I don't know if I can do it, you guys. Maybe Morris has spoiled me too much, or maybe my childhood was too sheltered, or maybe I'm just not the right kind of person. But I don't know if I can be friends with these people.
They're so judgmental, and so unfriendly towards anyone who's even the least bit different.
For example, one guy in our group, Kevin (name has been changed), is a talker, and can be a little obnoxious about it. He doesn't try to be; in fact, I think it's obvious that he means well, and that that he's trying to be impressive and outgoing in order to make friends, but evidently the other people in the group don't see it that way. They mock him constantly. They spent the whole two and a half hour bus ride today baiting him with ridiculous questions, and then video recording his equally ridiculous answers so they could laugh at him later. As we got on the bus for the ride back, there was actually a small argument between two boys over who had to ride next to Kevin. And Kevin was sitting right there.
Later on, I was walking home from the bus stop with a group of kids from my dorm, and they were making fun of yet another guy in our group, Perry, who's from Texas, and is a perfectly nice, friendly person. But evidently he doesn't drink. Evidently he had a glass of wine with dinner tonight, but evidently that wasn't good enough. Evidently a mere glass of wine is grounds for eternal damnation. They were talking about making fun of Sam Houston, or bringing up the loss of the Alamo in front of Perry just to make him angry. (Yes, I will admit that the Sam Houston thing was kind of clever, but definitely not humorous in this context). Furthermore, I happen to know (and they knew as well) that it's Perry's birthday today, and that he's far from home and his friends and family. What kind of people trash talk someone on his birthday? In fact, what kind of people in a study abroad program trash talk other people in the same study abroad program? Aren't we supposed to be in the same boat here? Didn't we come to Salzburg to immerse ourselves in something new, instead of settling back into our middle school bad habits? Aren't we adults now? Aren't we strong and independent and beyond such pettiness?
Anyway, I don't think I exaggerated with the above stories, and I don't think I'll be exaggerating when I say that I'm literally on a precipice: I can either compromise all that I believe about people, and how they do and don't deserve to be treated, or I can spend the next few months being largely shunned by my entire study abroad group. I can either drink myself into a stupor every night at Shamrock's, or I can sit alone in my room with my laptop and Jane Austen.
I'm not a perfect person, and I'm sure I'm not handling this perfectly, but I'm choosing the latters.
I may be lonely sometimes, and I may be homesick sometimes, and I may at times wish that I had chosen a different program with different people, but this is where I am, and this is how I need to be.
Somewhere deep down in the stubbornest part of my being, I know that I can't be anyone else, and that I can't do things any differently.
And I'm not suffering, really I'm not; I have two really great friends here that I can do things with, and there are a few other members of my group whom I would like to get to know better. Salzburg is beautiful, Austria is divine, my German is improving, and classes start tomorrow.
Life is mostly good, as always, and I'm sorry that you have to see the bad parts, dear readers.
Stay gold. I'll be trying.
Showing posts with label Morals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Morals. Show all posts
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
In Which a Nightmare Rights Some Wrongs
It's amazing how many wrongs you can right before 10 a.m.
I slept horribly last night; I was so worried about the whole voicemail situation. I had the "racing thoughts" they always talk about in Lunesta ads.
Early this morning, after about 6 hours of sleep, I woke up out of a nightmare. The nightmare was gruesome and terrifying. Most of all, though, it was ironic; in it, I was running from something, and then I was captured, and then I was tortured. Lovely, right? The climax of the entire dream was when I was being dragged down to the dungeon by this evil hag, and I thought to myself, "Why couldn't I have just pretended to be someone else? If I hadn't struggled so much, if I hadn't made such a display of stubborness, I wouldn't be here right now."
And then my alarm went off, and I smiled at the irony of it all, and I set out to right my wrongs.
I did the phone interview I was supposed to have done a month ago for the story I was supposed to have begun weeks ago. I called the leaver of the voicemail to make amends. It was me that had to make amends, you know. She was just being honest. I was being unreliable and immature and lazy. I'm 20 years old, but I still seem to be rather good at those three things.
Perhaps I shouldn't complain about not being treated like an adult unless I'm acting like one.
I slept horribly last night; I was so worried about the whole voicemail situation. I had the "racing thoughts" they always talk about in Lunesta ads.
Early this morning, after about 6 hours of sleep, I woke up out of a nightmare. The nightmare was gruesome and terrifying. Most of all, though, it was ironic; in it, I was running from something, and then I was captured, and then I was tortured. Lovely, right? The climax of the entire dream was when I was being dragged down to the dungeon by this evil hag, and I thought to myself, "Why couldn't I have just pretended to be someone else? If I hadn't struggled so much, if I hadn't made such a display of stubborness, I wouldn't be here right now."
