of his previous partner on the job, trying desperately to save his new partner Ben from doing stupid things, and Ben, who seems to be desperately and actively trying to ruin his own life by ignoring Sammy and doing those stupid things.
Now, I'm hesitant to make assertions here, in part because I'm sure there are many diverse opinions on what screenwriters in Hollywood are really doing with their stories. Some believe that they are actively promoting sex, alcohol, and drugs to corrupt the world's youth into a relativistic, loose, indulgent society. Watching Southland, though, that doesn't seem to ring true.
Take Ben. We first see him at the beginning of Season One, fresh out of the academy, first day in the patrol car. He's young, he's eager, and he seems pretty... nice. His story arc promises to be the typical "growth" story arc. Y'know, young guy, grows up under the watchful care of his senior partner, does good for the city of Los Angeles. Maybe has some hard knocks, loses a few battles, makes mistakes, but overall, he succeeds in becoming a stellar police officer.
Not so much.
His story arc doesn't really do the growth thing. It does the growth, but in a kinda lopsided way. He gets more confident, he wants to do good... but things get dark. Ben gets angry. There's an interesting parallel developed in the seasons, though, and this is where I'm reading between the lines (whether accurately or not is for you to decide). The more angry Ben gets, the more of a "skirt chaser" he becomes. At the beginning of Season Four, you see Ben in bed with not one, but two women. Wooooaaaah there, fella'. Ben McKenzie, the actor who plays Ben Sherman, said of his character in an interview, "He turns into a bit of a slut."
No kidding.
Now, if Officer Ben Sherman seemed happier the more "conquests" he racked up, I'd be more willing to hop on the wagon of people saying that the writers are promoting this lifestyle. But that isn't what happens. He gets angry. He gets stubborn. He almost gets his partner (Sammy) killed. Sammy sees Ben's increasing anger and tries to calm him down. Tries to get him back on the... less angry side of life.
What can a man do with all of these emotions? Ben's solution is to party hard and sleep around on his days off. But it's obviously not a real solution. Sammy knows this. Ben probably does too. Sammy tries to reach out and help. Ben ignores him and shuts the (figurative) door in his partner's face.
Who knows what Season Five will do to Officer Ben Sherman. Will he continue on his downward bend of his growth arc, or will he finally start climbing up? To be oh-so-geeky and cliche, will he conquer the forces of evil or succumb to the dark side?
06 July 2012
Duck Feet
Y'know that scene in "The Sound of Music" where the Mother Superior sings that warbly song about climbing every mountain and fording every stream? Well, I feel like singing that whenever I'm about to embark on a trip to the mall for a particular item. If I go to any store without a particular purpose, I almost always find something that I would love to own. Shoes, dress, earrings, etc. If, however, I go to the mall with a specific quarry in mind, it takes Herculean efforts to find it.
High-heeled dress shoes are a particularly elusive prize. The shoes themselves have strikes against them going in: they're egregiously priced and often inanely high heeled. Then I have strikes against me being the owner of said shoes: I'm accident prone, klutzy, and have poor balance (are those all the same thing?). I also have what the doctor calls "duck feet." My heels are a size 6 and the front of my foot is a size 9 or 10. Talk about difficult to fit. Heeled shoes tend to be narrow in the toes anyway, even for normal people.
But I'm not normal. *sigh*
Store after store, shoe after shoe, I frustrate shoe sales people. Different styles, different sizes and they all have different problems. Toes don't even get in the shoe. Toes have to be curled to fit in shoe. Heel falls completely out of the shoe if my toes do get in the shoe. If, by some miracle, my foot fits in the shoe, the heel is so high that I fall over as soon as I stand up. Hours go by. Finally, I find shoes. Expensive, yes. High heeled, yes. But I don't fall over, my feet stay in them, and they're the right color and style for the upcoming occasion.
Mission accomplished. Mountain climbed. Stream forded.
Shoes bought.
High-heeled dress shoes are a particularly elusive prize. The shoes themselves have strikes against them going in: they're egregiously priced and often inanely high heeled. Then I have strikes against me being the owner of said shoes: I'm accident prone, klutzy, and have poor balance (are those all the same thing?). I also have what the doctor calls "duck feet." My heels are a size 6 and the front of my foot is a size 9 or 10. Talk about difficult to fit. Heeled shoes tend to be narrow in the toes anyway, even for normal people.
But I'm not normal. *sigh*
Store after store, shoe after shoe, I frustrate shoe sales people. Different styles, different sizes and they all have different problems. Toes don't even get in the shoe. Toes have to be curled to fit in shoe. Heel falls completely out of the shoe if my toes do get in the shoe. If, by some miracle, my foot fits in the shoe, the heel is so high that I fall over as soon as I stand up. Hours go by. Finally, I find shoes. Expensive, yes. High heeled, yes. But I don't fall over, my feet stay in them, and they're the right color and style for the upcoming occasion.
Mission accomplished. Mountain climbed. Stream forded.
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