And then my alarm went off, and I smiled at the irony of it all, and I set out to right my wrongs.
I did the phone interview I was supposed to have done a month ago for the story I was supposed to have begun weeks ago. I called the leaver of the voicemail to make amends. It was me that had to make amends, you know. She was just being honest. I was being unreliable and immature and lazy. I'm 20 years old, but I still seem to be rather good at those three things.
Perhaps I shouldn't complain about not being treated like an adult unless I'm acting like one.
Monday, May 23, 2011
A Character Sketch (With Comments)
Our conversation took place in the "Female Products" aisle of Target.
Where the very best conversations take place.
Kidding.
Anyway, it all struck me as strange at the time. Now it's just ironic.
A few guys had just been caught trying to steal a TV from our store. Apparently they had hit up Walmart recently, so we were anticipating a visit as well. (Note: Target has not asked me to write this, but don't try to steal from us. You'll get caught. And I have a mean roundhouse, thanks to my friend Denise Austin.)
Anyway, he and I were discussing the attempted theft while pulling boxes of tampons forward on the shelves.
And he went on and on about how whenever someone stole from our store, it really rattled him. How it made him jumpy and nervous, and how, most of all, it made him not trust people. He talked a lot about that. Not trusting people.
As I pride myself on my deep faith in humanity, I didn't empathize. I simply pitied him a little bit for living what I saw as a cold existence. This too is ironic.
But still, despite his revelation to me in the Feminine Products aisle, he was someone to be depended on in our store. If the lanes needed backup, he was the first to respond. If someone needed a team lift, if someone couldn't find an item for a guest, if someone didn't know how to do something on their PDA, he was the go-to guy. He was just a high schooler, but he was relied on by people much older.
The third bit about him is that he is the one I wrote about last summer, the one who gave my car a jump that afternoon in the Target parking lot. It was after my very first day of work, I had never talked to him in my life, and yet there he was, asking me if I could use some help.
For the year that's passed since that parking lot act of kindness, I have held it up as the nicest thing a stranger has done for me. I have asked myself if I would do the same for someone I didn't know. I have hung the act over the person's head as a red badge of sorts, admiring him for it and defining him by it.
And then I came back to work for the summer, and found out that he had been fired from Target for stealing. Rumor has it that when a guest would purchase an ipod, he would take two out of the case, and drop the extra into his pocket. Rumor has it that he had been doing it for a while. The person who told me all of this also told me that he (car jumper, ipod thief) is some kind of genius. I gave the teller my wryest raised eyebrows: Yes, because truly smart people steal ipods from their places of employment.
When I first heard this news, I was shocked.
Now I'm purely disgusted.
It makes me sick to think that he got a job at Target. That he got to know the wonderful people who work here, that he gained their trust. That he dared to build himself a reputation as a good kid, as someone who was helpful and dependable. That he jumped people's cars and told people sob stories about his cold view of humanity. That he did all of this and then stole from us. When I told this to the guy who told me the theft story, he rolled his eyes a little: Holly, we didn't lose any money by it. They got it all back. Besides, it wouldn't have come out of our paychecks anyway.
Gee, thanks. That makes me feel better. Because there is absolutely no deeply immoral aspect to the situation that is more troubling than the financial aspects.
I lay on my stomach here in my bed, laptop propped on pillow, and I think back to that day in the Tampon Aisle (who're we kidding, here; that's what it should be called) and I feel (oh so ironically,) like maybe he was right all along. Maybe people can't be trusted. Maybe people don't have bits of bad and bits of good swimming around inside their chests. Maybe it has to be all one or the other.
And then I look into myself and I see both. But the good, the good is always trying to stand over the bad, to put it into the shade forever. And I think that maybe other people's chests are similar. That they hold both, that they hold everything. And that even when the bad gets a trump it doesn't mean that the good isn't following behind with the ace of something.
I think that perhaps jumping a car in an afternoon parking lot shouldn't be overshadowed by a petty theft. That I shouldn't let it be.
Where the very best conversations take place.
Kidding.
Anyway, it all struck me as strange at the time. Now it's just ironic.
A few guys had just been caught trying to steal a TV from our store. Apparently they had hit up Walmart recently, so we were anticipating a visit as well. (Note: Target has not asked me to write this, but don't try to steal from us. You'll get caught. And I have a mean roundhouse, thanks to my friend Denise Austin.)
Anyway, he and I were discussing the attempted theft while pulling boxes of tampons forward on the shelves.
And he went on and on about how whenever someone stole from our store, it really rattled him. How it made him jumpy and nervous, and how, most of all, it made him not trust people. He talked a lot about that. Not trusting people.
As I pride myself on my deep faith in humanity, I didn't empathize. I simply pitied him a little bit for living what I saw as a cold existence. This too is ironic.
But still, despite his revelation to me in the Feminine Products aisle, he was someone to be depended on in our store. If the lanes needed backup, he was the first to respond. If someone needed a team lift, if someone couldn't find an item for a guest, if someone didn't know how to do something on their PDA, he was the go-to guy. He was just a high schooler, but he was relied on by people much older.
The third bit about him is that he is the one I wrote about last summer, the one who gave my car a jump that afternoon in the Target parking lot. It was after my very first day of work, I had never talked to him in my life, and yet there he was, asking me if I could use some help.
For the year that's passed since that parking lot act of kindness, I have held it up as the nicest thing a stranger has done for me. I have asked myself if I would do the same for someone I didn't know. I have hung the act over the person's head as a red badge of sorts, admiring him for it and defining him by it.
And then I came back to work for the summer, and found out that he had been fired from Target for stealing. Rumor has it that when a guest would purchase an ipod, he would take two out of the case, and drop the extra into his pocket. Rumor has it that he had been doing it for a while. The person who told me all of this also told me that he (car jumper, ipod thief) is some kind of genius. I gave the teller my wryest raised eyebrows: Yes, because truly smart people steal ipods from their places of employment.
When I first heard this news, I was shocked.
Now I'm purely disgusted.
It makes me sick to think that he got a job at Target. That he got to know the wonderful people who work here, that he gained their trust. That he dared to build himself a reputation as a good kid, as someone who was helpful and dependable. That he jumped people's cars and told people sob stories about his cold view of humanity. That he did all of this and then stole from us. When I told this to the guy who told me the theft story, he rolled his eyes a little: Holly, we didn't lose any money by it. They got it all back. Besides, it wouldn't have come out of our paychecks anyway.
Gee, thanks. That makes me feel better. Because there is absolutely no deeply immoral aspect to the situation that is more troubling than the financial aspects.
I lay on my stomach here in my bed, laptop propped on pillow, and I think back to that day in the Tampon Aisle (who're we kidding, here; that's what it should be called) and I feel (oh so ironically,) like maybe he was right all along. Maybe people can't be trusted. Maybe people don't have bits of bad and bits of good swimming around inside their chests. Maybe it has to be all one or the other.
And then I look into myself and I see both. But the good, the good is always trying to stand over the bad, to put it into the shade forever. And I think that maybe other people's chests are similar. That they hold both, that they hold everything. And that even when the bad gets a trump it doesn't mean that the good isn't following behind with the ace of something.
I think that perhaps jumping a car in an afternoon parking lot shouldn't be overshadowed by a petty theft. That I shouldn't let it be.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Me and John Adams
What have I ever done for my country?
John Adams spent years and years in France and the Netherlands trying to secure treaties and loans for the newly created United States. Before that, he helped establish said United States. Before that, he stepped forward, despite the outrage of his Patriot peers, to defend the British soldiers who had begun the Boston Massacre. After that, he was President. After that, he prevented the United States from entering another war with England and France. His refusal to maintain a standing army lost him a second term in office. After that, his son was President.
I said the Pledge of Allegiance every day of K-8, and every week of high school. Now I don't say it at all.
On the Fourth of July, my family usually goes up to Lake Superior. We usually have a bonfire, and there is usually strawberry shortcake, and there are usually fireworks.
Then I write a blog post.
Every so often I think to myself that I'm happy to be American.
Every so often I look up at a flag and feel romantic and special and I smile and walk home, self-satisfied.
John Adams said: "Our obligations to our country never cease but with our lives."
John Adams also said: "I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy in order to give their children a right to study painting and poetry."
What have I ever fought for?
What have I ever given my country?
I sit in a classroom and pretend to be a Spanish priest. I talk to factions, I make deals, I deliver speeches.
I enjoy it, but what does it all matter in the long run?
The things I focus on, the things I read, the things I study, they're not real.
They're not real anymore.
They may make me smarter, but they're nothing but pieces of paper now.
John Adams built a country out of similar pieces of paper, but he built it out of actions too. He didn't sit back and let other men do the difficult work. He did it himself. He created something unprecedented.
And he was vain, and he did have a bad temper, and he was stubborn.
But he loved his wife, he loved the law, and he served his country in the best way he knew how, which was the best possible way he could have done it.
Maybe it's silly to compare myself to John Adams. It's probably silly for anyone to.
He was just a short man with a wig and a wonderful wife.
But he lived for his country.
I merely live in my country.
John Adams spent years and years in France and the Netherlands trying to secure treaties and loans for the newly created United States. Before that, he helped establish said United States. Before that, he stepped forward, despite the outrage of his Patriot peers, to defend the British soldiers who had begun the Boston Massacre. After that, he was President. After that, he prevented the United States from entering another war with England and France. His refusal to maintain a standing army lost him a second term in office. After that, his son was President.
I said the Pledge of Allegiance every day of K-8, and every week of high school. Now I don't say it at all.
On the Fourth of July, my family usually goes up to Lake Superior. We usually have a bonfire, and there is usually strawberry shortcake, and there are usually fireworks.
Then I write a blog post.
Every so often I think to myself that I'm happy to be American.
Every so often I look up at a flag and feel romantic and special and I smile and walk home, self-satisfied.
John Adams said: "Our obligations to our country never cease but with our lives."
John Adams also said: "I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy in order to give their children a right to study painting and poetry."
What have I ever fought for?
What have I ever given my country?
I sit in a classroom and pretend to be a Spanish priest. I talk to factions, I make deals, I deliver speeches.
I enjoy it, but what does it all matter in the long run?
The things I focus on, the things I read, the things I study, they're not real.
They're not real anymore.
They may make me smarter, but they're nothing but pieces of paper now.
John Adams built a country out of similar pieces of paper, but he built it out of actions too. He didn't sit back and let other men do the difficult work. He did it himself. He created something unprecedented.
And he was vain, and he did have a bad temper, and he was stubborn.
But he loved his wife, he loved the law, and he served his country in the best way he knew how, which was the best possible way he could have done it.
Maybe it's silly to compare myself to John Adams. It's probably silly for anyone to.
He was just a short man with a wig and a wonderful wife.
But he lived for his country.
I merely live in my country.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
An Appropriate Fall
I didn't sleep very well last night. Earlier in the evening, Annie (our older dog) had gotten into my Christmas stocking and eaten 3/4 of my peanut M&M's, plus part of a hand warmer (I don't know either). Thanks to Google, we learned that to make dogs throw up, you can dose them with peroxide. We did, and she threw up a few times outside before settling down on her pillow in the kitchen to gaze at us with mournful eyes.
I think the reason I didn't sleep well was because I was worried about her.
Anyway, when my alarm went off at 9:30 this morning, I was less than thrilled. In fact, I was downright cranky. Mom, Amy and I were supposed to go cross country skiing in a nearby state park, and this morning, I had absolutely no desire to go.
I had every intention of going back to sleep, when I suddenly had a thought: "you should really go, Hol."
Why should I go?
Because it'll turn out well I think.
Honestly? Right now I'm in no condition to go on some family outing. I'm tired and I'm crabby and I just want to lie in bed and pout for the rest of my life.
Just go please. You won't regret it.
Oh, fine.
So I struggled into my long underwear, wool socks, long-sleeved shirt, snow pants, jacket, hat, mittens, goggles, and boots, and we set off.
Wild Rive State Park is really a beautiful place. Even I admitted that this morning, despite my moody impatience.
We've been going there since I was little. Initially, Amy and I would just sit in our big pink sled, plump with layers, and be dragged through the woods by Mom and Dad. As we got older, though, we'd go there to cross country ski, often going on the special nights when luminaries were lined up along the trails.
It had been a while since I had seen the park, though.
In fact, it had been a while since I had skied period.
Once at the head of the trail, I clipped my boots into my skis easily enough, threading my bulky mittens through the straps on my ski poles expertly.
Amy finally managed to wrestle her own boots into her bindings, and then we started into the woods.
Not 10 feet down the trail however, and still in plain sight of the chalet filled with people, I suddenly lost my balance,
flailed my poles uselessly in the air for a few seconds,
and tipped over backwards
landing flat on my back
in the snow.
Now, still being rather cranky, my first inclination was to just remain on the ground and burst into angry, humiliated tears.
What I did instead was start laughing.
I laughed as Mom stuck her pole in my bindings to release my boots so I could stand
I laughed as Amy retrieved my own poles from where they had landed in the deep snow to my left.
I laughed as I turned to see perfect strangers laughing at me from the warmth of the chalet.
And you know what? I felt better after that.
We skied to the visitor's center to look at the fascinatingly disgusting display of pelts and stuffed birds, and then we skied back to the chalet, where we gathered our stuff and walked out to the parking lot.
I don't think I stopped laughing all day.
Sometimes I think that the reason I'm so painfully, annoyingly, incurably uncoordinated is because it helps me not to take myself so seriously.
Nothing gives you perspective quite like a good fall does.
I think the reason I didn't sleep well was because I was worried about her.
Anyway, when my alarm went off at 9:30 this morning, I was less than thrilled. In fact, I was downright cranky. Mom, Amy and I were supposed to go cross country skiing in a nearby state park, and this morning, I had absolutely no desire to go.
I had every intention of going back to sleep, when I suddenly had a thought: "you should really go, Hol."
Why should I go?
Because it'll turn out well I think.
Honestly? Right now I'm in no condition to go on some family outing. I'm tired and I'm crabby and I just want to lie in bed and pout for the rest of my life.
Just go please. You won't regret it.
Oh, fine.
So I struggled into my long underwear, wool socks, long-sleeved shirt, snow pants, jacket, hat, mittens, goggles, and boots, and we set off.
Wild Rive State Park is really a beautiful place. Even I admitted that this morning, despite my moody impatience.
We've been going there since I was little. Initially, Amy and I would just sit in our big pink sled, plump with layers, and be dragged through the woods by Mom and Dad. As we got older, though, we'd go there to cross country ski, often going on the special nights when luminaries were lined up along the trails.
It had been a while since I had seen the park, though.
In fact, it had been a while since I had skied period.
Once at the head of the trail, I clipped my boots into my skis easily enough, threading my bulky mittens through the straps on my ski poles expertly.
Amy finally managed to wrestle her own boots into her bindings, and then we started into the woods.
Not 10 feet down the trail however, and still in plain sight of the chalet filled with people, I suddenly lost my balance,
flailed my poles uselessly in the air for a few seconds,
and tipped over backwards
landing flat on my back
in the snow.
Now, still being rather cranky, my first inclination was to just remain on the ground and burst into angry, humiliated tears.
What I did instead was start laughing.
I laughed as Mom stuck her pole in my bindings to release my boots so I could stand
I laughed as Amy retrieved my own poles from where they had landed in the deep snow to my left.
I laughed as I turned to see perfect strangers laughing at me from the warmth of the chalet.
And you know what? I felt better after that.
We skied to the visitor's center to look at the fascinatingly disgusting display of pelts and stuffed birds, and then we skied back to the chalet, where we gathered our stuff and walked out to the parking lot.
I don't think I stopped laughing all day.
Sometimes I think that the reason I'm so painfully, annoyingly, incurably uncoordinated is because it helps me not to take myself so seriously.
Nothing gives you perspective quite like a good fall does.
Friday, July 9, 2010
High Noon
I'm especially fond of my picture/quote of the week this week. In case you're reading this later on, I put the picture above. Here's the quote:
"If it were possible to talk to the unborn, one could never explain to them how it feels to be alive, for life is washed in the speechless real."
-Jacques Barzun
I found that quote in the quote book I got from the library earlier this week. The last few words struck me the most: the speechless real. It's something I think about every so often. What does it even mean to be alive? How can we define it, and what can we even base the definition off of besides what we know? In fact, what is anything but what we perceive it to be?
I feel sometimes like nothing is real, and like we are mere puppets being bobbed from place to place by some great puppetmaster. I'm not talking about God, or even of my perception of God. Just someone or something. Like everything is out of our control and reality is only what the great someone makes it, and opportunities and challenges are placed in front of us while that great being laughs at our failings.
In this random imagining of mine, we're like Sims. We live our small lives and only brush other people when we're meant to. We do as we're told, except of course we think we're acting of our own accord. We eat when we're hungry, play the piano or read the newspaper when we're bored. Our children learn certain things like charisma and mechanical skills when they're only toddlers, although it doesn't stop them from growing up to be criminals if that's what the gamer wants them to be.
Gosh, this is sad to think about. I'm in kind of a sad mood, I guess. I just watched the movie High Noon with my dad. It's my very favorite Western; in fact, it's probably one of my favorite movies of all time in general. This was only my second time seeing it, but that's all it took. Anyway, it's not exactly the kind of movie you can watch often; it is sort of depressing when you really get to thinking about it.
A certain scene in High Noon struck me tonight, one that I don't remember noticing the first time through. It's the scene where Will Kane is trying to convince the judge to stay and fight with him, and the judge is packing his things, intending on leaving town. While they talk, the judge takes down the American flag he has tacked on the wall, folds it, and places it in his saddlebags.
Very symbolic, isn't it? With the removal of the flag, every semblance of the America we know, of the American way, of truth and justice, is gone from the town as well. Americans would never hide like cowards, watching from the windows of their comfortable homes while an innocent man stood alone against four malicious criminals. Well, they did in High Noon. They did in the Kitty Genovese case (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitty_Genovese).
It makes me wonder (seems to be a theme tonight). Are all humans fundamentally cowards? When it comes down to it, are we really truly only willing to help others so long as we can walk away unscathed? I don't want to think so. I can't. There are good, brave people in this world. Lots of them. I hope to count myself among their ranks someday. And if we can't put our faith in them, in the belief that we can do as they do when called upon, then I don't think there is much to live for at all. Some people have faith in God, in nature, in themselves. I have faith in all of those things, but I think above all else I have faith in people. Maybe that's a fault of mine, but I'll stand by it nonetheless. We're amazing creatures, aren't we? Capable of so much, and constantly using our capabilities in as many ways as we can think of. It's intriguing and somewhat frightening, and it gives me hope.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Never Have I Ever
Forget that. Do you want to know what I have done?
As of a half-hour ago, I officially told a joke that was not in any way funny. A serious joke. One that hurt the feelings of a very dear friend of mine.
What to do?
Well, the right thing, I suppose. I ran after him and apologized.
Now I'm sitting in my dorm room, staring at a computer screen, typing a blog, and wondering why I don't think before I speak more often.
And why a joke that earns a few laughs is somehow worth a friendship to some people.
And how a game of Risk can turn personal more quickly than the dice can be rolled.
And finally how writing these black, stringy words into a blank box can send my thoughts across the world and into someone's living room, where you're sitting in the sunlight of a day I haven't seen yet.
As of a half-hour ago, I officially told a joke that was not in any way funny. A serious joke. One that hurt the feelings of a very dear friend of mine.
What to do?
Well, the right thing, I suppose. I ran after him and apologized.
Now I'm sitting in my dorm room, staring at a computer screen, typing a blog, and wondering why I don't think before I speak more often.
And why a joke that earns a few laughs is somehow worth a friendship to some people.
And how a game of Risk can turn personal more quickly than the dice can be rolled.
And finally how writing these black, stringy words into a blank box can send my thoughts across the world and into someone's living room, where you're sitting in the sunlight of a day I haven't seen yet.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The Icing on the Cake
To tell you the truth, I've been thinking about writing this blog entry for a few days now. Furthermore, each time I thought about it, I came up with a different title for this post. In the end, however, I decided that this story (the one I'm about to write) was the one that needed to be told.
For your enjoyment (and because I thought they were both rather good,) here are the two rejected titles:
1. The Awkwardness of an Intercepted Wink
2. How Not to Get a Job at a Ski Place
You can wonder about them now if you wish, or if you don't care, you can just move on. I can assure you that The Icing on the Cake will be worth it.
So here we go:
I like my plans to work out. That's one thing you should know about me.
The following plan most definitely did not work out.
But you know what?
Sometimes that's okay.
It's my friend Tim's birthday today. My friend Maddie and I thought it would be a good idea to make him a cake for his 19th, and since he really likes 3 Musketeers bars, we decided to make him a cake shaped like one. Cool, right?
We went shopping yesterday for ingredients:
2 boxes yellow cake mix
1 carton of eggs
3 cans of frosting (2 white, 1 chocolate)
3 tubes decorator's icing (1 red, 1 white, 1 blue)
1 tube yellow decorator's gel
1 3 Musketeers bar
The cake took us about two hours to make, with King guarding the door to the kitchen with a Nerf gun to keep Tim out.
After it was done (and it looked amazing-you can take my word for it), we stashed it away and waited for it to be midnight so we could have a little party.
Midnight finally came around, and we managed to get Tim into the TV lounge. We lit the candles on the cake, shushed the gathering crowd behind us, and walked in singing happy birthday.
What did Tim do?
He ran of course.
Took his socks off first (so they wouldn't get dirty)
And then sprinted out the door of our dorm, down the stairs, and along the sidewalk.
Four or so boys chased him down. Apparently he struggled, so they picked him up and carried him back on their shoulders.
Meanwhile, Maddie was standing there holding the lit cake in her arms. She quickly blew out the candles and we headed downstairs. We set the cake on the floor in front of Tim's door, and climbed to the top of the stairwell to hide out.
Now, it's not that we were mad at Tim. It's just that when you put that amount of time and effort into something, you hope for a better reaction. I suppose we should have known the big surprise format would make Tim uncomfortable, but honestly we didn't plan for it to happen like that; people merely saw us making the cake and wanted to be involved. In short, they all wanted to celebrate with him, just as we did.
Well, Mad and I sat at the top of the stairs for a long time, listening to people look for us and sing happy birthday again (I assume there was no running the second time). Eventually Evan and King found us up there, and Tim shortly discovered us also. He wanted to know if we had forks and plates, because he had nothing to serve the cake on.
We didn't have any.
Anyway, a lot of drama ensued after that, but the main thing is that after awhile Tim texted us asking us to please come down and have some cake. So we did.
And can I tell you something?
It tasted awful.
I'd imagine that the darn candy bar-shaped cake tasted something like bitterness, and like not letting go of the little things that don't matter much in the long run.
The frosting was good, though.
The frosting tasted like King patrolling with the Nerf gun for hours, and like laughing over me icing Tim's birthday as 3/7/09 instead of 3/7/10.
But it mostly tasted like having good friends who love you even when you run, and even when you hide in a stairwell.
The icing on the cake was the best part.
For your enjoyment (and because I thought they were both rather good,) here are the two rejected titles:
1. The Awkwardness of an Intercepted Wink
2. How Not to Get a Job at a Ski Place
You can wonder about them now if you wish, or if you don't care, you can just move on. I can assure you that The Icing on the Cake will be worth it.
So here we go:
I like my plans to work out. That's one thing you should know about me.
The following plan most definitely did not work out.
But you know what?
Sometimes that's okay.
It's my friend Tim's birthday today. My friend Maddie and I thought it would be a good idea to make him a cake for his 19th, and since he really likes 3 Musketeers bars, we decided to make him a cake shaped like one. Cool, right?
We went shopping yesterday for ingredients:
2 boxes yellow cake mix
1 carton of eggs
3 cans of frosting (2 white, 1 chocolate)
3 tubes decorator's icing (1 red, 1 white, 1 blue)
1 tube yellow decorator's gel
1 3 Musketeers bar
The cake took us about two hours to make, with King guarding the door to the kitchen with a Nerf gun to keep Tim out.
After it was done (and it looked amazing-you can take my word for it), we stashed it away and waited for it to be midnight so we could have a little party.
Midnight finally came around, and we managed to get Tim into the TV lounge. We lit the candles on the cake, shushed the gathering crowd behind us, and walked in singing happy birthday.
What did Tim do?
He ran of course.
Took his socks off first (so they wouldn't get dirty)
And then sprinted out the door of our dorm, down the stairs, and along the sidewalk.
Four or so boys chased him down. Apparently he struggled, so they picked him up and carried him back on their shoulders.
Meanwhile, Maddie was standing there holding the lit cake in her arms. She quickly blew out the candles and we headed downstairs. We set the cake on the floor in front of Tim's door, and climbed to the top of the stairwell to hide out.
Now, it's not that we were mad at Tim. It's just that when you put that amount of time and effort into something, you hope for a better reaction. I suppose we should have known the big surprise format would make Tim uncomfortable, but honestly we didn't plan for it to happen like that; people merely saw us making the cake and wanted to be involved. In short, they all wanted to celebrate with him, just as we did.
Well, Mad and I sat at the top of the stairs for a long time, listening to people look for us and sing happy birthday again (I assume there was no running the second time). Eventually Evan and King found us up there, and Tim shortly discovered us also. He wanted to know if we had forks and plates, because he had nothing to serve the cake on.
We didn't have any.
Anyway, a lot of drama ensued after that, but the main thing is that after awhile Tim texted us asking us to please come down and have some cake. So we did.
And can I tell you something?
It tasted awful.
I'd imagine that the darn candy bar-shaped cake tasted something like bitterness, and like not letting go of the little things that don't matter much in the long run.
The frosting was good, though.
The frosting tasted like King patrolling with the Nerf gun for hours, and like laughing over me icing Tim's birthday as 3/7/09 instead of 3/7/10.
But it mostly tasted like having good friends who love you even when you run, and even when you hide in a stairwell.
The icing on the cake was the best part.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
All It Takes Is A Nerf Gun To The Head
Act One:
We find our protagonist in Crusades class. Her pencil is scratching roughly at her paper as she attempts to think of something to say. There is a sharp snap when the end of her lead breaks off and flies towards her neighbor's head (our fair protagonist doesn't mind this at all; the neighbor is annoying anyway).
The assignment? Listen to each of the six speakers as they present their argument as to why the 2nd Crusade failed, and think of a question to ask one of the speakers about his/her views on the topic. Participation is mandatory.
The problem? Our protagonist, though reasonably intelligent, is no good at thinking on her feet. Without more time and less pressure, we fear she is lost forever to the cycle of 'um I don't know.'
As the clock ticks down to the hour of her demise, our protagonist's blue eyes begin to reflect the desperation within. The professor is looking at her expectantly; she is the last one to answer. Our protagonist opens her mouth to speak and....
Out flies the most horrendous, nonsensical, redundant question anyone has ever heard. The classroom is completely still for a few seconds, and then with a great torrent of wind all heads whip towards the professor, who looks baffled as well. Finally, one of the speakers decides to save at least a little of our protagonist's dignity. He answers her question as best he can without touching on the idiocy of it all (bless him).
The scene closes on an emptying classroom. When the last student has thrust his arms into his coat sleeves and tossed his backpack over his shoulder, we see her. There, in the corner. The one with the bowed head and the warm cheeks (though there is no visible blush). It is our protagonist.
Lights dim as she slowly exits the classroom.
Act 2:
It is late afternoon by the time our protagonist arrives back at her dorm. She immediately walks down to her friend Tim's room, for Tim, she knows, is in possession of the ultimate weapon.
This weapon comes in many forms, but is known to all by one name: The Nerf Gun.
Tim protests at first, but once he sees the determination on our protagonist's face, he solemnly loads the gun and places it in her hands.
Our protagonist shakes as she holds the Nerf against her temple.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not much. It will be over quickly."
One squeeze of the trigger.
The Nerf dart that pierces her skull bores a hole straight into her common sense. Suddenly, everything is completely clear; our protagonist must embark on a crusade of her own. A crusade not against Turks, but against blank-headedness and dumb questions. She must wage a war against her own mind.
The play concludes with an orange Nerf Gun being carried into battle by our brave protagonist. She has found her wits at last.
We find our protagonist in Crusades class. Her pencil is scratching roughly at her paper as she attempts to think of something to say. There is a sharp snap when the end of her lead breaks off and flies towards her neighbor's head (our fair protagonist doesn't mind this at all; the neighbor is annoying anyway).
The assignment? Listen to each of the six speakers as they present their argument as to why the 2nd Crusade failed, and think of a question to ask one of the speakers about his/her views on the topic. Participation is mandatory.
The problem? Our protagonist, though reasonably intelligent, is no good at thinking on her feet. Without more time and less pressure, we fear she is lost forever to the cycle of 'um I don't know.'
As the clock ticks down to the hour of her demise, our protagonist's blue eyes begin to reflect the desperation within. The professor is looking at her expectantly; she is the last one to answer. Our protagonist opens her mouth to speak and....
Out flies the most horrendous, nonsensical, redundant question anyone has ever heard. The classroom is completely still for a few seconds, and then with a great torrent of wind all heads whip towards the professor, who looks baffled as well. Finally, one of the speakers decides to save at least a little of our protagonist's dignity. He answers her question as best he can without touching on the idiocy of it all (bless him).
The scene closes on an emptying classroom. When the last student has thrust his arms into his coat sleeves and tossed his backpack over his shoulder, we see her. There, in the corner. The one with the bowed head and the warm cheeks (though there is no visible blush). It is our protagonist.
Lights dim as she slowly exits the classroom.
Act 2:
It is late afternoon by the time our protagonist arrives back at her dorm. She immediately walks down to her friend Tim's room, for Tim, she knows, is in possession of the ultimate weapon.
This weapon comes in many forms, but is known to all by one name: The Nerf Gun.
Tim protests at first, but once he sees the determination on our protagonist's face, he solemnly loads the gun and places it in her hands.
Our protagonist shakes as she holds the Nerf against her temple.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not much. It will be over quickly."
One squeeze of the trigger.
The Nerf dart that pierces her skull bores a hole straight into her common sense. Suddenly, everything is completely clear; our protagonist must embark on a crusade of her own. A crusade not against Turks, but against blank-headedness and dumb questions. She must wage a war against her own mind.
The play concludes with an orange Nerf Gun being carried into battle by our brave protagonist. She has found her wits at last.
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